Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; War; Action; Historical Fiction; Monsters; Paranormal; Fiction; Fantasy; Vampires
Description: The second world war is weighted in strife. On the front lines a squad of SS soldiers are sent on a secret mission, to enlist the help of the last vampire, to raise an army which would win the war for Germany. Ruthless massacre, mayhem and action fuelled rage ensues. Broken, beaten, and turned on by their superiors, the squad end up fighting side by side with an order of fallen cavalry. Their last two loyal members engage the squad into a fight not for Germany, but to save mankind itself from demonic world domination. On the Winter Solstice of 1944 the world would be at their mercy. The divisi
Publisher: Thorstruck Press

The Division of the Damned

A Novel

by

Richard Rhys Jones

ISBN              1475155433

EAN              978-1475155433

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'The Division of the Damned' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com
http://ninwriters.ning.com

'The Division of the Damned' is the copyright of the author, Richard Rhys Jones, 2012. All rights are reserved.

The cover design is by Chris Salmen of Combat Colour, copyright 2012. All rights are reserved. Combat Colour can be contacted at office@combatcolour.com.

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

"Assyria knew the vampire long ago, and he lurked amid the primeval forests of Mexico before Cortes came. He is feared by the Chinese, by the Indian and the Malay alike; whilst Arabian story tells us again and again of the ghouls who haunt ill-omened sepulchres and lonely cross-ways to attack and devour the unhappy traveller.”

The Vampyre, His Kith and Kin, Montague Summers, 1928

Chapter 1

Russia

1944

They flew from tree to tree, as silent and cold as the churning snow around them. Armed only with blade and tooth, they darted through the night with supernatural grace. The dark held no secrets for them as the day held no mercy and, slick and practised, they spread into formation as the quarry neared.

On a densely wooded hill five miles away from the German lines, a lone Russian guard stamped his feet to ward off the cold. It was the dead man’s stag, two ‘til three, and he was bone tired. They had driven all day before halting to set up the communications post, then he had serviced his wagon, set up the tented area for the officers and helped position the radio masts. Now, after only three hours’ sleep, he was back on guard duty and he couldn’t see further than his dire need of a cigarette.

The war would soon be over, he reckoned. A couple more months and then he could go back to his hometown. There he would find a wife, start a family and work on a farm or in a factory. He would be a hero and on family gatherings, he would regale them all with stories of how he single-handedly took on the might of the Fascist army and conquered them.

Like pouncing arachnids, they dropped from the trees on the unsuspecting camp. The lone Russian’s last sensation was the warm gush of blood spurting from his now lacerated throat and the voracious teeth that greedily violated the wound. As the blackness of death dimmed his sight, he heard the first screams of the officers and men he had been guarding as the enemy wreaked carnage and death.

With steel and fang, they killed and fed the way they had always done.

No mercy, only butchery and then gorging on the blood of the fallen.

Chapter 2

Berlin

Early 1944

Newly promoted Standartenführer Von Struck marvelled at the pretentious grandeur of his surroundings. After three years of virtually constant fighting, three years of mud, horror and atrocity, he felt almost affronted by the luxurious opulence of the building he was in. The marble flooring and collection of busts and statues were a world apart from the stark and unforgiving hell of the Eastern Front.

Chic young secretaries walked briskly up and down the spotless corridors, themselves dressed in uniforms so smart and clean that they could have been hospital whites. The hours he had spent pressing his tailor-made uniform and polishing his boots counted for nothing in their eyes, and they treated him with the polite disdain office personnel affect when dealing with the blue-collar soldiers of the front.

Even the Iron Cross pinned to his tunic was just one of many. "How does a desk jockey get an Iron Cross?” he wondered idly.

Opposite him, a tall, effeminate-looking Luftwaffe officer flirted with a giggling, young secretary. The same giggling secretary he had asked a quarter of an hour before where he was to report to. He had waited long enough and decided to ask again. The Luftwaffe officer whispered something quickly into the girl’s ear as Von Struck approached and the secretary tittered again before looking up.

"Excuse me," he said, "but I’ve been waiting a good fifteen minutes now. I just need to know where I should report to and, seeing as you don’t seem too busy at the moment, could you make a couple of phone calls to find out?” He smiled to make a friendly impression as he had learnt long ago that ordering Party bureaucrats around does not always deliver the desired results, especially with the ladies.

The tall Luftwaffe officer stood up and looked down his nose at Von Struck. Pressed and polished to the point of fetish, hair oiled tight to his skull, he screwed his face in theatrical disgust. "Do you mind?" he demanded. "We’re talking here."

Looking Von Struck up and down, his eyes lingered on the Knight’s Cross before moving on. "Is it normal in the Waffen SS to interrupt a superior officer while he’s talking official business? Is it,  Standartenführer ...?” He started to take a pen and paper out of his tunic pocket.” … Name?”

The secretary sniggered audibly and the tall officer glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Von Struck wasn’t sure which of the two he found more annoying, the joke of an officer using his rank in an attempt to intimidate him or the girl egging him on with her adolescent smirking.

”Come on, man, what is your name? Are you deaf or just plain stupid?”

Von Struck saw red as the unspoken derision he’d felt since entering the building boiled over into a reflex action. He calmly took a step forward, grabbed the other man’s jacket and pulled his face down to his knee. Gristle crushed against thigh and the immediate warmth on his leg told him the nose was broken.

The girl screamed and stood up. Von Struck dropped his now limp opponent and moved to the girl, slapping her once before grabbing her hair. The smack abruptly stopped her screaming and he pushed her back down in her chair. ”Now start phoning," he hissed in a barely suppressed rage.

The black uniformed guards of the Chancellery security were on him within two minutes.

*  *  *

The cell was in the basement of the Chancellery. The door opened and the tall, imposing figure of SS Brigadeführer Holaf stormed in. "What in the name of Stalin's organ do you think you were doing?” he shouted. "You’re not in Russia anymore. This is Berlin, damn it. Are you out of your mind, man?”

Von Struck stood up. He had no answer and found it hard to believe he had done it himself. He had acted on impulse and instinct, as he had for the last three years; it had seemed like the right thing to do. In the East, his reactions had always saved his life but here in Berlin they just marked him for the front line animal they thought he was. He had been in the cell for three hours and the talk was already of court-martials and firing squads. The man that he’d knocked out was the son of an affluent businessman who had friends in high places. The wealthy executive was not happy, the son was not happy and Brigadeführer Holaf was not happy.

"I’m not joking, Markus. If it wasn’t for your record in combat and your proven loyalty to the party, you would have been shot already,” Holaf snarled.

"Jawohl,” was all he could think of as an answer.

The Brigadier’s face softened as his anger waned. "You can’t just go slapping people around, Markus. It just doesn’t wash here in civilisation." He wanted to be angry but he saw too much of himself in his quick-tempered protégé. "It doesn’t pay to make enemies here in Berlin, I know from personal experience,” he growled and turned his back to Von Struck to hide his grin. “Come on then, let’s go meet Heini," he said over his shoulder.

*  *  *

Looking like a joke schoolmaster, Heinrich Himmler, the second most powerful man in the Third Reich, tsk-tsked over the report of the incident. "Not good, Standartenführer,” he said. "Not good at all. These aren’t Bolshevik peasant girls. They are future mothers for the next generation. We can’t just strike out at them when we wish. It’s not civilised; not to mention Erich Frohmann’s eldest son. Frohmann has a lot of friends in the party, Standartenführer, a lot of friends. God alone knows how I’m going to satisfy him without your blood.” He sighed. "Don’t let it happen again. Let that be the end of the matter." With that, he threw the report into the wastepaper basket.

Von Struck and Holaf both stood ramrod straight in front of his desk. Although Holaf was a very senior high-ranking officer, Himmler still insisted that military courtesy be observed and that meant that everyone stood to attention in front of the Reichsführer SS, just so they all knew their place.

"Brigadeführer Holaf, have you briefed your man?”

"No, Herr Reichsführer. Standartenführer Von Struck came straight from the front and we didn’t have time to meet.”

"No time for the niceties, eh? I like that in a man, Von Struck; directness, no indecision. That’s why Holaf here has offered your services for a very delicate mission. You’re a proven soldier who hasn’t failed yet in any mission. But if you fail on this one, then I’m afraid we’re all lost.”

Von Struck raised an inquiring eyebrow but remained silent.

"Are you aware how far-reaching the Germanic culture is, Standartenführer?" he asked. They both remained silent, as decorum dictated. "We have colonies who trace their roots back to Germany all over the world. Whole populations of people have turned their back on their host countries to stay pure and Germanic, did you know that, Standartenführer?" Himmler stood up and walked around his massive polished desk.

Pacing up and down, he carried on with his oratory. "We can find little bits of Germany from Russia through to France. Sometimes only a small town with a modest percentage of German speakers, other times a whole area that uses German as its first language. Whatever the scale, it doesn’t matter. The fact is these peoples have kept up the struggle to keep our culture alive. They have suffered. They have been persecuted for their beliefs, but they have fought on. We owe it to these people, these crusaders, to give them every support they desire. Don’t you agree?”

"Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” they replied in unison. The Reichsführer was famous for his melodramatic outbursts, so they listened in stoical silence, giving the required answers as and when they were called for.

”Have you heard of the Siebenbürger Saxons, Herr Standarten-führer?”

"Nein, Herr Reichsführer."

"They come from the ancient colony of Siebenbürg, also known as Transylvania." He pointed to a map of Europe.

"There, in the land between Hungary and Romania, they built their towns and made their lives. They held the German language sacred and carried on with German traditions and culture.”

The Reichsführer’s face took on a dreamy nature as he envisaged these pioneers of Deutschtum, carving out a Teutonic paradise in the midst of the Slavic barbarians.  An idealist by nature, he dreamt of a racially uncontaminated, Germanic utopia. The misery and the deaths of millions of untermenschen were, to him, minor details.

" … And now,” he continued, “as we face one of the darkest chapters in our Thousand Year Reich, these people have come to us with an offer of their help." Himmler picked up a letter from his desk. "I received a letter from a Romanian count, a Count Dracyl Blestamatul to be precise. In it, he offers the services of his Siebenberger regiment.”

Von Struck’s mind was racing. One regiment! The Reichsführer was popping his cork over one regiment? The Soviets were throwing up armies left, right and centre and all we can manage is a regiment?

"I see from your troubled expression that you are confused, Standartenführer. I understand your consternation but let me put your mind at rest. With this one regiment, we could possibly win the war. On the Eastern front, definitely." He started to pace again. "And if we win in the East, I have no doubt the West will seek peace terms.” He turned to the map on the wall and searched for something. "Ah, here it is—Klausenburg.” He pointed to a place on the map. "You will go there with your best men, and there you will meet up with this count … er ….  Count Blestamatul and discuss terms with him. Well, not you personally, but you will be there when terms are discussed. Are you religious, Herr Standartenführer? I know that we in the SS are not meant to be religious but sometimes a man can weaken, especially a man who has seen as much action as you have." He waited for an answer.

"Nein, Herr Reichsführer, not in the slightest,” he responded. The fact was that his three years on the Eastern Front had made it clear to him that there was no God. Religion was for the weak, reality was man and death.

"Are you superstitious? Do you believe in myths and legends, Standartenführer?”

"Nein, Herr Reichsführer.”

"Then you are our man. This deal," he continued, “involves vampires.” He waited for a reaction and seemed disappointed when none came. "The count has soldiers that can see in the dark, or so it seems," he carried on in a businesslike manner. "The night is the weakest time for any army and if you have soldiers that control the night, then the war can be fought on a twenty-four hour basis. Do you understand?”

"Vampires, Herr Reichsführer?"

"That’s right, Standartenführer. Well, that’s what they call themselves. Whether they’re the bloodsucking beings of legend, I don’t know. But it seems they have developed a method for fighting at night, though I’m not sure how. It might be new tactics or special training methods, I don’t know, but they’ve been very successful. There is at the moment only a company, but he’s swelling the ranks to make a regiment. If all goes well, we’ll put more men into this regiment to make it into a division. SS Division Vampyr, with this count as its leader and you, Standartenführer, will then become the liaison officer. However, we must be sure that he is reliable. Therefore, you and your hand-picked team will come under the command of a specially appointed officer of my choosing, and you will go and see if all is in order. Is that clear, Standartenführer?”

"Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” he answered with a click of his heels.  One of Himmler’s goons, he thought to himself, who’d earned his position by toadying to other party officials, just what he needed. Nine times out of ten they were always the first to shit their pants when the lead started flying. Baggage.

Himmler concluded the meeting by handing Von Struck a blue folder. "Your orders are all here.  Read them and report to Brigadeführer Holaf for a further briefing on movements and timings. Is that all clear Standartenführer?”

"Jawohl,” he answered with a snap.

"Good luck, Standartenführer. Bring these Vampires into the SS and you will have a regiment of your own." With that, Heinrich Himmler dismissed him with a wave of his small, rather effeminate hand.

Outside, Von Struck turned to Holaf. "Is he mad? What’s this drivel about vampires? Why can’t we have sensible, down-to-earth allies? Vampires—what kind of name is that? And baby-sitting one of Heini's bootlickers, I’ve never let a political survive yet.”

"I know, and it’s worse. The political is a doctor. He worked his way up through the ranks in the Concentration Camps, doing experiments on the inmates.”

Von Struck grimaced. ”Experiments?”

"Don’t think about it. He’s probably a decent chap. After all, he is a doctor." The Brigadier laughed.

"God, I need a drink," Von Struck declared, pulling at his tunic collar.

"So do I. Come on, let’s get out of here. I know a good place where the beer is cheap and the girls are even cheaper.”

"Where, Russia?" They both laughed loudly, drawing annoyed stares from the solemn clerks and immaculate secretaries.

Chapter 3

In the Reichsführer’s office, Heinrich Himmler conducted another interview. Doctor Ernst Rasch stood to attention in front of the massive desk.

"Doctor, your work in the camps has been exemplary and you have shown your loyalty to the Party to the satisfaction of all. That is why I chose you to organize and lead this delicate matter to a successful conclusion. You know what this could do to help win the war in the East and help solve part of the Jewish Question in Europe.”

"Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer,” Rasch answered.

Tall to the point of freakishness, Doctor Ernst Rasch forced his shoulders back and pushed out his chest in pride. His loyalty to Himmler was slavish and complete as he knew that only Himmler had the power to give him back what he had lost and so badly craved.

Rasch had studied in Heidelberg and written several publications on the Race Question. His doctoral thesis had been on the theory that the Jewish race was a product of the forceful coupling of Neanderthal man and Homo Sapiens woman.

The idea of the unclean sub-human monster sexually forcing himself on the more advanced, yet defenceless Homo Sapiens woman found great favour in the phoney scientific minds of the National Socialist Party. It was widely received throughout the Reich and it ushered him into the limelight and the all-seeing eye of Doctor Joseph Goebbels. Goebbels saw in the shamelessly ambitious doctor a propaganda tool of immense potential and set about promoting his career. Rasch spoke at various Party functions and was quickly projected into intellectual stardom. Introduced to The Führer and the upper echelons of the Party, he lectured to the cream of the medical establishment and they took in his message as if it were gospel. Life at that time had been sweet and full of promise.

A bright horizon should have lain before him but for one detail. The personality of Doctor Ernst (as he was known within the Party) just did not quite dovetail with the elite clique at the top of the food chain. He was too stiff, overbearing and, at times, just plain strange. He would lean over people whilst talking to them, his immense height making them feel small and threatened. He would defend to his last breath any of his conjectures and whole evenings could be ruined by the petulant bickering of the good doctor and any guest who had mistakenly put one of his theories to the test.

Thus, Doctor Ernst Rasch soon found himself left out of the social loop. The flood of invitations dried to a trickle and then to a drought. He was too uncomfortable for social gatherings. People weren’t interested in him anymore, in his theories and legend, yes, but in the man himself, no. True acceptance into the select crowd of the Party elite escaped him like a virgin evading an unwelcome suitor.

