Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep

by F. Paul Wilson

  Two of the inn's three rooms rented at one time—a bonanza.

  Magda ran lightly to the top of the stairs but did not immediately enter her room. She paused to listen to what the stranger would tell Iuliu. She wondered at her interest as she stood there. She had found the man unattractive in the extreme; in addition to his odor and grimy appearance, there was a trace of arrogance and condescension that she found equally offensive.

  Why, then, was she eavesdropping? It was not like her.

  She heard a heavy tread on the front stoop, and then on the floor as the man entered. His voice echoed up the stairwell.

  "Ah, innkeeper! Good! You're still up. Arrange for someone to rub down my horse and stall her for a few days. She's my second mount of the day and I've ridden her hard. I want her well dried before she's put away for the night. Hello? Are you listening?"

  "Yes . . . yes, sir." Iuliu's voice sounded hoarse, strained, frightened.

  "Can you do it?"

  "Yes. I—I'll have my nephew come over right away."

  "And a room for myself."

  "We have two left. Please sign."

  There was a pause. "You can give me the one directly overhead—the one on the north side."

  "Uh, pardon, sir, but you must put your surname. 'Glenn' is not enough." Iuliu's voice trembled as he spoke.

  "Do you have anyone else named Glenn staying here?"

  "No. "

  "Is there anyone else in the area named Glenn?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then Glenn alone will do."

  "Very well, sir. But I must tell you that the north room is occupied. You may have the east room."

  "Whoever it is, tell him to switch rooms. I'll pay extra. "

  "It's not a him, sir. It's a her, and I don't think she'll move. "

  How very true, Iuliu, Magda thought.

  "Tell her!" It was a command in a tone not to be denied.

  As Magda heard Iuliu's scurrying feet approach the stairs, she ducked into her room and waited. The stranger's attitude infuriated her. And what had he done to frighten Iuliu so?

  She opened her door at the first knock and stared at the portly innkeeper, his hands nervously clutching and twisting the fabric of his shirt front, his face pale and beaded with so much sweat that his mustache had begun to droop. He was terrified.

  "Please, Domnisoara Cuza," he blurted, "there's a man downstairs who wants this room. Will you please let him have it? Please?”

  He was whining. Pleading. Magda felt sorry for him, but she was not going to give up this room.

  "Absolutely not! She began to close the door but he put his hand out.

  "But you must!"

  "I will not, Iuliu. And that's final!"

  "Then would you . . . would you tell him. Please?"

  "Why are you so afraid of him? Who is he?"

  "I don't know who he is. And I'm not really . . ." His voice trailed off. "Won't you please tell him for me?"

  Iuliu was literally quivering with fear. Magda's first impulse was to let the innkeeper handle his own affairs, but then it occurred to her that she would derive a certain pleasure from telling the arrogant newcomer that she was keeping her room. For two days now she had been allowed no say in what had happened to her. Standing firm on this small matter would be a welcome change.

  "Of course I'll tell him."

  She squeezed past Iuliu and hurried down the steps. The man was waiting impassively in the foyer, casually and confidently leaning on the long, flat box she had previously seen strapped to his horse. This was the first time she had seen him in the light and she reconsidered her initial assessment. Yes, he was grimy, and she could smell him from the foot of the stairs, but his features were even, his nose long and straight, his cheekbones high. She noticed how truly red his hair was, like a dark flame; a bit wild and overlong, perhaps, but that, like his odor, could well be the natural result of a long, hard trip. His eyes held her for a moment, startling in their blueness, their clarity. The only jarring note in his appearance was the olive tone of his skin—out of place in the company of his hair and eyes.

  "I thought it might be you."

  "I'm keeping my room."

  "I require it," he said, straightening.

  "It's mine for now. You're welcome to it when I leave."

  He took a step toward her. "It's important that I have a northern exposure. I—"

  "I have my own reasons for wanting to keep my eye on the keep," Magda said, cutting him off from another lie, "just as I'm sure you have yours. But mine are of great personal importance. I will not leave."

  His eyes blazed suddenly, and for an instant Magda was afraid she had overstepped her bounds. Just as suddenly, he cooled and stepped back, a half smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

  "You're obviously not from around here."

  "Bucharest."

  "I thought as much."

  Magda caught a hint of something in his eyes, something akin to grudging respect. But that didn't seem right. Why would he look at her that way when she was blocking him from what he wanted?

  "You won't reconsider?" he said.

  "No."

  "Ah, well," he sighed, "an eastern exposure it is, then. Innkeeper! Show me to my room!"

  Iuliu came rushing down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. "Right away, sir. The room to the right at the top of the stairs is all ready for you. I'll take this—"

  He reached for the case but Glenn snatched it away.

  "I can handle that very well by myself. But there's a blanket roll on the back of my horse that I'll be needing." He started up the stairs. "And be sure to see to that horse! She's a good and true beast."

  With a brief parting glance at Magda, a glance that stirred an unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation within her, he went up the steps two at a time.

  "And draw me a bath immediately!"

  "Yes, sir!" Iuliu leaned over to Magda and clasped both her hands in his. "Thank you!" he whispered, still frightened, but apparently less so.

