Kurtz, Katherine - Adept 04 - Dagger Magic

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AN ANCIENT ORDER REAWAKENS. A MODERN EVIL RETURNS…

From bestselling coauthors Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris comes an

unforgettable adventure of the past taking root in the present. Sir Adam Sinclair -

mystic, historian, and Master of the Hunt - faces his greatest challenge. And

humanity's greatest evil.

Deep within a sea cave, sacred texts of the black arts have been recovered from the

corroded hulk of a World War II German submarine. Within these pages lies the

power to spawn a new, demonic Third Reich - and make Aryan world conquest a

terrifying reality. Now they rest in the hands of the Phurba, a vile Dagger Cult older

than Christianity itself.

Only Adam Sinclair can prevent the deadly blades of the Phurba from piercing the

heart of humanity Only he can quell the darkness that lives in…

This Ace Book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

DAGGER MAGIC

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace hardcover edition / May 1995 Ace mass-market edition / February 1996

Cover art by Joe Burleson.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For

information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10.016.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

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Check out the Ace Science Fiction/Fantasy newsletter, and much more, at Club PPI!

ISBN: 0-441-00.304-4

ACE® Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10.016.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The authors offer grateful acknowledgment to the following people, who have

greatly enriched the background authenticity of this novel by their generous

contributions of time and information:

The Reverend W.C.H. Seal, for background on Phurbas and Tibetan black magic, as

well as orthodox Tibetan Buddhism, and for checking the final manuscript for

accuracy; any errors that have crept in are ours, not his;

Mr. Thorn McCarthy, administrator for the Holy Island Project, Samye Ling Tibetan

Centre in Scotland, for his warm welcome and reams of information at Samye Ling,

and for helping arrange our visit to Holy Island;

Mr. Harry Lloyd, Northern Fisheries Board, Ballyshannon, who allowed us to inspect

and photograph inflatable patrol craft and survival gear used by Fisheries officers;

also, Mr. Ronan Flynn, Central Fisheries Board, and Mr. Bryan Murphy, of

OceanTech, Dun Laoghaire, for more specific information on the Avon inflatable

boats used by the Irish Department of the Marine;

P.C. Stephen Stewart (Alexandria), Detective Sergeant Alasdair Barnett

(Campbeltown), and P.C. David White, Strathclyde Police, for guidance on police

procedure;

Mrs. Elaine Ennis, Scottish Department of Social Work, for insights on rehabilitation

procedures for spinal injury patients;

Chief Engineer Gordon W. Whitehead, for invaluable technical expertise regarding

submarine operation;

Mr. Simon Martin, for sharing his practical knowledge of marine salvage work;

Dr. Richard Oram, our resident authority on Scottish history, who was able to paint

us a graphic picture of seventeenth-century Hawick;

Mr. Ken Fraser of the St. Andrews University Library, for being ever ready to find all

manner of obscure books on demand.

prologue

"THE weather in the far north of Ireland will continue unsettled for at least the next

twenty-four hours," came the crackly voice of the radio weatherman. "… occasional

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outbreaks of rain and northeasterly winds gusting up to forty knots…"

The rest of the marine forecast dissolved in a hiss of static that was lost in the roar

of twin Yamaha outboards and the slap of water against black and orange sponsons

as the big inflatable boat punched through the waves off the north coast of

Donegal. Irish Fisheries Officer Mick Scanlan grimaced as he scanned ahead with a

pair of powerful marine binoculars, one arm looped through the boat's A-frame to

brace himself. Amidships, sitting astride the pillion seat behind the control console,

his partner, Lorcan O'Haverty, throttled back slightly to compensate for the wave

chop.

The sky overhead was a dirty shade of grey, looking more like February than early

May, and the two officers were dressed for weather. With their bright orange crash

helmets and regulation life-vests, both men wore the distinctive orange-and-black

survival suits called Polar Bears that could keep a man alive for several days in

these waters, whose winter temperature often dipped to near-Arctic levels. Even in

May, though the water had begun to warm, hail and sleet might accompany the

squalls and storms so prevalent in this area. To be caught out unprepared could be

fatal.

Not that today was too bad, as days went in early May. The wind was brisk, but the

sun looked poised to break through the cloud cover for at least a little while. A

hundred yards off to port, the outbound tide was peeling back on itself lethargically

from the sheer base of a long line of sea-cliffs, leaving the exposed rock-faces

festooned with streamers of stranded kelp.