The lowest point in his career found him posted to one God-forsaken camp in Poland after another; doing tedious experiments on scared-witless prisoners. A heavy fall from such hallowed heights would have destroyed all but the strongest of minds, but not Ernst Rasch's. He soldiered on, knowing that someday the Reich would need his talent and intellect.

Then Heinrich Himmler summoned him to his chambers. Heinrich had the knack of knowing when a man was down and turning it to his advantage. He gave Rasch a task to complete, a test that he passed with flying colours. The results of the work so pleased the Reichsführer that Rasch found himself once more aspiring to the social limelight. The honeyed promises of happier times were again within reach and Himmler’s patronage was its key.

All he had to do was end this mission successfully to finish fully the task that Himmler had given him to do—to make a deal with the count and come back with a positive result. Although empowered to bargain in the name of the Führer, to all intents and purposes the deal had already been made by Himmler himself. Rasch just had to confirm the arrangements and report back.

"Doctor Rasch, you should first make sure we’re getting the quality of soldier we desire before putting anything on the line, do you understand? The count has promised a lot, so let’s hope he can deliver.”

"I understand fully what is expected of me, Herr Reichsführer!" he answered enthusiastically.

"Von Struck doesn’t need to know all the facts; I myself have not been too straight with him. Just keep it close to your chest until the situation dictates otherwise. Then let him in on it gently. It’s a lot for a man like Von Struck to have to comprehend but I’m sure he will react in the right manner.”

"Jawohl!”

"The count has our offer; just make sure he's worth it. That will be all, Herr Doctor." Himmler dismissed him.

Chapter 4

Berlin

One day later

Von Struck sat in his office and read through the file. It wasn’t his office; it belonged to the Brigadier. However, for the next couple of days he had the room to do in as he pleased.

Courtesy of the Reichsführer SS, Von Struck had been given free rein to pick who he wanted to be on his team. He decided to put his trust in Henning, the man who had been his near constant companion during his time in the East. Oberscharführer Wolfgang Henning was a huge thirty-nine year-old, battle-hardened veteran of twelve years service with the SS. He was loyal, as were all Schutzstaffel soldiers, hard-working and hard drinking. Although he was no officer, Von Struck treated him as an equal and valued his opinion on anything pertaining to combat, beer, whores and the men in their unit. His native Hamburg had lost a true son of St. Pauli when the one meter-ninety ex-bar brawler had left home.

Henning was also in Berlin, staying at the SS Barracks. Von Struck called the guardroom and, ten minutes later, the deep booming voice of the NCO rumbled through the telephone.

"Right, sir, I’ll bring some good lads with me. Rohleder is still around and he can bring some of his troop.”

"Just make sure they look the part, Henning. We’ve got royalty to impress, though Rohleder will definitely make a good impression.”

Henning laughed at the shared joke and signed off. Rohleder was also an old hand, though his promotion had been slowed somewhat by a yearlong stay in hospital after surviving a flame-thrower attack. Although horribly scarred on his face and upper body, the wounds were only superficial and, after a year of recovery and a year of leave, he was restless again. His application to go back to his old unit had been rejected on medical grounds so he wrote a letter to Von Struck and begged to be taken back. His wife had left him and he had nothing left to live for except to kill Russians.

Von Struck spoke with Holaf who agreed that Rohleder had the right motivation but he still had to be able to pass the medical requirements to be in the SS. Burns victims were not classed as A1 fit in normal times. But these are not normal times, Von Struck had argued, and his burns are only superficial. The Brigadier reluctantly promised to see what he could do. One month later, SS Rottenführer Michael Rohleder stood on parade, reinstated to his old rank and the Iron Cross Second class for his willingness to serve the Fatherland in the face of adversity.

Von Struck saw no problem with the mission in hand. Babysitting some political officer in friendly territory sounded like a nice trip to Romania. Drink their foreign schnapps, sleep with their women and then come home with honours. What could go wrong?

Chapter 5

London

Early 1944

The Brigadier’s office was at the end of the corridor. Major James Smith almost marched its length, digging his heels in on the polished wooden floor. Tall, blond, with glass-clear blue eyes, he was the personification of the Nazi racial ideal, but for the fact that he came from Dover. His martial bearing had made him unpopular with the other officers but that suited him down to the ground. He preferred to be alone and aloof from the social politics and intrigues of the Mess.

He was completely in the dark about why he had been called to Baker Street, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Indeed, he was baffled. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t contravened any secrecy laws and had no intention of joining Military Intelligence. His regiment was undergoing a complete refit—new wagons and new bodies for the planned invasion of Europe. He had been due to take command of C Squadron 67th Dragoon Guards when the chief clerk had called with travel documents and reporting papers. Even the colonel of the regiment was in the dark. The old man shrugged it off with, "Well there is a war on, you know.”

It was all very odd. He stood in front of the solid oak door marked Brigadier D. Lycard and knocked. "Come in," bellowed a voice from within.

He walked in and introduced himself. "Smith, sir. Major James Smith. 67th Dragoon Guards.”

The brigadier looked up from his desk. Even sitting down, Smith could see that Brigadier Lycard was a very imposing figure. His dark brown hair swept back from a square face that looked to have been cut out of a solid block of granite. Construction worker’s muscles bulged under his uniform, giving the impression that the brigadier would be more at home in a boxing booth than the Officer’s Mess. Brilliant white teeth shone through as he opened his mouth in a welcoming smile. However, any impression of benevolence was immediately quashed by the devilishly cruel glint in his eyes. The brigadier radiated violence and intimidation but Smith took the unease he felt as a challenge and he met the brigadier’s gaze full on.

Unexpectedly, Smith felt the subtle tug of recognition. Did he know this man? Impossible, how could he? Nevertheless, the feeling lingered.

"Ah yes, Smith.” Slow, openly appraising him. "At ease, major.” He sat back in his chair and blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"You’re probably wondering what this is all about, eh? Of course you are.” He stubbed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray next to him. "Now I know you’re security cleared for what I’m about to tell you, but I want to say now that we run a tight ship here, Smith. A very tight ship. Outsiders, people who don’t know the rules, just bring trouble. You are an outsider, so I’m telling you now that I’ve got my eye on you. Whatever you hear, see or touch is top secret. Nothing goes beyond these walls. Nothing, regardless of what you feel about how you’ve been handled or how other people have been handled, goes outside of these walls. Understand?”

Smith raised a querying eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. The feeling that he knew the brigadier was gathering a slow momentum but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t’ yet place him.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don’t know why I’m here yet. I think there must be some mistake. I honestly don’t know what is required of me or if I can even fulfil these unknown requirements.”

The brigadier looked at him. "Yes, I can imagine,” he said slowly, pushing a thin folder across the desk. "Read through this file.”

Smith picked it up and flicked through the pages as the brigadier started to elaborate. "Well, it’s all very strange. We see this sort of thing with the French all the time, but this for me is a first. We recently got wind of a high-ranking Romanian count who wants to do a spot of business for us. Well, it’s only to be expected, I suppose, now that Jerry’s on the back foot they’re all coming out of the woodwork." He stopped briefly to stand up and walk to the window. He was enormous and Smith felt his defiance against the other man’s aura wilt somewhat. With his back turned to the major, he continued. "You see, the writing is on the wall for the Third Reich and nobody wants to be the last one holding the ball, as they say.” He chuckled to acknowledge his clumsy mixing of metaphors.

Smith took in the file. It consisted of two photos, a map and a set of orders. The first picture was of a woman. Dark haired and wild-eyed, she was, even from the picture, stunning. Her long ebony mane hung loosely around her bare shoulders and framed a face so captivating he found it hard to look away.

"Quite a dilly, eh?" Lycard smiled wolfishly.

"Very striking, sir.”  Smith drank in the picture.

"The next fellow is the other contact. We don’t have a good picture of him but we think he’s the count that has contacted us. Apparently, he has information about some secret weapon that Himmler has personally overseen. Himmler is convinced that this weapon will save the Third Reich. Whatever it is, it better be good, eh?" He smiled benignly and Smith was instantly reminded of a picture he’d once seen of Joe Stalin laughing, sharing a joke with someone. However, the jovial smile stopped at his mouth, while his eyes held the cold glare of murder.

Smith looked at the photo and saw a man of indeterminate age, regal in his looks, with a wide mouth and aquiline features topped by dark, sullen eyes. Arrogance scarred his features like smallpox. The photo was so bad it was hard to make out if it was day or night.

"So why am I here then, sir? Why me? I can’t think of one good reason why you are showing me this.”

The brigadier turned to look at him. "It’s quite simple, old chap. This count, duke, prince, whatever he is, has actually asked for you by name.”

Smith didn’t react at first. That he, James Smith, formerly of the Duke of Monmouth’s Military School and then, straight after that, the 67th Dragoon Guards, was being asked for by a Romanian count was out of the question. The idea was just too ridiculous to entertain.  Regardless of the fact that he had never been further east than the Dover Docks, he couldn’t even remember having ever met a Romanian, not to mention a Romanian count.

"There must be some sort of mistake, sir," he stammered.

"No mistake, old boy. He knew your name, regiment, number, the whole damn lot. We have of course been asking a few questions ourselves, but it seems you’re on the up-and-up, so we invited you here.”

The brigadier looked him squarely in the eye as if judging his response. "This count chappy has asked that you meet him and he’ll show you what Himmler has. It could all be nonsense, of course, but we’re not willing to take that chance. If you agree, and I’m sure you will, you’ll be parachuted into Northern Romania and be met by the lovely lady in the photo. There she will take you to meet the count and you can decide whether it really is as bad as the higher-ups think.”

The brigadier glossed over the whole operation as though it were a picnic. Smith could only listen with half an ear as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He spoke no Romanian, had no desire to go to Romania, and was not even sure he believed what was going on. The brigadier droned on about the logistical problems, extra fuel tanks and extended flight ranges, and completely ignored the dazed and bemused look on Major Smith’s face.

"You’ll get a full briefing in the morning but, for now, I suggest you write or phone your unit and tell them that you’re out of the picture for a while. The colonel will also get a full briefing so there won’t be any problems, national security and all that, eh?”

"Shouldn’t I be asked if I want to go at all, sir?” Smith blurted. "I mean, this is most irregular, isn’t it?  Don’t you ask for volunteers or something?”

“Do you think I like it, Major? Do you? Well, I do not; but this, this count, has asked for you. No other, just you. I’m damned if I know why. We’ve checked up on you, as I said, and you seem all right. So we can only go with the flow of events and see what happens. It’s as simple as that. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find something there to your liking, something we can all benefit from." He smiled deviously.

"But I—” Smith started.

"Major Smith,” the brigadier butted in. "This is not up for discussion. We cannot afford to ignore this. The count thinks this could change the course of the war. You have been asked for by name. You are the only one that he’ll deal with, so you will go. End of conversation. If you feel that you are not up to it, feel free to file a complaint, but do it after you have completed the mission. Do I make myself understood?”

Lycard hadn’t raised his voice but had spoken with a steely quiet that would brook no quarrel. Smith realised that forces beyond his control had already decided that he must go.

He stood to attention and answered, “Yes, sir!”

"That will be all. Report to Admin tomorrow morning at 0830 for briefing and a training schedule. Good day to you, Major.” With that the brigadier sat back down to his paperwork. Smith about-turned and marched smartly out.

*  *  *

Later that evening, in the privacy of his room in the Officers' Mess, Brigadier Dorian Lycard wrote a letter.

Master,

It is done as you wished.

He is ready to meet his destiny.

Soon we will be free of the shackles of secrecy and darkness.

Soon the chosen shall rule as is it is written in the Cronica Insangerata.

Your humble servant always

Chapter 6

Romania

Two days later

Smith stepped out into the howling blackness of the night and fell for what seemed like far too long. He was suddenly jerked in his harness by the parachute opening up and he listened as the plane droned off, leaving him behind. It was a cold, cloudless night and the stars were bright and numerous. With the sound of the propellers no longer raging around him as it had when he first stepped out into the ether, the silence was almost tangible, and he felt a euphoric pleasure in the steady, soundless descent.

The countryside below was a sea of fir trees, with white flecks of snow showing through the foliage. Miles on miles of conifers ranged up to the mountains on the horizon and the view held him captive to its majesty. The exhilaration was overpowering and any fear he might have harboured was now distant and forgotten. A light in the wood below brought him back to the present and he wrestled with the toggles to try to turn into the wind and onto the marker, if it was his marker.

He felt wholly unprepared for the mission ahead. His training had been six hours in a parachute harness in a draughty hangar somewhere in Essex, the practical test being the jump he was now performing. He spoke no Romanian and had only the grainy picture to identify his contact. Even the rendezvous point was in the middle of a wood. An impending sense of disaster lingered above him regardless of the brigadier’s assurance that his anxiety was normal and that the mission would be a piece of cake.

During the flight over he’d checked that he had his maps, pistol, stengun, civilian clothing and torch. He must have taken out the picture of the young lady and looked at it over twenty times. He couldn’t decide what it was that was so enchanting about her.

The man in the picture, the count, looked like a pompous ass. One of the drawbacks about a Cavalry Officers Mess was the amount of supercilious idiots who were drawn to the glamour of being a horse soldier. The man in the picture would fit right in with the vainglorious clique of buffoons in his mess, he’d decided. He didn’t like him already which didn’t bode well for the mission.

As the ground rushed up to meet him, his thoughts came back to the technicalities of landing. He managed to steer close to the light but not quite close enough. Though the torch was in a clearing in the wood, he missed the landing area and crashed through the foliage of the trees. He hit the tree heavily and bruised his ribs on a branch. His parachute caught on a bough and he hung, winded and hurting, in his harness two meters above the ground. He undid the harness and fell, landing heavily in the deep snow. He lay there, gasping like a fish, until a woman’s voice roused him,

"You must stand up quickly. We must get away from here …" Strong hands grabbed him from both sides and pulled him to his feet. He was propelled through the black wood, stumbling on roots and fallen branches. He couldn’t breathe properly and the pace of their flight from the landing area was punishingly fast. Slowly he regained his breath and managed to look around at his helpers who were half-carrying, half-pushing him along.

Despite the snow’s luminescence, it was too dark to make out features but he could tell from their posture and build that they were men. Where was the woman who had ordered him to get up? The blackness was cloying and he wondered how they managed to guide him through the undergrowth. After a few minutes they came to another clearing, in the middle of which stood four horses. Wordlessly he was shown to one of the mounts and, without needing to be prompted, he got on.

“Are you ready?” the woman asked.

"Where are we going? I can’t see a damn thing.”

"The horse knows the way. Just don’t fall off.”

The other two men laughed as they set off in single file, the woman in front. Smith had no problem with riding; it was one of the prerequisites of being a cavalry officer. The problem was the lack of light. His face stung from being constantly whipped by branches that would snap out from the pitch-blackness.

Twenty face-scoring minutes later they reached what looked to be a tavern. The inn, which seemed to sit in the middle of the forest, was straight out of pre-war tourist guide. Ivy clung to the walls like a second skin, a thatched roof and small lopsided windows only added to the days-of-yore effect. They had approached from behind the inn and Smith saw a road as they trotted round to the front. At last, in the light of the inn’s outside lantern, he saw the face of the woman who had been in charge. After lithely dismounting from her horse, she pulled her hair from her face to tie it back and looked straight at him.

It was Maria, the contact in the photo. She was stunning even in the half-light, the moonlight accentuating her high cheekbones and long neck. She caught him briefly with her eyes and dropped him as she turned to the others. Addressing the two men in her native tongue, she turned back to Smith again. Her dark eyes appraised him openly and it seemed like whole hours flew by before she spoke.

“You will stay here the night. Tomorrow evening we will go to the count. All is prepared. You go in with Michael here,’’ she indicated one of the two with them. “And you stay here until we come for you. Do you understand?”

"Where are you going?”

"We will come tomorrow. Here is safe. Michael is also here. Please stay here and do not move until tomorrow night.” She turned her back on him to go.

