Shadows Will Fall (11 page)

The orb began to glow. It grew brighter and brighter until it was blinding. The hum grew in intensity until it was a piercing whine.

A wave of purple energy washed out from the orb.

The creatures throughout the courtyard and overrunning the wall froze.

At once they spasmed and shook. Their dead muscles clenched and they convulsed.

Finally, they fell to the ground.

This time they did not rise.

The survivors on the wall let out a cheer.

Lang stood up from his sniper's nest on the tower and danced a Bavarian jig.

Terah climbed down from the wall and sprinted across the courtyard, throwing herself into Rucker's arms. She kissed him deeply.

“Oh,” Rucker said. “I thought you had something going with Mr. Übercommando here,” he said, grinning.

Deitel found Skorzeny and offered him his hand. He stopped Skorzeny, confusing the commando, then grabbed Skorzeny's forearm to shake his hand the way he'd seen Chuy and Rucker shake, gripping each other's forearm. A Freehold handshake. It was Deitel's way now, too.

Soldiers threw down their entrenching tools, clubs, and hatchets.

Life, once again, belonged to the living.

Lysander saw Amria sitting atop the parapet, hatred still smoldering in her eyes. These storm troopers may or may not have been the ones with the blood of her people on their hands. She didn't care. She still wanted her revenge.

Amria wouldn't let go of that hate. It would burn her up. She reaffirmed her vow to exact vengeance on the killers of her family. Not now. But soon. Lysander felt pity for her.

Filotoma and Lysander were shaking hands. Rucker kissed Terah deeply, as she'd just kissed him, ignoring the gore all over her arms.

Then the orb started to rumble.

Rucker and Brant looked at each other, understanding immediately. The feedback hadn't been fully dispersed. It had continued to build in Übel's machine.

“I don't want to alarm anyone, but now it's time to
run
!” Rucker shouted.

They were about thirty feet away from the orb when it exploded. The concussion wave knocked them off their feet and into unconsciousness.

The last thing Rucker saw before he blacked out was Terah's hand in his.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Poenari Citadel

Wallachia Region

W
hen Amria came to, a German soldier in a helmet like she'd never seen before and a camouflaged smock was wiping her forehead with a cool cloth. Lysander lay beside her, talking to another German dressed likewise.

Amria looked around. She was still in the castle courtyard. Tents were set up and soldiers were providing first aid and field medical treatment to those who needed it.

She pushed the cloth away from her head and spat, “Don't touch me, German pig.”

If the soldier was insulted, he didn't let it show.

“Quiet girl,” he said. “I've been ordered to tend to your wounds and that's what I'm going to do.”

She looked up and saw Rucker and Skorzeny standing over her.

“It's okay,” Rucker said. “They're
fallschirmjäger
. German paratroopers.”

“That's Wehrmacht. Regular army. Not SS like me,” Skorzeny said.

“German swine,” she said through gritted teeth.

She pushed him away, got to her feet unsteadily and walked away, disappearing into the keep.

Dr. Kurt von Deitel was assisting the wounded as well, lending the field medics the help of a true medical doctor. Deitel wasn't helping because he'd been ordered to or assigned to it, nor from any sense of obligation. No, he helped because it made him feel good to do it, after the orgy of killing that he'd been a part of. He knew it had been necessary—kill or die. And the things were already dead. But it still felt like his soul was stained. He moved to the next patient. Easy enough—a dislocated shoulder.

“Here,” he said to the veteran trooper. “I can help.”

A
few hours later, Rucker and Skorzeny had found a bottle of schnapps. They didn't talk much. They just drank.

Hoffstetter had been knocked unconscious a good while for the second time that day. When the major finally recovered and found the two sitting on a couple of crates sharing schnapps, his jaw clenched.

“Why are you drinking with him?” Hoffstetter asked angrily. “That man should be under arrest. He is an enemy of the state.”

Skorzeny looked down his nose at the major.

“Where is he going? If they run, we'll catch them. Let the man enjoy a drink before the airships arrive and you hand him over to the Gestapo,” Skorzeny said. “Fat little bureaucrat.”

Hoffstetter had no more cards to play. He'd make his report to Germania and have Skorzeny dealt with.

