Von Struck smiled.
"I’ll play with him when I see him. Till then I’ll make do with his apprentice,” Henning absently replied without looking up.
"That’s rich coming from you. Even Old Nick would have a hard job keeping up with your cheating," growled Rohleder.
Muschinski grunted in agreement.
"We’re out tonight. The good Doctor has just told me we’re to march to the barracks to meet the legendary Vampyrs," and then, as an aside to Henning, "They’ll have to send a guide. I hope they do anyway. This area is not on the map and I don’t have a clue where the barracks are.”
Henning shrugged. "That’s not our problem, Boss. If they need us, they’ll come for us."
"Is that coffee I smell, Michael, my old and trusted friend?" Von Struck sniffed.
"Ersatz, but you’re more than welcome to try out our new improved Romanian blend,” Rohleder grinned, offering a tin mug filled with a steaming liquid the colour of tar.
* * *
It was just before four when Maria came for them. She strode into the stables to find them sleeping but dressed ready for movement.
"Standartenführer?" she queried through the gloom.
"Here. Are you the guide?” He stood up and stepped forward to look at her in the light of the doorway.
She was beautiful. He could almost hear his heart pounding as he stared like a breathless adolescent at her. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth and he didn’t trust himself to speak. She awoke long forgotten stirrings in him that the East had all but buried. Desires he thought had been sated in the field brothels came back with a voracity that broke all barriers. The sexual awakening drowned out all other thoughts and he had to physically shake his head to gather his wits.
She smiled demurely at his obvious discomfort. "I’m to take you to the barracks.”
"Fall in outside, lads," Henning ordered, kicking them awake. They filed out, each one eyeing her as they passed. She relished the attention but didn’t acknowledge it, and Von Struck felt vaguely resentful.
They marched around the building and into the wood. The way was dark and the only light was Maria’s torch. Luckily, the path was free of debris and seemed well used.
The ring of cottages was deserted, lit by small fires that cast eerie shadows into the wood surrounding it. Maria followed a route around the edge of the buildings, on the periphery of the light thrown out by the fires.
The great oak in the middle dominated the circle like an all-seeing entity. Its immense presence seemed to bear down on them and the vast branches reached out like clawing arms. The mood of the squad darkened and tensed. Nobody articulated the oak's existence but all felt it as they passed. The only sound to be heard was the crunch of snow under their boots as each wrapped himself in his own thoughts and reservations.
Before long they reached the meter high wall that surrounded the barracks. The building looked completely out of place in the wood. Three storeys high, with white walls and a slate roof, it resembled a German barrack block and the men found an indistinct comfort in the recognition.
Von Struck saw the Count and the Doctor waiting for them at the main door to the building which they reached and stood round in a circle. The men ignored Rasch and the Count as they leered at Maria in the raw light of her torch. She seemed unaware of their attention.
"Standartenführer, can’t the men fall in so they resemble a military unit and not a crowd of sightseers?" quibbled Rasch in a loud whisper.
"Remember what I said about how you handle the men, Doctor?" Von Struck warned.
Rasch backed down and turned to the Count.
"So, your Excellency, Standartenführer Von Struck has arrived. May we continue?”
Without a word, the Count turned and walked into the building, followed by Rasch and the men.
Von Struck lingered at the back and turned to study Maria. To his horror, and secret delight, he found her openly staring at him. He nodded awkwardly and looked away.
Maria privately sneered and followed them.
Von Struck stood alone in front of the doorway for a minute to catch his thoughts. What was it with this woman? What had she done to him?
The doorway stood dark and foreboding before him and he suffered a brief premonition of doom.
He hesitated, entered and was soon swallowed up by the impenetrable blackness.
Chapter 19
It was dark when Michael rapped on his door. He waited but there was no answer. He knocked once more and went in.
Smith had spent the day in his room. He had eaten there and feigned sleep as Maria had looked in on him.