"Maria—” he started to say. Her name seemed strange on his tongue. She turned and waited. "I … I don’t like this. Why am I being left here? Why don’t we go to the count now?” He wanted to say more, to prolong this first contact. He wanted to ask her to stay with him instead of Michael. He wanted to forget about the count and concentrate on her. It was absurd and ridiculous but he didn’t seem to be in control of himself.

She smiled knowingly. "We will meet again tomorrow, Major Smith. But, for now, you must stay here." She turned and was gone, back into the night, leaving him in the capable hands of Michael.

Chapter 7

"Get up, English. You’ve got ten minutes before Maria comes for you," Michael said, kicking Smith’s bed.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, and then recollection seeped slowly back. Sitting up, he swung his legs off of the bed. His mouth was sour and dry, his head felt bruised and delicate.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Twenty-three hundred hours. Well, ten minutes to. Maria will be here in ten minutes, so please hurry. There’s coffee in the bar.”

Smith noticed that Michael was visibly happier. He wondered what could have brought on this magical transformation. Shrugging it off, he went in search of something to sluice out his mouth.

The bar, unlike the night before, was deserted. He saw the jug of coffee and poured some into a cracked cup. The bad taste in his mouth made him aware that he hadn’t washed in two days. His clothes were creased and he hadn’t shaved either. He looked round for a mirror but he couldn’t see one.

Michael came in, carrying Smith’s bag and folded clothes. "Ready, English?”

"I’m not sure. Is there a bathroom here where I can get cleaned up a bit? I’m meant to be meeting a count and I must look a right state," he said with a smile.

"You’ll do. The count is not one to stand on ceremony. Besides, he’s aware of your situation, so he’ll make allowances.”

Smith wasn’t so sure. He felt conspicuous in his unkempt state. It went against the grain of his military upbringing to meet someone, especially a count, looking like a scarecrow. However, there was no time. Outside he heard horses. He quickly checked the contents of his bag to make sure it was all there and stuffed his folded overalls into it.

Maria called something in Romanian from outside. Michael answered and turned to Smith. "Let’s go."

Smith knocked back the now cold coffee and followed the Romanian outside.

The same four horses as the day before were waiting for them and Smith wordlessly took the reins of the horse he had already ridden from the silent third man. Once again, Maria took the lead and Smith fell in line behind her. They headed in the direction of the snow-covered hills that rose up to the east of them. This time they stayed on the road which wasn’t as dark as the forest path they had used the day before.

Smith studied Maria’s straight back and swan-like neck. Despite the cold, she had pinned her hair up and it made her look elegant and younger. At one point she turned to say something to one of the men behind her and noticed Smith watching her. She gave him a quick knowing smile, said her piece and carried on looking straight ahead. She didn't look back again for the whole journey, which gave Smith ample time to take in her lines and grace and savour that one quick shared moment.

After a while, Smith saw the shape of a building in the distance. It was too far off to make out properly but, judging by its silhouette against the moon, he could see it was of considerable size.

"Is that where we’re going?” he asked.

"Yes," she answered without looking back.

The moon, hanging over the building in the distance, lit up the road and he could follow the path with his eyes as it wound up through the hills.

As they drew nearer, the building started to take shape. Smith could discern towers and, as they came up closer, he saw gargoyles and other mythical creatures carved into and onto the masonry. The walls were made of large stone blocks and the windows held intricately stained glass, depicting scenes that Smith couldn’t make out in the dark. There was no boundary to the land; the road ran straight up to the front door. The Spartan white landscape and the solitary road seemed to magnify the building’s presence and Smith felt a shiver of primitive suspicion at such an alien and foreboding scene.

The doors were massive wooden affairs that would have looked at home on a medieval castle. Two great iron knockers adorned them, shaped like dragon’s heads. Maria jumped down from her horse and offered the reins to Michael. He and the third man (whose name Smith still did not know), took control of the mounts and they left them alone on the front steps.

Maria raised one of the knockers and let it fall. The crash made Smith jump and he felt an insane urge to tell her not to be so loud. The aura of the building and the strangeness of the situation affected him to the point where he seriously considered leaving. Right there and then, he would take a horse and just go. However, his thoughts of flight were interrupted as one half of the door opened with an unholy creak. Before them stood the man from the picture the brigadier had shown him. He wasn’t as tall as he looked in the photo and the sense of arrogance that Smith had perceived in the picture now seemed more like the professional distaste of a manservant or butler.

Maria spoke to him in English to accommodate Smith. "Marik, here is the Englishman, Smith. Let us in, it’s cold out here.”

Wordlessly the man turned away from them to allow entrance.

Smith followed Maria into a spacious, yet darkened, hall. An abundance of portraits adorned the walls, with candles providing the only light. Doors led off to the left and right with a wide stairway that branched off in two directions in front of him. The man called Marik silently picked up a large candle and gestured for them to follow. Smith studied the pictures as he walked. They were old and all were of people, both men and women. A thick layer of dust covered everything and the smell of corruption sullied the air to an almost cloying degree. The filth disgusted Smith and he found it hard to credit that this was a count’s residence.

Their host opened a door to one of the rooms and held it for them to go in. Once inside he closed it again, leaving them on their own. It was a library, the walls of which were covered in shelves upon shelves of mildewed books.

"What’s going on? Was that the count?” Smith asked. "Why did he just leave us? What in God’s name is going on here? Is this some kind—”

He was cut off by Maria.

"Do not mention that name in this house again!” she shrieked, pointing at him in an apparent rage. "Never say that again in this house, do you understand?”

Her face had visibly blanched and her dark, alluring eyes were now red rimmed and staring. The moment froze and Smith, taken aback by her ferocity, looked away to break the tension.

When he glanced back she was normal and Smith found himself gripped again by the urge to flee. Had he just imagined that? Had she just physically paled at the mention of God’s name? He groped for something to say,

"I didn’t mean to cause offence,” he offered. "It just seems all very odd to me, that’s all.”

Maria didn’t say a word. She looked normal but was breathing heavily and her anger, or fear, was still evident. Then, in a moment, it was gone. Her face brightened and broke into a welcoming smile as she looked at something behind him.

“Master." She beamed over his shoulder. Smith turned. He hadn’t heard anyone come in and was shocked to see a man standing by the door.

He was even more surprised to find himself looking at a mirror image of himself. The hair was black and long but there the differences ended. A feeling of recognition and kinship washed over him like a warm draft, but bewilderment paralysed him and he could but gape at the stranger.

Maria ran to the count and knelt before him as if he were royalty. He wore a spotless white shirt and black trousers tucked into Cossack-style boots. His presence was like a beacon of vitality amongst the squalor and filth. It all felt unreal and dreamlike to Smith who could only stare in dumbfounded silence.

Finally, he found his tongue. "Are you, I mean … I take it you are the count?” he breathed.

"Yes, Brother.”

Chapter 8

Berlin Hauptbahnhof

They waited on the platform in a huddle. Anonymous among the sea of uniforms, only Henning’s size and Rohleder’s scars set them apart. Rohleder had brought six volunteers from his troop. Von Struck and Rasch hadn’t yet arrived and, as the station canteen wasn’t yet open, they were forced to wait in the cold.

The wind whistled through the station and whipped their faces raw. Although it was early, there were still a lot of people about and the ORPO, the order police, were walking around checking IDs and leave passes to make sure there were no deserters in the crowd.

"Fucking police. They should spend some time at the front before they get given their badges,” grumbled Henning. His past association with the police in Hamburg had somewhat blighted his appreciation of the state’s public regulators.

"They mean well, Wolfgang," said the Rottenführer beside him. ”They’re just doing their job.”

"They could do their job on Ivan. Now I’d like to see them try that.” He laughed. "Papers please, bang!”

"Ivan would never show such disrespect to the Ordnungs Polizei, would they?" added one of the volunteers, SS Oberschütze Nils Muschinski.

"Not to help the Fatherland," said Rohleder with a snicker, and they all laughed as the old policeman came their way.

Henning didn’t know the men Rohleder had brought with him, but he knew his old comrade in arms and his recommendation was enough for him. They seemed young but he knew they had all seen action in the East and Rohleder had reassured him that they were reliable in a fight and that none of them was a party zealot. Henning had no time for ideology and politics. At first he had been convinced; they had all been convinced. He had seen the bad times in Germany and the fact of the matter was that Hitler had led Germany out of the depression in a way that had no parallel in Western Europe. The Nazis had created jobs and, with work, came pride. German fathers no longer stood in impotent desperation as they watched their children starve. Veterans of the Great War found a new sense of worth as the shame of Versailles was demolished brick by brick.

Slowly, the German people rose out of the quagmire of their past and, with Adolph Hitler at the helm, nothing had seemed impossible. He had no quarrel with the Jews and the Communists, but they simply hadn’t helped when Germany had been on its knees. In fact, the rumours were that the depression had been a plot by Jewish bankers, and the German capitulation at the end of the First World War had been at the instigation of the Jews and Communists.

Henning had joined the SA on a whim and had moved to the SS. His size and willingness to fight made him ideal material for Himmler’s elite, and his shady past was swept under the carpet. But now, with the tide turning in Russia and the stories of massacres and genocide running rife through the ranks of the Waffen SS, Henning had started to question if the propaganda they had all been fed was not just half-truths, but out and out lies.

He knew that Rohleder felt the same. In fact, Rohleder had actually seen mass shootings and one of his men, Schneiderat, had taken part in one, which was something he did not broadcast and which wasn’t discussed by the troop.

Rohleder had tried to hide his horror at what he had seen but Henning knew him too well. He had told the story of what had happened after a long schnapps-fuelled evening just outside of Minsk.

"We’re all damned, Henning. There’s no going back now, the bridges have all been blown," he’d said. "This is no way to run a fucking war, believe me.”

Henning believed him.

*  *  *

"Oberscharführer Henning, report!" It was Von Struck with another officer.

They all sprang to attention as Henning went through the formalities of a military introduction. Von Struck introduced the doctor. The men took in his immense height and academic appearance and Von Struck could almost smell their immediate dislike for the gangling political officer. Rasch nodded at the men and sauntered off, his interest in the squad already exhausted. They kept it formal until Rasch was out of earshot when Von Struck turned to the men. "Wolfgang, I thought I told you not to bring that drunkard Rohleder with you?”

"I found him in the toilet trying to drum up some business with a couple of queers!" Henning laughed.

"Rohleder, change your career if you want to make some money. As queer bait you’ll starve to death.”

Rohleder didn’t miss a beat. "Well, if they paid me enough I wouldn’t have to do it with strange men. But look at you, a Standartenführer now. Unbelievable, you officers get promoted quicker than Frenchmen have orgasms!”

Von Struck grinned and turned to Henning. "Glad you brought him along. He can tell us all about his experiences with Frenchmen and their orgasms!”

Their cheerfulness attracted stares, especially from Rasch.

Rohleder introduced the men to Von Struck. "Firstly we have our two ‘Untermenschen’, the Bavarians, Nils Muschinski and Jurgen Muntner, although The Führer alone knows what they’re doing in my racially pure troop.”

Both nodded to Von Struck.

”Then comes our Paderborner, Andreas Schneiderat. From up north is Thorsten Gruhn and from that most ‘parteitreueste Stadt', Soltau, comes SS Oberschütze Matheus Nau. From the middle east of our Greater German Empire comes the Leipziger Berndt Grand.”

For each name, Rohleder had a tale about some amazing feat that the individual had achieved, be it in combat, in a bar or in a field brothel, and Rohleder’s natural talent as a storyteller had them all laughing even though they already knew the stories. “—So Thorsten took off his wedding ring and shagged her in the beer cellar—”

"Standartenführer!" Rasch had moved into hearing range and did not like the idea of officers mixing with the ordinary ranks. Von Struck turned and met the political officer’s eyes. "Is there a problem, Herr Doctor?" He emphasised the doctor title. All eyes turned in silent warning to Rasch.

"I must … we must …" he stuttered, unsure now of his superiority. On paper, he was in charge and Von Struck’s men were just the escort. Now, in the space of a heartbeat, he understood that the men were with Von Struck and he was just a package to be delivered.

"We must talk on the train, Standartenführer.” And he left it at that. Rohleder looked at Henning and they both shared a brief moment of amusement at the doctor’s deflation.

"Indeed, Herr Doctor, I believe that’s our train now.” Von Struck nodded, indicating a locomotive pulling up to the platform in a shroud of steam.

"Sort the men a carriage out, if you would, Oberscharführer. I’ll be down to brief you all later.”

"Will one of the men be taking my pack for me or do I carry it myself, Standartenführer?" Rasch enquired. Before Von Struck could answer, Rohleder sprang to attention and clicked his heels together in mock subservience. "Jawohl, Herr Doktor, zum Befehl!" he barked. Rasch looked at Rohleder and, completely missing the sarcasm, nodded his approval.

"Thank you, Rottenführer. I’m glad to see that military discipline is not completely dead in the Waffen SS,” he said, pointedly eyeing up Von Struck.

As Rasch strode off to find his carriage, Von Struck looked back at the smirking Rohleder and shook his head in a pretence of disapproval.

"Where on earth did you find him?” Henning asked, nonplussed.

"Who, Rohleder or the quack?”

"The sawbones. I know where Rohleder comes from. His village is still mourning the loss of the best idiot they ever had.”

Rohleder gave Henning’s arm a friendly punch as he pushed past to follow Rasch.

On the train, Von Struck had his own compartment, a luxury that came with Heinrich Himmler’s patronage. He threw his luggage onto the bunk and turned to go to the men. A small knock on the door stopped him in his tracks. "Come in,” he called.

"Ah, Standartenführer, I just wanted a word with you about the mission.” It was Rasch.

"Yes, do come in, Herr Doctor." Von Struck smiled. ”I have brandy here somewhere in my luggage. Would you care for some?" he enquired politely.

"I think not, thank you. I just wanted to enquire how much you know of our aims in Romania. Did the Reichsführer SS explain it all to you?”

"All that I needed to know, I think, Herr Doctor,” said Von Struck, rummaging through his bags for the brandy.

Rasch was poised by the door, neither in nor out of the compartment. Von Struck gestured him in with a wave of his hand.

”Are you sure about the brandy? It really is excellent,” he said, opening the bottle. He looked around for a glass or cup and couldn’t find one so, saluting the doctor with the booze, he swigged it straight from the bottle. Rasch was now in the compartment and he towered over Von Struck. He seemed awkward and ill at ease, and looked to be weighing something up in his mind.

"Well, as long as you’ve read the blue folder that was given to you. You have, haven’t you?” he asked.

"Yes, most interesting. I wonder how they do it, the seeing in the dark thing; training, tactics or just plain eating lots of carrots?” Von Struck laughed.

Rasch did not smile back and started looking around for somewhere to sit. He found a stool by the door and sat on it. His expression was grim and determined, but the comically small glasses he wore and his posture on the too-small chair offset his sombre expression.

"Standartenführer, we have on our hands an operation that could change not just the course of the war, but everything. Religion, Biology, Physics, even History as we know it.”

"Herr Doctor Rasch, I’ve read the blue folder and I know the outline of the mission plan and what is expected of me and my men. We—you—are to strike a deal with this count. He fights for us and we go home as heroes. I don’t need to know about the rest. Whether they call themselves vampires or poodles I do not care. Just as long as they come and fight for us at night against Ivan, that is all that interests me.”

"So you don’t actually believe in vampires, then?" Rasch probed.

"I think, Herr Doctor, that Reichsführer Himmler has a lot on his mind. If he chooses to believe in folklore and mythology, that‘s his affair. I believe that our erstwhile allies have learnt the art of fighting at night and are using their skill to strike fear into a very superstitious Ivan.”

Rasch, pausing for a moment, looked down to the floor between the two men. In a tight and slightly embarrassed tone of voice, he continued. "I have never had the honour of combat. Therefore, this breakthrough about night fighting is a bit beyond my slender understanding of the game of war. Please explain it to me, if you would, Standartenführer.”

