Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep

by F. Paul Wilson

  Glaeken was silent.

  "Then I'll go." She wished she could have stood there and tossed her head in defiance to show him she wasn't afraid. But she was terrified.

  "Don't cross the threshold," Glaeken warned her. "Whatever you do, don't step across into the keep. That's Rasalom's domain now."

  I know, Magda thought as she broke into a run toward the causeway. And I can't allow Papa to step across to this side, either—at least not if he's holding the hilt to a sword.

  Cuza had hoped to be done with the flashlight after reaching the cellar level, but all the electric lights were dead. He found, however, that the corridor was not completely dark. There were glowing spots in the walls. He looked more closely and saw that the images of the crosslike talisman set in the stones were glowing softly. They brightened as he neared and faded slowly after he had passed, responding to the object he carried.

  Theodor Cuza moved along the central corridor in a state of awe. Never had the supernatural been so real to him. Never would he be able to view the world or existence itself as he had before. He thought about how smug he had been, thinking he had seen it all, yet never realizing the blinders that had limited his vision. Well, now his blinders were off and the whole world was new all around him.

  He hugged the wrapped talisman snugly against his chest, feeling close to the supernatural . . . and yet far from his God. But then, what had God done for his Chosen People? How many thousands, millions, had died in the past few years calling out his name, and had never been answered?

  Soon there would be an answer, and Theodor Cuza was helping to bring it.

  As he ascended toward the courtyard he felt a twinge of uneasiness and paused halfway up. He watched trailers of fog ooze down the steps like white honey while his thoughts whirled.

  His moment of personal triumph was at hand. He was finally able to do something, to take an active role against the Nazis. Why, then, this feeling that all was not quite right? He had to admit to some nagging doubts about Molasar, but nothing specific. All the pieces fit . . .

  Or did they?

  Cuza could not help but find the shape of the talisman bothersome: It was too close to the shape of the cross Molasar feared so. But perhaps that was Molasar's way of protecting it—make it resemble a holy object to throw his pursuers off the track, just as he had done with the keep. But then there was Molasar's seeming reluctance to handle the talisman himself, his insistence that Cuza take charge of it immediately. If the talisman were so important to Molasar, if it were truly the source of all his power, why didn't he find a hiding place for it himself?

  Slowly, mechanically, Cuza took the final steps up to the courtyard. At the top he squinted into the unaccustomed gray light of predawn and found the answer to his questions: daylight. Of course! Molasar could not move around in the day and he needed someone who could! What a relief it was to erase those doubts. Daylight explained everything!

  As Cuza's eyes adjusted to the growing light, he looked across the foggy ruin of the courtyard to the gate and saw a figure standing there, waiting. For a single terrified moment he thought one of the sentries had escaped the slaughter; then he saw that the figure was too small and slim to be a German soldier.

  It was Magda. Filled with joy, he hurried toward her.

  From the threshold of the keep, Magda looked in on the courtyard. It was silent as a tomb, which it had become. It was utterly silent and deserted but showed signs of battle everywhere: bullet holes in the fabric and the metal of the lorries, smashed windshields, pock marks in the stone blocks of the walls, smoke rising from the shattered ruins of the generators. Nothing moved. She wondered what gore lay beneath the fog that floated knee deep over the courtyard floor.

  She also wondered what she was doing here shivering in the predawn chill, waiting for her father, who might or might not be carrying the future of the world in his hands. Now that she had a quiet moment to think, to calmly consider all that Glenn—Glaeken—had told her, doubt began to insinuate its way into her mind. Words whispered in the dark lost their impact with the approach of day. It had been so easy to believe Glaeken while she was listening to his voice and looking into his eyes. But now that she was away from him, standing here alone, waiting . . . she felt unsure.

  It was mad—immense, unseen, unknowable forces . . . Light . . . Chaos . . . in opposition for control of humanity! Absurd! The stuff of fantasy, the deranged dream of an opium eater!

  And yet . . .

