by Don Wilcox
“Come, come, Rouse . . . Bradford . . . Let’s have an end of one or the other of you,” Graygortch called. “I see you locked in a bitter struggle . . . I’m waiting. . . Which one of you is most fit to taste the blended powers of my disciples and myself?”
Hank saw the utter horror in Vivian’s face. She was past screaming. But a sickening realization closed her eyes when she knew—from the hint of smile on Graygortch’s lips—that a decision for the thirteenth place had been reached.
Hank glanced up toward the two amazed onlookers—in time to see the twisted form of Jimpson leap—
No accidental fall could have dropped Jimpson into the center of that blazing disc. It was a deliberate leap, achieved by the superior muscles of that wall-climbing little cripple—
Jimpson landed squarely across the instrument table. If he had been a band of naked copper the flash couldn’t have been any more dazzling.
One immense white flare jumped across the connections. Hank heard a sharp crackle, caught a glimpse of Jimpson being incinerated.
The explosion came and went in that instantaneous flash and crackle. Then it was gone—and with it went every light. The tower—the stairs—the entire castle and grounds were plunged into pitch blackness. Blackness and silence.
CHAPTER XXVI
Over swishing pine needles toward the roaring waters of the Flinfiord the castle army plodded.
“They’ll outnumber us two or three to one,” Ross reiterated, “but we’ll beat them to the punch.”
“Damned right,” muttered Stazell, one of the machine gunners.
From all appearances Ross had his handful of men in the right spirit for stalling an enemy.
A few minutes earlier he had finished selling his seven corporals on his plan of action. Except for a slight uneasiness about Stazell, he had no misgivings. But the machine gunner was the same man who had been Jag Rouse’s main aid during the sailor’s attack on Hank and Ross in the tower. Ross would keep his eye on Stazell.
But now, as they forded the Flinfiord, Stazell was seconding the new chief’s suggestions heartily—almost too heartily. Ross wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
There were only thirty-six in the party. The remainder were on watch at vital points.
A speedy march brought the three dozen men to the point on the upper Flinfiord where a small footbridge had been blown up a short time before.
The valley-like approach on the far side of the footbridge was a natural trap, a narrow V-shaped pass that funnelled toward the footbridge.
“Here’s where we’ll bottle them,” Ross whispered. “Plant one machine gun here on the lowside. Take the other one half-way up the slope of Flat-Stump mountain.”
“When do we shoot, chief?” asked Stazell.
“Wait till they get up to the bridge and find it gone,” said Ross. “The instant they begin to backwater, our two scouts, planted over on the castle-side of the river, will start a fire in some brush. Get it?”
“They’ll think we’re still on our own side of the river?”
“Right. But here we are, planted to mow them from two sides as soon as the light’s on them. Vordoff, your machine gun will catch their front so no man will get across the river. Stazell, you’ll fire straight at the center of the mob.”
Pudgy came, then, with a report from the scouts watching the east slope. The attackers were ten minutes away.
By the time Ross’ rifle men were ambushed, the low thudding of feet could be heard like an approaching herd of cattle.
“Company halt!” came Rouse’s important bark. “Run ahead, you four scouts, and check on that footbridge. Look for a plant of dynamite.”
It was hard to tell how well Jag Rouse’s men were obeying. There wasn’t a light among them, and under the black sky Ross could see them only as a shadowy mass creeping along the trail. Separate heads and bodies were indistinguishable. The mass was as vague as a black cloud drifting along the midnight horizon.
But within a few minutes the low voices again sounded over the tread of feet.
“Where’s Rouse?”
“Here. What’s up?”
“The damned bridge is down.”
“The hell it is.”
“It’s been blasted.”
“Goddammit.”
That tone in the ex-captain’s voice had a familiar ring for Ross. He could picture the irate face contorted with a snarl. It was a moment of indecision for the East Villagers—the very time for the sentinels on the other side of the river to start the fires.