"It’s a simple concept to understand, Herr Doctor. Imagine that you have to lead a squad of men in pitch black without the aid of any light source whatsoever. You cannot shout at them—sound travels at night. Somehow, you must co-ordinate them into an effective attack formation and move them off through a wood or swamp in the direction of the enemy. We do attack at night, but nine times out of ten the momentum is lost in confusion and disarray, with the end result often in Ivan’s favour.” Von Struck took another swig of his brandy and continued. "If you have a force that has somehow mastered the art of coordinated night attacks and withdrawal, maybe even living behind enemy lines spreading terror and fear, if you have that at your disposal, then you could break a whole front.” He started to warm to the subject. "Ivan is very centrally led, that is, they get orders and intelligence right from the top. If you could take out the command structure of an army front, say, it would take weeks to get replacements that are politically reliable enough for old Joe Stalin.”

Rasch contemplated what he had just heard for a minute. ”So, you’re saying that a regiment, or even a division, of these night fighters could possibly win the war for us?”

"The war is already lost, Herr Doctor. It’s just a matter of time before we’re fighting on two fronts. What I am saying is that it could bring us some more time, maybe even a negotiable peace, but victory is no longer in sight.”

Rasch leapt from his stool, sending it crashing to the floor, his hands opening and closing as if in spasm, his body tense with rage. "How dare you!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. "How dare you talk of defeat in front of a senior officer, a senior political officer. This will go down in my report to the Reichsführer SS." Rasch was livid.

Von Struck stared at Rasch, bemused by the change he had just witnessed.

"I was told that you are a loyal party member. How can you even mention defeat? I am duty bound to report this to the Reichsführer SS. Don’t you—”

He was cut short by the only means Von Struck knew to gain attention, a sharp blow to the jaw. Rasch dropped like a weighted sack and looked up at Von Struck from the floor, his glasses askew and his lower lip trembling.

"I can mention defeat, Herr Doctor," Von Struck said standing over him. "Because I know what’s going on in the East. While you were kissing ass in Berlin, I was on the front line. Every day Ivan gets stronger and every day we grow weaker. Ivan sends in whole armies to attack and we can only answer him with under-strength divisions. We squander our manpower guarding concentration camps and our rear areas because the people we have conquered have been alienated to the point of revolt by our terror and arrogance. We are not the Master Race, Herr Doctor, and believe me when I say that the Soviets are not subhuman either. I once believed that we were, I admit that, but now I know that the Master Race is the race with the biggest guns and largest armies.” He squatted down in front of Rasch and put his glasses on him properly. "I can confirm to you, Herr Doctor Rasch, that we do not have the bigger guns and larger armies. So where does that leave us?”

Rasch stood up and, after adjusting his uniform, he silently turned to leave. He stopped as if he had remembered something and said hesitantly over his shoulder to Von Struck, "I also hold the rank of Standartenführer, I would be obliged if you would use my rank when you address me in front of the men—please.”

"No, Doctor Rasch, I will not. To use your political rank in front of the men would be an affront to them and to the Kammeraden who have given their lives for the Fatherland. I will not disgrace the title to suit your vanity. Now get out.” He turned and took another swig from the bottle. Rasch took that as his dismissal.

Later on, in the troop’s carriage, Von Struck outlined the plan and mission in more detail. "Basically it’s just as Wolfgang explained to you all. We’re to escort the doctor to this count in Romania. It couldn’t be easier. Romania is an ally and the territory we’ll be in is peaceful. It’s our job to look professional and smart for the count so he thinks that the German army is still the best in the world and not the pile of shit that we all know it is." He looked round the troops as they laughed.

"So why did we get picked to do the job? I’m not complaining but it seems any fifty year-old reservist could make a good impression if he shines his boots enough and marches in time," asked the younger of the two Bavarians, Nils Muschinski.

"Because our beloved Heini has ordered it. This count has a company of soldiers that specialise in night fighting. They’ve had a lot of success in the East and Heinrich wants to show that we’re taking him seriously. It’s only a company now but, if all goes well, it will be a regiment soon and then a division." He added as an afterthought, “Don’t be too hard on the Romanians, they’re brave and proud. Their failings as an army in the East didn’t lie in a lack of heart.”

He took in their stone-faced expressions. None looked convinced.

"They’ve had organisation and supply problems and we all know what that can do to an army. Their frontline soldiers have suffered from bad leadership just as much as ours have.”

The magic phrase ‘bad leadership’ brought on understanding nods from the old hands. They had all seen men die needlessly. The disastrous string of directives from the Führer’s headquarters about holding ground at all cost and fighting to the last round had helped decimate one of the best-trained and motivated armies in the world. Bad leadership was a concept they could all understand.

"I'll tell you what, though. Our noble Romanian allies do have a flair for the theatre.”

"Why do you say that, sir?” ventured the Leipziger, Berndt Grand.

"Well, it seems that they’ve named themselves ‘The Vampires’ to spread terror into Ivan.” He smiled as he said it to communicate his amusement. "It might be a good idea. We all know how superstitious Ivan is, but I can assure you all now that we will not be changing our name to ’The Wolfmen’ or ’The Cannibals’ to frighten Joe Stalin’s boys. We’ll stick with German Lead. All agreed?”

"What about ‘The Banshees’?" Rohleder put in. "Like Wolfgang’s singing when he’s pissed.”

"I’ve seen you with a couple of banshees in my time," came back Henning, quick as a flash. "… and you pay ‘em too.”

The jokes seemed like a signal for the briefing to break up. Von Struck dismissed them and went to pay a visit to Rasch’s bunk.

Rasch opened the door in his pyjamas. "Is something wrong, Herr Standartenführer?" he asked, putting on his spectacles.

Von Struck smiled. "Not in the slightest. I just gave the men a briefing and I was wondering why you were not there.”

Rasch looked surprised. "Why I wasn’t there?” He pondered for a moment. "Should I have been there? I mean whatever for?” he asked, nonplussed.

"Herr Doctor, we are travelling on this fine train, down to Romania, to carry out a mission in the name of the Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler. We are to make contact with a Romanian count who will build and train a regiment for us, a regiment that can fight at night just as well as they fight by day, a secret weapon if you like. So I ask myself why is this count talking to us and not to the Romanian government? It just doesn’t make sense.” He leaned back against the carriage wall to study Rasch’s face. "There has got to be more to this than Heini has let on, is what I’m thinking. The Transylvanian Saxons come back to the fold story doesn’t smell right. So the briefing would have been a good time to explain the rest of the mission. Don’t you think, Herr Doctor?”

"You go too far, Standartenführer. Now is not the time for further briefings. You have read your mission objectives and you have no need to know more." Rasch paused and then added, “for now. But you will eventually see why the Reichsführer SS is so impressed with this … as you say …. ‘secret weapon.’” Rasch’s face broke into a sardonic grin. "And you will also find out what we are offering and what I have been working on these last few months. The whole thing is quite unbelievable, trust me.”

Von Struck said nothing as he turned away from the doctor and went to his bed as the train steamed on into the blackness of the wartime night, before lying in his bed and contemplating the death of Herr Doctor Rasch.

Chapter 9

In the night, Maria came to him. He had half-hoped, half-feared she would, but when she knocked on his door and stole into his room, instinct took over. She closed the door and stood before him in a sheer nightdress that covered everything and yet hid nothing. He studied her athletic body, the rise and fall of her breasts, the dark triangle of her sex. She looked wild and untamed; the hunger in her eyes banished all doubt as to her intent and he wordlessly strode over and took her in his arms.

They didn’t speak and their first kiss broke the dam of his lust. He ripped off the flimsy garment to expose her fully and he carried her to the bed. She pushed him back and hurriedly pulled his shirt off as he feverishly undid his trousers. He seemed overcome by an insane, animal passion and he ravished her as she lay passive under him.

They rutted like ferocious beasts, biting and clawing at each other, abandoning everything except their urgent needs. When it was over, they lay in each other’s arms panting and sated. Only then did he break the unspoken truce of silence to ask her who she really was.

She moved her head onto his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes to answer him. However, the question was unnecessary, for he knew who she was.

He had learnt things about his life that no rational man could comprehend. His whole existence had taken a new direction, a new meaning. All that he had understood about his past, about his very being, had been swept away from beneath him in a flood of disclosure. In the space of one night he had learnt everything about who he was and what his destiny was to be. It was fantastic and sudden but he knew, he just knew, that what the count had told him was true.

*  *  *

The count had shown no emotion as he had related his story. He had moved to the chair opposite to where Smith had sat, leaned back, crossed his legs and told the story of Smith’s life up to his being flown to the parachute drop site. No detail was spared and no quarter was given to the shock of the revelations that the count now related.

"We were born to a dead woman—twins—one dark and one fair,” he started in accent-free English. "She died while giving birth, as is traditional. Our father, Szoltan Dracyl the second, the seventh incarnation in the bloodline and the last name in the Cronica Insangerata, obeyed the Book of Blood and named you the Son of Utu before sending you away.”

Smith stared, dumbfounded, as he listened to the impassive, mono-toned account. He understood what the count, his new-found brother, was saying but he could not relate the story to himself.

"You were watched and protected, guided and moulded to be the man you are now—a warrior and a leader, a man of authority and bearing. Your whole life has been shadowed by men loyal to our father and our bloodline, the masters at the military school and your career in the army, all orchestrated by my most faithful and trusted familiar—”

"The brigadier.” Smith finished for him.

"Indeed. His family has served our kind since the Cronica Insangerata was first scripted. It was he who took you to England and placed you at the orphanage as a baby and the school later on. It was he who oversaw your tuition and his followers who saw to your character development. Finally, it was he who had you placed in the military. He stayed in the shadows and used his rank and influence, all paid for by our fortune, to have you accepted into the officer corps.” He paused and looked to Smith before carrying on, relishing the shock on Smith’s face.

Smiling wolfishly, he continued. "How else could an orphan with no money and no connections come to be a member of one of the most exclusive and pretentious institutions in the British military, The Cavalry Officer’s Mess?”

A thousand questions flitted through his head. It was too far-fetched to be credible but, deep inside, he knew he was hearing the truth. It felt so right and, although it raised more questions than it answered, the questions that it answered were those that had followed him throughout his whole life.

"Your destiny lies here with me. You belong here and you are needed here, for the sake of our bloodline and our kind. I have so many things to show you, things that will leave you in no doubt as to your destiny.”

"Tell me," Smith whispered. "Tell me everything. I need to know.”

"All in good time. You’ve had a long day and you need to be rested and alert. Tomorrow, at eventide, I will reveal to you the rest. Believe me, brother.” The word ‘brother’ electrified Smith. "Believe me, you are essential to our future. I alone cannot carry on our line; for that I need you. You are destined for great things." With that he stood up and turned to Maria. "Make sure he gets what he needs.” Then to Smith, "Till tomorrow eventide, sleep well." Then he was gone, leaving Smith in the room with Maria.

Smith realised that Maria was looking at him. It unsettled him and he broke the silence by asking where he would be sleeping.

"A room has been prepared for you upstairs. It is cleaner than down here," she added by way of explanation.

"I really should go have a wash, if you don’t mind showing me where my room is.”

She led him out of the library and took him upstairs. It was two thirty in the morning.

*  *  *

Alone in his room, Smith went over the events that had just unfolded. It was unbelievable. On the one hand he was elated to find that he was not alone in the world. He had a family (however out of the ordinary it was), and he had a past. His whole life had been guided and steered from outside by people who were loyal to his clan.

However, why now? Why let him wait so bloody long? Why was he called back to the fold at this precise time? The count had said that he had to help carry on the bloodline, what did that mean? Did he have problems in that area? Why was he the twin that was sent away and what the hell was this Cronica Insangerata thing and the son of Utu?

He washed himself and went to the bed. It was a large four-poster, with spotless white sheets and a thick eiderdown quilt decking its large expanse. The whole room was a complete contrast to the filth of the ground floor. Tiled flooring, a roaring fireplace, carved wooden panels and stained glass windows, a bit too Gothic and Bela Lugosi for Smith’s tastes but nevertheless clean and warm.

His thoughts turned to Maria. The way she had looked at him tonight had raised his hopes and warmed his loins. She was beautiful, mysterious, fragile, and yet, in the blink of an eye, he had seen the predator that lurked beneath that delicate surface. It hadn’t scared him but it had changed his perception of her. Would he have to carry on the bloodline with Maria?

The thought pleased him and yet that pleasure was tinged with the fear that perhaps he must marry her, live with her. As an object of desire, she was perfect, but as a prospective wife she was far too volatile. Was he being too British about this? Did they even marry in Transylvania? Certainly the count hadn’t mentioned a wife.

The knock on the door was so soft that at first it didn’t register. He turned round just as Maria snuck into the room. No words were spoken and all his doubts and worries fell from him as his ardour rose. He went to her.

*  *  *

He woke early. Maria had gone. She hadn’t answered any of his questions and he hadn’t pressed. He had enjoyed both the sex and the afterglow, and she had shown a softer, more feminine side that was as reassuring as it was pleasing.

He got up and went to the bathroom. The water was cold, and it woke him and his stomach up. After getting dressed, he went to open the door but it was locked. He tried again but it was no use. It stayed locked and he was trapped.

What the hell was going on? He went back and sat on his bed to think this through. Why had they locked his door, to what end?

To keep him in, obviously.

He went over to his bag and checked that his weapons were still there. To his immense relief, they were so, sitting back down on the bed, he pondered his next move.

The door clicked sharply and swung open with a loud creak. The man who had let them in the night before stood silent and staring in the doorway, holding a tray. Smith stood up as he walked in. He appeared older in the daylight and his pale, sickly complexion was covered in red blotches of dry, raw skin. His eyes were ringed dark and the hair that had looked carefully swept back in his photo was lank and greasy. It fell back off his forehead and dangled onto his stained and scuffed shirt collar. He looked in his faded and worn uniform the personification of the degradation and decay of the rooms below.

"Do you speak English?” Smith asked. The man nodded and went to the nightstand to put the tray down. He turned to go but Smith stood in his way.

"Why was the door locked last night? Am I a prisoner?”

The man, who by now Smith had realised was a butler of sorts, just shook his head and pointed to the tray.

"Am I free to leave the room or are you going to lock it again?” he asked.

For the first time the butler spoke. He had a deep, rich voice that seemed at odds with his appearance. "You are free to leave your room if you wish, but the Master asks that you stay inside the grounds and wait until tonight for more answers.”

With that he turned and left, leaving the door open behind him. Smith went over to the tray and uncovered the food. Bread, fried eggs, a sausage of some sort and bacon. It looked good so he ate it before leaving the room, determined to explore.

Chapter 10

Daylight made everything seem a lot cleaner and more normal. Perhaps he had just imagined the filth the night before. He couldn’t really say. Although there was a layer of dust over everything it didn’t look as bad as he remembered it. He walked slowly down the hall, looking at the portraits and the statues that decorated the building. He tried to identify a likeness to himself in the pictures but it was to no avail.

Deciding to try the rooms, he opened the door next to the library and discovered a large sitting room. It was dusty and stale. Empty candleholders stood in frozen pools of wax and the musty aroma of damp furniture besieged his senses.  As he entered he was immediately struck by a large picture that hung above the fireplace. It looked like him, or his brother. Walking closer, he realised that it wasn’t him as the man in the picture had dark hair. He should have known but something held his attention to the likeness. It was the eyes. The eyes glared at him in anger, the rage and violence palpable and all too real for Smith’s liking.

"That was your father, James.” It was Maria. "A great and fierce ruler who looked always to the future but never forgot the past.”

He turned and wanted to go to her but, somehow, it all seemed different. Whatever chemistry they’d had the night before was spent and inert. She seemed unaware of his unease and walked up to the portrait. She caressed the canvass and turned to Smith.

"You are his son. You are also the son of Utu. Do you understand what that means?” she challenged.

"Of course I don’t. I didn’t know I had a bloody family until yesterday. I don’t even know the family name or if I was given a name before I was sent away.”

