As Magda emerged from the rear room, suitcase in hand, Woermann realized with chagrin, and perhaps a touch of admiration, that he, too, had been manipulated—or "persuaded." He now knew whose idea it had been for Magda to make those repeated trips to the mess and the cellar. The realization did not bother him too much, though. His own instincts had always been against having a woman in the keep.
"I'm going to leave you at the inn unguarded," he told Magda. "I'm sure you understand that if you run off it will not go well with your father. I'm going to trust in your honor and your devotion to him."
He did not add that it would be courting a riot to decide which soldiers would guard her—competition for the double benefit of separation from the keep and proximity to an attractive female would further widen the existing rift between the two contingents of soldiers. He had no choice but to trust her.
A look passed between father and daughter.
"Have no fear, Captain," Magda said, glaring at her father. "I have no intention of running off and deserting him."
He watched the professor's hands bunch into two thick, angry fists.
"You'd better take this," Cuza said, pushing one of the books toward her, the one he had called the Al Azif. "Study it tonight so we can discuss it tomorrow."
There was a trace of mischief in her smile. "You know I don't read Arabic, Papa." She picked up another, slimmer volume. "I think I'll take this one instead."
They stared at each other across the table. They were at an impasse of wills, and Woermann thought he had a good idea where the conflict lay.
Without warning, Magda stepped around the table and kissed her father on the cheek. She smoothed his sparse white hairs, then straightened up and looked Woermann directly in the eye.
"Take care of my father, Captain. Please. He's all I have. "
Woermann heard himself speaking before he could think. "Don't worry. I'll see to everything."
He cursed himself. He shouldn't have said that. It went against all his officer training, all his Prussian rearing. But that look in her eyes made him want to do as she asked. He had no daughter of his own, but if he had he would want her to care about him the way this girl cared about her father.
No . . . he had no need to worry about her running off. But the father—he was a sly one. He would bear watching. Woermann warned himself never to take anything about these two for granted.
The red-haired man sent his mount plunging through the foothills toward the southeast entrance to the Dinu Pass. The greening terrain around him went by unnoticed in his haste. As the sun slipped down the sky ahead of him, the hills on each side grew steeper and rockier, closing on him, narrowing until he was confined to a path a scant dozen feet wide. Once through the bottleneck up ahead he would be on the wide floor of the Dinu Pass. From there on it would be an easy trip, even in the dark. He knew the way.
He was about to congratulate himself on avoiding the many military patrols in the area when he spotted two soldiers up ahead blocking his path with ready rifles and fixed bayonets. Rearing his mount to a halt before the pair, he quickly decided on a course of action—he wanted no trouble, so he would play it meek and mild.
"Where to in such a hurry, goatherd?"
It was the older of the two who spoke. He had a thick mustache and a pitted face. The younger man laughed at the word "goatherd." Apparently it held some derogatory meaning for them.
"Up the pass to my village. My father is sick. Please let me by."
"All in good time. How far up do you intend to go?"
"To the keep."
"The keep'? Never heard of it. Where is it?"
That answered one question for the red-haired man. If the keep were involved in a military action in the pass, these men at least would have heard of it.
"Why are you stopping me?" he asked them, trying to look puzzled. "Is something wrong?"
"It is not for the likes of you to question the Iron Guard," Mustache said. "Get down from there so we can have a better look at you."
So they weren't just soldiers; they were members of the Iron Guard. Getting through here was going to be tougher than he had thought. The red-haired man dismounted and stood silent, waiting as they scrutinized him.
"You're not from around here," Mustache said. "Let me see your papers."
That was the question the red-haired man had feared throughout his trip. "I don't have them with me, sir," he said in his most deferential manner. "I left in such a hurry that I forgot them. I'll go back and get them if you wish."
A look passed between the two soldiers. A traveler without papers had no legal rights to speak of—his non-compliance with the law gave them a free hand to deal with him in any way they saw fit.
"No papers?" Mustache had his rifle at the port position across the front of his chest. As he spoke he emphasized his words with sharp outward thrusts of his rifle, slamming the bolt assembly and the side of the stock against the red-haired man's ribs. "How do we know you're not running guns to the peasants in the hills? "
The red-haired man winced and backed away, showing more pain than he felt; to absorb the blows stoically would only incite Mustache to greater violence.
Always the same, he thought. No matter what the time or place, no matter what the ruling power calls itself, its bullyboys remain the same.
Mustache stepped back and pointed his rifle at the red-haired man. "Search him!" he told his younger partner .
The young one slung his rifle over a shoulder and began roughly slapping his hands over the traveler's clothes. He stopped when he came to the money belt. With a few deft moves he opened the shirt and removed the belt from beneath. When they saw the gold coins in the pouches, another look passed between them.
"Where'd you steal that?" Mustache said, once again slamming the side of his rifle against the red-haired man's ribs.
"It's mine," he told them. "It's all I have. But you can keep it if you'll just let me be on my way." He meant that. He didn't need the gold anymore.
"Oh, we'll keep it all right," Mustache said. "But first we'll see what else you've got." He pointed to the long, flat case strapped to the right flank of the horse. "Open that, " he told his companion.