Skorzeny and Rucker picked up the bottle and wandered through the courtyard. The paratroopers were still tending to the wounded—civilian and SS. The dead—the permanently dead—were placed in bags, to be extracted on a separate airship. They were going to erase every bit of evidence of what had happened.

Rucker was pleased to see Bonhoeffer—Robin—among the survivors, working side by side with the medics. One of the highest-ranking moles in the German High Command, his cover had been kept.

“At least three of the
draugrkommandos
got away before the worst of it started,” Skorzeny said. “And Dr. Übel is missing. As is Colonel Uhrwerk. They found his mask and a clockwork arm, but nothing else.”

“Great,” Rucker said. “Look, it's good of you to patch up our hurt. Figure you owed us, at least until you turn us over to the Gestapo goons?”

“This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't interfered, of course,” Skorzeny countered.

Rucker snorted.

“What if we hadn't?” he said. “We can't have you people marching out an army of thinking, undead soldiers. You people—you're either at our throats our at our feet. We didn't have any choice, really. You didn't leave us any.”

“I thought you Freeholders always thought people have a choice,” Skorzeny said.

Rucker conceded with a nod.

“He is right, you know, the little fat turd who was just here,” Skorzeny said. “We will have to turn you in.”

Rucker smirked.

In the far end of the courtyard, Rucker saw Terah, Deitel, Filotoma, and Lysander. They stood on flat wooden pallet. There were a few crates around them and cargo netting on the ground. Lysander had Filotoma's portable wireless. Rucker and Skorzeny walked toward the gathering.

“And what if I resist?” Rucker said, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt.

Skorzeny looked approvingly at him.

“I let you keep your pistol as an officer's courtesy,” he said, “and in case we came across any more of those undead still moving. But there is another reason.”

“Here we go,” Rucker said. He'd stopped just a few feet from Terah and the others.

“I have always been a big fan of your country's moving pictures, especially the cowboy movies,” Skorzeny said. “Yes, we get them behind the Black Iron Curtain. Some of us. Rank has its privileges and all. In particular, Tom Mix inspired me. I learned saber dueling at Heidelberg but I learned the fast draw watching his pictures. I would practice for endless hours, honing and perfecting my skill.”

Rucker shook his head. “I really don't want to do this.”

Skorzeny squinted his eyes. “I still have a score to settle with you. Why not the cowboy way? You style yourself a modern cowboy. Let's see it. At least it would be better than what the Gestapo doubtless has planned for you.”

“Let me rephrase,” Rucker said. “
You
really don't want to do this.”

The others watched the silent face-off. Skorzeny unsnapped his holster. His hand hovered over the butt of his pistol. Rucker had his arms folded across his chest.

“You think you're that fast?” Skorzeny taunted.

Rucker's expression didn't change. He said nothing.

“I'm faster,” Skorzeny said confidently. “But I want to know how fast you are.”

Rucker shook his head.

“You well and truly don't, Otto,” he said flatly.

A smile crept to the corner of Skorzeny's mustache when he saw the twinkle in Rucker's eye. Fear? In the distance, they heard another airplane engine—a second wave of paratroopers, Skorzeny figured.

The countdown was unspoken. Time stretched. Seconds ticked by in agonizing silence.

Now.

Skorzeny's hand moved for his Walther. He hadn't cleared leather when he found himself staring down the barrel of Rucker's Colt. He hadn't even seen a blur.

“That's . . . impossible. No one . . . no one can move that fast,” Skorzeny found himself saying.

“Le monde progresse grâce aux choses impossibles qui ont été réalisées,”
Rucker said.

“ ‘The world progresses thanks to the impossible things which were carried out,' ” Deitel said, translating.

“His not wanting to face off against you wasn't cowardice,” Terah said. “It was a kindness.”

Skorzeny's hand still gripped the butt of his pistol. He felt the sweat trickling down under his arms.

“Drop it and kick it over here,” Rucker said. “Just like in the moving pictures.”

Deliberately and slowly, Skorzeny pulled his pistol out and complied. He raised his hands. He was beaten for the moment. But just for the moment, he thought.

“You can't win, you know,” he said. “Not in the long run. Not against the discipline of a people dedicated to the greater good of the nation and their race.”

