The Forbidden Territory

by Dennis Wheatley

  “To think that once they were all men,” said Rex, in an awed voice.

  “They are as we should have been tomorrow,” the Duke replied. “What are a few hundred years in all eternity—from dust we come—you know the rest!”

  “Yes, that’s about it. Just miles and miles of dust… I think it’s pretty grim—say, isn’t that the hall ahead?”

  “I think so. I hope that more than half our journey is done; this heat is positively appalling.”

  They emerged into a great open space. The ray from the torch failed to penetrate to the ceiling, nor could they see across to the other side, but other openings into it showed clearly on either hand.

  “Puzzle, find the altar,” said Rex.

  “Yes, let us try straight over on the other side.”

  At that moment Rex trod on another skull. He stumbled against the Duke, who dropped the torch with a clatter. The light went out and the heavy darkness closed in upon them.

  The blackness was so intense that they could almost imagine that they felt it pressing on their hands and faces.

  “Sorry,” gasped Rex, “I trod on some bird’s brain-box.”

  “Stay where you are,” ordered the Duke, sharply. “Let me find the torch.” He groped on the floor, his fingers came in contact with the bearded head. He kicked it aside impatiently, and his fingers found the torch. As he stood up he pressed the button … no light appeared … he pressed it again. Still nothing but that inky darkness pressing round them.

  For a moment he said nothing, as all the horror of the situation dawned on his mind. How was it possible to find their way in this impenetrable blackness without a ray of light? The atmosphere would sap their vitality and deaden their power of thought… in a few hours they would go mad. Shrieking through the hollow darkness, frantically trying turning after turning in these miles of caves. The horror of thirst would come upon them in this awful heat—already he found himself passing his tongue over his dry lips. Better even to go back, if they could find their way, and face the rifles of the Red Guards in the morning than the creeping certainty of insanity as well as death in this vast grave, to be found, perhaps years later, mummified like the rest, clawing the ground in an extremity of thirst and terror.

  He turned to where he knew Rex to be standing. Monseigneur le Duc de Richleau had never yet lost his head, and he knew that now, if ever, his life depended upon his keeping it, so he spoke quietly.

  “Have you the string, Rex?”

  “Yes, but why don’t you show a light?”

  “It seems to be broken.”

  “Pass it over, I’ll see if I can fix it. I’m better acquainted with those things than you.”

  De Richleau groped in the gloom till he found Rex’s hand. “Here,” he said, “but whatever you do, don’t let go of that string.”

  Rex fumbled with the torch, unscrewing the battery and testing the bulb. “That’s about torn it,” he said. “Bulb’s gone.”

  Not a gleam of light showed from any direction as they stood together; the heat seemed to have grown more oppressive than ever in the heavy night-like stillness. A dree eerie feeling emanated from the knowledge of those rows of corpses standing on either hand.

  “Have you no matches?” asked the Duke.

  “No, those thieving Bolshies stripped me of every blame’ thing I had. How in heck are we going to get out of here?”

  “I wish I knew,” replied De Richleau, anxiously. “Let us try groping our way round the big chamber—we may be able to find the altar by touch.”

  “O.K. You go to the left, I’ll go to the right.”

  “No, no, once we are separated we should have endless trouble to come together again; you have no idea how deceptive voices are in a place like this. Here, take hold of my belt—and remember, our lives may hang on your keeping firm hold on that piece of string.”

  “Just as you say,” Rex agreed.

  They moved carefully to the left; De Richleau stretched out his hand and it came in contact with one of the monk’s coarse robes; he knew that they must still be in the entrance to the passage—he moved on and then felt another—then bare wall. That must be the chamber. He followed the wall until it ended, touching another figure on the corner—that must be the entrance to the next passage. He stepped forward boldly, praying that there were no pits. His hand touched silky human hair—a beard. He withdrew it sharply, moving quickly to the right; once more the wall.

  “Gosh, it’s hot down here,” Rex gasped.

