“We had heard of children being taken, but the reports were unconfirmed,” mused Straka. “If what we are witnessing is what I fear it could be, then we may already be too late to stop von Asberg.”
“But we shall try nevertheless, Doctor” chimed Norris — to the approving nods of his men.
“What exactly are you doing here?” I enquired in as innocent a tone as I could muster.
“You know damn well what we’re doing here, boy,” growled a soldier named Penn — the one whose Cockney twang I’d heard outside the barn earlier — his jackal-like countenance and self-assuredness knocking me off guard. “You think we didn’t see you outside your father’s window eavesdropping, that melon head of yours bobbing like a jack in a box? No wonder the Nazis got your brother if that’s what you call hiding.” The barn’s darkness masked the flushing of my cheeks as I turned from his unwavering gaze.
“The route to Čierna Brána your father spoke of. Do you know it?” whispered Straka, placing his hands on my shoulders.
“I do, but If he found out I’d helped you he’d throw me out for good. He’s the only family I have left,” I replied thinly, ashamed of my weakness. “If he knew I’d even let you in here…” Straka nodded, his expression a mixture of sympathy and disappointment. “Even if there is a chance we could save your brother if he still lives?” Straka, seeing the conflict within me, retreated, allowing his words to ferment.
As night deepened the storm intensified, roaring with the ferocity of warring titans above us. The soldiers seemed ill at ease for men trained for conflict, gnawing at their rations while casting nervous glances at the elemental barrage outside. One, a short, big nosed man named Private Hall sporting a mop of wispy hair, lips perennially pursed around a smouldering cigarette, suddenly darted from his spot at the corner of the barn screeching, “Bleedin’ rats!” as he backpedalled from a rodent that had taken particular interest in his dinner. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s bleedin’ rats.”
He continued to observe the critter with a distant disdain much to Penn’s chagrin. “Sit down you bleeding berk,” he barked.
“For me, it is spiders,” came the calm response from Straka as he perched on a hay bale, his composed tone instantly bringing calm to the jittery atmosphere caused by Hall’s outburst. “The way they entrap their prey and liquefy their innards to more easily devour them, it the most calculating of murders in nature’s great tapestry of death.”
“You what?” scoffed Hall. “Once we get into that castle there’s only gonna be one type of death that’ll matter.” His hand moved to his Bren which he pointed towards Straka, “Not a bunch of mumbo jumbo from an old book you stole from some mad Czech priest.”
“The Book of Shadows is a very important…” Penn’s victorious gloat halted Straka mid-sentence.
“Settle down, Penn,” came a snapped admonishment from the group’s final member, Corporal Smith, his face like crumpled papyrus that possessed an emotional control absent from his compatriots. Penn paused briefly as he held his superior’s gaze, then lowered his rifle with a barely concealed sneer, “Only having a bit of banter, Corporal.”
It was then that a din from outside drew our attention to the windows, and darting to the streaked panes we watched as a barbarous wind lifted the roof from the pig pens on the far side of the farm, the gale toying with each slat like an invisible claw. Moments later a figure stumbled from the farmhouse, running with the familiar laboured limp that had dominated my father’s movements in recent years, his staggering hampered further by a night’s worth of self-pitying Slivovica consumption. The din of the swines rose banshee-like from the pig pens; the animals’ wails carried to our ears by whips of wind that buffeted my father as he hobbled to save his livelihood. Seeing him then, so frail and cumbersome awoke something primal within me, the unshakable love of a son towards his father and before the soldiers could stop me I was racing outside into the maelstrom.
A boom of wind spun me as it bowed trees like blades of grass, ripping roots from their century-long footholds. Peering up I spied two giant beeches pulverise the pig pen my father had entered just seconds earlier, but my cries were whisked away by the wind before they reached even my own ears. Then two pairs of hands were pulling me up, dragging me back to the barn as I kicked out in grief and rage and finally broke loose to battle on through the gale to the obliterated shed.
I clambered over splintered beams and slats calling to my father, until finally I found him, impaled by a branch and wheezing a fountain of blood. I cradled his head, aching for a final moment of tenderness to absolve me of his hatred for Ondrej’s abduction. But none came. “It should have been you; he was just a boy” he croaked. And then he was gone.
