The Sword of Fate

by Dennis Wheatley

  Tino asked me if there was anything that he could do for me, but I told him ‘No’, and that he had better go upstairs to get some sleep. Going into the front room, I left the door open so that I should hear anyone who might approach along the street, and sitting down there I tried to think.

  Four years before Fate had dealt me one blow, wrecking my career and making me an outcast on account of what was no more than an excess of zeal to serve my country and youthful lack of judgment. Now Fate had hit me again by robbing me of the one woman for whom I had ever really cared. It was just over a year since I had met Daphnis, and during all that time there had not been a day or a night that I had not thought of her with love and longing, and in these latter months with pride and joy and thanksgiving. When we had at last become engaged I had considered the old business more than made good by the gods, and myself the most fortunate fellow in the whole world. Now it was all dust and ashes. I had nothing—nothing—nothing left to live for.

  I must have sat there for about half an hour slowly but logically making up my mind. I no longer wanted vengeance on von Hentzen, and the death of a million Germans could not compensate me for what I had lost. I knew that now. There was only one thing that I wanted. That was to be done with it all—to get out.

  I took out my pistol and looked at it. There were still four bullets in the magazine. I clicked one up into the chamber and raised the gun until it pointed at my right temple.

  Suddenly something came at me through the half-open door like a whirlwind, dashing the pistol from my hand. It was the hunchback boy. He must have been crouching there watching me. He now stood beside me, panting slightly and gripping my arm with all his strength.

  “What the hell!” I exclaimed, coming to my feet.

  He twisted his little puckered face up towards me as he cried: “You can’t do that! You can’t do that, master! You’re an Englishman—you told me so. You must go on fighting the Germans—killing them and killing them and killing them, until you drive them out of Greece.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Tino, but I don’t suppose you know. It hasn’t been altogether our fault, and we’ve done our best—but we British aren’t quite as strong as your statesmen told you we were; so it’s the Germans who’ve driven us out of Greece. We killed a lot of the enemy, but they killed a lot of our men, and for the last few nights the rest have been leaving Greece in the ships sent to fetch them.”

  For a moment he stared up at me quite stupefied; then he said, “But you haven’t given in, have you?”

  “No,” I said. “We haven’t given in and we never shall give in. We’ll beat the Germans one day, but maybe not for quite a long time yet.”

  “Then you can’t kill yourself,” he argued. “If the fighting’s still going on it doesn’t matter where it is. It’s a pity that your soldiers have had to leave Greece, but that’s all the more reason you should go and help them, because they must need every man they can get.”

  “There’s something in that,” I agreed doubtfully. “But getting here took me much longer than I expected, so I should think that nearly all our men who could manage to get away have gone by now. Before I could get back to the coast they certainly will have, and I’d probably find it impossible to get off. I’ve got nothing to live for now in any case; and I’d rather be dead than a prisoner of the Germans.”

  “You got here through the Germans, so why can’t you get back again?” he demanded. “If you could get us to Keramidi in your car I could find you a boat to take you off.”

  “Could you?” I said in surprise.

  “Yes. My father was a fisherman until he married a farmer’s daughter; but he used to take me to Keramidi to see Grandpa once a year, and I’ve often been sailing with the fishermen in their boats.”

  “Where is Keramidi?” I asked.

  “Do you know Volo?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, it’s near the coast, about twenty-five kilos north of Volo.”

  All this time he had been staring at me with those strange compelling lustrous eyes, and there is no doubt about it that they did something to me. Of course he was right—right every time—about its being my duty to get back somehow, if I possibly could, and fight on until Britain had broken the Nazis. It was too early for me to see my private grief in due proportion to the agony that was afflicting the world; but I did realise now that it would have been a frightful act of cowardice to take my own life. How I don’t quite know, but I raised a smile for this extraordinary little fellow who seemed to have powers out of all proportion to his size, his age and his poor twisted little body.

  “All right, Tino,” I said. “Let’s go to Keramidi.”

  It wasn’t far off dawn when, having provisioned the car from a secret store that Tino had accumulated during the past week, we set off. We drove east through the mountains by such side-roads as I could find on my map for most of the Sunday until the late afternoon, when I pulled up in a quiet spot and roused Tino, who had been asleep. I told him that it was my turn to sleep now, and, giving him my watch, asked him to wake me again at midnight. Then I settled down to get a little badly-needed rest.

  At midnight we had a snack, then drove on and got ourselves hopelessly lost. I no longer had any fear of the Germans from having found that, whenever we were stopped, von Hentzen’s pass always aroused in them immediate respect. The next lot we happened on went to quite a lot of trouble to put us right.

