by Sarah Rayne
A ribbon of road unwinding endlessly in front of her.
The screech of tyres and the sound of metal crumpling.
Was Sarah beside her again, trapped in the passenger seat . . .?
Hilary opened her eyes and, as her senses steadied, memory filtered back. The misshapen creature darting into the headlights and the spinning swerve across the road to avoid hitting it. The nightmare things in the dungeons.
Not the wet icy road she had driven down eight years ago, but the treacherous mountain highway with the steep rock-face.
I am inside the ruined castle.
She sat up cautiously, and winced as a spear of pain spiked through her temple.
She was in the stone banqueting hall, lying on the floor, half propped against the wall opposite the huge old hearth. Her wrists and ankles were tied and her head was throbbing and she felt rather sick. But she was alive.
The hall was lit by dozens of candles, all of them set in silver holders and branched candlesticks which were placed along the table and in alcoves and on the floor. A nimbus of light haloed each tiny flame, so that a soft radiance lay everywhere. Someone had lit a fire in the deep old hearth and the flames washed the old stones with warmth. For a moment, Hilary saw the banqueting hall as it must once have been: gracious and lovely and strong.
Night still shrouded the mountain outside. Then not very much time can have passed, thought Hilary. Unless I am in tomorrow night? How Lewis Carroll that sounds. I think I would feel much worse if I had been unconscious for twenty-four hours. She wondered who had knocked her out? One of the corpse-things, could it have been? It was extremely nasty to think of those creatures handling her while she was unconscious, tying her and carrying her up here. Surely they would have to have servants or attendants of some kind? And, even as the thought formed, she saw that four or five severe-faced, dark-clad men and women were moving about the hall at the far end, tipping baskets of logs on to the fire, carrying flagons of wine to the long table. The scent of woodsmoke drifted across the hall.
More servants stood grouped at the far end of the hall, half in and half out of the flickering firelight. Several of them had an olive-skinned look, as if they might have come from further east and further south, but some had the unmistakable high slanting cheekbones of Eastern Europe.
Without warning, the door that led to the dungeons was pushed open, and the dark-clad servants stood up, as if to attention.
Through the door, with an almost soundless tread, came the slow-moving corpse-creatures, in what Hilary could only think of as solemn procession, each carrying a single candle. One by one they came, their faces absorbed and intent, chanting something in a tongue Hilary did not recognise, but that sounded so dark and so ancient that she felt an atavistic fear scud across her skin. Every alarm signal, every fragilely preserved instinct inherited from primordial man – who had perforce to know what prowled after him – sprang into quivering life within her.
Because I am hearing something immensely old and hugely powerful and dreadfully evil.
It was like a travesty of every religious procession Hilary had ever watched or joined: Corpus Christi and Midnight Mass. The heart-breaking walks by cripples to the Lourdes’ shrine. But this was the underside of those strong, light-filled ceremonies and rituals; this was something dredged up out of the old pagan world, when dark hungers and greedy lusts stalked the land.
The faces of the corpse-creatures were lit from below by the candles they carried; the scent of the burning candles, mingling with the woodsmoke, might almost have been incense.
The leaping firelight showed up the withered skins, the sticklike arms and legs, the fleshless lips and the tremulous hands. They are crawling up into the light, thought Hilary, twisting round to see better, wincing from a fresh stab of pain in her head. Something is about to happen and they are fumbling their way up to witness it and take part in it, and perhaps even to preside over it. Am I about to be ritually killed in front of them? I don’t think I could bear it. If only I could work these wretched ropes loose! I will not be sacrificed in some disgusting pagan ceremony!
But the ropes held firm and the knots were thick and strong. Whoever had tied her up had been thorough.
As the corpse-creatures took their seats, the candlelight illuminated them more strongly, and unexpectedly they were no longer quite so pitiful. Their eyes were dark and shining with intelligence, and in all of them a high-cheekboned beauty was discernible. The dreamlike quality of everything increased. Am I still concussed from that blow to the head?
