The Keep

by F. Paul Wilson

  And it was here inside the threshold where she would have to meet Papa. And here she would have to stop him if he carried the hilt to a sword.

  A movement across the courtyard caught her eye. Papa had emerged from the cellar entry. He stood staring about for a moment, then spotted her and ran forward. After adjusting to the sight of her once crippled father running, she noticed that his clothes were caked with dirt. He was carrying a package of some sort, something heavy and carelessly wrapped.

  “Magda! I have it!” he called, panting as he stopped before her.

  “What do you have, Papa?” The sound of her own voice was flat and wooden in her ears. She dreaded his answer.

  “Molasar’s talisman—the source of his power!”

  “You’ve stolen it from him?”

  “No. He gave it to me. I’m to find a safe hiding place for it while he goes to Germany.”

  Magda went cold inside. Papa was removing an object from the keep, just as Glaeken had said he would.

  She had to know what it looked like. “Let me see it.”

  “There’s no time for that now. I’ve got to—”

  He stepped to the side to go around her, but Magda moved in front of him, blocking his way, keeping him within the boundary of the keep.

  “Please?” she pleaded. “Show it to me?”

  He hesitated, studying her face questioningly, then pulled off the wrapper and showed her what he had called “Molasar’s talisman.”

  Magda heard her breath suck in at the sight of it. Oh, God! It was obviously heavy, and appeared to be gold and silver—exactly like the strange crosses throughout the keep. And it even had a slot in its top, the perfect size to accept the spike she had seen at the butt end of Glaeken’s sword blade.

  The hilt to Glaeken’s sword…the key to the keep…the only thing that protected the world from Rasalom.

  Magda stood and stared at it while her father said something she could not hear. The words would not reach her. All she could hear was Glaeken’s description of what would happen should Rasalom be allowed to escape the keep. Everything within her revolted at the decision that faced her, but she had no choice. She had to stop her father—at any cost.

  “Go back, Papa,” she said, searching his eyes for some remnant of the man she had loved so dearly all her life. “Leave it in the keep. Molasar has been lying to you all along. That’s not the source of his power—it’s the only thing that can withstand his power! He’s the enemy of everything good in this world! You can’t set him free!”

  “Ridiculous! He’s already free! And he’s an ally! Look what he’s done for me! I can walk!”

  “But only as far as the other side of this gateway. Only far enough to remove that from the keep—he can’t leave here as long as the hilt remains within the walls!”

  “Lies! Molasar is going to kill Hitler and stop the death camps!”

  “He’ll feed on the death camps, Papa!” It was like talking to a deaf man. “For once in your life listen to me! Trust me! Do as I say! Don’t remove that thing from the keep!”

  He ignored her and pressed forward. “Let me by!”

  Magda placed her hands against his chest, steeling herself to defy the man who had raised her, taught her so much, given her so much.

  “Listen to me, Papa!”

  “No!”

  Magda set her feet and shoved with all her strength, sending him stumbling backward. She hated herself for doing it but he had left her no alternative. She had to stop thinking of him as a cripple; he was well and strong now—and as determined as she.

  “You strike your own father?” he said in a hoarse, hushed voice. Shock and anger roiled on his face. “Is this what a night of rutting with your red-headed lover has done to you? I am your father! I command you to let me pass!”

  “No, Papa,” she said, tears starting in her eyes.

  She had never dared to stand up to him before, but she had to see this through—for both their sakes and for all the world.

  The sight of her tears seemed to disconcert him. For an instant his features softened and he was himself again. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it with a snap. Snarling with fury, he leaped forward and swung the hilt at her head.

  Rasalom stood waiting in the subterranean chamber, immersed in darkness, the silence broken only by the sound of the rats crawling over the cadavers of the two officers which he had allowed to tumble to the dirt after the crippled one had left with that accursed hilt. Soon it would be gone from the keep and he would be free again.