* * *
As the final spade of dirt scattered atop my father’s grave which rested beside my mothers’, I uttered a hushed prayer in the unsettling silence that hung over the remnants of my home. Night was still at its zenith and Straka and the soldiers were preparing to embark on their mission irrespective of the dangers they faced; planning to risk an approach to Čierna Brána based on their own crude maps of the area.
I stared at the tombs with the numb detachment only shock can imbue. “I am sorry for your loss,” the words heralding Straka’s appearance beside me. “I know what it is to lose a father.”
“When I was little he seemed indestructible, like the heroes in the stories he’d tell me when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did he ever tell you of Lord Milos the Brave?”
“Every boy around here knows that story; how Milos defeated two thousand Mongols at the Battle of Čierna Brána.” I replied.
“What people think they know and the truth are rarely the same thing,” Straka replied cryptically.
“Are you saying the battle never happened?”
“No, Lord Milos did indeed succeed where many great commanders had failed, but at a great cost. The story speaks of a heroic victory but in truth no one knows for sure what transpired that night at the castle. Written accounts from the thirteenth century monk Hronar speak of a violent storm that raged above Čierna Brána where two tumen of Mongolian horsemen laid their siege, of the sky splitting and lightning striking the battlements twelve times while azure shards fell like sapphires from the sky.”
“But last night…” Straka’s dire nod cut me off.
“In the morning when the tempest had passed, the Mongol soldiers lay dead outside the battlements. From the castle stumbled Milos, eyes feral with fear and babbling of nightmares made flesh that had killed both his men and the invaders. The locals thought him crazy and he spent his remaining days in a mad house muttering of a darkness that festered within him and of portals in the sky that would spell the end of days. Hardly a fitting end for a story to tell children, don’t you think?”
“It’s just a legend,” I murmured as I met Straka’s resolute gaze.
“I hope you’re right, I really do,” he said. “For if such a power were to fall into the hands of the Nazis, then the devastation brought about by the Mongols would be but a footnote in history compared to the atrocities our world would face.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, and with a final meaningful nod, turned to his companions and headed north towards Čierna Brána.
As the men departed I surveyed the wasteland of memories around me, Straka’s words repeating through my mind as the doctor’s steps receded. “Wait,” I cried. The footsteps halted. I pointed north-east. “The best route to the castle is this way.”
* * *
The waxing moon seeped through the bunched forest canopy as we made our circuitous trek towards Čierna Brána, weaving through an alien maze of felled trees. We were moving now in five metre intervals, Penn spearheading the formation while Coombs hung back scanning for signs of enemy presence. As the castle’s battlements began flickering between cracks in the treeline, the gloom of the night intensified like an amorphous veil that twisted the familiar forest into macabre apparitions, contorted faces and
gnarled claw-like branches. Such was the grip of dread that held me I almost missed the little grave where Ondrej and I had buried the rabbit, and kneeling quickly beside it I whispered a prayer for the creature’s soul, though my thoughts remained firmly fixed on Ondrej.
As we moved on the soldiers seemed ill at ease in the surroundings, intermittently bringing their weapons to bear on imagined dangers, only to be greeted by the contemptuous hiss of the wind as it caressed the forest.
An hour later we’d reached the castle’s outskirts, keeping low as we followed a steeply descending trail that skirted a cliff face housing the ancient battlements, before the slope rose rapidly, causing us to clamber on all fours. As we scrabbled up the escarpment, sure footing became elusive and loose pockets of stone suddenly gave way in cascading torrents, causing us to freeze and cling limpet-like to the rock face lest the enemy be alerted. Finally, we reached a winding pathway hewn by time into the mountain and scurried up a steeply banked ridge to take shelter behind an obelisk-shaped rock a quarter of a mile from the castle’s gatehouse.
Extracting a pair of binoculars from a pouch, Norris began scanning the crumbling battlements that gaped at the sky like a cackling witch. “Where the devil are they all?” he mused as his head bobbed in harmony with the movements of the binoculars. “Sir?” enquired Smith. “It’s the damndest thing, Corporal,” stammered Norris, handing him the field glasses.