The red-haired man decided then that he had let this go as far as he could. He would not let them open the case.
"Don't touch that."
They must have sensed menace in his voice, for both soldiers stopped and stared at him. Mustache's lips worked in anger. He stepped forward to slam his rifle against the red-haired man once more.
"Why you—"
Although the red-haired man's next moves might have looked carefully planned, they were all reflex. As Mustache made to thrust with his rifle, the red-haired man deftly ripped it out of his grasp. While Mustache stared dumbly at his empty hands, the red-haired man swung the butt of the rifle up and cracked the man's jaw; from there all that was needed to crush the larynx was a short jab against the exposed throat. Turning, he saw the other soldier unslinging his weapon. The red-haired man took a single step and drove the bayonet on the other end of his borrowed rifle full length into the younger man's chest. With a sigh, the soldier sagged and died.
The red-haired man viewed the scene dispassionately. Mustache was still alive, but barely. His back was arched, his face tinged with blue as his hands tore at his throat, trying in vain to let some air through to his lungs.
As before, when he had killed Carlos the boatman, the red-haired man felt nothing. No triumph, no regret. He could not see how the world would be poorer for the passing of two members of the Iron Guard, and he knew that if he had waited much longer it might have been him on the ground, wounded or dead.
By the time the red-haired man had replaced the money belt around his waist, Mustache lay as still as his companion. He hid the bodies and the rifles in the rocks on the northern slope and resumed his gallop toward the keep.
Magda paced about her tiny candlelit room at the inn, anxiously rubbing her hands together, stopping eve
ry so often at the window to glance out at the keep. No moon tonight, with high clouds moving in from the south.
The dark frightened her . . . the dark and being alone. She could not remember when she had last been alone like this. It was neither right nor proper for her to be staying unchaperoned at the inn. It helped some to know that Iuliu's wife, Lidia, would be around, but she would be little help if that thing in the keep decided to cross the gorge and come to her.
She had a clear view of the keep from her window—in fact, hers was the only room with a window facing north. She had requested it for that reason. There had been no problem; she was the only guest.
Iuliu had been most gracious, almost obsequious. That puzzled her. He had always been courteous during their previous stays, but in a rather perfunctory way. Now he virtually fawned over her.
From where she stood she could pick out the lit window in the first level of the tower where she knew Papa now sat. She saw no sign of movement; that meant he was alone. She had been furious with him earlier when she realized how he had maneuvered her out of the keep. But as the hours passed, her anger gave way to worry. How would he take care of himself?
She turned and leaned back against the sill, looking at the four white stucco walls that confined her. Her room was small: a narrow wardrobe, a single dresser with a beveled mirror above it, a three-legged stool, and a large, too soft bed. Her mandolin lay on the bed, untouched since her arrival. The book too, Cultes des Goules, lay untouched in the bottom drawer of the dresser. She had no intention of studying it; she had taken it only for show.
She had to get out for a while. She blew out two of the candles, but left the third burning. She did not want the room to be totally dark. After last night's encounter, she would fear the dark forever.
A scuffed wood stairway took her down to the first floor. She found the innkeeper hunched on the front stoop, sitting and whittling dejectedly.
"Something wrong, Iuliu?"
He started at the sound of her voice, looked her once in the eye, then returned to his aimless whittling.
"Your father," he said. "He is well?"
"For the moment, yes. Why? "
He put down the knife and covered his eyes with both hands; the words came out in a rush. "You're both here because of me. I am ashamed . . . I am not a man. But they wanted to know all about the keep and I couldn't tell them what they wanted. And then I thought of your father, who knows all there is to know about the keep. I didn't know how sick he was now, and I never thought they'd bring you, too. But I couldn't help it! They were hurting me!"
Magda experienced a brief flare of anger—Iuliu had had no right mentioning Papa to the Germans! And then she admitted that under similar circumstances, she too might have told them anything they wanted to know. At least now she knew how they had connected Papa with the keep, and she had an explanation for Iuliu's deferential manner.
His pleading expression touched her as he looked up at her. "Do you hate me?"
Magda leaned over and placed a hand on his round shoulder. "No. You didn't mean us any harm."
He covered her hand with his. "I hope all will go well for you."
"So do I."
She walked slowly along the path to the gorge, the silence broken only by the pebbles crunching underfoot, echoing in the moist air. She stopped and stood in the thick, freshly budded brush to the right of the causeway and hugged her sweater more tightly around her. Almost midnight, cool and damp; but the chill she felt went deeper than any caused by a simple drop in temperature. Behind her the inn was a dim shadow; across the causeway lay the keep, ablaze with light in many of its windows. The fog had risen from the bottom of the pass, filling the gorge and surrounding the keep. Light from the courtyard filtered up through the fine haze in the air, making a glow like a phosphorescent cloud. The keep looked like an ungainly luxury liner adrift in a phantom sea of fog.
Fear settled over her as she stared at the keep.