  He then rushed out to the horse.

  Magda stood in the middle of the foyer for a moment, wondering at the evening's strange chain of events. She had unanswered questions here at the inn but she couldn't think about them now, not while more fearful questions needed answers at the keep.

  The keep! She had forgotten about Papa!

  She hurried up the stairs, passing the closed door to Glenn's room on her way, then pushed into her own and rushed to the window. There in the watchtower, Papa's light burned the same as before.

  She sighed with relief and lay back on the bed. A bed . . . a real bed. Maybe everything would turn out all right tonight after all.

  She frowned to herself. No, that tactic wasn't going to work. Something was going to happen. She closed her eyes against the light of the guttering candle atop the dresser, its glow doubled by the mirror behind it. She was tired. If she could rest her eyes for just a minute, she'd be better . . . think about good things, like Papa being allowed to go back to Bucharest with her, fleeing the Germans and that hideous manifestation . . .

  The sound of movement out in the hall drew her thoughts away from the keep. It sounded like that man, Glenn, going down to the back room for a bath. At least he wouldn't always smell the way he did tonight. But why should she care? He did seem concerned about the welfare of his horse, and that could be read as a sign of a compassionate man. Or just a practical one. Had he really said it was his second mount of the day? Could any man ride two horses into such a lather? She could not imagine why Iuliu seemed so terrified of the newcomer. He seemed to know Glenn, and yet had not known his name until he had signed it. It didn't make sense.

  Nothing made sense anymore . . .

  Her thoughts drifted . . .

  The sound of a door closing startled her awake. It was not her own. It must have been Glenn's. A creak on the stair . . . Magda bolted upright and glanced at the candle—it had lost half its length since the last time she looked. She leaped t
o the window. The light was still on in her father's room.

  No sound from below, but she could make out the dim shape of a man moving along the path toward the causeway. His movements were catlike. Silent. She was sure it was Glenn. As Magda watched, he stepped into the brush to the right of the causeway and stood there, precisely where she had earlier. The mist that filled the gorge overflowed and lapped at his feet. Like a sentinel, he watched the keep.

  Magda felt a stab of anger. What was he doing out there? That was her spot. He had no right to take it. She wished she had the courage to go out there and tell him to leave, but she did not. She did not fear him, actually, but he moved too quickly, too decisively. This Glenn was a dangerous man. But not to her, she felt. To others. To those Germans in the keep, perhaps. And didn't that make him an ally of sorts? Still, she could not very well go unescorted to him in the dark and tell him to leave so she could keep her own vigil.

  But she could observe him. She could set herself up behind him and see what he was up to while she kept her eye on Papa's window. Maybe she'd learn why he was here. That was the question that nagged her as she padded down the stairs, through the darkened foyer, and out onto the road. She crept toward a large rock not too far behind him. He would never know she was there.

  "Come to reclaim your vantage point?"

  Magda jumped at the sound of his voice—he had not even looked around!

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "I've been listening to your approach ever since you left the inn. You're really rather clumsy."

  There it was again—that smug self assurance.

  He turned and gestured to her. "Come up here and tell me why you think the Germans have the keep lit up like that in the wee hours. Don't they ever sleep?"

  She held back, then decided to accept his invitation. She would stand at the edge there, but not too close to him. As she neared, she noted he smelled worlds better.

  "They're afraid of the dark," she said.

  "Afraid of the dark." His tone had gone flat. He did not seem surprised by her reply. "And just why is that?"

  "A vampire, they think."

  In the dim light filtering across the gorge from the keep, Magda saw his eyebrows rise. "Oh? Is that what they've told you? Do you know someone in there?"

  "I've been in there myself. And my father's in there right now." She pointed to the lowermost window in the watchtower. "That is his—the one that's lit." How she hoped he was all right.

  "But why would anyone think there's a vampire about?"

  "Eight men dead, all German soldiers, all with their throats torn open. "

  His mouth tightened into a grim line. "Still . . . a vampire?"

  "There's also a matter of two corpses supposedly walking about. A vampire seems to be the only thing that could explain all that's happened in there. And after what I saw—"

  "You saw him?" Glenn turned and leaned toward her, his eyes boring into hers, intent on her answer.

  Magda retreated a step. "Yes."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Why do you want to know?" He was frightening her now. His words pounded at her as he leaned closer.

  "Tell me! Was he dark? Was he pale? Handsome? Ugly? What?"

  "I—I'm not even sure I can remember exactly. All I know is that he looked insane and . . . and unholy, if that makes any sense to you."

  He straightened. "Yes. That says much. And I didn't mean to upset you." He paused briefly. "What about his eyes?"

  Magda felt her throat tighten. "How did you know about his eyes?"

  "I know nothing about his eyes," he said quickly, "but it's said they are the windows to the soul."

  "If that's true," she said, her voice lowering of its own volition to a whisper, "his soul is a bottomless pit. "

  Neither of them spoke for a while, both watching the keep in silence. Magda wondered what Glenn was thinking. Finally, he spoke.