“You’re right Captain. No sign of enemy presence… Wait a minute, I’ve got one transport truck to the north west, engine still running.”
“Could be a trap, sir,” interjected Hall.
“If it were a trap it’d be less bleedin’ obvious, dummy!” snapped Coombs as he scrutinised the crumbling walls through his sights.
“We need to get a closer look at the situation,” ordered Norris with the speed of a seasoned commander. “Hall, Penn!”
With a clipped, “Sir,” the duo broke cover and with rapid crouched movements scuttled between cover wherever it jutted from the mountain, closing on the vehicle like phantoms. At the truck, Hall’s hand extended towards the driver’s door, twisting the handle, then with fluid force he opened it with a yank as Penn swung his weapon in line with the driver’s seat. From the dark interior lurched a Nazi soldier, arms clawing towards Penn who backpedalled, feet slipping on the uneven ground and his Bren chattered, a cacophony of bullets that cut through the assailant.
“Damn it, Penn!” cursed Norris as the squad tensed for the inevitable alarm, yet to our collective astonishment the night remained silent save for the muttering of the distant engine. Emboldened by their good fortune, Hall and Penn pressed on to the battlements, guns scanning every conceivable angle until finally the dark maw of the stronghold’s entrance devoured them.
We sat silently, seconds stretching like hours into the darkness. Then two shadowy figures emerged, moving at speed as though driven by a Kraken’s breath on their backs. Norris, Coombs and Smith took aim, but Norris urged them to hold fire with gravelly, unwavering authority as the mens’ fingers tightened on their triggers. “Sir! Sir!” boomed Hall as he and Coombs skidded to a halt next to where the rest of us lay hidden.
“Are you mad!” admonished Norris, “If the enemy didn’t know we’re here before, they will now!”
Hall shook his head, gulping air. “No, sir, they won’t.”
“How the devil can you be so sure?” Norris demanded.
“Because they’re dead, sir,” Coombs stuttered between glugged breaths.
“Who? Who’s dead Private?” barked Norris. Coombs just stared, shaking his head.
“Private! Coombs!” barked Norris. The man’s gaze was wild but it was Penn who finally spoke.
“All of them.”
* * *
Double timing towards the castle gates, a rush of euphoria energised me as I kept pace with the soldiers, the group moving in tight rhythmic formation. Only Straka’s laboured breaths belied our noiseless progress towards the dark veil that lurked at Čierna Brána’s entrance. Ten metres out Norris held a fist aloft, and as one we halted, squatting in the murk awaiting his orders. He beckoned us forward and we moved in unison with deliberate paces, eking our way into the bowels of the ancient stone edifice.
I had been no stranger to death that past year, yet nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed as we entered the castle’s courtyard; a sight that no war, atrocity, pestilence or famine could have conceived. Men hung like ham from taut nooses in the ancient rafters above open graves gaping with cadavers parted from their innards; guts stacked in crude mounds beside flayed carcasses. Wherever the eye fell lay a new horror, a different mode of death, each more gruesome than the last. My mind begged for respite but it was only when the retching began that I at last tore my eyes from the necropolis, my stomach emptying in heaving syncopated breaths.
“This is butchery,” blurted Hall, as he rubbed his thin tuft with unconscious strokes before clumsily extracting another cigarette and fumbling it to his lips.
“Doctor, you may want to take a look at this.” The voice rose from deeper within the enclave where Smith stood dangling the strangest creature I’ve ever seen from his rifle’s muzzle. Although death had curled its appendages it was clear to see its form; an elongated conical body with six eyes equidistantly positioned around the circumference of its flat, circular face, six crab-like legs bunched by rigor mortis and two sets of large, thin, opaque wings upon its back. A single coiled proboscis akin to that of a hummingbird moth’s protruded from a central point on the creature’s face.
“What in the bloody hell is that?” spat Penn in disgust.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” mused Straka.
“I’m so glad you came, or we’d have no idea what we’re dealing with,” spat Penn.