When Michael walked in, his face turned from apprehension to relief when he saw it wasn’t her. "I thought it was Maria.”
Michael closed the door behind him. He was dressed to go outside and had on a long coat and Cossack boots.
"As I was saying this morning before we were interrupted, we know that the tools are here but we don’t know what they are. What we’ve got to find out is … "
Smith cut him off. "Now just wait a minute here, I haven’t even decided whether I believe your story or not.”
"You’ve got to believe me. There’s so much to do and your quibbling about whose side you’re on is not being very helpful.”
Smith opened his mouth to defend himself and closed it again. He got up off the bed, "What are we going to do?”
Michael nodded curtly. "We’ve got to find the book. If we find it, we’ve got a chance to extract the knowledge from it to destroy them.”
They talked while Smith dressed.
"Where do you think it is, then, this book?”
"Marik and Maria have both got keys for the crypt under the building. I’ve got Marik’s key. He sleeps at night. I’ll put it back when we’re finished.”
"Right, let’s go then."
Smith shrugged on his coat, patted his pistol and slung on his Stengun. He felt good now that he was doing something. With a weapon in his hands, he felt a bit more in control of his destiny.
They moved quickly along the corridor and down the steps to the door of the crypt. "Stay close. It will be dark and I don’t want us to get split up.”
Michael creaked open the door that was as ancient as the rest of the castle, paused before the blackness and walked down the steps. Smith closed it after him but didn’t lock it.
The stench of putrefaction was nearly overpowering.
"My God it stinks down here. What the hell is that?" Smith whispered.
"It’s the book. The closer we get to the book, the more the decay and rot. That’s why upstairs is relatively clean and downstairs is so filthy. Here, of course, it’s even worse.”
It took a while for Smith's eyes to get used to the dark. Michael struck a flint and wordlessly lit a torch. When it was burning, he gave it to Smith and lit one for himself.
The walls seemed to suck in the light of their flaming torches. Michael turned to Smith and whispered, "As I said, stay close. The book is near. I can feel it, can you?”
"All I can feel is the bloody cold,” Smith retorted. "Let’s get this over with before I catch my death.”.
Michael nodded and turned to move off. They set a good pace, blindly following their noses. After ten minutes they came to the main chamber where a sarcophagus dominated the middle of the room.
They approached it slowly.
"This is where your brother sleeps.”
"You have got to be joking.”
”Now do you have any doubt as to what I told you about your family? Do you accept what I’ve told you as the truth?”
Smith didn’t answer. Something glinted in the torchlight in one of the passages leading off from the crypt. He walked over to it and saw that it wasn’t a passage but a small room. On the far end of the room was an altar and on it lay an object obscured by a shroud.
He called Michael who let out a whoop of triumph when he realised what it was. The smell of corruption had been bad in the crypt but here, in the
altar room, it was unbearable. They covered their faces with their sleeves to try and filter the air but it was to no avail. The stench was too strong. It felt like breathing treacle.
The shroud was acting as a form of altar cloth covered in bizarre symbols, the form of which Smith couldn’t relate to any religion he knew.
"Sumerian,” muttered Michael as he drew the cloth off.
The book was bound in hide. "Human skin,” Michael elaborated, "taken from Szaran’s first wife, the one he left for Lilith.”
Smith shuddered as he surveyed the binding. It was covered with what looked like old brown leather. There was no writing or markings of any kind, but the spine of the book had two large golden-coloured hinges and it was held together by a large lock with a key protruding from it.
"Open it up,” said Smith. "See what’s inside.”
"No, we’ve got to get away from here. We have the book but we don’t know how to use it, or even how to read it, for that matter, or can you read ancient Sumerian?”
Smith looked at him to see if he was joking and shook his head.
"Right, wrap it in that cloth and let’s go, then.”
They turned back to the crypt, only to find their way barred. Framed in the doorway stood the hulking silhouette of Marik, the ancient and decrepit manservant, but now his ears, nose and mouth had elongated to take on canine features.