  Soon his hunger would be appeased. If what the crippled one had told him was true—and what he had heard from some of the German soldiers during their stay seemed to confirm it—Europe had now become a sinkhole of human misery. It meant that after ages of struggling, after so many defeats at Glaeken’s hands, his destiny at last was about to come to pass. He had feared all lost when Glaeken had trapped him in this stone prison, but in the end he had prevailed. Human greed had released him from the tiny cell that had held him for five centuries. Human hate and power lust were about to give him the strength to become master of this globe.

  He waited. And still his hunger remained untouched. The expected surge of power did not come. Something was wrong. The crippled one could have journeyed through that gate twice by now. Three times!

  Something had happened. He let his senses range the keep until he detected the presence of the crippled one’s daughter. It was she who must be the cause of the delay. But why? She couldn’t know—

  —unless Glaeken had told her about the hilt before he died.

  Rasalom made a tiny gesture with his left hand, and behind him in the dark the corpses of Major Kaempffer and Captain Woermann began to struggle to their feet again, to stand stiffly erect, waiting.

  In a cold rage, Rasalom strode from the chamber. The daughter would be easy to handle. The two corpses stumbled after him. And after them followed the army of rats.

  Magda watched in dumb awe as the gold-and-silver hilt swung toward her head with crushing force. Never had it occurred to her that Papa might actually try to harm her. Yet he was aiming a killing blow at her skull.

  Only an instinctive reflex for self-preservation saved her—she stepped back at the last moment, then dove forward, knocking him to the ground as he tried to recover his balance after the wild swing. She fell on top of him, clutching at the silver crosspiece, finally gripping it with one hand on each side and twisting the hilt out of his grasp.

  He clawed at her like an animal, scratching the flesh of her arms, trying to pull her down again to the point where the hilt would be in reach, screaming:

  “Give it to me! Give it to me! You’re going to ruin everything!”

  Magda regained her feet and backed away to the side of the gateway arch, holding the hilt with both hands by its golden handle. She was uncomfortably close to the threshold, but she had managed to retain the hilt within the bounds of the keep.

  He struggled to his feet and ran at her with his head down, his arms outstretched. Magda dodged the full force of his charge but he managed to catch her elbow as he went by, twisting her around. Then he was on her, striking at her face and screeching incoherently.

  “Stop it, Papa!” she cried, but he seemed not to hear. He was like a wild beast. As his ragged dirty fingernails raked toward her eyes, she swung the hilt at him; she didn’t think about what she was doing—it was an automatic move. “Stop it!”

  The sound of the heavy metal striking Papa’s skull sickened her. Stunned, she stood and watched as his eyes rolled up behind his glasses. He slipped to the ground and lay still, tendrils of fog drifting over him.

  What have I done?

  “Why did you make me hit you?” she screamed at his unconscious form. “Couldn’t you trust me just once? Just once?”

  She had to get him out—just a few feet beyond the threshold would be enough. But first she had to dispose of the hilt, put it somewhere well inside the keep. Then she would try to drag Pap
a out to safety.

  Across the courtyard lay the entrance to the cellar. She could throw the hilt down there. She began running toward the entrance but stopped halfway there. Someone was coming up the steps.

  Rasalom!

  He seemed to float, rising from the cellar as a huge dead fish might rise from the bottom of a stagnant pond. At the sight of her, his eyes became twin spheres of dark fury, assaulting her, stabbing her. He bared his teeth as he seemed to glide through the mist toward her.

  Magda held her ground. Glaeken had said the hilt had the power to counter Rasalom. She felt strong. She could face him.

  She noticed movement behind Rasalom as he approached. Two other figures were emerging from the subcellar, figures with slack, white faces that followed Rasalom as he stalked forward. Magda recognized them: the captain and that awful major. She did not need a closer look to know that they were dead. Glaeken had told her about the walking corpses and she had been half expecting to see them. But that did not keep her blood from running cold at the sight of them. Yet she felt strangely safe.

