The Keep. Part 33

His hands soon contacted something other than dirt. He pulled at it and unearthed a square packet, perhaps a foot long on each side and a few inches thick. And heavy-very heavy. He pulled off the half-rotted cloth wrapper and then unfolded the coa.r.s.e fabric that made up the inner packing.

Something bright, metallic, and heavy lay within. Cuza caught his breath-at first he thought it was a cross. But that couldn't be. It was an almost-cross, designed along the same eccentric lines as the thousands laid into the walls of the keep. Yet none of those could compare with this one. For here was the original, an inch thick all around, the template on which all the others had been modeled. The upright was rounded, almost cylindrical and, except for a deep slot in its top, appeared to be of solid gold. The crosspiece looked like silver. He studied it briefly through the lower lenses of his bifocals but could find no designs or inscriptions.

Molasar's talisman-the key to his power. It stirred Cuza with awe. There was power in it-he could feel the power surge into his hands as he held it. He lifted it for Molasar to see and thought he detected a glow around it-or was that merely a reflection of the flashlight beam off its bright surface?

"I've found it!"

He could not see Molasar above but noticed the animated corpses backing away as he lifted the crosslike object over his head.

"Molasar! Do you hear me?"

"Yes." The voice seemed to come from somewhere back in the tunnel. "My power now resides in your hands. Guard it carefully until you have hidden it where no one will find it."

Exhilarated, Cuza tightened his grip on the talisman.

"When do I leave? And how?"

"Within the hour-as soon as I have finished with the German interlopers. They must all pay now for invading my keep."

The pounding on the door was accompanied by someone's calling his name. It sounded like Sergeant Oster's voice ... on the verge of hysteria. But Major Kaempffer was taking no chances. As he shook himself out of his bedroll, he grabbed his Luger.

"Who is it?" He let his annoyance show in his tone. This was the second time tonight he had been disturbed. The first for that fruitless sortie across the causeway with the Jew, and now this. He glanced at his watch: almost four o'clock! It would be light soon. What could anyone want at this hour? Unless-someone else had been killed.

"It's Sergeant Oster, sir."

"What is it this time?" Kaempffer said, opening the door. One look at the sergeant's white face and he knew something was terribly wrong. More than just another death.

"It's the captain, sir... Captain Woermann-"

"It got him?" Woermann? Murdered? An officer? Woermann? Murdered? An officer?

"He killed himself, sir."

Kaempffer stared at the sergeant in mute shock, recovering only with great effort.

"Wait here." Kaempffer closed the door and hurriedly pulled on his trousers, slipped into his boots, and threw his uniform jacket over his undershirt without bothering to b.u.t.ton it. Then he returned to the door. "Take me to where you found him."

As he followed Oster through the disa.s.sembled portions of the keep, Kaempffer realized that the thought of Klaus Woermann killing himself disturbed him more than if he had been killed like all the rest. It wasn't in Woermann's makeup. People do change, but Kaempffer could not imagine the teenager who had single-handedly sent a company of British soldiers running in the last war to be a man who would take his own life in this war, no matter what the circ.u.mstances.

Still ... Woermann was dead. The only man who could point to him and say "Coward!" had been rendered forever mute. That was worth everything Kaempffer had endured since his arrival at this charnel house. And there was a special satisfaction to be gained from the manner of Woermann's death. The final report would hide nothing: Captain Klaus Woermann would go down on record as a suicide. A disgraceful death. Worse than desertion. Kaempffer would give much to see the look on the faces of the wife and the two boys Woermann had been so proud of-what would they think of their father, their hero, hero, when they heard the news? when they heard the news?

Instead of leading him across the courtyard to Woermann's quarters, Oster made a sharp right turn that led Kaempffer down the corridor to where he had imprisoned the villagers on the night of his arrival. The area had been partially dismantled during the past few days. They made the final turn and there was Woermann.

