Shadows Will Fall

by Trey Garrison

  SHADOWS WILL FALL

  The Spear of Destiny: Part Three of Three

  A FAR RANGER NOVEL

  Trey Garrison

  CONTENTS

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  THE SPEAR OF DESTINY

  About the Author

  By Trey Garrison

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Road to Poenari Citadel

  On Lake Vidraru

  Wallachia Region

  The march through the rough hills, narrow passes, verdant valleys, and deep, shadowy ravines was exhausting. Worse, the valley pass on the western side of Poenari Citadel was easily a 1,500-foot drop from the lower parapets of the castle, making the approach all the more roundabout. The damp chill of the air went straight through to the bone.

  Their hands bound in front of them, Sean Fox Rucker and his compatriots marched along old peasant trails, escorted by the Nazi storm trooper squad that had captured them as they emerged from the cave where they’d camped. There were five of them. Rucker’s friend and copilot Jesus “Chuy” Lago, the fussy and aristocratic Prussian Dr. Kurt von Deitel, the femme fatale spy—and his ex-girlfriend—Terah Jane Spencer, and the brash Greek trader in markets both white and black, Nicholas Filotoma. In a race with forces of the Third Reich to recover the Spear of the Destiny—the tip of the Roman spear used to pierce the heart of Jesus on the cross—they gave the storm troopers a fight but had been outnumbered and outgunned.

  They’d lost.

  The Black Sun, the inner circle of the New Order that now cast its shadow over Germany, believed the spear held the key to raising an unstoppable legion of undying—undead—soldiers. Black Sun’s mystical and scientific minds had already tapped into dark energies of the Otherness, the antilife force that bled into this dimension when a hole was ripped in the fabric of reality from the industrial scale of death and destruction in the Great War. They’d unleashed dark magicks and singular demonic creatures, but that was nothing compared to the power of the spear. They had the means to harness its power to create an unholy army to carry the swastika and the Black Sun banners across the nations of Europe, North America, and then the rest of the world.

  Rucker and his team, commissioned by the extraordinary and inscrutable Prometheus Society in the Freehold of Texas, had traced the spear to a Gypsy girl—Amria Damara. In the secret Roma tradition, she had served as the spear’s sorcerous protector. Just as Rucker’s team had found Amria and the spear, the relentless SS commando, Lt. Otto Skorzeny, had taken the team by surprise. Now, they had been captured and bound by the Nazi storm troopers, Amria bound and gagged as well. Having already seen the power of her conjurations, the Germans made sure that she could neither speak nor move her hands—both of which sorcerers required to work their craft.

  Their destination was the grand castle in the distance that sat atop one of the highest cliffs in the Carpathian foothills. It overlooked the deep, cold blue waters of Lakul Vidraru, a body of water formed by the flood following the great earthquake in 1888, which also destroyed a small part of the castle.

  Built in the thirteenth century, the three primary spires and prism-shaped central keep of the Poenari Citadel had been well kept through the ages, at least until the damage caused by the earthquake fifty years before. The gothic citadel, as they marched toward it, looked oppressive; intimidating and invulnerable. The close winds that had whipped them along the ridge lines were gone now, Rucker noted, the air still. Near the caves where they’d been captured, spring birds had alighted on trees, singing songs, but here, the trees were silent and without foliage. The ground smelled old, like the air in a crypt, and the castle before them seemed a living creature perched and waiting, a predator as much as the predator’s lair.

  Skorzeny’s conversation with Rucker began in the usual cheery manner of the German people.

  “Vlad Tepes III once impaled twenty thousand Turkish prisoners outside the city of Tirgoviste before he made this castle his home,” Skorzeny said. “He sent 24,000 noses to the Turkish general opposing him. When a messenger from the Mohammedans refused to remove his turban in Vlad’s presence, he had it nailed to the man’s forehead.”

  “Were these part of your bedtime stories?” Rucker asked.

  “He was known as Vlad the Impaler,” Skorzeny said. “He would eat dinner surrounded by his recently impaled and dying enemies.”

  “Well, you know, they say friendship is the best seasoning,” Rucker said.

  “Almost single-handedly, Vlad beat back the Islamic invasion of Europe. Whatever else he became, without his ruthless military leadership all of Europe might be another province of the Mohammedan Caliphate,” the German said.

  “I’m guessing you’re an only child,” Rucker said.

  Skorzeny lit a cigarette as he and Rucker walked along, at the head of the column of SS storm troopers and prisoners.

  The German commando held up the Spear of Destiny in the sunlight. It was bound with oilcloth and wrapped in black twine.

  “I am convinced the Son of the Dragon had such sheer fury of will he really did divine a way to live beyond death using the spear,” he said. “I’m not sure I buy into the stories about meeting his demise at the hands of a Dutch physician, Helsing. What do you think?”

  “Do I believe men can become blood-sucking, murderous monsters?” Rucker asked. “I’ve met plenty. You know the one thing they have in common?”

  “What is that?” Skorzeny asked.

  “Zee Deutsch accent,” Rucker said with an exaggerated Teutonic flair.

  Skorzeny refused to be baited.