Smith noticed the frayed remnants of a collar and cuffs and blurted out his recognition. "It’s the bloody butler."
The creature's clawed hands, large as shovels, opened and closed in animated tension as it took in the scene before it. It was breathing heavily through its mouth, almost panting, and great icicles of saliva hung from its overgrown canines.
Growling menacingly, it took a step forward.
It eyed them both in turn and looked at the book before growling again. Time stopped for Smith as he realised that he was facing a werewolf.
Acting on instinct, in the blink of an eye he unslung his machine gun, cocked it and fired off the whole magazine. The sound was deafening but the rounds had no effect on the beast which looked down at the holes in his torso before advancing another stalking pace forward. The bullets that had been absorbed by its body were now being expelled through the entrance wounds, making a muffled pinging sound as they landed like discarded trinkets.
Shaking his head, Michael gave Smith the book and put up the torch to use as a weapon.
"Fire!" he exclaimed, looking from Marik to Smith. "They fear fire." Then with a sound like a large pair of scissors opening up, he produced a sword. "Fire, silver and the words of the Lord.”
He advanced on Marik with the flame held at head height and the blade pointed at his middle, chanting under his breath with every step. Marik, roaring like a lion, took a pace back and then another until he was backed onto the sarcophagus and could retreat no further.
Smith watched, mute with fear, as Michael trapped it and slung away his weapon to pick up the discarded torch.
Marik dashed to Michael’s left in an effort to get by him. Michael blocked him with the flame and sliced with his sword. The werewolf howled in pain as the metal cut through the bone of his left arm from the elbow down. It fell to the ground and blood hosed out of the stump, catching them both, before Marik ran off, howling and whimpering into the dark.
"He’ll be back soon, so we’ve got to go. Come on.” Michael ran off. Smith followed and they sprinted out of the crypt. After a few minutes of wild fleeing, they both stopped simultaneously. "Do you know where we are?” Michael gasped.
Smith could only shake his head. Behind them, invisible in the dark, they could still hear Marik’s’ snorting and growling.
"He’s not howling anymore" Smith noted.
"Werewolves possess enormous powers of rejuvenation. The arm won’t grow back yet but it soon will. He’ll also be angry because the pain will have dulled to a healing itch.”
Smith could only nod. "I can’t believe we’re talking about werewolves here.” He looked at the sword. It was hinged in the middle of the spine of the blade and held together by thin metal clasps. "Where did that come from?" he asked.
"I’ll tell you later. I have one made of silver as well. It's just a pity it isn't here. Come on, we’ve got to keep moving."
He dashed off and Smith followed.
It was as Smith’s torch went out that Marik caught up with them and pounced on his back. Smith heard him coming up from behind but had refused to believe it was Marik. Denial comes easy to the hunted. Crashing down under Marik’s weight, he felt the teeth bite deep into his left shoulder. There was no pain; just a nauseating tug as the werewolf started ripping at the wound.
He screamed in fear and tried to bat over his shoulder with the now smouldering torch. The Stengun was trapped on his back and the book had flown from his hands and was lying open in front of him. From the floor he could see that Michael had stopped and turned around. Smith heard the whoosh of the blade and the thud as it bit into the werewolf’s neck and nearly severed the head.
Smith cried out in agony as pain shot through his body like a lightening bolt. He watched Michael’s boots walk around him, stop and pick up the book.
"I can’t help you now, English.” He turned to go.
Smith’s eyes felt heavy. A stalking coldness was washing over him. Prone on the floor, he watched as Michael turned back and crouched down.
"I will come back, but for now you’ve got to stay with them here. They need you as a vampire and that is why they will stop the lycanthrope infection. Trust me on this. I’ll be back to help you, and Iullia.”
"Iullia?" Smith croaked.
The name was familiar to him but his fevering brain couldn’t grasp who she was.
"She was a nun before they stole her away to be their womb for your seed. She is also my sister. Stay strong, English. Remember that I will come for you.”
