Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep

by F. Paul Wilson

  He began to roam the room.

  "At first the Glaeken were not even sure we existed. But once they became convinced, they waged all-out war. One by one my brother moroi went down to true death. When I saw the circle tightening around me, I built the keep and locked myself away, determined to outlast the Glaeken and their plans for world dominion. Now it appears that I have succeeded."

  "Very clever," Cuza said. "You surrounded yourself with ersatz crosses and went into hibernation. But I must ask you, and please answer me: Why do you fear the cross?"

  "I cannot discuss it."

  "You must tell me! 'The Messiah—was Jesus Christ—?"

  "No!" Molasar staggered away and leaned against the wall, gagging.

  "What's wrong?"

  He glared at Cuza. "If you were not a countryman, I would tear your tongue out here and now!"

  Even the sound of Christ's name repels him! Cuza thought.

  "But I never—"

  "Never say it again! If you value whatever aid I can give you, never say that name again!"

  "But it's only a word."

  "NEVER!" Molasar regained some of his composure. "You have been warned. Never again or your body will lie beside the Germans below."

  Cuza felt as if he were drowning. He had to try something.

  "What about these words? Yitgadal veyitkadash shemei raba bealma divera chireutei, veyamlich—"

  'What is that meaningless jumble of sounds?" Molasar said. "Some sort of chant? An incantation? Are you trying to drive me off?" He took a step closer. "Have you sided with the Germans?"

  "No!"

  It was all Cuza could say before his voice cracked and broke off. His mind reeled as if from a blow; he gripped the arms of his wheelchair with his crippled hands, waiting for the room to tilt and spill him out. It was a nightmare! This creature of the Dark cringed at the sight of a cross and retched at the mention of the name Jesus Christ. Yet the words of the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead, were just so much meaningless noise. It could not be!

  And yet it was.

  Molasar was speaking, oblivious to the painful maelstrom that swirled within his listener. Cuza tried to follow the words. They might be crucial to Magda's survival, and his own.

  "My strength is growing steadily. I can feel it coming back to me. Before long—two nights at most—I shall have the power to rid my keep of all these outlanders."

  Cuza tried to assimilate the meaning of the words: strength . . . two more nights . . . rid my keep . . . But other words kept rearing up in his consciousness, a persistent undertone . . . Yitgadal veyitkadash shemei . . . blocking their meaning.

  And then came the sound of heavy boots running into the watchtower and pounding up the stone steps to the upper levels, the faint sound of human voices raised in anger and fear in the courtyard, the momentary dimming of the single bulb overhead, signaling a sudden draw on the power supply.

  Molasar showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. "It seems they have found their two comrades-in-arms."

  "And soon they will come here to place the blame on me," Cuza said, alarm pulling him from his torpor.

  "You are a man of the mind," Molasar said, stepping to the wall and giving the hinged slab a casual shove. It swung open easily. "Use it."

  Cuza watched Molasar blend and disappear into the deeper shadow of the opening, wishing he could follow. As the stone slab swung shut, Cuza wheeled his chair around to the table and leaned over the Al Azif, feigning study; waiting, trembling.

  It was not a long wait. Kaempffer burst into the room.

  "Jew!" he shouted, jabbing an accusing finger at Cuza as he assumed a wide-legged stance he no doubt considered at once powerful and threatening. "You've failed, Jew! I should have expected no more!"

  Cuza could only sit and stare dumbly at the major. What could he say? He had no strength left. He felt miserable, sick at heart as well as in body. Everything hurt him, every bone, every joint, every muscle. His mind was numb from his encounter with Molasar. He couldn't think. His mouth was parched, yet he dared not take any more water, for his bladder longed to empty itself at the very sight of Kaempffer.

  He wasn't cut out for such stress. He was a teacher, a scholar, a man of letters. He was not equipped to deal with this strutting popinjay who had the power of life and death over him. He wanted desperately to strike back yet did not have the faintest hope of doing so. Was living through all this really worth the trouble?