“Shut up, Private!” snapped Norris, examining the creature more closely as the doctor uncoiled its proboscis under torchlight.
“Hey doc, come take a gander, I’ve found another one.” We turned to find Coombs holding a second identical dead creature at arm’s length.
“Another one here!” cried Hall, and soon we were checking the other dead soldiers. Adjacent to each corpse lay one of the dead alien entities. Straka began leafing through a book he’d extracted from his pack.
“Here,” he said, jabbing at a page. “The information is scant but it describes a species much like this named the Saldroth, a creature capable of infecting the minds of men with psychic assaults, then feasting on their deepest fears and turning their nightmares into reality.”
“And if you believe that you’ll believe anything,” scoffed Penn. “My money’s on some Nazi experiment gone FUBAR.”
“Look around,” came Coombs’ numb reply as he lifted another Saldroth from the floor with his rifle. “This look like anything from around these parts to you?”
“The book speaks of an occult ritual dating to pre-Roman times in which the creatures can be summoned from their world,” explained Straka as he read. “Von Asberg must have discovered it. It is imperative we find him. If he returns to Berlin with this knowledge the war could be over before it’s even begun.” He turned to me with urgency. “Where is the castle’s chapel?”
Wiping the remnants of my insides from my mouth I stabbed a finger towards an easterly tower and soon we were ascending a circular stairway in silent single file, each man battling the asphyxiating dread that gripped him as we passed two embracing Nazis; daggers plunged into one another’s hearts.
Outside the chapel the soldiers assumed formation, then in pairs, entered with mechanical movements, fanning out, guns scanning for signs of Saldroth and Nazi alike. Inside the chapel lay two bodies prone on jagged Cyclopean altars that looked alien amidst the pomp of the arching stonework adorned with fading images of biblical martyrs. On the floor lay two men in grey garb stained crimson by puddles of blood seeping from inhuman lacerations across their chests and faces. In a moment of unconscious recognition, I rushed forward towards one of the a
ltars, and there to my disbelief, lay Ondrej. Clutching his body to mine I convulsed with sobs that masked the small twitching movements that betrayed life where I’d assumed only death was present, and with a dreamy, dazed emergence from the slumber that held him, Ondrej’s eyes opened. I clutched him close in an embrace of unspoken joy and begged his forgiveness.
As I held my brother, Straka and the soldiers searched the room. “Von Asberg!” exclaimed the doctor rushing to the altar beside us, my brother’s body stiffened at the mention of his captor’s name. Lying next to Ondrej was the corpse of a short, balding man dressed in high ranking military regalia. Straka checked for a pulse. “We have been very lucky, gentlemen; it appears as though the General’s lust for power has been his undoing.”
“So how did the nipper survive?” enquired Penn, his tone rippling with aggression as he stepped towards us. Instinctively I rose to block his path. “Leave him alone!” I demanded but it was Norris’ admonishment that finally made the soldier relent. Straka sat beside Ondrej taking his hands into his own. “I know you have been through a great ordeal, but it is important that you tell us everything that happened here.”
Ondrej’s responses came slowly, like he was attempting to recall a dream slipping away with each waking moment. Despite Straka’s efforts, Ondrej was able to remember little of what had transpired that night, recounting details only of his capture and imprisonment; how each night von Asberg would walk the row of cells selecting a new child victim for his rituals until only Ondrej remained. He spoke of the storms that raged every night and that when his turn had finally come, men dressed in black uniforms bearing Black Sun insignia had led him to the chapel and robed clerics had tied him to the altar.
“Doc?” muttered Coombs, “I ain’t no boffin but I’m guessing these men weren’t killed by those things we found out there.”
“Why do you say that, Private?”
“Do you see any of them dead Saldroth in here?”
The party instinctively perused the room. Coombs had been right. The chapel was indeed bereft of Saldroth, living or dead. “Most vexing,” mused Straka, his mood darkening as he traced a row of runes chiselled onto the altars. “Perhaps these will provide the answers we seek,” he mused as he began leafing through the ancient tome he’d consulted earlier.
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