  . . . there was Molasar—or Rasalom or whatever he was truly called.

  He was no dream, yet certainly more than human, certainly beyond anything she had ever experienced or wished to experience again. And certainly evil. She had known that from the first time he had touched her.

  And then there was Glaeken—if that was his true name—who did not seem evil but who might well be mad. He was real, and he had a sword blade that glowed and healed wounds that were enough to kill a score of men. She had seen that with her own eyes. And he cast no reflection . . .

  Perhaps it was she who was mad.

  But oh, if she was not mad. If the world truly stood on the brink here in this remote mountain pass . . . who was she to trust?

  Trust Rasalom, who by his own admission and confirmed by Glaeken had been locked away in some sort of limbo for five centuries and, now that he was free, was promising to put an end to Hitler and his atrocities?

  Or trust the red-haired man who had become the love of her life but had lied to her about so many things, even his name? Who her own father accused of 1iIeing an ally of the Nazis?

  Why is it all coming to rest on me?

  Why did she have to be the one to choose when everything was so confused? Who to believe? The father she had trusted all her life, or the stranger who had unlocked a part of her being she never even knew existed? It wasn't fair!

  She sighed. But nobody ever said life was fair.

  She had to decide. And soon.

  Glenn's parting words came back to her: Whatever you do, don't step across into the keep. That's Rasalom's domain now.

  But she knew she had to step across. The malignant aura around the keep had made it an effort merely to walk across the causeway. Now she had to feel what it was like inside. It would help her decide.

  She edged her foot forward, then pulled it back. Perspiration had broken out all over her body. She didn't want to do this but circumstances left her little choice. Setting her jaw, she closed her eyes and stepped across the threshold.

  The evil exploded against her, snatching her breath away, knotting her stomach, making her weave drunkenly about. It was more powerful, more intense than ever. She wavered in her resolve, wanting desperately to step back outside. But she fought this down, willing herself to weather the storm of malice she felt raging about her. The very air she was breathing confirmed what she had known all along: No good would ever come from within the keep.

  And it was here inside the threshold where she would have to meet Papa. And here she would have to stop him if he carried the hilt to a sword.

  A movement across the courtyard caught her eye. Papa had emerged from the cellar entry. He stood staring about for a moment, then spotted her and ran forward. After adjusting to the sight of her once crippled father running, she noticed that his clothes were caked with dirt. He was carrying a package of some sort, something heavy and carelessly wrapped.

  "Magda! I have it!" he called, panting as he stopped before her.

  "What do you have, Papa?" The sound of her own voice was flat and wooden in her ears. She dreaded his answer.

  "Molasar's talisman—the source of his power!"

  "You've stolen it from him?"

  "No. He gave it to me. I'm to find a safe hiding place for it while he goes to Germany. "

  Magda went cold inside. Papa was removing an object from the keep, just as Glaeken had said he would.

  She had to know what it looked like. "Let me see it."

  "There's no time for that now. I've got t
o—"

  He stepped to the side to go around her, but Magda moved in front of him, blocking his way, keeping him within the boundary of the keep.

  "Please?" she pleaded. "Show it to me?"

  He hesitated, studying her face questioningly, then pulled off the wrapper and showed her what he had called "Molasar's talisman."

  Magda heard her breath suck in at the sight of it. Oh, God! It was obviously heavy, and appeared to be gold and silver—exactly like the strange crosses throughout the keep. And it even had a slot in its top, the perfect size to accept the spike she had seen at the butt end of Glaeken's sword blade.

  The hilt to Glaeken's sword . . . the key to the keep . . . the only thing that protected the world from Rasalom.

  Magda stood and stared at it while her father said something she could not hear. The words would not reach her. All she could hear was Glaeken's description of what would happen should Rasalom be allowed to escape the keep. Everything within her revolted at the decision that faced her, but she had no choice. She had to stop her father—at any cost.