“Gonna try,” Rucker said.

“We're willing to kill . . . willing to die . . . for our cause. What are you prepared to do for yours?” Skorzeny asked.

Rucker stared into Skorzeny's eyes. Then, oddly, Rucker smiled. Finally, he lowered the hammer on his pistol, twirled it, and slid it into its holster in a single motion.

“I'm willing to let you live,” he said finally, turning on his heel and joining his friends.

Skorzeny didn't know what to say. He felt rather silly standing like that. The airplane engine grew louder.

Now among his friends, Rucker and turned to face the commando. Deitel and Filotoma flanked the group, each standing next to wooden crates. Rucker put his foot up on a third crate.

“How do you think you'll get away?” Skorzeny finally said. “Our storm troopers will hunt you down. You have nowhere to go to ground.”

Rucker nodded in acknowledgment.

“Yeah, you got me there. Nowhere to go to ground,” he said. He looked to Deitel and Filotoma and gave them a nod. All three pried the top off the crates at the same time.

“What—” Skorzeny started to say.

Three weather balloons shot up from out of the crates and into the air, trailing heavy ropes.

Lang, who had been standing nearby, saw what was happening.

When the ropes played out, the cargo netting they were attached to rose around the heavy wooden pallet where they stood. Above, the balloons wrapped up with each other, carrying the line a good three hundred feet into the sky above the castle.

Lang thought for only a moment. He dropped his rifle and stepped onto the wood pallet where the others stood. He'd had enough.

“Send all the troops you want,” Rucker said with a smile.

Just 325 feet above them, the
Raposa
passed directly over the castle at near-stall speed. A cable with a grappling hook trailed behind her from out the bomb bay doors.

Over his shoulder, Rucker said, “Brace yourselves!”

The hook trailing the
Raposa
caught the netting held aloft by the balloons. The pallet and everyone on it lifted into the air, and they were gone in the blink of an eye.

Skorzeny stood staring after them. He cursed.

A card fluttered to the ground. It was Rucker's business card.

Sean Fox Rucker

Captain, Principal

Far Ranger Air

Spices, Liquors & Trade Troubleshooting

“We fly like hell. Anything, Anywhere, Anytime.”

est. 1925 a Texas/Brazil Venture

Rio * Austin * 03-214-KL5315

Skorzeny laughed.

“Next time, then” he said. He tore the card in half and dropped the pieces on the ground.

As he'd examined the card, he had noticed what looked at first like scratches on his wrist. On closer examination, though, he couldn't tell what the marks were.

Bite marks?

No, he felt fine.

Better than ever.

 

EPILOGUE

Somewhere in Transylvania

I
n an abandoned keep far north of Poenari Citadel, the three
draugrkommandos
laid Dr. Übel down on a straw-covered palette. He was pale and sweating. His skin was cold and clammy.

Hauser reasoned that it must have been his prolonged and repeated exposure to the energy wave of his machine. It was killing him from the inside.

The abandoned keep held no medical supplies, and no food or water. Dr. Übel—their creator—would die before they could get him to a town with a hospital.

Hauser held council with his two brothers. They decided they had one way to save the doctor.

Hauser drew his knife and cut a piece of flesh from his arm. There was no blood. Only a thick, viscous gel. They held Dr. Übel's mouth open and let the fluid drip onto his tongue.

After a few moments Übel began to convulse. They held him down lest he injure himself. He flailed and struggled. He ripped his goggles from his face.

Then he went limp. He was unconscious.

When he awoke an hour later, Dr. Übel felt energized. His fever had broken. The sores and stiffness of his old body were completely absent. He felt better and stronger than he had in years. He wondered where he was, then saw Hauser standing vigil over him.

Übel started to rise, but Hauser pushed him back onto the dirty old mattress.

“No, Father,” he said. “Not yet. Soon the pain will come, but it, too, shall pass.”

“The pain?” Dr. Übel asked.

“Yes,” Hauser said. “Rigor mortis. It will come and it will pass.”

Dr. Übel tried to scream but realized he couldn't. His lungs and his heart were stopped.

North Central Greece

“P
apa! Papa!” the boy shouted. “Come, you must see this!”

“You had best be showing me that you got your chores done, Theo,” his father said.