He hung by a thick rope, his body swaying gently as if in a breeze; but the air was still. The rope had been thrown over an exposed ceiling beam and tied to it. Kaempffer saw no stool and wondered how Woermann had got himself up there. Perhaps he had stood on one of the piles of stone block here and there...

... the eyes. Woermann's eyes bulged in their sockets. For an instant Kaempffer had the impression that the eyes shifted as he approached, then realized it was just a trick of the light from the bulbs along the ceiling.

He stopped before the dangling form of his fellow officer. Woermann's belt buckle swung two inches in front of Kaempffer's nose. He looked up at the engorged, puffed face, purple with stagnant blood.

... the eyes again. They seemed to be looking down at him. He glanced away and saw Woermann's shadow on the wall. Its outline was the same-exactly the same-as the shadow of the hanging corpse he had seen in Woermann's painting.

A chill ran over his skin.

Precognition? Had Woermann foreseen his death? Or had suicide been in the back of his mind all along?

Kaempffer's exultation began to die as he realized he was now the only officer in the keep. All the responsibility from this moment on rested solely on him. In fact, he himself might be marked for death next. What was he to- -Gunfire sounded from the courtyard.

Startled, Kaempffer wheeled, saw Oster look down the corridor, then back to him. But the questioning look on the sergeant's face turned to one of wide-eyed horror as his gaze rose to a point above Kaempffer. The SS major was turning to see what could cause such a reaction when he felt thick, stone-cold fingers slip around his throat and begin to squeeze.

Kaempffer tried to leap away, tried to kick behind him at whoever it was, but his feet struck only air. He opened his mouth to scream but no more than a strangled gurgle escaped. Pulling, clawing at the fingers that were inexorably cutting off his life, he twisted frantically to see who was attacking him. He already knew-in a horror-dimmed corner of his mind he knew. But he had to see! see! He twisted further, saw his attacker's sleeve, gray, regular army gray, and he followed the sleeve back ...up... to Woermann. He twisted further, saw his attacker's sleeve, gray, regular army gray, and he followed the sleeve back ...up... to Woermann.

But he's dead!

In desperate terror, Kaempffer began to writhe and claw at the dead hands that encircled his throat. To no avail. He was being lifted into the air by his neck, slowly, steadily, until only his toes were touching the floor. Soon even they did not reach. He flung his arms out to Oster but the sergeant was useless. His face a mask of horror, Oster had flattened himself against the wall and was slowly inching himself away-away!-from him. He gave no sign that he even saw Kaempffer. His gaze was fixed higher, on his former commanding officer ... dead... but committing murder.

Disjointed images flashed through Kaempffer's mind, a parade of sights and sounds becoming more blurred and garbled with each thump of his slowing heart.

... gunfire continuing to echo from the courtyard, mixing with screams of pain and terror ... Oster inching away down the corridor, not seeing the two walking dead men rounding the corner, one of them recognizable as einsatzkommando Private Flick, dead since his first night in the keep... Oster seeing them too late and not knowing which way to run ... more shooting from without, barrages of bullets ... shooting from within as Oster emptied his Schmeisser at the approaching corpses, ripping up their uniforms, rocking them backward, but doing little to impede their progress ... screams from Oster as each of the corpses grabbed one of his arms to swing him headfirst toward the stone wall... the screams ending with a sickening thud as his skull cracked like an egg...

Kaempffer's vision dimmed ... sounds became muted... a prayer formed in his mind: O G.o.d! Please let me live! I'll do anything you ask if you'll just let me live!

A snap ... a sudden fall to the floor ... the hangman's rope had broken under the weight of two bodies ... but no break in the pressure on his throat ... a great lethargy settled upon him ... in the fading light he saw Sergeant Oster's b.l.o.o.d.y-headed corpse rise and follow his two murderers out to the courtyard ... and at the very end, in his terminal spasms, Kaempffer caught sight of Woermann's distorted features...

... and saw a smile there.

Chaos in the courtyard.