  "Go back, Papa," she said, searching his eyes for some remnant of the man she had loved so dearly all her life. "Leave it in the keep. Molasar has been lying to you all along. That's not the source of his power—it's the only thing that can withstand his power! He's the enemy of everything good in this world! You can't set him free!"

  "Ridiculous! He's already free! And he's an ally! Look what he's done for me! I can walk!"

  "But only as far as the other side of this gateway. Only far enough to remove that from the keep—he can't leave here as long as the hilt remains within the walls!"

  "Lies! Molasar is going to kill Hitler and stop the death camps!"

  "He'll feed on the death camps, Papa!" It was like talking to a deaf man. "For once in your life listen to me! Trust me! Do as I say! Don't remove that thing from the keep!"

  He ignored her and pressed forward. "Let me by!"

  Magda placed her hands against his chest, steeling herself to defy the man who had raised her, taught her so much, given her so much.

  "Listen to me, Papa!"

  "No!"

  Magda set her feet and shoved with all her strength, sending him stumbling backward. She hated herself for doing it but he had left her no alternative. She had to stop thinking of him as a cripple; he was well and strong now—and as determined as she.

  "You strike your own father?" he said in a hoarse, hushed voice. Shock and anger roiled on his face. "Is this what a night of rutting with your red-headed lover has done to you? I am your father! I command you to let me pass!"

  "No, Papa," she said, tears starting in her eyes.

  She had never dared to stand up to him before, but she had to see this through—for both their sakes and for all the world.

  The sight of her tears seemed to disconcert him. For an instant his features softened and he was himself again. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it with a snap. Snarling with fury, he leaped forward and swung the hilt at her head.

  Rasalom stood waiting in the subterranean chamber, immersed in darkness, the silence broken only by the sound of the rats crawling over the cadavers of the two officers which he had allowed to tumble to the dirt after the crippled one had left with that accursed hilt. Soon it would be gone from the keep and he would be free again.

  Soon his hunger would be appeased. If what the crippled one had told him was true—and what he had heard from some of the German soldiers during their stay seemed to confirm it—Europe had now become a sinkhole of human misery. It meant that after ages of struggling, after so many defeats at Glaeken's hands, his destiny at last was about to come to pass. He had feared all lost when Glaeken had trapped him in this stone prison, but in the end he had prevailed. Human greed had released him from the tiny cell that had held him for five centuries. Human hate and power lust were about to give him the strength to become master of this globe.

  He waited. And still his hunger remained untouched. The expected surge of power did not come. Something was wrong. The crippled one could have journeyed through that gate twice by now. Three times!

  Something had happened. He let his senses range the keep until he detected the presence of the crippled one's daughter. It was she who must be the cause of the delay. But why? She couldn't know—

  —unless Glaeken had told her about the hilt before he died.

  Rasalom made a tiny gesture with his left hand, and behind him in the dark the corpses of Major Kaempffer and Captain Woermann began to struggle to their feet again, to stand stiffly erect, waiting.

  In a cold rage, Rasalom strode from the chamber. The daughter would be easy to handle. The two corpses stumbled after him. And after them followed the army of rats.

  Magda watched in dumb awe as the gold-and-silver hilt swung toward her head with crushing force. Never had it occurred to her that Papa might actually try to harm her. Yet he was aiming a killing blow at her skull.

  Only an instinctive reflex for self-preservation saved her—she stepped back at the last moment, then dove forward, knocking him to the ground as he tried to recover his balance after the wild swing. She fell on top of him, clutching at the silver crosspiece, finally gripping it with one hand on each side and twisting the hilt out of his grasp.

  He clawed at her like an animal, scratching the flesh of her arms, trying to pull her down again to the point where the hilt would be in reach, screaming:

  "Give it to me! Give it to me! You're going to ruin everything!"

  Magda regained her feet and backed away to the side of the gateway arch, holding the hilt with both hands by its golden handle. She was uncomfortably close to the threshold, but she had managed to retain the hilt within the bounds of the keep.