The little boy led his father from the farmhouse through the grapevines and out to the olive tree orchards.

“It was a skeleton, Papa,” the boy said excitedly. “As white as a sheet and dressed in white.”

When the boy got to the tree in question, his father saw nothing.

“It's got to be around here,” the boy said.

“Well, skeletons don't just get up and walk,” his father said. “I've about had it with your fantastic stories, boy. Back to your chores or your backside gets tanned.”

The boy sulked and headed back to the barn with his father.

Neither noticed the torn piece of red silk hanging from a tree branch.

Over the Atlantic

A
mria had slipped away. They doubted they'd see her again. And woe unto any Germans who did. The rest of Rucker's team stayed two days at Nick's private island, resting, eating, and playing. But soon enough Nicholas Filotoma was back to work.

Lang headed east. He said he didn't want to hear a gunshot ever again. When Rucker asked where he was headed, he just pointed and said, “That way. Maybe Shangri-La. Who cares?”

Rucker was back behind the yoke of his
Raposa,
cowboy hat and all, with Chuy in the copilot's chair. It felt good to be up in the Big Blue again, flying free and chasing the sun.

Terah and Lysander sat in the jump seats, while Deitel stood in the hatch.

Lysander had the Spear of Destiny sealed in a locked metal box.

“So who's going to ask about the elephant in the room?” Rucker asked.

“What do you mean?” Deitel returned. “About you and Terah?”

Terah elbowed Deitel in the ribs.

“No, I mean the spear and its history,” Rucker said. “What really gave it those powers?”

“It's difficult to say,” Lysander said after a moment. “I mean, that is, this is . . . er, it could be the meteoric iron itself. Perhaps some microscopic germ or virus that could survive the cold of space and the heat of a steel forge. It could be cursed—a conduit to the Otherness. Or maybe it is something related to Madame Curie's theory of radioactivity.”

“Of course, it could also be that it was bathed in the blood of Christ,” Chuy said. “I know not all of you believe in the Gospels, but given all we've seen, at least you must allow it's a possibility.”

Rucker chewed on his cigar. “You know, it could also be that the spear is what caused Jesus to wake up in that tomb and roll the stone away. Which would mean that Jesus was actually . . . well, what was the Haitian voodoo word for those things? I mean, is it a coincidence with the whole ‘eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Christ'? What if Jesus was a zombie?”

His face was absolutely deadpan.

Chuy stared into his eyes with a wounded and angry look.

It felt very awkward for Deitel, Terah, and Lysander.

Finally Rucker couldn't take it. He burst out laughing. Chuy outlasted him by only a second, almost falling out of his seat as his baritone laugh echoed in the cockpit.

Lysander asked Rucker, “Where are we now?”

“About six hours out from Austin. We're over the Puerto Rico Trench, the boundary between the Caribbean and the Atlantic,” Rucker said. “Just northwest of Puerto Rico. We'll be landing at Airstrip One to refuel. Should have us home before midnight.”

Lysander excused himself to the lavatory. The conversation didn't miss a beat.

“Besides,” Chuy said, “Christ's story is a celebration of life, not decay and death. If you believe in the Scriptures, then you know His rising had nothing to do with science, alien viruses, or atomic radiation. I have faith in His example and His Gospel. That's enough, regardless of whatever the spear really is.”

Lysander sat back down.

Terah said, “I, for one, can't wait for the Prometheus boffins to get their hands on the spear and figure it out. What do you think, Lysander?”

“Um, er, I don't think they'll be able to provide any answers,” he said.

Terah's brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“Er, that is, I just threw it out the hatch. I imagine it's, oh, at least a quarter mile underwater now and still sinking. The Puerto Rico Trench is estimated to be at least six miles deep, you know.”

“You what?” Terah shouted. “All that effort to recover the spear, and you throw it away just like that?”

“Oh my, no,” Lysander said. “The effort wasn't to take possession of the spear. The goal all along was to make sure it was in no one's hands. Some power should not be wielded by anyone. Especially not a power so horrifying as the Spear of Destiny.”

Terah wasn't happy, but she understood Lysander's reasoning, even if she didn't fully agree.