Scanlan shifted his weight and continued to scan. Off to the seaward side,

shadowed and uncertain under the receding tidewash, the dark lurk of submarine

rocks posed a threat to conventional craft venturing in this close, but the rigid

inflatable boats used by the Irish Department of the Marine drew only inches of

water, and had proven highly effective for this kind of patrol. Weighing hardly more

than a ton, a six-meter boat like this one could be trailered where needed and

launched within minutes - a godsend for men like Scan-Ian and O'Haverty, charged

with protecting the coastal fishing rights of a country heavily dependent upon its

maritime industries. While much of their routine work was done ashore - either

shuffling reports in the local fisheries office or else conducting routine inspections on

the docksides of fishing ports from Inishfree to Malin Head - field investigations

were not at all uncommon.

This morning they had launched from Downies to check a report of illegal fixed nets

in the area. Their backup boat had developed engine trouble and would try to catch

up later, but their land-based backup would be shadowing them from the shore in a

Land Rover, also linked by radio. Scanlan had spotted him as they passed

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Dunfanaghy, and expected to pick him up again after they rounded Horn Head.

The radio chatter ebbed and flowed against the background bluster of wind and

waves, and Scanlan automatically scanned the shoreline as O'Haverty skipped their

nimble craft past a succession of small inlets gouged out of the coastline by the

action of the North Atlantic tides. But as O'Haverty brought the boat around the

point of the headland, a sudden and unexpected stretch of calm water stretched

before them along a narrow crescent of sandy beach adjacent to the rock cliffs.

Taking closer notice now, Scanlan saw that the outbound swells were coated with

the greasy rainbow film of spilled oil.

"Uh-oh," O'Haverty said, glancing back at him.

"Yeah, I see it." Scanlan swung his binoculars along the sweep of shoreline and

adjusted the focus. "We'd better have a closer look."

As O'Haverty nosed the boat toward the beach, the slick became visible as a V-

shaped stain fanning out across the flattened waves, apparently coming from a

waterline cleft in the base of the cliffs that marked the western end of the beach.

"Looks like it's coming from those rocks up ahead," O'Haverty said.

"Yeah." Scanlan lowered his binoculars for a few seconds to peer with unassisted

sight, then resumed his study. "I don't see any signs of a wreck, though. Maybe an

oil barrel's gotten washed against the rocks and broke open. Let's go in, and I'll

check it out."

Without comment, O'Haverty brought the boat around with a spin of the wheel and

gave a brief rev to the engines to propel them in toward the shore while Scanlan

shed his binoculars and helmet and moved into the bow, ruffling a hand through

sandy hair. As soon as the boat's snub nose nudged sandy bottom, Scanlan threw a

leg over the side and stepped onto the sand and shingle, grabbing an anchor and

coil of line. Sea water washed and tugged at the legs of his survival suit until he

won free of the retreating surf and bent to set the anchor behind a cluster of rocks

a few yards higher on the beach. Behind him, O'Haverty pulled up the slack and

snubbed it off.

"We'd better make this quick," O'Haverty called, shouting to make himself heard

above the boom of the surf. "Tide'11 be turning soon."

Grinning, Scanlan gave his partner a thumbs-up sign and turned to begin trudging

toward the promontory. The tide-lines to his left suggested that the strip of beach

was only exposed to view at low tide - which explained why he did not remember

having seen it before, even though he and O'Haverty had passed this headland

many times on routine patrol. He was halfway to the base of the cliffs, heading for

the area from which the oil seemed to have come, when a flicker of color and

movement drew his gaze upward.

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About halfway up the cliff-face, a small flurry of sea gulls exploded into flight from

the mouth of a jagged fissure in the rocks. That alone was hardly surprising, but as

the birds wheeled away screeching, a slight, shaven-headed figure in flowing orange

robes suddenly appeared from behind them.

The sight was startling enough to bring Scanlan up short, to send him scuttling into

the shadow of the cliff-face to his left - though if the man looked down, he was sure

to notice the bright orange upper half of Scanlan's survival suit. Scan-Ian could not

have said why it seemed important that the man not see him. Even as he craned to

get a cautious better look, hardly able to believe his eyes, a second man emerged

from the fissure's mouth, a slightly more wizened version of the first. Both were

well past middle age, and obviously of Oriental extraction.

What the hell? Scanlan thought.