  “The Gypsy girl wouldn’t talk,” he said, “but according to some of our other . . . discussions with tribes of the Roma people, we have learned that something about the spear has changed recently. From its earliest days, it always held a power, they said, that could be conjured or divined through arduous and arcane efforts, but they say after it was retaken from Vlad Tepes, its powers grew.”

  They topped a rise and saw they had another valley to cross before the long, last climb to the castle.

  “They also said since the Great War, the spear’s power has grown even more dramatically,” Skorzeny said. “Now the merest scratch from it can infect a man. The infection slowly kills him, and then his body is resurrected. Much like the rabbi nailed to the cross. Unlike the rabbi, however, the man becomes a mindless monster, devouring the flesh of the living.”

  Is that all it would take? Rucker wondered. Is that how the Nazis planned to build their unstoppable army? Where did they expect to get the volunteers? What good was an army of mindless creatures you can’t control?

  Skorzeny was still talking.

  “I believe he was a vampire,” he said.

  Behind them, Deitel snorted.

  “You have something to add, traitor?” Skorzeny asked, the scorn in his voice fairly heavy.

  Deitel was in rough shape. The storm troopers had been rougher on him than any of the other prisoners because they knew he was German. They’d been smart enough not to beat him so badly that he would have to be carried, but they’d beat him soundly. His cheek was swollen and he couldn’t see out of his left eye
. They’d knocked several teeth loose. Mainly, they’d worked on his midsection before handcuffing him.

  Rucker had told Deitel to use the anger and pain he felt.

  “The so-called vampire disease is porphyria cutanea tarda,” Deitel said now. “It’s a degenerative blood disorder resulting in overproduction of porphyrins, which in turn makes the blood too dirty for the liver to filter. As the liver weakens, it becomes more acute. The excess of porphyrins begins to pool on the skin, in the bones, and they saturate the urine. It results in lesions that are photosensitive, in receding gums, and in severe iron deficiency leading to a craving for raw, red meat.”

  Skorzeny called the column to a halt and carefully unwrapped the sharpened metal part of the spear, which would have been attached to the end of a wooden shaft, comprising one of the primary weapons of Roman soldiers. It was about a foot long. The shaft had long been lost to the ages, and this was what remained of the spear—a steel shank topped by a diamond headed point. It was dulled by age, pockmarked and tarnished. Something about it made it uncomfortable for Rucker to stare at.

  With gloved hands, Skorzeny held it up to the light. Then he brought it to within inches of Rucker’s throat.

  “Shall we test the power of the spear here, now?”

  Rucker locked eyes with the commando. He would not show the fear he felt inside.

  “No, Herr Rucker. Do not worry. That is not my style,” Skorzeny said, rewrapping the spear. “I fight with honor.”

  He pointed to the now empty holster strapped to Rucker’s leg.

  “Are you like the cowboy quick draw artists?” he asked. “The ones in the moving pictures?”

  Rucker just smiled.

  “Perhaps we will see. You will see how fast I am,” Skorzeny said. He leaned in close to Rucker’s ear—his six-foot-two frame towering over Rucker, who stood at least six inches shorter. “I am faster.”

  “Whatever you say, hoss,” Rucker said.

  The march continued. Even in the afternoon sun, the castle on the mountain ahead was dreary. On the march up the 1,500 steps to the main gate, it was clear the supposedly unused Poenari Citadel was abuzz with activity.

  “You know, Otto,” Rucker said, “some people might say three squads of your storm troopers and three bogeymen—along with those steam crawlers—is a bit of overkill.” He had taken inventory of the black Senf-masked, leather-clad, beetle-helmeted SS soldiers and the lurching nachtmenn. The steam crawlers—six-legged metal machines bristling with machine-gun ports—left the column to continue their patrols around the perimeter of the castle. They could carry a complement of six storm troopers, and though hardly quiet, were quieter than their diesel, wheeled counterparts. Rucker noted the Romanian army markings painted on their sides. While the storm troopers wore black uniforms, the crawler crews wore Romanian army-style wool jackets and leather helmets. The idea, Rucker figured, was that the deception would work at a distance, should they come upon locals.

  He raised his manacled hands. “And really, the hike would have gone quicker for all of us if you didn’t insist on the jewelry.”

  “Poustis!” Filotoma called out from where he, Terah, Amria, and Deitel were grouped in the middle of the formation. “All this for two young men, two young women, and a frail old innocent merchant. Pastartos!”

  Filotoma was sweating fiercely, but Rucker knew that Nick had the constitution of a draft horse.

  Filotoma smiled right at Skorzeny, “Su gamo ti mana, archimalakas.”

  Skorzeny nodded condescendingly to the Greek.

  “Akka ta chikkia mou, vromopousta,” Filotoma said, nodding back.

  “What did the fat man say?” Skorzeny demanded of Rucker.

  “Um, he said something about inviting you to, um, eat sometime,” Rucker said. “And that you’re the chief . . . um, you’re the chief here.”

  Skorzeny backhanded the Greek, whose smug grin remained.