At the far end of the table, the silent attendants stood as if awaiting orders; with them was what Hilary first took to be Ficzko. Her heart leapt with new fear – was I decoyed here by Catherine? – and then she saw that it was not Ficzko, but a small, stunted creature clearly from the same root: ugly and swart, but recognisably masculine. The face was scooped out of thick tallow, the features lopsided as if someone had smeared a hand over the tallow before it had set. It was the face that the BMW’s headlights had picked out; the hunched-over creature that had darted across the road and caused her to crash.
The corpse-creatures were seated now, and the one at the table’s head gestured imperiously to the two servants. And, although his hand was withered and the skin was crumpled and age-spotted, it was a slender, patrician hand. It was a hand used to making arrogant, I-will-be-obeyed gestures, or to curling with indolent grace about the slender stem of a crystal wine chalice . . . Hilary blinked and clutched at the fast-vanishing remnants of reality.
The attendants and the dwarf moved in instant obedience to the man’s wordless command, and the corpse-creatures turned and, as one, looked towards the far end of the hall.
High above the long table, suspended from a winch, hung a huge, cylindrical cage, a device created by a nightmarish intelligence: an oval structure, perhaps four feet in height, perhaps eighteen inches across, so that an ordinary-sized human would just manage to squeeze inside. It was made of gleaming iron blades secured by metal hoops, and the metal spikes were so arranged that, in the flickering light, they grinned. It was the disembodied face of an iron monster hovering in the shadows, its iron teeth grinning, waiting to snap you up . . . The door hung open, but when it was slammed the spikes would pierce whatever was inside. I’m still in a nightmare, thought Hilary in horror. I’m still unconscious and everything’s distorted.
Something was moving behind the iron bars. Something that heaved and scrabbled at the cage, and something that was impossibly white fleshed . . . As the evil device swayed a little in the warmth from below, the chains that held it grating, Hilary, still straining to see properly, received the fleeting image of something not human; something that beat helplessly against the bars in terrible silence.
‘Nail the lips together. . .’ Had someone said that, or had it been part of the nightmare?
Because whatever is in the cage, whether it is human or not, its mouth has been nailed shut to prevent it from screaming, only it has tried to scream anyway, tearing its lips to bloody tatters . . .
Hilary’s heart began to race as the impassive servants reached up to wind the contraption along the pulleys over the table. Inside the cage was the outline of a slender, barely developed female shape covered in a short, sleeveless white robe. A fall of pale hair.
The dwarf said in a thick, guttural voice, ‘A good capture, masters. One to use well.’
He sounds exactly like Ficzko, thought Hilary wildly. A brother, a cousin? Is that German he’s speaking. She had just about understood the dwarf’s words, but she thought he was using a kind of patois.
‘A good capture,’ said the one who had gestured to the servants, leaning forward and studying the cage intently. Yes, they were speaking what was probably Austrian-German. Hilary thought she could manage to follow it enough to guess fairly accurately what was happening, and then wondered whether it might be better not to know.
The man said, ‘Where did you get this one, Janos?’ His eyes were still
on the caged girl, and Hilary could see that he was wearing a crimson velvet jacket – a smoking jacket, could it be? When did men last wear smoking jackets? I don’t believe any of this is happening, thought Hilary. I was concussed when I crashed the car. And then struck on the head. This is all a delusion. Please God, let it be a delusion.
‘Yes where did you get her, Janos?’ put in another. ‘You know the rule. Nothing that will draw attention to us.’
The dwarf, Janos, grinned, showing stumplike teeth. ‘A runaway, this one,’ he said. ‘A discontented pretty bird who wanted bright lights and rich living. I take the pretty bird for you.’ His speech was slow and stumbling, as if he were unused to speaking much, or as if he might be a bit retarded. ‘I let her sing,’ he said, with sudden slurry mirth. ‘I let her sing, and I hear her scream until her throat bursts.’
‘If she is a runaway, she is unlikely to be missed,’ said the man who had spoken first, and a little rustle of satisfaction went through the corpse-creatures.
‘What about this one?’ said the woman, indicating Hilary.
‘A traveller. English. Pretty.’
‘She is a long way from home. Was she alone?’
‘Alone,’ nodded Janos.