  Rasalom stopped within a dozen feet of her and slowly raised his arms until they were spread out like wings. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Magda noticed stirrings in the fog that blanketed the courtyard and swirled about her knees. All around her, hands rose out of the mist, clutching at the air, followed by heads, and then torsos. Like loathsome fungal growths sprouting from moldy soil, the German soldiers who had occupied the keep were rising from the dead.

  Magda saw their ravaged bodies, their torn throats, yet she stood firm. She had the hilt. Glaeken had said the hilt could negate Rasalom’s animating power. She believed him. She had to!

  The corpses arrayed themselves behind Rasalom and to his right and left. No one moved.

  Maybe they’re afraid of the hilt! Magda thought, her heart leaping. Maybe they can’t get any closer!

  Then she noticed a curious rippling in the fog around the corpses’ feet. She looked down. Through gaps in the mist she glimpsed scuttling forms, gray and brown.

  Rats!

  Revulsion tightened her throat and swept over her skin. Magda began to back away. They were moving toward her, not in a solid front, but in a chaotic scramble of crisscrossing paths and squat, bustling bodies. She could face anything—even the walking dead—anything but rats.

  She saw a smile spread over Rasalom’s face and knew she was responding just as he had hoped—retreating from his final threat, edging ever closer to the gateway. She tried to stop, to will her legs to be still, but they kept backing her away from the rats.

  Dark stone walls closed around her—she was back within the gate arch. Another yard or two and she would be over the threshold…and Rasalom would be set loose upon the world.

  Magda closed her eyes and stopped moving.

  This far will I go. This far and no farther…this far and no farther…

  …Repeating it over and over in her mind—until something brushed her ankle and skittered away. Something small and furry. Another. Then another. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. The hilt wasn’t working! The rats were attacking her! They’d be all over her soon. In a panic, she opened her eyes.

  Rasalom was closer now, his depthless eyes fixed on her through the misty half light, his legion of the dead fanned out behind him, and the rats massed before him. He was driving the rats forward, forcing them against her feet and ankles. Magda knew she was going to break and run any second now…she could feel the overpowering terror welling up inside her, ready to drown and wash away all her resolve…the hilt isn’t protecting me!

  She started to turn and then stopped. The rats were brushing against her, but they didn’t bite or claw her. They made contact and then ran. It was the hilt! Because she held the hilt, Rasalom lost control over the rats as soon as they touched her. Magda took heart and calmed herself.

  They can’t bite me. They can’t touch me for more than an instant.

  Her greatest horror had been that they might crawl up her legs. Now she knew they could not. She stood firm again.

  Rasalom must have sensed this. He scowled and made a motion with his hands.

  The corpses again began to move. They parted around him, then rejoined into a near-solid moving wall of dead flesh, scuffling, stumbling forward, crowding up to where she stood, stopping within inches of her. They gaped at her with slack, expressionless faces and glazed, empty eyes. No malevolence in their movements, no hatred, no real purpose. They were merely dead flesh.

  But they were so close!

  Had they been alive, their breath would have wafted against her face. As it was, a few of them smelled as if they had already begun to putrefy.

  She closed her eyes again, fighting the loathing that weakened her knees, hugging the hilt against her.

  …this far and no farther…this far and no farther…for Glaeken, for me, for what’s left of Papa, for everyone…this far and no farther…

  Something heavy and cold slumped against her. She staggered back, crying out in surprise and disgust. The corpses nearest her had begun to go limp and fall against her. Another one slammed into her and she was rocked back again. She twisted to the side and let its slack bulk slip by her. Magda realized what Rasalom was doing—if he couldn’t frighten her out of the keep, then he would push her out by hurling the physical bulk of his dead army against her.

  He was succeeding. There were only inches left to her.

  As more corpses pressed forward, Magda made a desperate move. She grasped the gold handle of the hilt firmly with both hands and swung it in a wide arc, dragging it against the dead flesh of those closest to her.