  At about three o’clock on the Monday morning we reached Keramidi; but only to find the village a burnt-out wreck. The little harbour, too, which lay a mile or so below it on the coast, was a blasted ruin, from the waters of which the masts of a dozen fishing smacks protruded where they had been sunk. Poor Tino wept a bit to think that his grandfather and most of his friends among the fishermen must be dead. It was my turn to try to forget my own agony in order to comfort him.

  After a little I decided to take the coast road to the south on the chance that we might sight a vessel, as many of our men who had been driven through the low country to the east of Mount Olympus along the seashore must have been taken off in that neighbourhood.

  Driving slowly along the ribbon of road I kept a sharp lookout, and about half an hour later, on rounding a headland into a low bay, I saw a light flashing out to sea. We drove on until we were opposite to it, then abandoned the car and walked down to the beach. The signalling had stopped, but I could just make out the dark hulk of a small ship about half a mile out. As we reached the water’s edge I caught the sound of voices and saw that some men, who had just waded out, were being hauled into a boat.

  I gave them a hail, not too loud but loud enough for them to hear, and an English voice called back:

  “Who are you?”

  “A British officer,” I cried.

  “Right-oh, come along!” called back the voice. “The Navy’s here!”

  I took out my wallet, which still contained most of the big sum that Diamopholus had given me. Stuffing it into Tino’s pocket, I said:

  “Take care of that, Tino. It’s enough to buy you a little cottage and a garden when things settle down. You’ve been a good friend and I wish you all the luck in the world.”

  He didn’t reply for a moment, then he gulped out: “Thank you, master. Good luck.” And we solemnly shook hands before I waded out into the water.

  I had gone perhaps fifty yards and was up to my waist before a new thought struck me, and turning I raced back. The men in the boat were now shouting at me to make haste, but I took no notice of them. Tino was still standing where I had left him.

  “Look here,” I said, “what happened to your father and mother?”

  “They’re both—both dead,” he said in a whisper.

  “What’s to become of you, then?” I asked.

  He shook his head and twisted it again to look up at me. “I don’t know, master. The Germans will rule us now, won’t they, until the British bring us back our freedom? They taught us in school that the Nazis h
ate cripples, so things may be—may be difficult for anyone like me.”

  Something stirred in me then. He was a grand little man—this hunchback. Fate had been savagely cruel to both of us. It had striken him at birth and worse than it had me. Perhaps I could help to make that up to him by giving him a good education, a chance in life to make the best use of his quick brain and the affection that every child must crave.

  “Come on, old chap,” I said. “You’re coming with me.” And picking him up in my arms, I waded back into the water. In Greece I had lost something that could never be replaced. My heart had died with Daphnis; but I was not leaving Greece empty-handed. I was carrying out of it a spirit that was brave and kind and free.

  A Note on the Author

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  Dennis Wheatley (1897 – 1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world's best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.

  Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.

  His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.

  During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.

  Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.

  Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/DennisWheatley

  Duke de Richleau

  The Forbidden Territory

  The Devil Rides Out

  The Golden Spaniard

  Three Inquisitive People

  Strange Conflict

  Codeword Golden Fleece

  The Second Seal

  The Prisoner in the Mask

  Vendetta in Spain

  Dangerous Inheritance

  Gateway to Hell

  Gregory Sallust

  Black August

  Contraband

  The Scarlet Impostor

  Faked Passports

  The Black Baroness

  V for Vengeance

  Come into My Parlour

  The Island Where Time Stands Still

  Traitors’ Gate

  They Used Dark Forces

  The White Witch of the South Seas

  Julian Day

  The Quest of Julian Day

  The Sword of Fate

  Bill for the Use of a Body

  Roger Brook

  The Launching of Roger Brook

  The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

  The Rising Storm

  The Man Who Killed the King

  The Dark Secret of Josephine

  The Rape of Venice

  The Sultan’s Daughter

  The Wanton Princess

  Evil in a Mask

  The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

  The Irish Witch

  Desperate Measures

  Molly Fountain

  To the Devil a Daughter

  The Satanist

  Lost World

  They Found Atlantis

  Uncharted Seas

  The Man Who Missed the War

  Espionage

  Mayhem in Greece

  The Eunuch of Stamboul

  The Fabulous Valley

  The Strange Story of Linda Lee

  Such Power is Dangerous

  The Secret War

  Science Fiction

  Sixty Days to Live

  Star of Ill-Omen

  Black Magic

  The Haunting of Toby Jugg

  The KA of Gifford Hillary

  Unholy Crusade

  Short Stories

  Mediterranean Nights

  Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

  This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

  London WC1B 3DP

  First published in 1942 by Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.

  Copyright © 1942 Dennis Wheatley

  All rights reserved

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  eISBN: 9781448212699

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