The walking corpses were everywhere, ravaging soldiers in their beds, at their posts. Bullets couldn't kill them-they were already dead. Their horrified former comrades pumped round after round into them but the dead kept coming. And worse-as soon as one of the living was killed, the fresh corpse rose to its feet and joined the ranks of the attackers.

Two desperate, black-uniformed soldiers pulled the bar from the gate and began to swing it open; but before they could squeeze through to safety, they were caught from behind and dragged to the ground. A moment later they were standing again, arrayed with other corpses before the open gate, making sure that none of their live comrades pa.s.sed through.

Suddenly, all the lights went out as a wild burst of 9mm slugs slammed into the generators.

An SS corporal leaped into a jeep and started it up, hoping to ram his way to freedom; but when he slipped the clutch too quickly, the cold engine stalled. He was pulled from the seat and strangled before he could get it started again.

A private, quaking and shivering under his cot, was smothered with his bedroll by the headless corpse he had once known as Lutz.

The gunfire soon began to die off. From a continuous barrage of overlapping fusillades it diminished to random bursts, then to isolated shots. The men's screaming faded to a lone voice wailing in the barracks. Then that, too, was cut off. Finally, silence. All quiet as the cadavers, fresh and old, stood scattered about the courtyard, motionless, as if waiting.

Suddenly, soundlessly, all but two of them fell to the courtyard floor and lay still. The remaining pair began to move, shuffling through the entry to the cellar, leaving a tall, dark figure standing alone in the center of the courtyard, undisputed master of the keep at last.

As the fog swirled in through the open gates, inching across the stone, layering the courtyard and the inert cadavers with an undulating carpet of haze, he turned and made his way down to the subcellar.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Magda awoke with a start at the sound of gunfire from the keep. At first she feared the Germans had learned of Papa's complicity and were executing him. But that hideous thought lasted only an instant. This was not the orderly sound of firing on command. This was the chaotic sound of a battle.

It was a short battle.

Huddled on the damp ground, Magda noted that the stars had faded in the graying sky. The echoes of gunfire were soon swallowed by the chill, predawn air. Someone or something had emerged victorious over there. Magda felt sure it was Molasar.

She rose and went to Glenn's side. His face was beaded with sweat and he was breathing rapidly. As she pulled back the blanket to check his wounds, a small cry escaped her: His body was bathed completely in the blue glow from the blade. Cautiously, she touched him. The glow didn't burn, but it did make her hand tingle with warmth. Within the torn fabric of Glenn's shirt she felt something hard, heavy, thimblelike. She pulled it out.

In the dim light it took her a moment to recognize the object that rolled about in her palm. It was made of lead. A bullet.

Magda ran her hands over Glenn again. There were more of them-all over him. And his wounds-there weren't nearly so many now. The majority had disappeared, leaving only dimpled scars instead of gaping finger holes. She pulled the ripped and b.l.o.o.d.y shirt away from his abdomen to expose an area where she felt a lump beneath his skin. There to the right of the blade he clutched so tightly to his chest was an open wound with a hard lump just beneath its surface. As she watched, the lump broke through. It was another bullet, slowly, painfully extruding from the wound. It was as wonderful as it was terrifying: The sword blade and its glow were drawing the bullets from Glenn's body and healing his wounds! Magda watched in awe.

The glow began to fade.

"Magda..."

She jumped at the sound. Glenn's voice was much stronger than it had been when she had covered him. She pulled the blanket back over him, tucking it around his neck. His eyes were open, staring at the keep.

"Rest some more," she whispered.

"What's happening over there?"

"Some shooting before-a lot of it."

With a groan, Glenn tried to sit up. Magda pushed him back easily. He was still very weak.

"Got to get to the keep ... stop Rasalom."

"Who's Rasalom?"

"The one you and your father call Molasar. He reversed the letters of his name for you ... real name is Rasalom... got to stop him!"

He tried to rise again and again Magda pushed him back.

"It's almost dawn. A vampire can't go anywhere after sunrise, so just-"

"He's no more afraid of sunlight than you are!"