  How much more could he take?

  And yet there was Magda. Somewhere along the line there must be hope for her.

  Two nights . . . Molasar had said he would have sufficient strength two nights from now. Forty-eight hours. Cuza asked himself: Could he hold out that long? Yes, he would force himself to last until Saturday night. Saturday night . . . the Sabbath would be over . . . what did the Sabbath mean anymore? What did anything mean anymore?

  "Did you hear me, Jew?" The major's voice was straining toward a scream.

  Another voice spoke: "He doesn't even know what you're talking about."

  The captain had entered the room. Cuza sensed a core of decency within Captain Woermann, a flawed nobility. Not a trait he expected to find in a German officer.

  "Then he'll learn soon enough!" Two long strides took Kaempffer to Cuza's side. He leaned down and forward until his perfect Aryan face was only inches away.

  "What's wrong, Major?" Cuza said, feigning ignorance, but allowing his genuine fear of the man to show on his face. "What have I done?"

  "You've done nothing, Jew! And that's the problem. For two nights you've sat here with these moldering books, taking credit for the sudden halt in the deaths. But tonight—"

  "I never—" Cuza began, but Kaempffer stopped him by slamming his fist on the table.

  "Silence! Tonight two more of my men were found dead in the cellar, their throats torn out like the others!"

  Cuza had a fleeting image of the two dead men. After viewing the other cadavers, it was easy to imagine their wounds. He visualized their gory throats with a certain relish. Those two had attempted to defile his daughter and deserved all they had suffered. Deserved worse.

  Molasar was welcome to their blood. But it was he who was in danger now. The fury in the major's face made that clear. He must think of something or he would not live to see Saturday night.

  "It's now evident that you deserve no credit for the last two nights of peace. There is no connection between your arrival and the two nights without a death—just lucky coincidence for you! But you led us to believe it was your doing. Which proves what we have learned in Germany: Never trust a Jew!"

  "I never took credit for anything! I never even—"

  "You're trying to detain me here, aren't you?" Kaempffer said, his eyes narrowing, his voice lowering to a menacing tone as he studied him. "You're doing your best to keep me from my mission at Ploiesti, aren't you?"

  Cuza's mind reeled from the major's sudden change of tack. The man was mad . . . as mad as Abdul Alhazred must have been after writing the Al Azif . . . which lay before them on the table . . .

  He had an idea.

  "But Major! I've finally found something in one of the books!”

  Captain Woermann stepped forward at this. "Found? What have you found?"

  "He's found nothing!" Kaempffer snarled. "Just another Jew lie to let him go on living!"

  How right you are, Major, he thought.

  "Let him speak, for God's sake!" Woermann turned to Cuza. "What does it say? Show me."

  Cuza indicated the Al Azif, written in the original Arabic. The book dated from the eighth century and had absolutely nothing to do with the keep, or even Romania for that matter. But he hoped the two Germans would not know that.

  Doubt furrowed Woermann's brow as he looked down at the scroll. "I can't read those chicken tracks."

  "He's lying!" Kaempffer shouted.

  "This book does not lie, Major," Cuza said. He paused an instant, praying that the Germans would not know the differ
ence between Turkish and ancient Arabic, then plunged into his lie. "It was written by a Turk who invaded this region with Mohammed II. He says there was a small castle—his description of all the crosses can only mean he was in this keep—in which one of the old Wallachian lords had dwelt. The shade of the deceased lord would allow natives of the region to sleep unmolested in his keep, but should outlanders or invaders dare to pass through the portals of his former home, he would slay them at the rate of one per night for every night they stayed. Do you understand? The same thing that is happening here now happened to a unit of the Turkish Army half a millennium ago!"

  Cuza watched the faces of the two officers as he finished. His own reaction was one of amazement at his facile fabrication from what he knew of Molasar and the region. There were holes in the story, but small ones, and they had a good chance of being overlooked.

  Kaempffer sneered. "Utter nonsense!"