Smith failed to catch the last promise. By then he had slipped into painless oblivion.
Chapter 20
Von Struck walked in after Maria and the dark swallowed them all. Gruhn was the first to switch on his torch. The beam was weak but reassuring, and soon they were all holding illuminated flashlights. Although from the outside the building looked to be three separate storeys, it was in fact one big hall. Unlike the main building, the tiled floor and the stone walls were free from dust and dirt. No candles and no decoration of any kind were visible. Thick black curtains, obviously designed to block out the light, closed off the windows. There was nothing for them to see until they looked up.
Running the entire length of the walls were ledges. They were evenly stacked with roughly two meters headroom between them. Perched on these ledges, barely silhouetted in their weak beams, squatted the Count’s soldiers.
Not a soul moved. As their eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark, they were able to make out more detail. The ledges were many but the soldiers were few. There were thirty soldiers, if that, Von Struck counted, but enough space for a hundred times that number.
Rasch looked at the Count who in the torchlight looked to be grinning in triumph and pride. The Count spread his arms with a flourish and announced, "These are my soldiers of the night. Together, Dr Rasch, we will expand their numbers and take your war in the East to new dimensions.”
Rasch was lost for words. He had known what to expect but the confrontation with the reality of it had astounded him. Here in this hall was the beginning of a vampire army, vampires who were willing to fight for the Third Reich and the new utopian Nazi Europe. How could they fail now? In his mind’s eye he could already see his triumphant return to Berlin. He would be a hero, and not just in the scientific world. The whole of the new world order would know his name and sing his praises. He just had to leap one last hurdle and their worship of him would be his for the taking.
The Squad looked around as one.
"What the … " muttered Muntner to himself, but they were the only words voiced. They felt no fear for they were in fri
endly territory but the strangeness of the situation was hard to comprehend in one go. They stared open-mouthed and dispassionate at the crouching shadows above them.
After at least a minute, Rasch broke the silence. “It will soon be dawn, Your Excellency. Do you wish to pick a volunteer?”
"Of course ..." He clicked his fingers and one of shadows jumped down to where they were. He fell slowly from a height of twenty meters and landed like a feather. An audible gasp arose from Von Struck’s squad and Rasch angrily turned on him. "Didn’t you brief your troops as I ordered you to?”
Von Struck was shaken but he didn’t need to let Rasch know it. He stared at him for a second as if he were mad and then, "Of course I didn’t, Rasch. They would have thought I was as touched in the head as you are.”
Meanwhile the squad had collectively unslung their rifles. It was dark and they were suddenly nervous. The wrongness of what they had just seen had struck home and Von Struck knew that if they were left to act on their own they would soon be firing.
"Easy now, men," he turned to them, "These are our allies. I know it seems strange but don’t forget that they’re on our side … " He went on placating them until one-by-one they pointed their weapons down to the ground. They muttered among themselves, loudly whispering questions and listening to his hushed replies.
The Count looked on in obvious amusement.
"Just think, Herr Doctor, if that is the effect my soldiers have on our allies, imagine what effect they have on the enemy.”
"Indeed, Your Excellency." Rasch could hardly contain his anger and was already writing up his report on what had happened in his head. Nevertheless, he affected a casual air and turned to the Count’s volunteer. "Shall we proceed?”
It was dressed in the black parade uniform of the Waffen SS. The tunic was bare except for the SS runes on the collar and a thin armband with 'Vampyr' stitched along its length. Powerfully built and tall, it wore no headdress and it’s white, shaven head seemed tiny in comparison to its massive shoulders. Its eyebrows were equally bare. The ears were big and pointed, as was its nose, and it studied them with the cruel intelligent eyes of a cat studying a nest of mice. Its hands were large and the nails long and, as it smiled slowly at Von Struck’s squad so that they all saw the mouth full of razor sharp incisors. On its belt hung a scabbard, but no sword.
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