He walked over to one of the windows and took in the scene stained into it. It was a knight, turning his back to hide his face from the sun. On his chest was the Cross of Lorraine, the cross of the Eastern Orthodox Church, which vaguely reassured him. It was good to know that his ancestors had Christian connections, especially after all he’d heard about his own family recently. At the knight’s feet lay slaughtered men. Smith presumed they were his enemies. Their bodies were decapitated, with the heads stuck on poles on the horizon behind him. The colour red was predominant and Smith vaguely wondered what gruesome story lay behind the display.

"Is that one of my forefathers?” he asked.

"Yes. His name was Szaran. His is the second name in the Cronica Insangerata and he, together with his lover, started the bloodline. He was a mighty warrior king who defied the Gods, so the story goes, and started a war for love. I’m sure the Master, your brother, will tell you all about your family tonight.” She smiled at him for the first time that morning and his heart skipped a beat.

"Why don’t you tell me?" he flirted.

"I cannot. it’s not my place. I’m sorry I spoke in such a manner to you,” she backtracked quickly. "All will be revealed tonight, I promise.”

Smith looked through the pane of glass and saw a path running off to the west of the building.

"Where does that go?” He turned to Maria and pointed out of the window.

She didn’t need to look to where he was pointing and answered him straightaway. "It leads to a …” She paused as if contemplating how to answer him. "It leads to a village.”

"What village? I didn’t notice any village when we came last night.”

"We travelled the main road that leads up to the house and comes from the south. You wouldn’t have been able to see it," she answered. "The castle is very big. Would you like me to show you around?”

"What’s in the village?” he asked.

"People, soldiers, children and women. It’s just a village, come." She held out her hand, gracing him with another smile. "Let me show you around. There’s such a lot to see.”

"What sort of soldiers? Romanian soldiers?”

"The count's soldiers. Your soldiers. This all belongs to your family. You and your brother. Come with me and I’ll show you the grounds.”

She seemed playful and charmingly girlish, and Smith wondered at the differing personalities he’d witnessed in Maria. She was a leader, a servant, a siren and now she played the girl. He wanted to abandon himself to her charms but the inconsistencies within her character disturbed him.

She led him out to the hall and up the staircase, the whole time chatting and throwing in little titbits of information about one member of the family or another. The castle seemed to be a large hollow square made up of four long wings. Each wing was three storeys high and had numerous stained glass windows that gave it a distinctly church-like appearance. In the middle was a large court and Maria proudly told him that that was where they used to carry out executions.

"Anybody who broke the law was taken to the square to be dealt with by the Master." She looked at him and continued by way of explanation, "The count. They flogged, burned, hanged and strangled, all down there.”

"Burnt, burnt alive on the stake?”

She nodded and Smith didn’t know what to say. His sense of affinity to the family he had just acquired was now replaced by unease and a distant notion of fear. He looked to Maria as if to seek reassurance. "When was the last person burnt down there?”

"1914,” she answered readily.

"But that was thirty years ago. That couldn’t have been my brother," he started and then trailed off.

Maria spoke his realisation. "No, it was your father.”

Smith had known the answer before Maria spoke and yet still he was speechless. His father, a man he had never met and yet a man who had left his mark on his soul. The whole circumstance of his return had taken a darker turn, Smith needed answers and he wanted them now.

"Where’s the count?” He couldn’t bring himself to say 'my brother.' "I’ve got to know what is going on.”

"The Master is away. You will see him later,” Maria stalled. "Please, James, calm down. You will learn everything later, I promise.”

Smith was almost beside himself but slowly managed to control his unease. He needed to get out.

"Take me to the village, Maria. I need to see other people and breathe clean air.”

Maria looked at him as if weighing things up and nodded her assent.

A fresh wind whipped through the hall as they opened the main door to go out. Smith squinted against its frozen assault and pulled his collar up tight.

A voice from behind stopped them. "The Master said he should stay within the grounds.” They both turned. It was the butler.

"We’re going to the village. If the count wants to see me, he can come and get me," Smith replied and marched out into the snow.

Maria followed him, pleading, "Come back, James. I didn’t know you had to stay here.”

"What is this?" he retorted. "Am I a prisoner? I’ll go where I damn well please. You can come with me or you can stay here. It’s your decision."

He turned again and walked to the path that led to the village.

Chapter 11

She followed him in silence. The path led down a hill and through the woods. There were no forks or turn offs and, after a short three minute march, Smith found himself on the edge of a ring of thatched cottages. No dogs barked and no soul challenged him.

The village was deserted.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"It’s daytime. They must be working,” Maria replied.

"Working where? I didn't see any fields or anything when I dropped in. The children and mothers, too?” he asked.

Maria just shrugged, uninterested. "I suppose so, yes,” she said, ignoring the first question.

Against all instinct, he walked into the middle of the ring and looked around. All the doors and shutters were closed. No bird made a sound and the silence was suffocating and thick. He looked to Maria to gauge her reaction. There was none. She simply watched him in the frank, detached way a child studies ants burning under a magnifying glass.

He turned around slowly. From the middle of the square he studied each and every building. White plastered walls, thatched roof and heavy wooden doors and shutters. Ten identical picture-book cottages smack in the middle of nowhere. The uniformity and spacing of the settlement gave the impression that all the houses had been built at the same time.

In the middle of the ring stood a large tree. Smith was no botanist but he knew it was an oak. It was wide at the base and its branches reached up to caress the clouds. The leafless boughs enhanced the impression of its great age and majesty. It seemed out of proportion to the surrounding woodland and Smith gazed in awe at it.

"The oldest and tallest tree in the forest,” Maria answered his unspoken question.

"It’s an oak tree, isn’t it?" Smith queried. "What’s an oak tree doing in the middle of a forest of conifers? Is that normal?”

"I don’t know. I didn’t plant it," Maria replied, bored. She had stayed at the edge of the ring.

"You’re probably going to tell me that the tree is where they hang the revolutionaries, aren’t you?” Smith half joked.

"No," she answered, deadpan. "But there is a quaint old story about it being planted by some knight or other to ward off evil spirits.”

"Or evil lords, like my father?”

Ignoring the question, she walked off. "Come, let’s go back, there’s nothing here for you.”

He watched her walk away from him. She was right. What was his problem? He was acting like a nervous school girl, skittish and petulant. This wasn’t him; this wasn’t the Jim Smith he knew. The Jim Smith he knew was sensible, self-contained, stoic and, above all, brave. What had gotten into him?

He walked to the tree and placed a hand on its knotted and twisted bark. Nothing. He felt nothing. He hadn’t really expected anything but was still bizarrely disappointed. He turned to go and a gust of wind stirred through the trees. Through the tops of the branches he caught a glimpse of a long slated roof.

"What’s that?" he called to Maria’s retreating back. "Over there, through the trees.”

Maria stopped and turned to face him. "James, I promise you all will be revealed when we get back.”

He waited for her to say more. At first she resisted and then said, "It’s the barracks. The Master’s soldiers are stationed there. Can we go back now, please? I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

Smith relented and followed her silently up the slope to the castle.

From behind a tree, silent eyes had watched their every move. Michael, with the practised stealth of a panther, had tracked them from the castle. He stayed a while until they were gone and followed them back

*  *  *

Smith was shown the rest of the castle and sat down to a light meal. After the food he disappeared to his room to rest a while before the count showed up.

Maria saw him to the door and went down to the crypt. Only Maria, Marik the manservant and the count were the holders of the key to the underground part of the building. She opened the heavy wooden door and descended into the blackness.

Only here, in the count’s damp kingdom, did she feel at ease. The dark was her friend and ally, and Maria knew every nook and cranny of these ancient catacombs. The manor above had changed over the years through fire, age and the hand of man, but these dark, arcane passages had stayed true to the original design.

She walked briskly to the centre. It was a large crypt with no ornate decoration and no elaborate stonework. In the middle lay a large, plain, stone sarcophagus.

He was waiting. She could sense his displeasure and she felt automatically afraid.

"Against my wishes, you let him go out!" he roared. She fell to her knees and trembled, her fear instantaneous.

"I couldn’t stop him, Master," she breathed. "He wanted to go out. What was I to do? He is your brother and … " She trailed off.

He didn’t answer her and slowly she looked up to him.

"Yes, you are right," he sighed. "What did he want to see, the buildings or the barracks?”

"I told him it’s a village, Master.”

"And what did he say when he saw they were all resting, anything at all?”

"I told him they were all out working in the fields." She stood up and walked to him. He held out his hand.

"Good, my sweet. Good. I will decide what to tell him later. For him to know too much too soon would be most unwise. I will, though, have to tell him about the Germans. When do they arrive?”

"Tomorrow, Master, they arrive tomorrow. Tonight they arrive by train in Cluj. They will stay there the night and march here to us tomorrow.”

"Klausenburg, Maria. Klausenburg is the German name for Cluj. We want to seem friendly and pro-German, so do please make the effort and use the German names. What they have for us could bring about a new era for our kind. We just have to pander to their pathetic ideals to reap the rewards of their naivety.”

He smiled down at her. "Our time will soon come and we will build our empire on the folly of their ill-fated endeavours. You will regain all your power. I will have my heir and they will do all the running. Mankind." He laughed to himself. "Like panicked cattle in a slaughterhouse, rushing headlong to their own demise." He closed his eyes in satisfaction.

Maria waited before asking, "When do you want to see him, Master?”

"I will send for him when I am ready. Marik will let you know.”

With that Maria knew that the audience was over. She turned away from him and left the way she had come. Her face cracked into a grimace of hatred, giving vent to the anger that broiled her insides every time she had to speak with him.

"Your time will come, worm,” she silently swore to herself. "I need you now, but soon I will be strong again and then you will pay for your arrogance.”

Chapter 12

Cluj Train Station

The train came in on time, much to Rasch’s pleasure.

"You can see that good German efficiency has rubbed off on our Romanian allies," he gushed with pride and smiled. "Soon the whole of Europe will benefit from our diligence and culture.”

Rohleder looked to Muschinski and, smirking, answered Rasch. "Jawohl, Herr Doctor, the Romanians can count their lucky stars that they picked the right side to fight for.”

"That’s the spirit, Rottenführer." Rasch positively beamed.

They formed up outside the station and moved off.

"Where to, Herr Standartenführer?" Henning asked.

"Either the first hotel we see or straight to the castle. What do you think?”

"Straight to the first hotel, I would say,” butted in Rasch.

Von Struck gave Henning a knowing look. "Tell the men to prepare themselves for a night march. By my reckoning, it’s only about twenty miles away and the snow isn’t falling, so we should make good time.”

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer!" Henning clicked his heels and turned to the men. "Come on then, boys, sort yourselves out. We’re off on a stroll through the Carpathian winter wonderland.”

A swell of amusement rippled through the troops as they prepared themselves for the march ahead. Rasch looked crestfallen.

"Will you detail someone to carry my bags for me, Standartenführer, or should I leave them here for someone to pick up?”

Von Struck ignored him and started to sort his pack straps out.

There was only one road to follow. Von Struck checked his compass and map, and set off at what seemed to Rasch an alarmingly fast pace.

"Isn’t the pace a bit brisk, Standartenführer?" Rasch tried to sound casual but he knew he’d never be able to maintain the same work rate for the full twenty miles. "The men have hardly rested after their long journey.”

"We’ll start off fast to warm up a bit, Herr Doctor, then we’ll settle to a more comfortable pace after a while," Von Struck answered over his shoulder.

Rasch was satisfied as he settled down to concentrate on the march.

*  *  *

As they marched, Von Struck went over what Rasch had said on the train. He really was an odd fish. How on earth did he get so high up in the Party? It just proved to him how wrong it had all turned out.

He thought back to the day he had told his father that he wanted to go to the Waffen SS. His father was a proud Prussian general. The product of a military family and of a strict protestant upbringing, he had shown no emotion as he listened to the news. However, the pain shone through his eyes, betraying his sorrow better than any gesture or word. His only offspring was to join a military organisation that was the very antithesis of every military code he had ever believed in. He realised that this was his role in the great German tragedy that was being acted out every day in homes all over the Fatherland.

Von Struck had steeled himself ready for anger, outrage and even banishment, but had been ambushed and stopped by his father’s anguish.

He thought back to the scene in his the library.

"A soldier follows orders,” his father had said after a while. "I have always followed the orders of my superiors to the letter. At Verdun, Flanders and the Somme we fought man against man. I have killed with my bare hands.” He paused as if in reflection and looked him in the eye. "I have stormed enemy positions and brought havoc and death on the sons of other fathers. Soldiers fight soldiers because that is the nature of war, that is a soldier’s job and that is the military code. In this code lies honour, Markus, our honour, not in the killing of civilians or the burning of their property. Genocide and terror are not war."

Mistaking his son's perplexity at the lack of rage for non-comprehension, he attempted to explain further.

"Markus, I have lived all my life, from boy to man, by this code. I was, am and always will be a soldier.” He stopped again to regain his composure. “A soldier; but I have never forgotten, and will never forget, that I am first and foremost a human being. Do what you have to do, Markus. Follow your destiny, but whatever pressure is brought to bear on you and your comrades, never forget the code. Politics and race have no place on the battlefield. Honour and humanity is all you have. Do not bring dishonour on this family. Now go and tell your mother what you have just told me.”

This, the most dramatic and most enlightening speech he had ever heard from his father, had left its mark far better than any reprimand or corporal punishment ever could have. Stumbling and hesitant to show emotion, his father had tried vainly to prepare him for what he knew was to come.

However austere and understated, the warning had been overshadowed by Von Struck’s naive dreams of glory and ‘Kammeradschafft.’ The elitism and esprit de corps of the SS was legendary and in that mythos lay its attraction. His new pride in the black tunic and SS runes outshone any doubts that may have lingered at the back of his mind. The shallow propaganda and the constant political dogma had seemed to be training tools at most to the young Markus Von Struck, like the drill, weapon handling or physical training.

Yes, he thought, there was a time when the uncut diamond that was once Markus Von Struck felt he had found a home-from-home in the Waffen SS. However, that was all a thousand years ago. Now, after witnessing the true horror of the struggle against Bolshevism, there were no noble misconceptions about the real nature of war, especially the war in the East. Now he felt as jaded as a whore and twice as damned, and his thirty pieces of silver were the uniform he once so proudly wore.

Chapter13

He waited for Smith in the library, relaxed and reclining next to the fire that Marik had made for them. He pondered how to approach the subject at hand. It wasn’t going to be easy. How much should he tell him—tell him everything and risk his alienation or condense the whole thing to just his role in the ceremony? Maria had played her role well and soon they would have an heir to the name of Dracyl, if Smith played along and did his part.

He pondered over the Germans. If they kept their part of the deal, a completely new age lay on the horizon. A wave of vampirism would sweep through Europe and, after that, the world. He would be a God and Smith would provide him with his heir. The dynasty of the Dracyl would go on for a thousand years, as was predicted in the Cronica Insangerata. His brother just had to provide the heir, and then he could disappear, forever.

The door opened and Smith walked in. There was a brief moment of uncertainty before he went over to the chair opposite the count.

"So now will you please tell me who I am?" Smith sat back, crossed his legs and waited.

The count leaned forward and started right in. "As for a name, I cannot tell you. You were taken away at birth. This wasn’t done out of malice or ill-will, it was done because it is so written in the Cronica Insangerata that the son of Utu must be separated from the family at birth. You were watched and guarded, as I have already told you, so you would come to no harm. You are my brother in blood as in flesh, but you have no family name."

He paused to let it sink in and ploughed on. "Our family have always believed that tradition is one of the pillars of power. We have always followed and obeyed the traditions and customs that are set out in the Cronica. It may seem quaint and odd to you, but that is our way.”

Smith fired off the next question without waiting. "What and where is this Cronica?” And, as an afterthought, "Who are you?”

"My name is Vlad Dracyl, son of Szoltan Dracyl the Second. Our mother is unimportant; she died during childbirth, as it was written in the Cronica Insangerata. The Cronica Insangerata is an account of all that we have done and all that we will do. It is both a record and a direction.”

He stood up and started to pace in front of Smith.