‘Very well.’ They dismissed Hilary and turned back to the cage.
The wall-torches were burning up more strongly now, and Hilary saw for the first time the glint of steel embedded in the swollen bruised flesh of the girl’s mouth – yes, she had been right, it was a girl, barely sixteen or so. And her lips had been stapled together with steel slivers, each one at least an inch in length. Wild visions of medieval tortures – the scold, the brank – flooded Hilary’s mind, and she could see now that the girl’s jaws and neck were spattered with blood and saliva, and that the once-red flesh of her lips was bruised and blackened and crusted with dried blood. Dear God, there must be something I can do to rescue her! And then, with cold fear: and once they have dealt with her, it will be me!
She thought she gasped; she certainly struggled against the bonds, and at once the nearest of the corpse-creatures turned to regard her. He had a narrow, high forehead and the slightly aquiline nose of a patrician. His lips were thin and cruel, and he was studying her from smouldering dark eyes. But inside the dark red velvet jacket, his body was thin and shrivelled and the hands resting on the table were barely more than finger-bones and knuckles, thinly veiled with skin. He is a travesty, thought Hilary, torn between enormous pity and a churning revulsion. He is sapless, husked dry.
But when the man spoke, she heard for the first time the once-beautiful musical tones under the cracked note of age.
‘You are thinking it will soon be your turn in the cage, my dear,’ he said, and Hilary heard with a start that he spoke in English. He smiled. ‘Is it not courteous to use the native language of one’s guest?’ he said and, without waiting for her response, ‘You are, of course, right to think we shall put you in the cage,’ he said.
‘But we like our prisoners to understand why they are caught,’ said a second.
‘And Janos picks well,’ said one of the women, studying Hilary. ‘He has developed the art of luring travellers up here. And he has an instinct for females who travel alone.’
‘All our family have that instinct,’ said the first.
‘But particularly the females,’ said the woman sharply.
Hilary said, firmly, ‘Why have you imprisoned me? Why have you put that girl in a cage?’ And was pleased to hear that she sounded calm and very nearly unafraid. At least she was not trembling and begging them to let her go. Not yet.
The nearer of the men regarded her. His eyes were the coldest that Hilary had ever seen. She shivered, and the man said, ‘We take prisoners so that we can survive.’
‘We take them for the blood,’ said the woman. She was as frail and shrunken as the men, but incredibly there were traces of cosmetics on her face: rouged lips and cheekbones. Her hair, which must once have been thick and glossy, was caught up into an elaborate coil and threaded with what Hilary thought were seed-pearls. She wore a rich dark velvet robe, laced with silver and, as she spoke, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her little clawlike hands. Hilary shuddered.
‘The blood is necessary,’ said the woman. ‘The Lady knew that and we know it as well. But it was the Lady who discovered it.’
‘“The Lady”?’ said Hilary, wild notions of some unsuspected Maryan sect flickering on her mind.
‘Our ancestress,’ rejoined the man.
‘Sometimes called Our Lady of Pain,’ said the woman, and Hilary jumped all over again at the warped mirror-image of her thoughts.
‘You are inside Csejthe you know, my dear,’ said the first man, softly and, as Hilary stared, not understanding, he said, ‘This is the Lady’s castle.’
‘Where she immersed her body in the fresh warm blood of young girls in order to preserve her beauty,’ said the woman. ‘That was why she sought the help of the ancient gods. So that she would be forever young and lovely.’
‘Is that what you are doing now? You are – you take prisoners for – for their blood?’ Even as her lips framed the words, her mind was already rejecting them. But the first man said:
‘Yes,’ and the affirmative was cold and detached.
Hilary felt revulsion crawl over her skin. I don’t believe any of this. She said, carefully, ‘But – surely that is impossible.’
‘Impossible, is it?’ said the man and, and in the candlelight, his eyes were dark and penetrating. ‘To you perhaps it is. But the Lady had the secret,’ he said. ‘Beauty that never faded . . .’
He paused and, at his side, the woman said, ‘She was the most beautiful creature you would ever see. And even at the end, they never got the secret out of her.’