But Stazell and his machine-gunners lurking on the upper flank of the pass didn’t wait for the fires. Contrary to orders they jumped the gun and began firing. Machine-gun bullets clattered somewhere over Ross’ head, and a shower of pine needles rained around him.
“Down, men!” Ross hissed. “That damned idiot!”
“He’s firing on us! Well, I’ll be—” The sailor next to Ross choked, uttered a sickening cry, struck the ground with a thump.
“Down, down, men! Flatten and open fire!”
The bullets began to fly thick and fast, and with them an equally violent volley of profanity. That damned Stazell and his machine-gun unit had turned traitor. The treachery caught the sailors in the gizzard.
But now machine gun was answering machine gun. And a good share of those first rifle shots, Ross knew, were aimed at Stazell and his nest,
“That got ’em, the devils!” some sailor barked, as the upper machine gun went silent.
Now the shadowy mass of invaders was stippled with the flashing light of their return fire. Jag Rouse’s growl could be heard amid the roar. He was shouting to his men to spread out, take to cover.
Suddenly from across the river the fire flamed up, spread along the bank toward the jagged heap of debris that had been a bridge. The ranks of the invaders came into view. They were in a panic. They dashed all directions to get out of the light, spilled over each other.
Ross’ sailors couldn’t have asked for easier targets. They unleashed terrific rifle fire, and shouted with savage glee to see the East Village army wither.
But Jag Rouse was barking orders and beginning to get results. The logical escape was a ravine that wound up the side of the lofty Flat-Stump mountain. Its tortuous curves showed black under the light of leaping flames.
Now Jag Rouse’s voice boomed from the vicinity of that natural trench and his panic-stricken army crawled, tumbled, and slithered after him.
“Right on their tails, men,” Ross ordered. “Fast. Fast. Don’t let them get set.”
The sailors plunged across the trail like devils out of hell.
“Spread out!” Ross yelled. “Pour it on them.”
Here and there a sailor dropped.
For the moment the light was against them. But Ross plunged along the side of the ravine, making every pistol shot count. His boldness broke the path. The sailors bounded over rocks and fallen trees to keep up with him. Once Ross thought he heard a distant gong. But the clamor of the fight kept the valley roaring.
The enemy had its choice of ascending the ravine or falling in their tracks. They did some of both. Ross’ sailors leaped over dead bodies. Up the steep mountain the battle moved—a full half mile of treacherous climbing.
At this distance the firelight was too dim to play advantages for either party.
But Ross could see where the clash was leading. Right on the table-flat top of the mountain.
“Not too fast, men,” he cried. “Thin ’em out but don’t hurry them.”
As long as it was bullets, with the enemy on the run, well and good. But Ross knew he was still outnumbered. And if his men closed in for a hand-to-hand clash, the superior enemy would find its advantage.
And that was almost sure to happen on the table-flat mountain-top.
A flash of curiosity shot through Ross’ mind here in the heat of battle—curiosity over this geological monstrosity that had always reminded him of a huge ragged pyramid with its point sliced of?
clean.
Now Jag Rouse’s voice was coming from that table top and his men were scrambling up over the edge out of view. It would be dark up on the level floor—
Suddenly Jag Rouse, bellowing like a mad bull, flew back down over the edge into view. He was waving an arm wildly. Ross thought a bullet must have got him.
No, he must be calling for a counter attack.
“Come back, you fools!” the ex-captain shouted. He had lost his gun. He seemed to have lost his head as well. “Come back off of that! Don’t go up there!”
The East Village army hadn’t been conspicuous for its obedience at any time, and now there were only three or four of the retreating figures who crept back to the edge. There they were face to face with the oncoming sailors. Telling shots greeted them.
Guns were rapidly going dead on the sailors, but that didn’t check their rush. For these empty guns were perfectly good clubs and they were in the mood for guardsmen’s hockey.