"But a vampire-"

"He's not not a vampire! Never was! If he were," Glenn said, a note of despair creeping into his voice, "I wouldn't bother trying to stop him." a vampire! Never was! If he were," Glenn said, a note of despair creeping into his voice, "I wouldn't bother trying to stop him."

Dread caressed her, a cold hand against the middle of her back. "Not a vampire?"

"He's the source of the vampire legends, but what he craves is nothing so simple as blood. That notion crept into the folk tales because people can see blood, and touch it. What Rasalom feeds on no one can see or touch."

"You mean what you were trying to tell me last night before the soldiers ... came?" She did not want to remember last night.

"Yes. He draws strength from human pain, misery, and madness. He can feed on the agony of those who die by his hand but gains far more from man's inhumanity to other men."

"That's ridiculous! Nothing could live on such things. They're too ... too insubstantial!"

"Is sunlight 'too insubstantial' for a flower to need for growth? Believe me: Rasalom feeds on things that cannot be seen or touched-all of them bad."

"You make him sound like the Serpent himself!"

"You mean Satan? The Devil?" Glenn smiled weakly. "Put aside every religion you've ever heard of. They mean nothing here. Rasalom predates them all."

"I can't believe-"

"He is a survivor of the First Age. He pretended to be a five-hundred-year-old vampire because that fit the history of the keep and the region. And because it generated fear so easily-another one of his delights. But he's much, much older. Everything he told your father-everything-was a lie ... except for the part about being weak and having to build his strength."

"Everything? But what about saving me? What about curing Papa? And what about those villagers the major took hostage? They would have been executed if he had not saved them!"

"He saved no one. You told me he killed the two soldiers guarding the villagers. But did he he set the villagers free? No! He added insult to injury by marching the dead soldiers up to the major's quarters and making a fool out of him. Rasalom was trying to provoke the major into executing all the villagers on the spot. That's the sort of atrocity that swells his strength. And after half a millennium of imprisonment, he needed much strengthening. Fortunately, events conspired against him and the villagers survived." set the villagers free? No! He added insult to injury by marching the dead soldiers up to the major's quarters and making a fool out of him. Rasalom was trying to provoke the major into executing all the villagers on the spot. That's the sort of atrocity that swells his strength. And after half a millennium of imprisonment, he needed much strengthening. Fortunately, events conspired against him and the villagers survived."

"Imprisonment? But he told Papa..." Her voice trailed off. "Another lie?"

Glenn nodded. "Rasalom did not build the keep as he said. Nor was he hiding in it. The keep was built to trap and hold him... forever. Who could have foretold that it or anything else in the Dinu Pa.s.s might someday be considered of military value? Or that some fool would break the seal on his cell? Now, if he ever gets loose in the world-"

"But he's loose now."

"No. Not yet. That's another one of his lies. He wanted your father to believe he was free, but he's still confined to the keep by the other piece of this." He pulled the blanket down and showed her the b.u.t.t end of the sword blade. "The hilt to this blade is the only thing on earth Rasalom fears. It's the only thing that has power over him. It can bind him. The hilt is the key. It locks him within the keep. The blade is useless without it, but the two joined together can destroy him."

Magda shook her head in an attempt to clear it. This was becoming more incredible every minute!

"But the hilt-where is it? What does it look like?"

"You've seen its image thousands of times in the walls of the keep."

"The crosses!" Magda's mind whirled. Then they weren't crosses after all! They were modeled on the hilt of a sword-no wonder the crosspiece was set so high! She had been looking at them for years and had never even come close to guessing. And if Molasar-or should she start thinking of him as Rasalom now?-were truly the source of the vampire legends, she could see how his fear of the sword hilt might have been trans.m.u.ted into a fear of the cross in the folk tales. "But where-"

"Buried deep in the subcellar. As long as the hilt remains within the walls of the keep, Rasalom is bound by them."

"But all he has to do is dig it up and dispose of it."

"He can't touch it, or even get too close to it."