  "Not necessarily," Woermann said. "Think about it: The Turks were always on the march back then. And count up our corpses—with the two new ones tonight, we have averaged one death a night since I arrived on April 22. "

  "It's still . . ." Kaempffer's voice trailed off as his confidence ebbed. He looked uncertainly at Cuza. "Then we're not the first?"

  "No. At least not according to this.”

  It was working! The biggest lie Cuza had ever told in his life, composed on the spot, was working! They didn't know what to believe! He wanted to laugh.

  "How did they finally solve the problem?" Woermann asked.

  "They left."

  Silence followed Cuza's simple reply.

  Woermann finally turned to Kaempffer: "I've been telling you that for—"

  "We cannot leave!" Kaempffer said, a hint of hysteria in his voice. "Not before Sunday." He turned to Cuza. "And if you do not come up with an answer for this problem by then, Jew, I shall see to it that you and your daughter personally accompany me to Ploiesti!"

  "But why?"

  "You'll find out when you get there." Kaempffer paused a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "No, I believe I'll tell you now. Perhaps it will speed your efforts. You've heard of Auschwitz, no doubt? And Buchenwald?"

  Cuza's stomach imploded. "Death camps."

  "We prefer to call them 'Resettlement' camps. Romania lacks such a facility. It is my mission to correct that deficiency. Your kind, plus Gypsies and Freemasons and other human dross, will be processed through the camp I will set up at Ploiesti. If you prove to be of service to me, I will see to it that your entry into the camp is delayed, perhaps even until your natural death. But if you impede me in any way, you and your daughter will have the honor of being our first residents."

  Cuza sat helpless in his chair. He could feel his lips and tongue working, but he could not speak. His mind was too shocked, too appalled at what he had just heard. It was impossible! Yet the glee in Kaempffer's eyes told him it was true. Finally, a word escaped him.

  "Beast!"

  Kaempffer's smile broadened. "Strangely enough, I don't mind the sound of that word on a Jew's lips. It is proof positive that I am successfully discharging my duties." He strode to the door, then turned back. "So look well through your books, Jew. Work hard for me. Find me an answer. It's not just your own well-being that hangs on it, but your daughter's too."

  He turned and was gone.

  Cuza looked at Woermann pleadingly. "Captain . . .?"

  "I can do nothing, Herr Professor," he replied in a low voice full of regret. "I can only suggest that you work at those books. You've found one reference to the keep; that means there's a good chance you can find another. And I might suggest that you tell your daughter to find a safer place of residence than the inn . . . perhaps somewhere in the hills."

  He could not admit to the captain that he had lied about finding a reference to the keep, that there was no hope of ever finding one. And as for Magda:

  "My daughter is stubborn. She will stay at the inn."

  "I thought as much. But beyond what I have just said, I am powerless. I am no longer in command of the keep." He grimaced. "I wonder if I ever was. Good evening. "

  "Wait!" Cuza clumsily fished the cross out of his pocket. "Take this. I have no use for it."

  Woermann enclosed the cross in his fist and stared at him a moment. Then he, too, was gone.

  Cuza sat in his wheelchair, enveloped in the blackest despair he had ever known. He saw no way of winning here. If Molasar stopped killing the Germans, Kaempffer would leave for Ploiesti to begin the systematic extermination of Romanian Jewry. If Molasar persisted, Kaempffer would destroy the keep and drag him and Magda to Ploiesti as his first victims. He thought of Magda in their hands and truly understood the old cliché, a fate worse than death.

  There had to be a way out. Far more than his own life and Magda's rested on what happened here. Hundreds of thousands—perhaps a million or more—lives were at stake. There had to be a way to stop Kaempffer. He had to be prevented from going off on his mission . . . it seemed of utmost importance to him to arrive in Ploiesti on Monday. Would he lose his position if delayed? If so, that might give the doomed a grace period.

  What if Kaempffer never left the keep? What if he met with a fatal accident? But how? How to stop him?