"The Cronica Insangerata is its Romanian name; The Chronicle of Blood. The ancient Greeks called it the Biblion Haimatos, the Book of Blood. That was its first appearance, in ancient Greece. It went through various versions and had many names. The German Crusaders, the Teutonic Knights, called it the Buch Des Bluts. In Hungary, A vér Könyve. It’s strange that there is no Latin name for it, bearing in mind that there was a large Roman presence in this area for a long time. Cronica Insangerata means Chronicle of Blood and that is what our family is all about, James: blood.”

For the first time a silence stretched out between them. Smith tried to take it all in while keeping a calm exterior.

"What do you mean that our family is about blood? Isn’t every family about blood or the bloodline?”

"Yes, it is and we need new blood for our family. That is why you are here, James. That is why I sent for you. You must take a woman and give us an heir, a male heir. That is your destiny and that is why we need you here. Can you do that?”

Smith’s mind was racing. So he has got a problem. That’s why Maria came to me in the night. He felt cheated, used and, for some obscure reason, strangely superior. However, the growing sense of menace that had started with the revelations about his father now seemed to take on a very real edge. He could hardly conceal his shock at what was being proposed. Breeding to keep in line with some ancient scripture seemed so arcane.

The count seemed to read his mind. "Now, don’t say you didn’t enjoy last night with Maria?” he chided.

Smith reddened and stood up. "Now, steady on, you’re getting a bit too close to the bone. I understand that you want me to play my part in your plans but they are your plans, not mine. Think about what you’re asking of me. You want me to father a child for you—”

"For the family,” he passionately broke in and grasped Smith by the wrists. Looking him in the eye, he whispered urgently, "It’s for our line, for our whole heritage. If we break the line now we will be the first to break with tradition for hundreds of years.” He let his wrists go and hastily apologised. "I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sorry. This is not an easy thing to do; asking a man to father a son for me is hard on my ego and my pride. But you see how much this means to me, no to us, and to our history." Striding to the door he opened it.

"Maria, bring Iullia to the library,” he called and turned back to Smith. "Let me introduce you to the prospective bride.” Sighing resignedly, and somewhat over-theatrically, he smiled. "Perhaps she can convince you.”

Smith looked to the door in a mixture of curiosity, panic and eagerness. He didn’t quite know. He could hear footsteps coming towards the room. It wasn’t Maria with whom he should couple, then, so who is it to be? Why would a perfect stranger want to bear his child? For money, position, favour? He felt like a nervous schoolboy and he didn’t know why, this wasn’t his doing.

The door creaked open and Maria walked in with the unknown Iullia in tow. She stepped to the side so Smith could see her. Iulia was young—about eighteen Smith reckoned—with long blond hair that crowned a wonderfully innocent face. She looked at Smith, unabashed, and almost challenged him to not find her attractive. The long green dress that she wore fitted her to perfection, emphasising her slim but curvy figure. Smith swallowed hard and tried to think of something to say.

Vlad Dracyl saved him. "Well, brother, will you help us carry on the family bloodline? Will you play your part for our family name?”

All eyes turned to Smith, waiting for an answer. Looking at them one by one, he grasped for something to say. "You'll have to give me more time to consider—" he blurted out.

Iullia looked shocked and dropped her eyes to the ground. The count stiffened and only Maria seemed to nod. "How long do you need?" she asked, matter-of-factly.

"I’m not sure. Situations like this don’t happen to me every day."     His ill-timed attempt at humour fell on stony ground. Nobody seemed happy and Smith felt uncomfortable in his failure to accommodate them. The awkward silence hammered at him until the count tutted and walked away towards the fire. Both women said nothing, as if waiting for his decision.

"We can talk tomorrow," the count said. "I have things to see to now. I bid you a good night, brother,” he added, placing a harsh emphasis on the word ‘brother’, before storming past them and leaving the room.

They watched him go and Smith noticed the worried looks on the faces of the two women.

"James,” Maria started. "I … I think you …" She trailed off and looked at him for what seemed like ages. Her face was blank, yet her eyes burned in furious turmoil. "Good night, James. We can talk in the morning." She turned and left him alone with Iullia.

Smith struggled to explain himself to Iulia. "You must understand, I don’t mean to offend but from where I come from, it’s simply just not done like this, it just isn’t.”

She studied him with an unconstrained lack of guile as if he were a circus curiosity. More painful silence followed before she spoke. "You must fulfil your destiny. We must fulfil our destinies. You were born to this, as I was chosen. As it is written and so it shall be." With this, she turned and walked slowly out, leaving Smith even more confused.

This damned book was beginning to annoy him. Who said it was his destiny? As it is written so shall it be—what is that supposed to mean? Were they all like this in Romania or was it just a Transylvanian trait?

He went up to the fire and warmed his hands. What had he gotten into? He could hardly believe the events of the last few days. It all seemed like a bad piece of theatre with no interlude for respite.

He had to leave—tonight, if possible.

He drew away from the hearth to peer out of one of the windows.     He caught movement outside and looked harder to make it out. What he saw made his blood freeze. Of all the shocks he had received in the last twenty-four hours, the troop of German soldiers marching in the snow towards the house was the most startling. He turned in blind panic. What was going on?

"You want answers, English?” It was Michael. He stood in the doorway to the library looking directly at him.

"I need to hide, if that’s what you mean,” he replied as casually as he could, though the bravado soon started to slip as the sound of the jackboots grew louder. "Can you help me, old boy?”

"I will provide you with both answers and a good hiding place. Follow me. I’ll tell you the truth about your family and I’ll hide you from the count’s newest guests."

With that he turned and Smith followed him.

Chapter 14

Rasch had stayed mercifully silent throughout the march up to the castle. Henning had taken over the map reading, leaving Von Struck with his thoughts. The men had been in good spirits at the beginning of the march, despite the demanding pace. SS Oberschütze Matheus Nau had even broken into song at one point, until Rohleder had told him to shut up. Von Struck could understand their good mood; they were in a friendly territory on an operation that, in comparison with Russia, was a holiday.

It irked him that Rasch hadn’t trusted him with all the details of the mission. Operational security was important for any mission but this was hardly a deep penetration into enemy territory. There was no danger of him being taken captive and tortured because the enemy, although on the advance, was hundreds of kilometres away. He’d even told him that he would soon learn everything, so what was he playing at? He shrugged inwardly. Rasch was a sad specimen of a man. Pettiness and arrogance seemed to be the main ingredients of his character, so why did Von Struck feel so annoyed at his lack of trust? He shook his head to be rid of the thought.

After a while he saw the outline of the castle in the distance. For no apparent reason the mood of the squad darkened as it loomed on the horizon, but Rasch seemed to pick up and called to the men, "Keep it tight now, men. Let’s make a good impression." He ran to the front of the troop and took the lead with Henning. "Links, rechts, links, rechts…”

Von Struck had taken a position to the left of the squad, in line with the elder of the two Bavarians in the troop, Jurgen Muntner.

"What an arsehole,” Muntner muttered to Von Struck. "We’ve got to lose this idiot before he spoils the whole trip.”

Rohleder took up the doctor’s call and shouted to the men, "You heard the good doctor, links, rechts, links rechts." Then, as if to himself, "What a rabble, what a shower of shite. Herr Doctor, I personally apologise for the lack of military discipline in my squad. I will charge myself accordingly on our return to the beloved Fatherland. Heil Hitler!”

"No need for that, Rottenführer,” answered Rasch generously. "I’m sure the men are just out of practice.”

"What an arsehole,” Muntner muttered.

As they neared the castle, the troop fell silent. No jokes, no remarks and no calling out the time from Rasch, who now seemed also to be as affected by its presence as the others.

Von Struck halted the squad in front of the main door. Rasch walked up to him and said in hushed tones, "I think now, Standartenführer, that I should do the talking.”

"Fine with me, Herr Doctor. Just make sure the men are sorted out with somewhere comfortable before you talk deals with the count.”

"Of course, Herr Standartenführer. I’ll—" but he was talking to his back. Von Struck had turned to the men and given the order to fall out. They dropped their packs and lingered in a squad, uneasily.

"Damn peasant,” Rasch muttered. He hesitated before lifting the giant knocker and letting it fall. Rasch physically jumped as it crashed down. The whole squad stood in uneasy silence. Not a man moved. The door opened with a shriek that spiked their concern to the point of alarm.

Rasch stepped up to the door and took a step back as Marik came into view. His wasted, derelict features and the repugnance of his body odour at first repulsed Rasch, until his natural arrogance took over as he looked down and analysed the manservant.

First impressions meant everything to Rasch and he routinely attempted to racially identify a person on introduction. The manservant’s aura of corruption relegated him (in Rasch’s fussy and pseudo-scientific mind), to the lower echelons of mankind. Above the Jews and Gypsies, but doubtless below the Serbs; probably of Slavic origin.

"We’re here to meet with the count—Count Blestamatul.” He blinked and pushed his tiny glasses up on his nose.

"Count Vlad Dracyl Blestamatul …” Marik told him in heavily accented German, ”… is aware that you are here and he ordered me to show you in." He pointed to the stables to the left of the building. "Your men can sleep in there.”

"Good, that seems in order. Standartenführer, will you take the men to their accommodation? I’ll see to our rooms.” Without waiting for a reply, Rasch walked into the castle.

"What an arsehole," Muntner muttered.

*  *  *

Von Struck walked to the stables with the men. It was a long building with a dividing wall in the middle. The few horses that it held were kept in the adjoining room to where the men would sleep. There was no straw but an abundance of abandoned horse blankets which the men took over as bedding.

They cleared an area and lit a fire in the middle of the building. The stalls were clean and the blankets had hardly any lice. Compared to Russia, it was almost paradise.

"Aren’t you off to see to your room, Herr Standartenführer?" sniggered Muschinski.

"If you’re not careful, Muschinski, you’ll be sleeping in the good doctor’s room with him!” Von Struck replied.

"Probably in his bed!” roared Henning. They laughed loudly and without restraint. The all-pervading sense of malevolence had lifted with Rasch’s departure and, alone in this their inner circle, they were at ease with one another and their situation.

“It seems you don’t think much of the doctor,” said the young Andreas Schneiderat, and muttered to himself, "I know I don’t.” The room chuckled at the quip and settled down to sorting the bedding out.

"It’s not that I don’t like him, Andreas. I don’t like all that he stands for. I don’t like a lot of things that Germany now stands for, to tell you all the truth.” He looked up from what he was doing. "But we must soldier on, despite what’s happening back home, for the sake of our families. Ivan wants to do to us what we’ve been doing to him and his people for the last three years. I just pray it doesn’t get that far.”

All eyes were on him now, wide with cognizance and worry. He, an officer, had said aloud what they had all secretly (and some not so secretly) talked about since the war in the East had taken a turn for the worse. The Russian Army in Germany. Nothing on this earth could compare to the horror of that gathering storm on the horizon. The black clouds of vengeance hung heavily over their loved ones, and all they could do to keep them at bay was fight on. The silence of desperate contemplation stopped all movement.

"My God, you’re a laugh a minute, you know that?" Rohleder had sensed the mood and he didn’t like it. "Russians in Germany, it’s like saying Americans on the moon! It’s not going to happen, so let’s make our beds and break out the Schnapps, eh, lads?"

The men all smiled but the strain was still apparent.

"We’ll get Henning drunk and make him sing, and then you can be miserable!” This time they really laughed and the sombre moment was gone, for the time being.

Von Struck sorted himself a bed out and left the men to get some sleep. No sentries, an almost unheard of luxury for the last three years, and a couple of bottles of Ukrainian vodka that Henning and Von Struck had brought with them, would ensure a good night’s sleep for the squad. Von Struck strolled up to the main door.

*  *  *

Rasch waited with growing impatience for the count to show. He was horrified by the filth of the hall and now waited alone in a room next to the library. It was a study of sorts, a very dusty study. The degradation of the décor and the furniture confirmed everything to Rasch—that he was dealing with a race far removed from the Aryan ideal at the top of his list. That he should have to stoop so low, even worse, that Germany should have to stoop so low, was a tragedy.

The count walked in. He threw the doors of the study open with a crash that startled Rasch and brought down a shower of dust and old plaster from the ceiling.

"Guten Abend, Herr Doctor, or should I say Guten Morgen,” he announced. "Have you brought what I need?”

No introduction, no social niceties, no beating around the bush. Rasch was thrown off guard by the count’s direct and predatory manner, and felt like a rabbit caught in a spotlight’s glare. He had expected old-world manners, not high handed, barefaced demands.

Rasch stuttered to answer. "I have, Your Excellency." He pushed his glasses up and stood awkwardly facing the count.

The count said nothing and looked at Rasch expectantly. Then, as if extracting a confession from an errant schoolboy, he said, "Tell me what you have brought with you then, Herr Doctor …”

"Your Excellency will forgive me but I need to make a few things clear in advance," answered Rasch in a wavering voice.

The count smiled carnivorously and walked to a chair. He sat down and crossed his legs. ”Well?” he indulged.

The doctor took his cue and paused for a minute to get his thoughts in order. He was feeling nervous and rushed. He needed time to gather his wits, to put the brakes on his racing mind. Where was Von Struck? His panic needed to focus blame on someone. He’s never there when I need him. Damn the man, damn him to hell and back … Why was he so panicked? He didn’t need Von Struck; he’d handle this. Think of the rewards of success. Think of Berlin.

Rasch took a deep breath and, ignoring the count’s eyes that bored into him and the agitation in his gut, he plunged on. "Your Excellency, I would firstly like to express the Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler’s sincerest apologies that he could not come here himself. The war has taken a terrible toll on his time and I’m sure you can understand the pressure he is under …”

The count nodded slowly and gesticulated with his hand that Rasch should move on.

"Before I go on with the proceedings, I have been ordered to check on the quality of ... shall we say ... your part of the understanding, Your Excellency.”

The count glared at Rasch and spoke with deliberation. "They are not here right now. At night, I like them to get out and,” he paused, "…hunt.”

"Ah, I see. How many are there of them? I understand that at the first meeting there were only twelve.”

"I have now a company of thirty-two.”

"Thirty-two?” exclaimed Rasch.

"I have a problem with logistics. We are situated in a very remote part of the world. My men need to feed twice a month, minimum. There is simply not enough food to provide for a bigger unit.”

Rasch squirmed at the use of the word ‘food’, as it brought home to him the nature of the mission. Nonetheless, his main concern was the size of the unit.

"Thirty-two is not a company, it’s more like an oversized platoon." The count’s eyes flashed with anger. "But I realise the problem you have with logistics. I have an idea, if the count will allow me …” The count invited Rasch to continue. "We could easily set up a camp here, in this area. It could be stocked with enough ... er ... shall we say provisions, to feed whatever size regiment you can raise. When the stocks are running low, we could bring more in." He allowed himself a knowing smile. "Believe me, we have enough 'food’. Poland is full of 'food.’”

The count's eyes lit up. Of course they had enough livestock to feed an army—to feed a plague! It was brilliant. The Germans had what he needed in abundance. Abundance!

“I like your proposal, Herr Doctor. Your Reichsführer is a very resourceful man.” The count stood up and started to pace around the room in deep contemplation.

"Our Reichsführer, Your Excellency,” Rasch corrected him. "Furthermore, I must take the credit for the suggestion. It occurred to me during my time in the camps in Poland that if the plan was to succeed, we would need to be able to feed the troops when there is a lull in the action.”

The count leaned forward. "Who would man the camp during the daylight hours—Germans, Romanians or my soldiers?"

In this innocent-seeming question lay the crux of the whole meeting.

Rasch didn’t say a word. He looked round for a seat and sat down, making himself comfortable. He smiled at the count. He wanted to draw out this moment for all it was worth. It seemed to Rasch the roles were reversing. He felt in control now that the count stood before him.

The count waited.

"I have been working on a serum that will eradicate all your problems in one go. It’s quite brilliant, I can assure you, and I’m very proud of what I have achieved. There are not many Negroes in our camps in Poland and I had to travel far and wide to do my work. I won’t go into details but I studied their skin and invented and refined a technique for harvesting valuable proteins, hormones and various other ingredients to help you with your problem. Don’t for one second think that this problem is only skin-deep. Its roots lie in the very make-up of your, er, kind."