“There is something else. A minor problem,” Lysander said. “Um, that is, it appeared as though the tip had broken off. It was a fresh break—very clean. But the chances of anyone finding a single piece of metal or even looking for it are microscopically small.”

Somehow, that wasn't a comfort.

“So about this job, Lysander,” Rucker said as he chewed on a cigar. “You do realize we're charging you at least triple the original fee. None of us signed up for all that we went through.”

“I think two and a half times was the original agreement,” Lysander said.

“Did I mention I got tortured?” Rucker said, raising his shirt, “Look, sliced like a mango.”

“Triple then. But no expenses,” Lysander said.

Rucker looked at Chuy. “Acceptable?”

Chuy nodded.

“Then deal.”

“Of course,” Lysander said, “I will throw in the expenses, if you'd just be willing to hear me out on another problem the Prometheus Society has identified.”

“Oh no,” Terah said. “He's taking time off. Soon as we get you back to Austin, he's promised to take me to the Hawaiian Kingdom.”

Rucker looked at Chuy and gave him a triumphant grin.

“Ooh, er, yes,” Lysander said. “Good news, then. The People's Republic of California is on your way. If you take the job, I'll pay triple.”

“Far Ranger Air would be proud to listen to your proposal,” Chuy said.

“He's the boss,” Rucker said grumpily.

Terah stormed off to the passenger compartment.

“Ever been to California, Kurt?” Rucker asked.

The question surprised Deitel.

“How do you mean?”

“Just that. Have you ever been to California?” Rucker asked again.

“No, I . . . you want me to come along?” Deitel said.

“Do you really expect to go back to research papers and disease studies after all this?” Rucker asked. “That was you hiding from the world and bitter that it demanded you dance to its tune. Now you are free to call your own shots.”

“Besides,” Chuy added, “as you can see, we end up needing a surprising amount of medical care for cargo delivery pilots and trade negotiators. Plus, Fox's German is awful.”

Deitel didn't know what to say. He certainly couldn't go back to Germany, or even Rio. He hadn't thought what he would do after the mission.

“Think it over,” Rucker said.

“Er, if Chuy and Fox don't hire you, Kurt,” Lysander said, “I'd like to talk to you about an opportunity with the Prometheus Society.”

“Three thousand over your old salary,” Rucker said to Deitel.

“Four thousand,” Lysander said.

“Four and a half and thirty shares of company stock,” Chuy said.

Deitel couldn't believe it. They were bidding on him like he was an object at an auction.

It was the most crass, commercial, and materialistic thing he had ever seen.

It made him feel wonderful.

Poenari Citadel

S
ix days after the airships had extracted the garrison's personnel and an SS battalion had erased all evidence of the Third Reich's doings in Romania, a man in a long black cloak made his way up the mountainside to the front gates of the castle. There was a new moon. The sky was as black as ink.

He looked around. It was all so familiar. The very smell of the soil was enriching to him. But something was out of place. In the darkness, his eyes saw as clearly as if it were daylight. He saw the scorch marks on the walls from recent torches. He saw the broken glass from strings of lightbulbs hastily pulled away. He smelled the savory, coppery smell of the patches of dried blood. He also smelled the rancid blood of the dead.

The citadel had been violated.

Hot rage welled within his cold body.

A glimmer far from the gate caught the corner of his eye. A piece of metal the size of a thumb stuck out from the ground where it had been trampled deep into the soil. He pulled it free from the earth. It was a round metal disk on a broken chain. It was engraved with a swastika, a Black Sun symbol, and a name: Übel.

Angrily, he crumpled the metal disk in his hands as if it were tissue paper.

As he made his way to the keep, he saw something shining brightly in the night—brightly to eyes that could see its eldritch emanation. It was an object half buried in the ground, a sliver of steel that gave off a mystical glow invisible to mortal eyes but like a beacon to his own. He was drawn to it as he had been centuries before.

It was a piece of the spear.

His spear.

His house had been violated and now his property had been taken.

Someone would pay dearly.

A gust of night wind howled through the courtyard. A piece of paper fluttered by. He snatched it from the air with his slender fingers.

The card was torn but it bore a name.

“Fox Rucker,” his ancient voice said, reading the smudged ink.

Yes. Someone would pay dearly.