  “Frightful, isn’t it?” De Richleau was feeling up and down the wall for any trace of ledge that might mean an altar. There was nothing … he passed on. A few paces farther he encountered another mummy, and stepped out into the open again; this time he had judged the width of the passage more accurately and touched the wall again. Once more he searched for the altar, but failed to find it. He moved on—the wall seemed to continue ever so much farther this time.

  “We’ve gone off the track,” said Rex, suddenly.

  “No, we haven’t passed another corner.”

  “My sense of direction’s pretty good; believe me, we’ve passed out of the big hall.”

  The Duke was troubled, but he walked on. “I think you’re wrong, my friend. There are no mummies here, so we cannot be in a passage.”

  “All right—go ahead, but I’ll lay I’m right.”

  They proceeded, the black gloom engulfing them on every side. Rex spoke again:

  “Honest, you’re going all wrong—air’s closer here than ever, and the floor’s sloping a bit on the down grade. What little I saw of that crypt place showed it flat.”

  De Richleau swore softly in the darkness; he had to admit that Rex seemed to be right. “We’d better go back to the last mummy,” he said, “and start all over again.”

  With Rex leading this time, they retraced their footsteps, winding in the twine as they went. From time to time he felt along the wall.

  “Ugh,” he exclaimed, with a sudden shudder. There was a loud thud, and something moved in the darkness at their feet.

  “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “What was it?” asked the Duke.

  “A man’s head,” said Rex briefly.

  “Never mind, we’ve found the last mummy that we passed. Let us start again from here—take my belt.”

  The Duke stepped out in a different direction this time, walking slowly forward with arms outstretched like a blind man. They must have covered fifty yards when he came to a sudden halt.

  “Found anything?” said Rex.

  “We will try the other way,” the Duke suggested, quietly. In a few paces he had walked into a blank wall. “I think we will rest for a little,” he said, wearily. “I confess I haven’t the faintest idea where we are.”

  They sat down with their backs to the wall; despair was creeping over both of them.

  Rex loosened his clothing at the neck. “If only we could get a breath of air,” he sighed; “we’ll asphyxiate before we’re done.”

  His head was splitting. For a little time they sat in silence. Then he asked: “How long d’you reckon we’ve been fumbling round since we lost the light?”

  “Three-quarters of an hour; an hour, perhaps. It seems longer, but I don’t think it can be more.”

  “And there’s Simon waiting with the car—he’ll reckon the escape’s proved a wash-out and clear off soon if we can’t find a way out of this damn’ place.”

  “If he was ever there,” added the Duke. “I have not counted on that car from the beginning; you will remember what Leshkin said—Simon has been under arrest for some hours, I fear.”

  Rex got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, “let’s take the first passage we come to and walk straight ahead—we must come some place some time.”

  “No,” De Richleau protested, “that would be madness; we should get hopelessly lost. We cannot be far from the central cave. You shall act as a pivot, holding the string, and I will walk in different directions from you, coun
ting my paces each time as I go. That will at least give us the position and shape of the chamber.”

  He took the end of the string and started off into the thick darkness once more. He reached the mummies and said: “Six. Now I will try another way.” Suddenly his voice came in a sharp whisper.

  “Rex—quickly, follow me along the string.”

  Rex followed and saw at once what De Richleau had already seen: a faint blur of light showed clearly the entrance to a passage a few feet away. They were standing near the side of the great hall. Momentarily the light grew brighter—the sound of footsteps could be heard—the steady glow showed that whoever was approaching carried a torch and not a candle.

  “Thank God,” breathed the Duke. “Tackle him as he gets to the opening. You hit him on the head—I’ll snatch the torch.”

  Rex nodded; swiftly they moved to opposite sides of the archway, and stood peering round the corners. A bright light could be seen now advancing between two rows of mummies. Weird shadows flickered on the walls and ceiling—behind the light all was darkness.