Their attire reminded him of the Hare Krishna votaries he had seen now and again

in Dublin and London, handing out flowers and pamphlets on street corners or

dancing and singing in the streets - except that these two were much older than the

usual Hare Krishna, and far less scruffy-looking. Part of the difference lay in the

high-collared black tunics they wore beneath the saffron-orange outer robes, almost

like a priest's cassock - a feature that Scanlan couldn't recall ever seeing before.

But that sartorial difference paled to insignificance before the incongruity of anyone

so garbed being present on this bleak, windswept stretch of Donegal coast.

The two glanced back into the darkness of the cave and conferred briefly, whatever

words they spoke whisked away in the wind and the boom of the surf, then moved

off along a ledge that slanted away toward the landward summit of the cliff. As they

disappeared behind a screen of boulders, they seemed not to have noticed that they

were being observed from shore and boat.

Scanlan backed away toward the water's edge, trying to discover where the pair

might have gone, but he could see no trace of them. More mystified than ever, he

shifted his puzzled gaze back to the mouth of the cave. What could they have been

doing in there?

Glancing back at O'Haverty, who lifted both arms in an exaggerated shrugging

motion, Scanlan waved a hand at his partner in a gesture to stand by, and started

up the rocks. He unzipped the neck of his survival suit as he climbed, reaching

inside for the small but powerful emergency torch he always carried. The cave

warranted a quick look.

He gained the ledge without mishap, sidling carefully along it till he reached the

narrow cave mouth. After a last glance over his shoulder to assure himself that

O'Haverty was still watching from the boat - and scanning the cliffs beyond with the

binoculars - Scanlan ducked into the opening and switched on his torch, poking the

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powerful beam back into the darkness.

The cave appeared to extend some distance into the cliff-face. The dank iodine-tang

of the seashore prickled at his nostrils as he started edging forward, scything the

beam of the torch before him as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A dozen

cautious steps took him to the brink of deeper darkness, where his torch probed out

across the echoing vault of a much larger cavern.

The vaulted expanse was not wholly dark. Here and there pale lances of daylight

pierced the shadows, filtering down through scattered chinks in the roof and the

seaward wall. The cave alone was unusual enough, but not far below, the sweep of

his torch and the fugitive glimmers of daylight picked out the dark, deadly outline of

a great torpedo shape slumbering in the gloom, with a more angular shape

thrusting upward from the center. It almost looked like - good Lord, could it be? - a

beached submarine!

"Jayzus, Mary, and Joseph!" Scanlan muttered under his breath.

His words echoed in the confines of the sea cave like an untimely intrusion in the

hush of some vast cathedral. He fell silent as he played his torch along the length of

the thing, noting the faint gurgle of water stirring sluggishly about its armor-plated

flanks. The sound suggested that the cave itself was accessible to the tides from

outside, but he could see no other openings above ground save the one through

which he himself had just come. Nor could he make out any underwater glow that

might indicate a passage below the waterline to the sea beyond.

"Jayzus," he breathed, more softly this time. It was difficult to make any very

accurate estimate of the sub's size, but he guessed she must be close to two

hundred feet long, maybe more. She looked like all the photos his father had shown

him of German U-boats he had helped to sink during the Second World War, when

he served on a British frigate. The lines of her were right, from the graceful, deadly

bow, with its jag-toothed net-cutter and lethal torpedo tubes, to the stubby conning

tower and snorkel, to the deck guns mounted fore and aft. And just readable, as he

played his torch across the slight curve of the conning tower, was the white-painted

designation 636.

U-636. He wondered how she had come to rest here. What little he could see of her

did not appear to be damaged. And she must have been lying here in secret for

nearly half a century.

Suddenly avid to have a closer look, Scanlan hunkered down and flicked his torch

over the rocks below, seeking a way down. A narrow ridge meandered gently along

the side, slick with sea wrack but perhaps rendered less treacherous by a profusion

of barnacles. A series of outcroppings presented him with a ready-made set of

stepping places and handholds, and should bring him within a few feet of the

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foredeck.

Exhilarated at the prospect of exploring the vessel, he hooked his torch to a clip on

his life-vest and began his descent toward the cavern's watery floor. The air in the

cavern was moist and heavy, the tang of brine laced with a musky hint of

something else that reminded Scanlan curiously of church incense. The water

lapping along the hull looked to be perhaps waist-deep. He was not quite sure

whether the tide had turned yet, but he should have a few minutes in reasonable

safety.