  He struggled to his feet and ran at her with his head down, his arms outstretched. Magda dodged the full force of his charge but he managed to catch her elbow as he went by, twisting her around. Then he was on her, striking at her face and screeching incoherently.

  "Stop it, Papa!" she cried, but he seemed not to hear. He was like a wild beast. As his ragged dirty fingernails raked toward her eyes, she swung the hilt at him; she didn't think about what she was doing—it was an automatic move. "Stop it!"

  The sound of the heavy metal striking Papa's skull sickened her. Stunned, she stood and watched as his eyes rolled up behind his glasses. He slipped to the ground and lay still, tendrils of fog drifting over him.

  What have I done?

  "Why did you make me hit you?" she screamed at his unconscious form. "Couldn't you trust me just once? Just once?"

  She had to get him out—just a few feet beyond the threshold would be enough. But first she had to dispose of the hilt, put it somewhere well inside the keep. Then she would try to drag Papa out to safety.

  Across the courtyard lay the entrance to the cellar. She could throw the hilt down there. She began running toward the entrance but stopped halfway there. Someone was coming up the steps.

  Rasalom!

  He seemed to float, rising from the cellar as a huge dead fish might rise from the bottom of a stagnant pond. At the sight of her, his eyes became twin spheres of dark fury, assaulting her, stabbing her. He bared his teeth as he seemed to glide through the mist toward her.

  Magda held her ground. Glaeken had said the hilt had the power to counter Rasalom. She felt strong. She could face him.

  She noticed movement behind Rasalom as he approached. Two other figures were emerging from the subcellar, figures with slack, white faces that followed Rasalom as he stalked forward. Magda recognized them: the captain and that awful major. She did not need a closer look to know that they were dead. Glaeken had told her about the walking corpses and she had been half expecting to see them. But that did not keep her blood from running cold at the sight of them. Yet she felt strangely safe.

  Rasalom stopped within a dozen feet of her and slowly raised his arms until they were spread out like wings. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Magda noticed stirrings
in the fog that blanketed the courtyard and swirled about her knees. All around her, hands rose out of the mist, clutching at the air, followed by heads, and then torsos. Like loathsome fungal growths sprouting from moldy soil, the German soldiers who had occupied the keep were rising from the dead.

  Magda saw their ravaged bodies, their torn throats, yet she stood firm. She had the hilt. Glaeken had said the hilt could negate Rasalom's animating power. She believed him. She had to!

  The corpses arrayed themselves behind Rasalom and to his right and left. No one moved.

  Maybe they're afraid of the hilt! Magda thought, her heart leaping. Maybe they can't get any closer!

  Then she noticed a curious rippling in the fog around the corpses' feet. She looked down. Through gaps in the mist she glimpsed scuttling forms, gray and brown.

  Rats!

  Revulsion tightened her throat and swept over her skin. Magda began to back away. They were moving toward her, not in a solid front, but in a chaotic scramble of crisscrossing paths and squat, bustling bodies. She could face anything—even the walking dead—anything but rats.

  She saw a smile spread over Rasalom's face and knew she was responding just as he had hoped—retreating from his final threat, edging ever closer to the gateway. She tried to stop, to will her legs to be still, but they kept backing her away from the rats.

  Dark stone walls closed around her—she was back within the gate arch. Another yard or two and she would be over the threshold . . . and Rasalom would be set loose upon the world.

  Magda closed her eyes and stopped moving.

  This far will I go. This far and no farther . . . this far and no farther . . .

  . . . repeating it over and over in her mind—until something brushed her ankle and skittered away. Something small and furry. Another. Then another. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. The hilt wasn't working! The rats were attacking her! They'd be all over her soon. In a panic, she opened her eyes.

  Rasalom was closer now, his depthless eyes fixed on her through the misty half light, his legion of the dead fanned out behind him, and the rats massed before him. He was driving the rats forward, forcing them against her feet and ankles. Magda knew she was going to break and run any second now . . . she could feel the overpowering terror welling up inside her, ready to drown and wash away all her resolve . . . the hilt isn't protecting me!