Consequently there was a rapid change, as the last of the East Villagers neared the edge of the table-top, from gunfire to club swinging and head bashing.
Ross had run out of ammunition. The moment of hand-to-hand had come. He picked his man.
Jag Rouse was still waving and bellowing like something gone mad. He had jumped down from the edge of the square-cut summit, stationed himself ten feet below it on a bit of ledge. In the dim light he was only a shadow, but his huge frame and high shoulders marked him, and his wild roar invited a fight.
Ross flung an empty revolver at him. It grazed his shoulder. The big man ducked. He must have caught a telling silhouette of Ross against the distant fires.
“So it’s you, Bradford,” the ex-captain growled. “By God, this is what I want.”
He crouched to spring.
But at that instant it happened. A sky-full of blinding fire shot over Ross’ head.
“The storm!”
Several men shouted it at once. Ross knew without being told. And he knew now how this mountain-top had been sliced off so clean.
An instant after the dazzling ubiquitous flash the blackness cut back as blinding as the light had been.
But Jag Rouse had gauged his distance for a jump in that moment of brilliance. Now he plunged, and the weight of him struck Ross squarely. Ross went down under the impact.
Then for minutes they were struggling like two beasts, pounding, kicking, biting, tearing at each other’s throats. And all the while the magnificent blaze of deadly light was filling the sky overhead.
Now and again the earth rocked and groaned. Wind, thunder, and now dashes of rain bore down upon the mountains with awful suddenness. Now Ross was tumbling, now he was up again, scrambling over purple rock, hurling himself at Jag Rouse with all his power. Now he was stunned by a flying rock. He staggered, catching the side of his head. For an instant that vast fan of light from the distant castle was less blinding than the dizzy whirl in his brain.
His consciousness wavered, then came back sharply.
He was being carried bodily.
Jag Rouse had him in a crushing grip and was dragging him toward the summit.
Yes, Jag Rouse knew the meaning of that dazzling ceiling of light. No wonder he had tried to get his men off the table-top. It was the deadly beam that had sliced the point off the mountain—and here it was, within ten feet of them, waiting to disintegrate any substance that cut through its surface.
“You’re gonna get it, damn you, just like my army got it,” the big man snarled. “You’ll fry before you can wink. Yes, and you’ll—”
Jag Rouse caught a hard blow in the mouth. Ross had him spitting teeth from that one. And crumbling from a kick of the knee. And slipping off his grip from a rapid follow-through of fists.
Ross fell free, struggled to catch his footing, sprawled to the sloping ground. As he fell his arm flew up—the point of his finger barely touched the knife-edge surface and was gone.
Some reflex action made him touch the nipped finger to his mouth, and Jag Rouse must have seen.
“Got you, didn’t it!” the steaming, snarling ex-captain rasped. “Just a taste. Now you know what’s coming.”
Before Ross could pick himself off the sloping ground the big man came plunging.
Ross crouched to his side, then whirled to his back and caught the big man’s violent lunge full on his feet. Then his legs straightened like the springing of a catapult, and he threw the lumbering weight clear of his feet.
The huge man shot up over Ross’ head into the blinding beam.
He did not come down. Not a shred of clothing, not a hair, not a drop of blood sifted down out of that ceiling of light. Ex-captain Jag Rouse had disintegrated.
CHAPTER XXVII
Ross was still staring upward, his eyes half shaded, when the blinding streaks of sky went black.
For minutes his eyes continued to see those giant wheel-spokes gleaming, reaching out from the distant castle tower. But the blackness had come back for good this time.
His army collected itself on a bank above the ravine. Five of the original seven corporals were on hand to reorganize their squads and gloat over their victory.
A cautious examination of the table-top summit of Flat-Stump mountain revealed nothing but empty space. The East Villagers who had taken refuge there had met the same fate as their captain.
“Graygortch must be on our side,” the corporals boasted. “We haven’t lost our evil touch.”