He reached the bottom of the cavern without mishap and sprang lightly to the sub's

foredeck, unclipping his torch to play it before him as he started aft. He brushed

one hand along the rusted length of the sub's big 3.5-inch deck gun just before he

skirted the conning tower, again shining the torch on the painted numbers, 636.

The ladder going up into the back of the conning tower was heavily rusted, but it

looked sound enough - and was.

He climbed carefully, lest he cut his hands or damage his suit, and emerged on the

command bridge. Forward, the wheel that dogged down the hatch drew him almost

irresistibly, but when he tried to shift it, it stubbornly resisted his efforts.

"Shit," Scanlan muttered. Though he had not really expected it to open, he still was

disappointed. Panting a little from the exertion, he shone his torch around the inside

of the conning tower again and noticed something he had missed in his first

inspection: an irregular grey packet about the size of his two hands, lashed to the

inside of the nearest bulkhead by grey webbing straps.

The straps fell to bits as he tried to loose the buckles. The packet itself was

sheathed in a double layer of oilskin, mildewed and brittle with age, that cracked

and all but disintegrated as he peeled it back to expose a folded bundle of scarlet

material. It was musty and damp, but when Scanlan gingerly shook it out, the mass

of red became a German Kriegsmarine flag - red and black and white.

He caught his breath at the sight of it - once-fine scarlet wool boldly ensigned with

the distinctive black cross of old Germany behind the newer white roundel and black

swastika of the Third Reich. He almost dropped it in sheer reflex, for the

associations of evil that it held.

Again he found himself wondering what might have brought U-636 to her present

resting place. His first thought had been that her captain must have been using this

cave as a base from which to sally forth and harry Allied shipping. That seemed

unlikely, though, for he could not imagine that the cave had ever offered safe

access to and from the outside.

Had she fled here for sanctuary, then, pursued by her enemies? Again, how? He

recalled hearing how stragglers from North Atlantic wolf packs sometimes had taken

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refuge in the depths of Tory Sound, not far away, though far more subs had ended

up on the bottom than had escaped. He had even heard tell of a German sub from

the First World War, said to lie on the floor of Donegal Bay, farther south. In those

days, German submarines had used mercury for ballast - lots of it. There was talk

of trying to salvage that ballast, for mercury in such quantities was extremely

valuable; and such a salvage might also avert a later rupture, with its

accompanying ecological implications.

Belatedly, he remembered the oil slick he had seen from outside. Surely this was its

source. Had the sub limped here damaged, then? Shining his torch along her off

side, he could see nothing overt, but who knew what lay below the waterline? More

probably, however, the slick he had seen could be attributed to a leak in one or

more of the fuel tanks, their fabric failing at last after five decades of progressive

deterioration.

But why had she been beached here in the first place, and how? More mysterious

still, now that Scanlan stopped to think about it, was the matter of the two Hare

Krishna types he had seen emerging from the cave. Recalling them now, he

wondered what possible connection such individuals could have with a German

submarine. What were they even doing in this part of the world? - in Ireland, of all

places. Had they stumbled across the cavern purely by chance? Somehow Scanlan

doubted it.

A gurgling sound like the lapping of waves recalled Scanlan from his speculation,

and he flashed his torch over the side again. The tide had turned. The water level in

the cavern was rising - further confirmation that there must be an underwater

channel leading to the outside. He had better get out of here, if he didn't want to

get trapped or maybe even drowned.

Clipping the torch to his vest again, Scanlan set about refolding the flag. He was

well aware that the sub's presence would have to be reported to the proper

authorities. After this long, her salvage value was probably nil, but if she still held

torpedoes, there was no telling how unstable they might have become in half a

century. And there was the oil-spill question; who knew how much fuel might still

reside in her tanks, set to trigger yet another ecological disaster?

In the meantime, however, there was no reason why Scanlan should not take the

flag for himself as a souvenir. Stuffing it into the front of his survival suit, up under

his life-vest, he zipped up again, then swung himself down out of the conning tower

and set about retracing his route to the exit.

The grey light of the overcast day seemed glaringly bright after the dimness of the

cavern's interior, even though a heavy fog bank had begun to roll in with the

incoming tide.

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Scanlan emerged squinting from the cave and fetched up short as his half-dazzled

gaze picked up a blur of bright orange out on the ledge a dozen yards to the

landward side of the cave entrance.