  Bright flashes of light and sizzling noises erupted upon contact with the bodies; wisps of acrid, yellow white smoke stung her nostrils…and the corpses—they jerked spasmodically and fell away like marionettes with severed strings. She stepped forward, waving the hilt again, this time in a wider arc, and again the flashes, the sizzle, the sudden limpness.

  Even Rasalom retreated a step.

  Magda allowed a small, grim smile to touch her lips. Now at least she had breathing room. She had a weapon and she was learning how to use it. She saw Rasalom’s gaze shift to her left and looked to see what had caught his attention.

  Papa! He had regained consciousness and was on his feet, leaning against the wall of the gateway arch. It sickened Magda to see the thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face—blood from the blow she had struck.

  “You!” Rasalom said, pointing to Papa. “Take the talisman from her! She has joined our enemies!”

  Magda saw her father shake his head, and her heart leaped with new hope.

  “No!” Papa’s voice was a feeble croak, yet it echoed off the stone walls around them. “I’ve been watching! If what she holds is truly the source of your power, you do not need me to reclaim it. Take it yourself!”

  Magda knew she had never been so proud of her father as at that moment when he stood up to the creature who had tried to plunder his soul. And had come so close to succeeding. She brushed away tears and smiled, taking strength from Papa and giving it back to him.

  “Ingrate!” Rasalom hissed, his face contorted with rage. “You’ve failed me! Very well, then—welcome back your illness! Revel in your pain!”

  Papa slumped to his knees with a stifled moan. He held his hands before him, watching them turn white and lock once again into the gnarled deformity that until yesterday had rendered them useless. His spine curved and he crumpled forward with a groan. Slowly, with agony seeping from every pore, his body curled in on itself. When it was over he lay whimpering in a twisted, tortured parody of the fetal position.

  Magda stepped toward him, shouting through her horror.

  “Papa!”

  She could almost feel his pain. Yet he suffered through it all with no plea for mercy. This seemed to incite Rasalom further. Amid a chorus of shrill squeaks, the rats started forward, a dun wave that sluiced around Papa, then swept over him, tearing at him wi
th tiny razor teeth.

  Magda forgot her loathing and rushed to his side, batting at the rats with the hilt, swatting them away with her free hand. But for every few she swept away, more sets of tiny jaws darted in to redden themselves on Papa’s flesh. She cried, she sobbed, she called out to God in every language she knew.

  The only answer came from Rasalom, a taunting whisper behind her. “Throw the hilt through the gate and you will save him! Remove that thing from these walls and he lives!”

  Magda forced herself to ignore him, but deep within she sensed that Rasalom had won. She could not let this horror go on—Papa was being eaten alive by vermin! And she seemed helpless to save him. She had lost. She would have to surrender.

  But not yet. The rats were not biting her, only Papa.

  She sprawled across her father, covering his body with her own, pressing the hilt between them.

  “He will die!” the hated voice whispered. “He will die and there will be no one to blame but you! Your fault! All your—”

  Rasalom’s words suddenly broke off as his voice climbed to a screech—a sound full of rage, fear, and disbelief.

  “YOU!”

  Magda lifted her head and saw Glaeken—weak, pale, caked with dried blood, leaning against the keep’s gate a few feet away. There was no one in the world she wanted more to see right now.

  “I knew you would come.”

  But the way he looked, it seemed a miracle he had made it across the causeway. He could never stand up to Rasalom in his present condition.

  And yet he was here. The sword blade was in one hand, the other he held out to her. No words were necessary. She knew what he had come for and knew what she must do. She lifted herself away from Papa and placed the hilt in Glaeken’s hand.

  Somewhere behind her, Rasalom was screaming, “Nooooo!”

  Glaeken smiled weakly at her, then in a single motion, smooth and swift, he stood the blade point down and poised the top of the hilt over the butt spike. As it slid home with a solid rasping click, a flash of light brighter than the sun at summer solstice, intolerably bright, spread in a ball from Glaeken and his sword to be caught and amplified by the images of the hilt inlaid throughout the keep.