‘She was betrayed,’ said another of the men. ‘We all know it. Her own pastor, Ponikenus, the pastor of Csejthe itself, betrayed her. He was young and eager and he carried tales of her to the Grand Palatine of Upper Hungary.’
‘Ponikenus hated her,’ said the woman. ‘From the moment he arrived at Csejthe, he saw her as evil and he vowed to be rid of her. He never understood, of course. None of them understood.’ There was a pause, as if the creatures were sharing some secret knowledge.
Hilary said, carefully, ‘Why are telling me all this?’
‘Because you should understand why you must die,’ said the man with faint surprise, rather as if she were questioning some long-established piece of chivalry. He leaned forward again. ‘Four hundred and fifty years ago, our ancestress lived here. It was here that she discovered the ancient secret that became our legacy.’
‘Legacy?’
The man smiled. ‘Immortality,’ he said softly, and a listening silence fell about the table.
Hilary stared at them. After a moment, she said, ‘But – that’s impossible. Immortality . . . It’s medieval superstition.’
‘Is it?’ said the man, and in the soft light his eyes were dark and penetrating. ‘Are you so sure?’ He lifted a hand to indicate the creatures grouped about the table. ‘You see us. How old do you suppose we are?’
At his side the woman laughed. ‘We have the legacy,’ she said. ‘The legacy of Elizabeth Bathory.’
Elizabeth Bathory. Bathory. Catherine’s people.
‘The immortality of the Blood Countess of Csejthe,’ said their leader. And now, my dear, you shall see it for yourself.’ He nodded to the waiting attendants. ‘Proceed.’
If Hilary could have done anything to save the imprisoned girl, she would have done it. Her mind was reeling and her head was spinning with disbelief and fear, but she thought she would have tried to save the girl if there had been a way. You did not just stand by and see another human being slaughtered. There was nothing she could do. She was too tightly bound and there were too many of them. There were the servants as well, six or eight of them, although it was difficult to be sure because they moved to and fro all the time: replenishing the wine, relighting candles that flickered
out, or throwing more logs on to the fire.
Three of them were lowering the cage, using a clanking pulley system that grated on Hilary’s ears. At last it hung just above the corpse-creatures’ heads, and Hilary saw them shiver in anticipation and heard the low murmur.
‘The incantation . . .’
‘Elizabeth’s incantation . . .’
The cage was swinging frenziedly as the girl inside writhed and beat her hands against the sides and there was the cold scrape of metal. Hilary saw that thin chains bound her wrists and ankles.
The corpse-creatures’ voices were swelling in a pulsating chant, and their voices shivered and spun and filled the stone hall. The firelight leapt and pranced across the ceiling, twisting about the terrible cage, showering the girl with a crimson cloak.
‘Isten took nine stems of glory
And he killed the serpent which split into nine pieces;
Since then the nine herbs have had power against the nine evil spirits,
Against the nine poisons and the nine infections,
Against the red poison, against the disgusting poison,
Against the white poison, against the purple poison,
Against the yellow poison, against the green poison,
Against the black poison, against the blue poison,
Against the brown poison, against the crimson poison,
Against the prick of the serpent, against swelling by water,
Against the thorn and that of the thistle,
Against swelling from ice and against that from poison.’
And then, in a single terrible cry that filled the ancient hall, ‘Pierce the skin!’ They stumbled and jostled one another, clawing their way along the sides of the table until they were standing beneath the cage, holding their hands up with a supplicatory gesture that made the hairs prickle on Hilary’s skin.
‘Now!’ they cried, and their voices shivered with hunger and anticipation. ‘Do it now!’
The servants reached up with a long heavy iron stave and slammed the cage door shut. The door spikes rammed home and there was a terrible wet squelching sound, and the girl jerked and shuddered, blood spouting from her in a dozen different places. It cascaded on to the waiting creatures and Hilary saw with horror that they held up their cupped hands to catch it, smearing their skins. Their eyes were glowing with ecstasy and their lips were drawn back from their teeth. Warm fresh blood. Dear God, this is unbelievable. Make them stop. Let me get free.