Even as Scanlan gasped, the blur resolved itself into one of the Hare Krishnas - or

maybe he was some sort of Oriental monk, come to think of it - gazing expectantly

in his direction. Startled, Scanlan looked around for the second one and spotted him

down on the beach below, standing ankle-deep in the water right next to the boat,

a brighter orange against the deeper shade of the inflatable craft. He could not see

O'Haverty.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he shouted, gesturing with his torch toward the man in

the water. "Lorcan, where are you?"

O'Haverty did not answer, but the second monk glanced up at him with placid

indifference. Only then did Scanlan realize that both men were holding odd-looking

daggers with heavy, triple-edged blades, perhaps a foot long overall. The weapons

looked dull and clumsy, hardly capable of inflicting much damage unless one were

hit over the head with the pommel, but Scanlan found himself gripping his torch

more tightly, wishing it were bigger, heavier. He had never heard of Hare Krishnas

being other than peaceable and nonviolent, but there was something not right

about these two. And where was O'Haverty?

Almost without realizing what he was doing, Scanlan began to back away from the

nearer monk. As he did so, the one down on the beach thrust his dagger into his

belt and jerked loose the anchor that was holding the boat in place, beginning to

gather in the mooring line. His movement gave Scanlan a clearer look at the interior

of the boat - and the crumpled splash of black and brighter orange lying in the

stern, awash in a sea of crimson.

"Lorcan?" Scanlan whispered, the color draining from his face.

The monk in the water paid him no heed, merely continuing to coil the mooring line.

The fog bank swallowed up the sun in that instant, and the temperature seemed to

drop by at least twenty degrees.

Before Scanlan could summon the will to move, to do something, the monk on the

ledge turned his impassive gaze back to the cave from which Scanlan had just

emerged and clasped the hilt of his dagger between his palms, point downward.

Then, as the thin lips began to move silently, the agile hands began rolling the hilt

of the dagger between the palms, the black eyes quickly losing focus and rolling

back in the hairless head. As Scanlan edged away from the man, trying to decide

which one was the greater threat, the monk on the beach tossed the anchor into

the bow of the boat and moved back amidships. His expression, as he turned his

face toward Scanlan, was one of mild reproof.

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"Curiosity can be very costly," he announced, in heavily accented English.

He must have done something to the boat's controls then, for the engines suddenly

roared to life, the bow swung around, and the boat began heading away from the

shore.

"Hey!" Scanlan shouted, starting to skitter down the ledge in pursuit.

Even as he said it, already aware that he had no chance of catching the retreating

boat, the monk up on the ledge raised the point of his dagger toward the entrance

to the cave, continuing to roll the hilt between his palms - and suddenly released

the weapon.

It sprang from between his hands, launching itself through the air like a tiny guided

missile to strike the top of the cave opening with explosive force. With a crack like a

thunderclap, the rock above the opening gave way, raining down rubble to bury the

passageway under a descending weight of earth. Within a matter of seconds, the

cave mouth had vanished, erased under tons of broken stone.

The concussion staggered Scanlan to his knees. Now nearly to the beach, he

scrambled up and wheeled around in time to see the strange dagger come flashing

back to its owner's hand like a boomerang.

Scanlan's eyes flew wide in blank incredulity. Even as his mind groped in vain for a

logical explanation for what he had just witnessed, he realized that the second

monk now was rolling his dagger the same way the first had done - except that its

point was directed right at Scanlan!

The sight made Scanlan's blood run cold. Backing off a few steps in horror, he

turned to bolt for the imagined safety of a tumbled ridge of boulders, skirting close

to the edge of the cliff-face. A lightning scramble up over the rocks took him some

distance above the level of the beach. But before he could take shelter behind any

of the outcroppings, the monk on the beach released his dagger.

Running for his life, Scanlan had no further warning before the blade thudded home

between his shoulder blades, piercing to the hilt. The pain transfixed him as he

screamed and staggered, his torch flying from his hand as he toppled forward into

the sea. His head cracked against a rock enroute and he knew no more. Where he

landed, the water for an instant was dyed crimson, but then the surf took

command, dispelling the red as it rolled his body to and fro.

For a moment the monk on the beach gazed impassively at the tumbled form, at

the occasional glimpse of the dagger's hilt protruding from the bright orange of his

victim's survival suit - which would not permit its wearer to survive this assault, no

matter its sophistication. When the monk raised his hand in a gesture of summons,

the dagger pulled itself free with a slight shudder and snapped back to the

summoner's hand like the flick of an adder's tongue. Briefly the dagger pointed

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