“We go for big game,” said Ross, as he passed his praise among the assembling squads. “Jag Rouse almost pulled down that discipleship—I could tell he was almost there—”
“How?”
“Strange as it may sound, Graygortch was talking to both of us during that fight. I could hear his words. He was hurling us against each other—but in the end it was his death beam that swallowed up Jag Rouse.”
The men stood in awe. Their new chief had given them action the way they liked it. And he had a pull with Graygortch that set him apart from common men. They would follow a high-class criminal like this through any battle he’d lead them into.
“You’re the thirteenth disciple yourself, then,” said Pudgy proudly.
Ross scowled. “I’m not sure till I see Graygortch. I’ve got to hurry back now. You men take care of your less fortunate brothers.”
A thousand questions were leaping through Ross’ mind as he approached the castle.
Strangely everything was perfectly dark. Not even a thin gleam of light from the smaller towers. Nothing like this had ever occurred before.
“Who is dot I hear?” came a well known female voice from the rear walk.
“Fantella! What are you doing here?” He hurried across the yard to meet her. It was too dark to read her expression, but she was chuffing like an engine and her voice hinted exasperation.
“Vait till I get my vind,” she puffed. “You were supposed to go with Vivian and the others in the boat.”
“Yah?”
“Yah,” said Ross, helping her up the steps. “If you’d obeyed my orders you’d be over in the village now, safe.”
“Yah?” Fantella’s voice was on a sarcastic edge.
“All right, you think you’re safe here because we whipped Rouse. Well, you’re not. It was the storm that whipped him. Do you know what that means? Bombers will be heading over us shortly to smash this place to smithereens.”
“Yah? Vat could I do about it?”
“You could have gone with Vivian—”
“Leesten to me, Meester Bradford,” Fantella exploded. “I’fe been vaiting and vaiting and vaiting down in dot boat and der more I vait, der more nobody comes.”
“What? You mean they didn’t go?”
“Der last ting I knew,” the old lady sputtered disgustedly, “Vivian and Hank vas climbing up der trail to leaf der note because Jimpson and dot Smith girl vas gone.”
Ross gasped. If Vivian had shared that storm ritual, as the old man had planned, there was no telling what had happened.
Possibly death—possibly something far worse—
“Find some candles, Fantella—Wait. Someone’s coming with a light.”
A flashlight swung through the corridor. Two men were approaching—the silver-haired doctor, and the curt young British agent. No bells sounded as they passed the inner avenues of the castle. Ross pressed an electric switch, but there were no lights,
“The power plant’s gone dead, Bradford,” Dr. Zimmerman called as Ross hurried toward him. “That was the worst storm ever.”
“By far,” the British agent commented. “I came very nearly not getting here, but I—”
“Give me your light,” Ross snapped. He fairly snatched it from the doctor’s hand and went rushing toward the South Pole Plaza. “VivianI”
He stopped, listened. The clatter of his companion’s footsteps was all he heard. Fantella was at his heels, and Zimmerman and the British agent were not far behind.
“Vivian. VIVIAN!” Ross shouted. “Are you up there with Graygortch?” Everyone stopped to listen. Ross’ voice echoed round and round through the spiral stairs.
“What’s the matter?” the doctor demanded, trying to keep pace. “Is that Rouse gang moving on the castle—”
“We did them in,” Ross said. “But I should have been here . . . VIVIAN!”
The chill of terror in his voice was contagious. He started up the stairs three at a time, Fantella and the two men followed in his wake. He hesitated on the first landing long enough to call back a warning.
“I’d get out of here if I were you. We’re due for tons of bombs, after that storm, or I miss my guess. And that’s not all. I think Graygortch has done it!” Ross flew up the stairs.
“Wait, Bradford,” the British agent bounded up beside him and the two of them took the stairs together three at a time. “I’m holding off those bombs—”
“Yes?”
“Until you folks have had time to evacuate. In fact, I’ve urged the government to save the castle—”