  He sobbed in his helplessness. He was a crippled Jew amid squads of German soldiers. He needed guidance. He needed an answer. And soon. He folded his stiff fingers and bowed his head.

  0h God. Help me, your humble servant, find the answer to the trials of your other servants. Help me help them. Help me find a way to preserve them . . .

  The silent prayer trailed off into the oblivion of his despair. What was the use? How many of the countless thousands dying at the hands of the Germans had lifted their hearts and minds and voices in a similar plea? And where were they now? Dead!

  And where would he be if he waited for an answer to his own supplication? Dead.

  And worse for Magda.

  He sat in quiet desperation . . .

  Still . . . there was Molasar.

  Woermann stood for a moment outside the professor's door after closing it. He had experienced a strange sensation while the old man was explaining what he had found in that indecipherable book, a feeling that Cuza was telling the truth, and yet lying at the same time. Odd. What was the professor's game?

  He strolled out to the bright courtyard, catching the anxious expressions on the faces of the sentries. Ah, well, it had been too good to be true. Two nights without a casualty—too much to hope for three. Now they were all back to square one . . . except for the body count which continued to rise. Ten now. One per night for ten nights. A chilling statistic.

  If only the killer, Cuza's "Wallachian lord," had held off until tomorrow night. Kaempffer would have been gone by then and he could have marched his own men out. But as things looked now, they would all have to stay through the weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights to go.

  A death potential of three. Maybe more.

  Woermann turned right and walked the short distance to the cellar entrance. The interment detail should have the two fresh corpses down in the subcellar by now. He decided to see that they were laid out properly. Even einsatzkommandos should be accorded a modicum of dignity in death.

  In the cellar he glanced into the room in which the two bodies had been found; their throats had not only been torn open but their heads had lolled at obscene angles. The killer had broken their necks for some reason. That was a new atrocity. The room was empty now except for pieces of the shattered door. What had happened here? The dead men's weapons had been found unfired. Had they tried to save themselves by locking the door against their attacker? Why had no one heard their shouts? Or hadn't they shouted?

  He walked farther down the central corridor to the broached wall and heard voices coming from below. On the way down the stairs he met the interment detail coming up, blowing into their chilled hands. He directed them back down the stairs.

  "Let's go see what sort of job you
did."

  In the subcellar the glow from flashlights and handheld kerosene lamps glimmered dully off the ten white-sheeted figures.

  "We neatened them up a bit, sir," said a private in gray. "Some of the sheets needed straightening."

  Woermann surveyed the scene. Everything seemed in order. He was going to have to come to a decision on disposition of the bodies. He would have to ship them out soon. But how?

  He clapped his hands together. Of course—Kaempffer! The major was planning to leave Sunday evening no matter what. He could transport the corpses to Ploiesti, and from there they could be flown back to Germany. Perfect . . . and fitting.

  He noticed that the left foot of the third corpse from the end was sticking out from under its sheet. As he stooped to adjust the cover, he saw that the boot was filthy. It looked as if the wearer had been dragged to his resting place by the arms. Both boots were caked with dirt.

  Woermann felt a surge of anger, then let it slip away. What did it matter? The dead were dead. Why make a fuss over a muddy pair of boots? Last week it would have seemed important. Now it was no more than a quibble. A trifle. Yet the dirty boots bothered him. He could not say why, exactly. But they did bother him.

  "Let's go, men," he said, turning away and letting his breath fog past him as he moved. The men readily complied. It was cold down here.

  Woermann paused at the foot of the steps and looked back. The corpses were barely visible in the receding light. Those boots . . . he thought of those dirty, muddy boots again. Then he followed the others up to the cellar.

  From his quarters at the rear of the keep, Kaempffer stood at his window and looked out over the courtyard. He had watched Woermann go down to the cellar and return. And still he stood. He should have felt relatively safe, at least for the rest of the night. Not because of the guards all around, but because the thing that killed his men at will had done its work for the night and would not strike again.