  As the man emerged from the passage they sprang upon him simultaneously. Rex delivered a swift blow with his marlinspike, De Richleau snatched the light—the man dropped in a heap without a sound.

  The Duke gave a great sigh of relief. “Light,” he exclaimed; “golden, glorious, life-giving light!”

  “What shall I do with this bird?” asked Rex, pushing the body with his foot.

  “Leave him,” said De Richleau briefly. “Poor devil, we cannot bother with him now.” Then, as the beam of the torch fell for a second upon the white bloodstained face of the crumpled figure at their feet, he stooped suddenly:

  “Good God! It’s Richard Eaton!”

  Chapter XXVI

  The Dash for the Frontier

  Simon was walking slowly to and fro in the narrow space of his bedroom. He was too restless to sit still, and yet anxious not to tire his wounded leg.

  It was past ten o’clock, but he knew that even if the prisoners had already left their cell the journey underground must take some little time, therefore he controlled his impatience to be off. He wished to be certain that they should reach the fort first; two waiting figures would be far less likely to attract attention than a stationary car, and in any case Richard would be there to meet them.

  He had already been down to the garage and arranged for the car to be in immediate readiness. The man in charge, knowing him to be Valeria Petrovria’s friend, had made no difficulties.

  He opened the connecting door to Valeria Petrovna’s room and looked about him sadly. Her silk garments were strewn on the bed, just as she had left them when she changed to go to the theatre, her favourite perfume hung in the air.

  By his decision to leave with the others Simon was deliberately placing a unique experience in his life behind him. No other woman had ever meant so much to him—yet, when he had agreed to sacrifice his whole existence to her he had known in the bottom of his heart he could never be happy cut off from all other interests. Richard had been right in his surmise—Valeria Petrovna had asked a ransom for the return of Rex and the Duke, not in so many words, perhaps, but by definite implication.

  Simon had been prepared to carry out his side of the bargain—she had not attempted to carry out hers. To him such failure was a breach of faith going to the very roots of life. He loved her, so if she had confessed her inability to help his friends, and given him the opportunity to do what he could on his own, things might have been different. As it was, she had tricked him, so he was determined to make the break.

  He wondered how she would take his disappearance. After her deception he had not dared to confide in her again; there had been no good-byes. She had gone cheerfully to her gala performance full of vitality and happiness.

  Simon gazed sadly at the little row of smart high-heeled shoes. “Never again,” he thought, “never again … what a blank she will leave in my life!” With a sigh he turned away, and switched out the light. He glanced at the clock in his own room once more; it was ten past ten—they should be there by twenty past—if he left now there should be no waiting on either side. He picked up the small parcel containing his belongings and left the room, locking his door behind him.

  The car had been run out of the garage all ready for him; he stood beside it for a moment while he lit a cigarette, anxious not to show any sign of haste in front of the mechanic. As he did so he realised that he had struck his last match, so he sent the man for another box. Hardly had he done so when the half-hour chimed from a neighbouring clock. It was a good bit later than he had thought, and the knowledge made him impatient to be off. At last—after what seemed an age—the mechanic returned. Simon stuffed the matches in his pocket, nodded cheerfully to the man, and drove quickly out of the yard.

  The neighbourhood of the old fort was dark and deserted; he drew the car in under the shadow of the wall, and peered round anxiously for the others, but no one came forward to meet him. After a moment he shut off the engine, switched out the lights, and stepped down into the road…. Possibly they had thought it best to remain hidden round the corner … he whistled softly—there was no reply.

  Simon began to feel worried; it must be nearly a quarter to eleven—he was terribly late—they should have been here for the last twenty minutes at least—and where was Richard? Had Shubin given them away? The escape been frustrated, and Richard arrested here a few minutes before his own arrival? He glanced apprehensively up and down the road. An occasional figure hastened by on the far side, only momentarily discernible in the dim pools of light cast by the infrequent street lamps. Nobody seemed interested in him or the car.