  "One more thing: Do you know how it all began?"

  "My father and I weren't here, but we were told that the first man died when he and a friend broke through a cellar wall. "

  She watched him grimace and close his eyes, as if in pain; and as she had seen hours earlier, his lips again formed the word "Fools" without speaking it aloud.

  He opened his eyes and suddenly pointed to the keep. "What's happening in your father's room?"

  Magda looked and saw nothing at first. Then terror clutched her. The light was fading. Without thinking, she started toward the causeway. But Glenn grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back.

  "Don't be foolish!" he whispered harshly in her ear. "The sentries will shoot you! And if by some chance they hold their fire, they'll never let you in! There's nothing you can do!"

  Magda barely heard him. Frantically, wordlessly, she struggled against him. She had to get away—she had to get to Papa! But Glenn was strong and refused to release her. His fingers dug into her arms, and the more she struggled, the tighter he held her.

  Finally, his words sank in: She could not get to Papa. There was nothing she could do.

  In helpless, agonized silence, she watched the light in Papa's room fade slowly, inexorably to black.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Keep

  Thursday, 1 May

  0217 hours

  Theodor Cuza had waited patiently, eagerly, knowing without knowing how he knew that the thing he had seen last night would return to him. He had spoken to it in the old tongue. It would return. Tonight.

  Nothing else was certain tonight. He might unlock secrets sought by scholars for ages, or he might never see the morning. He trembled as much with anticipation as with fear of the unknown.

  Everything was ready. He sat at his table, the old books piled in a neat stack to his left, a small box full of traditional vampire banes within easy reach to his right, the ever-present cup of water directly before him. The only illumination was the cone of light from the hooded bulb overhead, the only sound his own breathing.

  And suddenly he knew he was not alone.

  Before he saw anything, he felt it—a malign presence, beyond his field of vision, beyond his capacity to describe it. It was simply there. Then the darkness began. Different this time. Last night it had pervaded the very air of the room, growing and spreading from everywhere. Tonight he watched it invade by a different route—slowly, insidiously seeping through the walls, blotting them from his view, closing in on him.

  Cuza pressed his gloved palms against the tabletop to keep them from shaking. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, so loud, so hard he feared one of the chambers would rupture. The moment was here. This was it.

  The walls were gone. Darkness surrounded him in an ebon dome that swallowed the glow from the overhead bulb—no light passed beyond the end of the table. It was cold, but not so cold as last night, and there was no wind.

  "Where are you?" He spoke in Old Slavonic.

  No reply. But in the darkness, beyond the point where light would not go, he sensed that something stood and waited, taking his measure.

  "Show yourself—please!"

  After a lengthy pause a thickly accented voice spoke from the dark.

  "I can speak a more modern form of our language." The words derived from a root version of the Daco-Romanian dialect spoken in this region at the time the keep was built.

  The darkness on the far side of the little table began to recede. A shape took form out of the black. Cuza immediately recognized the face and the eyes from last night, and then the rest of the figure became visible. A giant of a man stood before him, at least six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered, standing proudly, defiantly, legs spread, hands on hips. A floor-length cloak, as black as his hair and eyes, was fastened about his neck with a clasp of jeweled gold. Beneath that Cuza could see a loose red blouse, possibly silk, loose black breeches that looked like jodhpurs, and high boots of rough brown leather.

  It was all there—power, decadence, ruthlessness.

  "How do you come to
know the old tongue?" said the voice.

  Cuza heard himself stammer. "I—I've studied it for years. Many years."

  He found his mind had gone numb, frozen. All the things he had wanted to say, the questions he had planned all afternoon to ask, all fled, all gone. Desperately, he verbalized the first thought that came into his head.

  "I had almost expected you to be wearing evening clothes "

  The thick eyebrows, growing so near to each other, touched as the visitor's brow furrowed. "I do not understand 'evening clothes.' "

  Cuza gave himself a mental kick—amazing how a single novel, written half a century ago by an Englishman, could so alter one's perceptions of what was an essentially Romanian myth. He leaned forward in his wheelchair.

  "Who are you?"

  "I am the Viscount Radu Molasar. This region of Wallachia was once mine."

  He was saying that he was a feudal lord of his time. "A boyar?"

  "Yes. One of the few who stayed with Vlad—the one they called Tepes, the Impaler—until his end outside Bucharest. "

  Even though he had expected such an answer, Cuza was still aghast. "That was in 1476! Almost five centuries ago! Are you that old?"

  "I was there."

  "But where have you been since the fifteenth century?"

  "Here. "

  "But why?" Cuza's fear was vaporizing as he spoke, replaced by an intense excitement that sent his mind racing. He wanted to know everything—now!

  "I was being pursued."

  "By Turks?"

  Molasar's eyes narrowed, leaving only the endless black of his pupils showing. "No. By . . . others . . . madmen who would pursue me across the world to destroy me. I knew I could not outrun them forever"—he smiled here, revealing long, tapered, slightly yellowed teeth, none of them particularly sharp, but all strong-looking—"so I decided to outwait them. I built this keep, arranged for its maintenance, and hid myself away."