Dracyl remained silent, captive to every word.

Rasch lectured on. "I devised techniques that are far and away more advanced than anything known of or used up until now. The need for secrecy was, of course, very important and, had I shipped all our blacks to one camp, someone somewhere would have deduced that something was up. So I travelled to them. I was left alone to do my experiments. Any helpers that I had were executed after I had finished—they were only Jews—to ensure that no word got out. Even the camp commandants had no access to my work. So you can see how much effort has been put into this project. A lot.”

The count nodded, excited. "And, Herr Doctor, were you successful, or did you fail in your quest?”

Relishing every nanosecond of his triumph, Rasch slowly nodded. "Yes, Your Excellency, I was successful. We must obviously conduct trials with your men, but I’m quite sure that we have a serum that would enable your soldiers to fight by daylight.”

Count Vlad Dracyl started to laugh. Centuries had passed since the birth of his kind. They had been condemned to hunt by night and hide by day since the time of the old Gods. Humanity had been spared subjugation and slaughter only by the wrath of the sun. Now humankind had provided the means of its own enslavement. It was too rich to be true.

Rasch looked on, bemused, as the count whirled around and around, laughing like a lunatic, drunk with joy.

*  *  *

Von Struck walked up to the front door and let the huge knocker crash down. Marik opened the door and he followed him into the hall, noting the dust and run-down state of the décor. He met Rasch and the count in front of the study.

"All seems to be in order, Standartenführer. Let me introduce you.”

He turned to the count. "Count Dracyl Blestamatul, Standartenführer Markus Von Struck." Von Struck dutifully clicked his heels together.

The count nodded.

"So when can we see your troops, Your Excellency?" Rasch asked.

The count looked at the huge grandfather clock by the door to the library. "This evening?” he suggested.

"Excellent!” Rasch nearly clapped. "That will give us enough time to get the men rested and make them presentable.”

Von Struck didn’t like the way Rasch spoke of the men like horses, but he let it drop.

"Marik will show you to your rooms, Herr Doctor. I hope you will both feel comfortable. Until later on, then."

With that, the count nodded and left them in front of the main stairs.

Von Struck turned to Rasch. "I’m going to sleep with the men but let’s get one thing straight, Herr Doctor. We will not parade the men round like a palace guard. They have just come from the Eastern front and this will be treated as a period of recuperation for them, not as your own personal tick-tock marching machine. Have I made myself clear?”

"Yes, perfectly, Herr Standartenführer," Rasch answered, tight-mouthed and furious. His success with the count had elevated him, in his mind, to a station above Von Struck and his little band of Waffen SS brutes. He would write a report up after this was all finished that would send Von Struck to the Eastern front until he retired.

Von Struck went on. ”The men are rationed ‘til tomorrow. After tomorrow we’ll be on the count’s good grace, so you need to talk with him about it. Your first duty is to the men here, Herr Doctor, and not to your career. Don’t forget the men, Rasch, and we’ll get on fine. Understood?”

"You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” Rasch almost smiled. He would ruin Von Struck’s career and sail to new heights within the Party, all on the strength of this one mission. Berlin’s high society would welcome him back with open arms and he would tread on Von Struck like a worm ….

"Doctor, what’s gotten into you?" asked Von Struck.

Rasch blinked and came out of his reverie.

"For a minute there you blanked out. Are you alright?”

"Oh yes, er, fine,” Rasch stammered. ”Just tired. I will go to bed. Sleep well, Standartenführer."

Rasch left him and walked up the stairs towards the waiting gaze of the ghostly Marik.

Von Struck shrugged and went to the stables. He paused to take in the rising sun. It had been a long night and he was very tired. He heard something in the distance. He strained his ears and listened. He was sure he could hear wolves howling.

*  *  *

They had endured their first casualties in the night. The alarm had been raised in time by an all-too-alert sentry and, although the massacre had been complete and they had feasted, two of their number had been wounded. The wounds themselves were not fatal. Only the sun, silver, decapitation or the cross could kill them. But, slowed down by their handicaps, they hadn’t made it back to the barracks in time and the sun’s scorching reach had raked them to dust.

Theirs was a slow and agonising death. The skin blistered, cracked and fell off the flesh. Bones powdered as if in a kiln and eyes boiled in their sockets. Their feral screams echoed through the wood as the vengeful sun gave vent to its power over them. A shadow of ash was all that would remain. They now only numbered thirty.

They showed no remorse for their fallen comrades, only fear of what the Master would say. His anger was terrible to behold and his punishments were fierce. They were as broken and callous as guard dogs. Well trained, vicious and true, they only knew the two emotions: bloodlust and fear of the Master.

2

Chapter 15

That same night, Michael took Smith to a small room at the back of the building and turned to him as he put the key in the door. "This is my room. You can hide here. No one ever comes here, not even Maria, so you’re quite safe."

He opened the door and led him into a small, tidy room with a bed, a table with two chairs, and a bookcase filled with books. The only light came from two candles, one on the table and one in the window. It was dark but somehow cosy, and it gave the impression of cleanliness.

"Sit down, English. I’ll pour you a drink.” Michael turned to a small shelf with a bottle of clear liquid on it and a couple of glasses.

"I don’t need a drink. I just need to be out of the way of the damn Bosch. I need to get my weapons from my room. What the hell is going on? What is Jerry doing here?" Smith’s guts were writhing as his concern about the situation began to overwhelm him.

Michael poured and Smith took the drink and tossed it greedily down in one, instantly bringing tears to his eyes and leaving his throat raw as he thrust his glass forward for another.

"So what do you think of your brother’s offer?” Michael asked as he sat down.

"Did you hear everything that was said?" Smith gasped.

"Most of it. I don’t normally eavesdrop but I’ll explain why I did later.” Michael tipped his glass back and emptied it too.

"It really is quite odd. You can’t begin to imagine how queer this all is." The drink had worked its calming effect on Smith and he found himself beginning to warm to his new-found ally. He paused to look at Michael opposite him. “Who are you, Michael? You’re not with them, are you?”

"No, English, I am most definitely not with them. Nevertheless, before I tell you anything, I need to know what you think about what’s going on here. For example, what is your interest in Maria? Or how do you greet the news about your long lost brother? Tell me these things and, if I’m satisfied with the answers, I’ll tell you what I know.”

Smith thought for a minute how he should answer. He hadn’t really given much thought to anything these last few days; events had just seemed to take over.

At first he had been infatuated with Maria but now he was more intimidated by her. She was definitely too aggressive and dominating for his liking. The night he had spent with her had been almost dreamlike and he couldn’t imagine his acting the same way ever again. He’d been maddened with lust, overtaken by a furious, insane desire to have her. Shame shadowed the memory of his behaviour on that night.

As for his brother, he was completely in the dark about everything to do with him. If he hadn’t been sent here by the military, he would have thought that this was all some elaborate ploy to con money out of him. It really had been an educational couple of days.

"What or who is Utu?” Smith asked, offering his glass again, the initial shock of the alcohol having worn off.

"I’ll tell you after you answer my questions," Michael answered as he poured.

"To be truthful, I have no real feelings for Maria. I know it sounds terrible of me, bearing in mind what happened last night.” He knocked his drink back and looked up. "You do know what happened last night, don’t you?”

Michael nodded.

Smith shrugged. "Last night, the whole evening, I was someone else. It wasn’t me that slept with Maria, it was another me. It’s hard to explain. Maria isn’t my type, it’s as simple as that. As for my brother, well I don’t really know how to answer that. It’s been quite a shock, I can tell you, to find out that I’m not just some orphan and that I do have a family with a history. But this whole ‘breed a child for the family’ thing is really too much." Smith started to feel annoyed as he contemplated his situation. "The whole thing is too bizarre for words. That they want me to father a child with some young girl that I don’t even know, and all for some damn book that, well, it’s all a bit too much, it really is. I’m not a damn machine!” He snatched his drink off the table and gulped it down in one again. Michael nodded sagely, saying nothing, his face impassive, as if waiting for more. Smith decided that he’d said enough and the silence spanned between them. Smith pushed his empty glass towards the bottle. "Well,” he said. ”Are you going to answer my question or not?”

Slowly Michael reached for the bottle and poured two more measures out. "Drink, English, you’re going to need it. Utu was the Sumerian God of the sun.”

"He was what?" Smith exclaimed. "Oh, and I thought he was African." He laughed to himself.

Michael ignored him and carried on. "What do you know about the stories of the Old Testament?”

"Only what I was taught in school and I’ve forgotten most of that.”

"A lot of the stories, myths, or whatever you want to call them, are corruptions of older Sumerian legends. Noah’s Ark is the most well known but the Tower of Babel, The Creation, even Cain and Abel can be attributed to Sumerian legends, although the Sumerian version manages to avoid murder. Many of the characters in the Old Testament can be found in far more ancient texts, only under different names. Do you understand what I’ve just told you? It really is quite important. I belong to an order of Christian Knights who have dedicated themselves to the cross. We have access to records that span thousands of years. We have, over the years, amassed a library of ancient scriptures that dwarves that of any other library or museum in the world.”

"Christian knights, you say? You mean like the Templar Knights? Weren’t they wiped out by the church? I’m sorry, but what has this to do with the Germans, Maria, my brother and anything else we’ve discussed tonight?” The potent drink had snaked through Smith's veins and he was feeling the full weight of his fatigue pulling his eyes shut.

"Everything. Please bear with me. It’s important that you know the background. The orators and the writers of the Old Testament edited the stories to make them more pleasing to the masses. Many of the stories that were originally part of the ancient oral tradition were not included in the written texts. Perhaps they clashed with the message the writers were trying to put across or they were too sordid for the Jewish audiences of the time. Whatever the reason, there is a whole second Bible of lost legends and myths that have never been put down in writing.”

Smith was beginning to lose his patience. He yawned. "Michael, for pity’s sake, tell me what I need to know. This bunk about the Bible is not important right now. Don’t you, or can’t you, understand that?"

"English—Major Smith, I swear to you that this has everything to do with why you’re here, your family, Maria, the Book of Blood, everything. Please listen to me. I can’t help you if you don’t know what this is all about and, more importantly, you can’t help me.”

Smith finally gave in to his body. "I’ve had it, Michael, I need to sleep. Let me get some sleep and I’ll listen with one hundred per cent concentration when I wake up. Is that fair?"

"Sleep here, then,” Michael said, pointing to the bed. "I’ll keep watch. It’ll be daylight soon so there shouldn’t be any problems." He moved to snuff out the candle on the windowsill. "But later, English, we must talk. This is far bigger than you against the Germans. This is a war against another species—” He turned back to see Smith hadn’t heard him for he was already asleep in his chair. Michael put the glasses and the bottle away and knelt down by his bed to pray.

Outside, as the sun’s clawing rays touched his window, Michael caught the agonised howling of the vampire soldiers caught in the morning sun. He knew all about them and, on hearing their fiery death, he clasped his hands and prayed harder.

Chapter 16

The men were woken at dawn and, as they washed and had breakfast, Von Struck went over to find Rasch. There was no answer at the front door, so he walked in and went up the stairs. As if by magic, Marik appeared and led him to Rasch’s room.

"Rise and shine, Herr Doctor. What’s the agenda for today?” Von Struck said, startling Rasch awake.

Rasch hurried to put on his wire framed glasses. “Er, I don’t think we need the men today, Standartenführer. We’re not meeting the count until later this evening and I don’t have anything for them."

Von Struck could hardly suppress the smile that rose to his lips as Rasch stumbled around in his night shirt, bed socks and night cap, trying to find his uniform. He turned to leave him but was stopped by Rasch.

"Just a minute, Standartenführer, I need to talk to you about, er, well about what we’re going to do tonight.”

Von Struck looked for a seat and sat down. "I’m all ears, Herr Doctor.”

Rasch sat down on the end of his bed, took his glasses off and polished them. "Standartenführer … Markus, there are some things on this earth that no man can explain. I have seen things recently that have turned everything I believed on its head. Before we continue with the mission, I need to give you all the facts, and I mean all the facts. I’m not sure how I can put this to you without making myself sound ridiculous, so I’ll just tell you the whole story and, if you want, we can discuss it. How does that sound?” He’d slipped his trousers on while talking and had regained a bit of his poise.

Von Struck was taken aback by the doctor’s use of his Christian name. He nodded. "I’m listening, Herr Doctor. Please continue.”

"Quite a while ago now, Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler ordered me to do some work for him. A lot of my work was done at a cellular level. That is, I worked at a microscopic level, trying to figure out why the Jews were subhuman and why we were above the Negroes and the Slavs, basically trying to prove our racial theories with science. I didn’t really think that all the measuring of skulls and other body parts would prove anything, so I decided to go deeper. Are you with me so far?”

Von Struck wasn’t one hundred percent with him, but he’d got the gist of what the doctor had tried to explain and he said so.

"Good. The work was hard but rewarding and I, that is my team and I, developed microscopes that could see into individual cells and much, much more. What I discovered is a state secret and will never be published but the meat of my report went to the Reichsführer SS. He was interested in our methods. No, that is not true, he was fascinated, and based on what I had achieved, he gave me a task to perform. This task, Standartenführer, is what I will now relate to you. I don’t need to have to tell you that this is all Top Secret.”

Von Struck was interested and nodded that he understood.

"The count’s soldiers have a problem. They can’t fight in daylight." He paused to let that sink in and carried on. "At night they strike terror into Ivan’s heart and their successes have proved their usefulness beyond all doubt. Every mission they’ve been given has been a triumph for Deutschland and has invariably cost the head of one of Ivan's higher-ranking generals, literally. They have, up to now, brought back the heads of seven Russian generals and those of many other lesser ranked leaders. However,” he sighed. “The daylight, unfortunately, kills them. The sun’s rays quite literally burn them to a crisp. It seems that though they are perfectly adapted to the night, the day is lethal for them.”

"I take it that it was your job to find a cure for this disease? I can see why they call themselves vampires now.”

"No, Markus, no, they call themselves vampires because they are vampires. They feed on blood, Russian blood, and they all belong to the count. He controls them with the power of his mind. They have no free will; they are simply slaves to his bidding and their own bloodlust. He truly is their Master and they are truly obedient to his every order.”

Von Struck looked at him in stunned disbelief. Was this what Himmler had been so excited about?

"Markus, we are here to help build a vampire army. Count Blestamatul is a vampire in the true sense of the word and he has taken the call of the Fatherland and promised, with our help, to build an army that will win the war in the East for us.”

Disbelief, anger and despair merged into one as Von Struck was struck dumb. How could that madman Himmler, and all his cronies, believe this drivel? Germany’s solution to the Russian onslaught was to indulge in Himmler’s childish fantasies and make-believe? It was madness. He slowly shook his head, appalled at the folly of it all.

"I see you have a problem believing my words, Herr Standartenführer," Rasch observed disdainfully.

"You think that Germany can be saved by a bunch of—"

"Standartenführer, the Count is himself German. He has offered his services and the services of the Siebenberger Saxons—" He noticed the look on Von Struck’s face and stopped to correct himself. "I mean his services and that of his soldiers to help fight the Bolshevik menace. Herr Standartenführer, let me tell you, I do know what the situation is at the front and I can assure you I will do everything in my power to recruit all the help the Fatherland needs. Tonight, Herr Standartenführer, tonight you will see the count’s soldiers. I urge you to be prepared and I urge you to prepare your men. The last thing we need is a squad of hysterical SS men acting like a class of school girls at the sight of the count’s vampires.”

Von Struck had heard enough. "If this is all the Third Reich has to fight against Ivan, Rasch, then God help Germany. And, judging by the record of our deeds, I don’t think he will, Herr Doctor." With that, he stood up walked out.

"We don’t need a Jewish God, Von Struck!" Rasch shouted at his back. "We need soldiers who believe in the Third Reich. We need discipline, obedience and faith in our cause. We need heroes—”

But Von Struck had already left, leaving the door open.

Chapter 17

Michael woke Smith up just before noon with a tray of black bread, salami and onions, and watched as Smith ate ravenously.