  He limped round the corner and found the crumbling steps that led to the entrance of the fort. It showed—a pitch black rectangle in the faint glow that fell upon the pitted stonework of the walls; Simon climbed up to it, and stood for some minutes listening intently. An almost uncanny silence brooded over the close, musty darkness of the interior. “Richard!” he called softly, and although his voice was hardly above a whisper it seemed to echo back at him from the hollow darkness as though he had shouted aloud. He waited, but there was no reply, so he stumbled down the steps again and round the corner to the car, really frightened now that something had gone definitely wrong. A quarter of an hour should have been ample for them to get through the catacombs—perhaps the escape had been delayed—but even then what could possibly have become of Richard?

  He climbed back into the car and sat there in the dark, thinking furiously of all the possible hitches which might have occurred. Should he drive back to the hotel or wait there in the hope that they would turn up? He feared that at any moment a policeman might come on the scene and want to know what he was doing there; or worse, if Shubin had actually given them away, that some of Leshkin’s people might arrive to arrest him!

  By the time the sound of eleven striking was born faintly to him on the still night air, he was thoroughly jumpy, but he realised that if Rex and the Duke did make a belated appearance and he had already driven off, they would be stranded in a hopeless situation, so he determined to stick it out.

  A moment later his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps near the corner of the wall, and a tall figure stepped up to the car, peering at him in the darkness.

  Simon gave a sigh of relief. It could be no one but Rex, and that must be the Duke behind him.

  “That you?” he whispered.

  “Sure—Yakovkin told us there’d be a car to meet us—but we’re almighty late; and we’ve had an accident.”

  “Never mind—hurry!—where’s Richard?”

  “Hang on one moment.”

  “For God’s sake be quick,” urged Simon, as they left him without further explanation, “the police may be on us at any moment!”

  He waited impatiently … then shadows moved again in the darkness. Rex and the Duke were carrying what looked like a body between them—Simon’s heart almost stopped—was that Richard? In another momen
t he knew that it was.

  The others were propping him up in the back of the car. His head lolled helplessly; there was blood on his face.

  “What’s happened?” asked Simon anxiously, as he moved into the next seat. “Rex, you’d better drive; my leg is still pretty dicky.”

  “I coshed him,” Rex admitted, as he took the wheel. “Didn’t know who it was in that hellish place.”

  “He … he isn’t dead, is he?” Simon’s voice quivered slightly.

  “We don’t know yet,” De Richleau answered from the back. “I’ll look after him—drive on now,” he added urgently, “we’ll talk later.”

  Rex turned the car round away from the river, and soon they were out on the main highway heading for Birdichy and the frontier. It was a big, modern, powerful car, and the telegraph poles flashed past on either side as they roared through the darkness. They had over a hundred and eighty miles to go, so Rex was taking no chances, but settled down to a steady even pace.

  As soon as they were free of the outskirts of Kiev the Duke pulled the flashlight from his pocket and began to examine Richard’s head. Never in his life had Rex felt so wretched—he could not possibly have known who the man with the light was—had not even the least idea that Richard was in Russia. Now, perhaps, he had killed one of his best friends!

  “Say, how is he?” he asked anxiously.

  “He is alive,” came the Duke’s quiet reassurance, “we must be thankful that you only struck him with that small marlinspike. If it had been an iron bar his head would have cracked like an eggshell. How did he come to be in Russia, Simon?”

  “He came over to look for as. I thought Valeria Petrovna had got you both safe out of it until he turned up in Kiev yesterday. He planned your escape. Is he badly hurt?”

  “I can find no cut on his head—his hat saved him, I think—the blood is only from his nose.”

  “How on earth did it happen?”

  “It was in those darned caves,” Rex explained. “They sure gave me the shivers—stuffed full of corpses propped up against the walls. Our light died on us—then it was hell! I’ll tell the world—so hot we couldn’t breathe, too. I figured we were there for keeps, but we spotted a guy coming down the corridor. I bumped him, and the Duke snatched his light.”