  Rucker wanted to draw attention away from Filotoma, who was impulsive and emotional enough to carry on this battle of the wills until he got seriously hurt. He looked at the courtyard, which they were finally approaching. Blood-red swastika banners fluttered from every spire. Storm troopers in full uniform patrolled inside and outside the castle walls.

  “You’re just flaunting it at this point Otto,” Rucker said. “Really? Flags?”

  Once inside the outer courtyard, Skorzeny halted the procession. He lined up the five prisoners, walked down the row and stopped in front of Rucker.” You know, I spent twenty-seven hours locked in that crate aboard your transport plane,” he said. “I spent the last week in the Balkan bush tracking you.”

  “That’s one less week for you to be out doing damage,” Rucker smirked.

  “Then what I had to do when I leapt from the cargo bay of the Graf von Götzen zeppelin,” Skorzeny said, still ticking off the offenses.

  “Yeah, I was seriously confounded on how the hell you managed—”

  “So understand when I tell you that I am patient and we do have a reckoning coming, Herr Rucker. But my patience is limited.”

  Rucker wanted to keep Skorzeny off balance so he could observe more of the courtyard.

  “We can throw down right now if you like,” he said.

  But Skorzeny again did not take the bait. In fact, he tried to bait Rucker.

  “I look forward to getting to know your new female acquaintance here,” he said.

  Walking back down the line, he stopped to leer at Amria. She wanted to spit in his face, but all she could do was growl behind the gag.

  “I especially want to get to know Miss Terah Spencer better,” Skorzeny said.

  Rucker chuckled. “You’re a braver man than I.”

  Skorzeny felt his psychological advantage slipping. He played his trump card.

  “Oh, I do look forward to finding out where the professor and your Negro are. We know they separated from your party.”

  Rucker rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you people—he’s majority stockholder. I’m his—”

  “Sergeant Hitlz! Take the prisoners to the dungeon!”

  Rucker laughed.

  “What is so funny, Captain?” a now red-faced Skorzeny demanded.

  “You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?”

  Even Deitel chuckled.

  Skorzeny turned and marched off.

  The five prisoners were marched through the outer gate, through the inner wall, and across a long courtyard. Deitel strained to hear the talk between the guards when he heard one say Rucker’s name.

  An iron gate to the north of the central courtyard was opened, and the five found themselves escorted down a long spiral of damp, stone stairs to several rows of filthy cells thick with spiderwebs, the smell of vermin, and the decaying odor of fouled water.

  Desiccated bones—some whole, some clearly chewed upon—were scattered about the filthy floor. The stone walls were scratched with the ravings of the victims of this dungeon, now long dead. The scratches were deep but irregular, the last words of tortured souls written by fingernails in stone. There were small windows—maybe three inches by five—where the wall met the ceiling, opening up to the ground level outside. The original designers knew the worst thing you could give someone imprisoned is a sense of hope. The touch of sunlight it allowed was tantalizing as it was agonizing.

  Many of the interior iron bars and manacles were as old as the castle, but the new Nazi tenants didn’t rely on any of those measures, even if their stay was to be temporary. If nothing else, the Germans were efficient. Where age had weakened iron bars, steel ones had been installed. The rusted old cage doors on each individual cell and all of the locks had been replaced by modern ones, freshly welded and anchored into the stone.

  The SS guards roughly pushed each of the five—Rucker, Terah, Deitel, Filotoma, and Amria—into their indivi
dual cells. The cells were about eight feet wide and four deep. Deitel, Terah, and Rucker were on one side; Filotoma and Amria were across from them. They removed Amria’s gag but placed her hands in special manacles. They were now encased from fingertip to elbow in solid steel and bound together at three points. She would not be doing any conjuring. The guards removed the manacles from the others.

  The main door to the dungeon area was slammed shut behind the last guard, and the loud steel clacking of the locks being set followed.

  No one spoke for a few minutes.

  Deitel heard rapid breathing from somewhere. He looked to his left, through the thick crisscross of bars, and saw Terah leaning against the far wall of her cell where it connected to the cell in which they’d thrown Rucker. He was about to ask if she was okay when he heard her whispering something as quietly as she could. He couldn’t see Rucker through the mesh of bars on the far side.

  Terah had wedged her hand through the bars to Rucker’s cell and was holding his hand. Rucker, it seemed, was trying to deal with the claustrophobia he’d been cursed with all his life.

  Deitel couldn’t say why, but he knew not to interrupt.

  After a minute or so, he could no longer hear Rucker’s rapid breathing.

  The silence, though, was oppressive. Locked in an old, underground dungeon beneath an SS encampment in the castle of the legendary vampire lord, Draculae.

  A day ago it would have sounded ludicrous.

  But now it was all too real.

  The light through the narrow windows waned. Defeat, like the growing darkness, enveloped Deitel.

  Exhaustion took the doctor. He fell asleep on the cold, dirty, cell floor.

  Deitel didn’t know how long he’d dozed—couldn’t have been more than a half hour. He’d been awakened by someone saying something loud—he was too disoriented to discern what, though.

  He sat upright but his head hung low. There was just enough moonlight now to see into the other cells. Terah and Filotoma were whispering.