Last night . . . considering the mortal threats of the day, it had been easy for her to avoid thinking about last night. But here in the dark it all came back—those eyes, that icy grip on her arm. She ran her hand over the spot near her elbow where the thing had touched her. There was still a mark on the skin there, pale gray. The area looked dead, and she hadn't been able to wash it off. She hadn't told Papa. But it was proof: Last night had not been a dream. The nightmare was a reality. A type of creature she had blithely assumed to be fantasy had become real, and it was over there in that stone building.
So was Papa. She knew that right now he was waiting for it. He hadn't told her so, but she knew. Papa hoped to be visited tonight, and she would not be there to help him. The thing had spared them last night, but could Papa count on such luck two nights in a row?
And what if it did not visit Papa tonight? What if it crossed the gorge and came to her? She could not bear the thought of another encounter like the last.
It was all so unreal! The undead were fiction!
And yet last night . . .
The sound of hoofbeats interrupted her musings. She turned and dimly saw a horse and a rider passing the inn at full gallop. They approached the causeway, apparently with every intention of charging over to the keep, but at the last minute the rider fiercely reined his steed to a halt at its edge. Horse and man stood limned in the glow that filtered across the gorge from the keep. She noted a long, flat box strapped to the horse's right flank. The rider dismounted and took a few tentative steps onto the causeway, then stopped.
Magda crouched in the brush and watched him study the keep. She could not say exactly why she chose to hide herself, but the events of the past few days had made her distrust anyone she did not know.
He was tall, leanly muscular, bare-headed, his hair wind-twisted and reddish, his breathing rapid but unlabored. She could see his head move as his eyes followed the sentries atop the keep walls. He seemed to be counting them. His posture was tense, as if he were forcibly restraining himself from battering his body against the closed gates at the far end of the causeway. He looked frustrated, angry, and puzzled.
He stood still and quiet for a long time. Magda felt her calves begin to ache from squatting on them for so long, but she dared not move. At last he turned and walked back to his horse. His eyes scanned the edge of the gorge, back and forth, as he moved. He suddenly stopped and stared directly at the spot where Magda crouched. She held her breath as her heart began to pound in alarm.
"You there!" he called. "Come out!" His tone was commanding, his accent hinting at the Meglenitic dialect.
Magda made no move. How could he possibly see her through the dark and the brush?
“Come out or I'll drag you out!"
Magda found a heavy stone near her right hand. Gripping it tightly, she rose quickly and stepped forward. She would take her chances in the open. Neither this man nor anyone else was going to drag her anywhere without a fight. She had been pushed around enough today.
"Why were you hiding in there'?"
"Because I don't know who you are." Magda made her voice sound as defiant as she could.
"Fair enough." He gave a curt nod as he spoke.
Magda could sense the tension coiled within him, yet felt it had nothing to do with her. That eased her mind a little.
He gestured toward the keep. "What's going on in there'? Who has the keep lit up like a cheap tourist attraction'?"
"German soldiers."
"I thought those helmets looked German. But why here?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure they know, either."
She watched him stare at the keep a moment longer and heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like "Fools!" But she was not sure. She sensed a remoteness about him, a feeling that he was not the least bit concerned with her, that the only thing he cared about was the keep. She relaxed her grip on the stone but did not drop it. Not yet.
"Why are you so interested?"
He looked at her, his features shadowed. "Just a to
urist. I've been this way before and thought I'd stop by the keep on my way through the mountains."
She knew immediately that was a lie. No sightseer rode at night through the Dinu Pass at the speed with which this man had arrived. Not unless he was mad.
Magda took a step backward and started walking toward the inn. She feared to stay in the dark with a man who told patent lies.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to my room. It's chilly out here."
"I'll escort you back."
Uneasy, Magda quickened her pace. "I'll find my own way, thank you. "
He did not seem to hear, or if he did he chose to ignore what she had said. He pulled his mount around and came up beside her, matching her stride and leading the horse behind him. Ahead the inn sat like a large two-story box. She could see dim light in her window from the candle she had left burning.
"You can put that rock down," he said. "You won't need it."
Magda hid her startled reaction. Could this man see in the dark?
"I'll be the judge of that."
He had a sour smell, a mixture of man sweat and horse sweat which she found unpleasant. She further quickened her pace to leave him behind.
He did not bother to catch up.
Magda dropped the stone as she reached the front stoop and went inside. To her right the tiny dining area was dark and empty. To her left Iuliu was at the table he used as a front desk, preparing to blow out his candle.
"Better wait," she told him as she hurried past. "I think you have another guest coming."
His face lit up. "Tonight?"
"Immediately."
Beaming, he opened the registration book and un-stoppered the inkwell. The inn had been in Iuliu's family for generations. Some said it had been built to house the masons who had constructed the keep. It was nothing more than a small two-story house, and not by any means an income-producing venture—the number of travelers who stopped at the inn during the course of a year was ludicrously low. But the first floor served as a home for the family and there was always someone about in the rare event that a traveler did appear. The major portion of Iuliu's insubstantial income came from the commission he received for acting as bursar to the workers in the keep. The rest came from wool from the flock of sheep his son tended—those that had not been sacrificed to put a little meat on the family table and clothes on their backs.
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 17