"Now we talk, English. Or, better said, you listen.”

"Whatever it is you want to tell me, it can’t be as shocking as what I’ve learnt these last couple of days." Smith carried on eating but kept his eyes on Michael.

Michael continued. "Throughout history there have been mythical figures that have cropped up time and time again. They seem to float from one civilisation to another, causing mayhem, fear and, more often than not, catastrophe. With each reincarnation, they seem to get fiercer and fiercer. The names vary but they are always the same character, always the same evil." He paused to make sure Smith was listening and  carried on. "The demon Lilith or Lilit, or Lilitu or Belit-ili or Baalat, is identified in several ancient texts. She is as old as the Bible, probably older, because she is mentioned in the Mishna, the scriptures that explain and define the old Jewish law as it’s found in the Pentateuch—”

"The what? I’m sorry but I didn’t follow you.”

"The Pentateuch are the first five books of Moses in the Old Testament, and the Mishna attempts to clarify the laws that were laid down by Moses. Lilith is mentioned in the Mishna. She is mentioned in the Gilgamesh Epic and a whole—”

Smith stood up. "Talk sense to me, Michael. You’re wittering on like an idiot. What the hell has this got to do with my situation? What are you—”

He was stopped in mid-sentence as Michael grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen you, bloody fool. Don’t you see? Maria is Lilith. The entity known as Lilith has taken over Maria.”

A confused silence passed between them as they stood facing each other.

"What?”

"English, sit down. I know it’s a lot to digest, so just let me finish and then you can make up your own mind. You know that there’s something strange going on, don’t you?”

"Well, I … I’m not sure of anything anymore, to be honest.”

"Please sit down and hear me out. Please.”

Smith sat down, not convinced but, then again, not unconvinced. He nodded and Michael carried on.

"The entity Lilith has been recorded and described throughout time, as I’ve already said. According to ancient Hebraic folklore, she was Adam’s first wife. She was cast out of Eden—or she fled—because she was too dominant, sexually and socially. She was replaced by the submissive, and thus more acceptable, Eve.”

Smith raised his eyebrows and nodded for him to go on.

"She is said to have scorned God and fled Eden. She is immortal because she left Eden before the fall, that is before Adam and Eve ate the fruit from the forbidden tree. She is supposed to have flown to the shores of the Red Sea where she apparently mated with demons and gave birth a hundred times a day.”

"Good grief! I bet that hurt," Smith huffed.

If Michael detected Smith’s sarcasm, he didn’t let it show and he pushed patiently on. "Indeed. As I said, no wonder she wasn’t included in the Bible. Legend has it that she can only exist at night—it isn’t true but that’s the legend—and that she lives on the blood of children and animals. It was also said that she drank the blood of Abel after his brother slew him. So Lilith is the first recorded Biblical vampire and she’s also the first name in the Book of Blood.” Michael paused for effect before moving on. "Lilith is among us now, right here in the castle, and her powers are gathering strength. Do you or, better said, can you believe me?”

Smith sat in mute contemplation. How had he landed in this madhouse? How could he extract himself from this insanity with the least friction or fuss? "Go on. There must be more.” He sighed.

"There is. But do you understand what I’ve said up to now?”

"Not really, no,” Smith answered with the air of a man just marking time until he can get away.

"Major Smith, I know it’s a lot not only to take in but to believe, but it really is important. I have traced the history, and I’ve studied scrolls and tablets and stone carvings to get this far. I have a mission and I need your help to see it through. I know it seems unreal but, believe me, you’re in it up to your neck and you need to choose a side before the side chooses you.” He sat back in his chair and looked at Smith frankly.

"You’ve got to admit, it’s all bloody queer, isn’t it?" Smith answered him defiantly. "What would you say if this was all suddenly thrown in your face, eh?”

"I never had that luxury, I was born to it. My father was in the Order, as was his father, ad infinitum.”

Smith looked at him and tried to puzzle him out. Why was he making such an effort? He didn’t seem mad but what he was saying was madness, complete and utter madness.

”Where are you actually from, then?" he finally asked.

Michael shrugged and tiredly said, "I’m not important here. The important thing is for you to know who everyone is, so stop interrupting and let me get on with what I’ve got to say. Can you do that?" A smile flashed through his features as he said this and the tension was once again broken.

"Fair enough, I’ll listen. But I want answers when you’re done. Is that a deal?”

"That’s fine with me; that’s exactly what I want. I want you to know what’s going on," he answered, putting out his hand to seal the pact. Smith took it.

"Where was I? Ah, Lilith. Now this is where it starts getting complicated. Lilith is also to be found in the ancient Sumerian legends.”

"Sumerian, I take it that’s pre-biblical?”

"Indeed, Lilith was a spirit who lived in a willow tree, tended by the Goddess Inanna. Inanna was the Goddess of love but that’s not important. Lilith wasn’t a goddess; she was only a demon or a spirit. That is, she was of the spirit world but didn’t belong to the pantheon of the Gods. Demons are by nature greedy and evil, and Lilith was no different from the others. She wanted power. For that reason, she hatched a plan and seduced the mortal king who ruled at that time, a king named Szaran—”

"I know this name. Maria told me about him yesterday.”

Michael nodded and ignored the interruption. "—and Szaran raised a mighty army to march on the Gods. It’s a bit more complicated than that, actually, but I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

"No, please, I want to hear this now.”

"It goes something like this: Szaran actually loved Inanna but he knew he didn’t stand a chance because he was only a mortal and she was already promised to Dumuzi who was a sort of divine shepherd. Lilith told Szaran that Inanna secretly desired him, not the shepherd, and all he had to do was raise a mighty army to crush the Gods and Inanna would be his for the taking."

Michael gave Smith a quizzical look to see if he had understood. Smith nodded for him to continue.

"Lilith, in the mean time, had slept with Szaran. She disguised herself as a beautiful maiden and, after a while, Szaran fell in love with Lilith, not Inanna, and he soon lost interest in waging a war. This obviously didn’t sit well with Lilith, who was only interested in power, so she gave Szaran an ultimatum: march on the Gods or lose her. So he raised his army and marched on the Gods.”

"Was she that beautiful?” Smith asked, thinking of Maria.

"Allegedly Solomon suspected the Queen of Sheba of being Lilith, but whether it was for her beauty I don’t know."

Michael gave Smith a waggish look. "No, I’m only joking. She was very hairy and apparently the Queen of Sheba also had very hairy legs, and that was a good example of Solomon’s wit. That she disguised herself as a beautiful young maiden is all the tablet says. How, I don’t know.”

"Aha, I see.” Though he didn’t.

"Anyway, the battle didn’t go too well for Szaran. At first they conquered the followers of the Gods. They decapitated all of their prisoners and impaled their heads on spikes. The legend has it that the ground ran red with their blood. But then the whole pantheon of the Gods brought their soldiers to the field. Chief among them was Utu, the Sun God, Inanna’s brother. Utu thought his sister was in danger and, according to legend, his rage was terrible. A mighty battle ensued, and when Szaran finally admitted defeat, after a battle that lasted seven years, Utu used his power over the sun to incinerate all Szaran’s followers. Szaran was cursed to forever hide from the sun and to only take sustenance from blood, be it human or animal. "

"Why the blood bit in the curse?” Smith asked.

"The battle raged for seven years, and in those seven years, a lot of people died. So you see, all that blood for Szaran’s greed—”

Smith broke in. "But it was Lilith’s greed that started it, not Szaran’s.”

"The God’s didn’t recognise Lilith as a cause of the war. Lilith was a demon, so it was in her nature to create havoc. Szaran, on the other hand, was a king and he should have resisted Lilith and carried on paying homage to the Gods. That’s why they only saw Szaran’s greed as the cause of the bloodshed and why he was cursed to roam the earth as a vampire, so he would then understand how precious the life blood is. Lilith was banished but otherwise untouched.”

"A vampire?” Smith pondered. "That can’t be right, though."

"Why not?”

"Downstairs, in one of the rooms, I saw a picture of the battle you just described to me." Smith waited until Michael nodded for him to go on. "The picture showed almost everything that you described. The heads on poles, the land awash with blood and a figure turning his face to hide from the sun’s rays.”

"And?" Michael was casual but puzzled.

"On the knights' armour there was a symbol. It’s the same symbol used by the French underground, the Cross of Lorraine. It’s also the symbol of the Eastern Orthodox Church. If he was a vampire, how could he be a Christian too? It doesn’t add up." Smith spread his hands to show he didn’t mean to be pedantic but it was a valid point.

"How very astute but I have to disappoint you on this. Although it is very much like the symbol used by the Orthodox Christians, it’s not the same. This symbol was also used in Sumeria where it had the title of 'Kad,' a word that meant both king and lord. The soldiers who fought for Szaran painted it on their shields and armour to show that they were fighting for a king, for a mortal and not for the Gods. So you see, it doesn’t mean that Szaran was a Christian. He couldn’t have been, anyway. This all happened thousands of years before people started to believe in the Christian God as we know him. The tablet where I read this was carved about two thousand BC. It was found in the remains of the ruined city of Ur by a knight called Henri of Lyon. He brought it back to the library of our Order and there it has stayed ever since.  As I mentioned earlier, we have access to records that no other institution in the world has or ever will have.”

"So you’re saying that my family and its entire heritage are based on legends of vampires, Sumerian vampires to be precise.” He was brisk, challenging.

Michael silently nodded.

"It’s quite a lot to accept, you know that my family were and are all vampires.”

"There’s more. 'The Book of Blood,’” breathed Michael.

"Of course, the bloody Book.”

"Lilith and Szaran were banished, but with them went the followers who had survived Utu’s massacre. They were not many but steadily their number grew. They were people who felt that it was up to mankind to decide its own destiny and not the Gods, people who were in awe of Szaran because he had tamed a demon, and those who were in awe of Lilith because she had fooled a king. For whatever reason, they joined the movement. Among them also grew a cult, a cult that worshipped blood and gave human sacrifice to Szaran and Lilith. The Gods were not blind to this and they gave the pair a warning. Still their number grew until they had another army that could face up to the Gods. 'The Book of Blood' came into being at this time. In it were the names of Lilith and Szaran. It also told the legend of the war with the Gods and their story up to that point, albeit a somewhat one-sided account of what had happened.”

"I’d forgotten about the blasted book," Smith acknowledged. "That’s the main reason I’m here, isn’t it?”

"Yes, and it’s the main reason you were sent away. Let me continue and it’ll all become clear.”

Smith nodded and sat back again.

"Szaran and Lilith hadn’t learnt their lesson and they marched against the Gods a second time. This time Utu’s dreadful sun destroyed them all. They attacked at night but that didn’t save them. Utu raised the sun against them and lit the night time heavens as if it were day. So the story goes, Szaran and Lilith fled as soon as they saw the Sun God and that is why they survived. They left Sumeria with the 'Book' and were not seen for a long, long time. Their absence stirred up more rumour than if they had stayed, and soon the 'Book of Blood' had become legend. The 'Book' turned up in ancient Greece where it was called the 'Biblion Haimatos.' The Greek witches that worshipped Hecate held it sacred and protected it. Throughout the ages, misguided cults and secret societies protected it and thus kept Lilith alive. Its very being seemed to feed Lilith and her power grew. Szaran aged, as every mortal does, but Lilith lived on. She made prophesies and had them committed to the book, prophesies that have, up to now, all come true."

Michael finished and sat back. He said nothing and watched Smith for a reaction.

"That’s it? That’s the story up to now or is there more? There must be more, surely. What’s in the book, where is it, what’s it to do with me and—?” he stopped in mid flow as he caught Michael’s knowing smile.

"So you do believe me, then?”

Smith recovered his composure. "Well, you hadn’t finished or had you?” Smith explained. "So you might as well finish so I can make my mind up.”

"Right, but first I need a drink. I’m thirsty.” Michael stood and went to a jug on a shelf. He poured two glasses of water and sat back down.     "The first name in the 'Book' is Lilith's. The second is Szaran's, her lover. The third is the name of their son, Pfahl. Pfahl was the first and the last boy child born to a vampire in this bloodline, until you and your brother appeared. Nothing for thousands of years and then two in one go, just as Lilith foretold.”

"My God, she predicted my birth; what does that mean, then?" asked a very dazed Smith.

Michael ignored him and ploughed on. "The other names are Thrace, who started the first vampire plague. Baloch who fought a war against the first Christians and almost won, and Daziel who coordinated the round-up of the Knights Templar under Pope Clement in 1307. Then came your father, Szoltan. Szaran died a natural death but the rest, from Pfahl onwards, are just resting until the next plague. If you give Lilith a child, that is if you sleep with Iullia, you will start the next wave. The curse of Utu will have been broken because the Son of Utu has lain with Lilith and vampires will be free to stalk the day. Make no mistake, James, you are who the count says you are. You are his twin brother and you are, as was prophesised by Lilith in the 'Book of Blood', the Son of Utu.”

"Why only the Sun God’s curse? I mean, why will they still be vampires who walk the day and not be turned back to humans?”

Michael pondered the question briefly. "Good question. The thing is that the ancient Gods turned them into vampires, dependant on blood, but it was only Utu who cursed them to roam the night. There is no way they could break a curse put on them by the whole pantheon of Gods, but they do have a chance to break just one God’s curse.”

”I see, so why don’t they break one curse at a time?”

"It’s taken nigh on four thousand years to break the one curse. How long do you think it would take to break one made up by all the Gods? Besides, I think they like the idea of being on the top of the food chain. If they succeed, and are able to hunt the day, mankind is lost. We will be cattle to them, to be slaughtered and used as they want. The Dracyl has no interest in becoming human again. He wants to rule over us, not be one of us.”

Smith took it all in as stoically as he could but an edge of panic crept into his voice. "I still don’t understand—why me? I’m not a vampire, I can’t be, I’m British.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief and, after pondering for a second. "I thought you said Maria is Lilith? Where does this Iullia come into all this?”

"She is, but Lilith has split her power between Maria and Iullia. That’s why your brother is in control and not Lilith. Lilith has been weakened by having to control two bodies. I’m not sure why. Perhaps she’s scared that the curse will backfire on her or she’s too vain for pregnancy, or God knows what. However, Iullia will carry the child. After its birth, I suppose she will vacate Iullia and go back to Maria’s body. When Lilith is whole again, she will have unlimited power. Think about it: the Old Gods are all gone, she’s beaten the curse and she has the 'Book.' There will be no stopping her and she’ll rule over the second plague like a Goddess. Your brother will be the eighth name in the 'Book' and your son will be the ninth. You, as the Son of Utu and therefore the medium for the change, will be the tenth. You will either be exalted by the second plague or you will die.”

Smith looked horrified until Michael added, "I don’t know, I’m only guessing the last part and, to be honest, I’m not really sure of the order of names after your brother. It could be you next or it could be your son.”

"What am I meant to do? Sleep with Iullia, have a baby and break a two thousand year curse? Does the 'Book' really say that? I still can’t accept that I’m in some book written by someone I’ve only known for two days.”

"I haven’t read the book—I haven’t even seen it—but I know from other sources that the son of Utu will either be the catalyst for a second plague or the end of the bloodline. I think you were sent away so that, when the time was right, they could send for you and manipulate you to do their bidding. I know they had familiars and servants keep an eye on you the whole time, and I know they picked Britain because the people aren’t as superstitious as on the continent, and I also know that you are not a vampire, not yet, anyway.”

Smith started. "Not yet!” he spluttered. "What the hell does that mean, ‘not yet'?”

"I’m sorry, James, but it’s in your blood. It just hasn’t been aroused yet. At some time or other you will change and I think it will probably be at some sort of initiation ceremony. It’s latent within you but, because you haven’t accepted it yet, it will just lie dormant until it’s called forth.”

"I am not a bloody vampire!”

"Not now, you’re not, but soon it could all change—or it might not. I'm not sure.” He paused and leant forward. "But all is not lost. It doesn’t have to be like that. The onus is on you, English. Do you want to join them or do you wish to fight for humankind?”

There was no question of joining them. Though he wasn’t sure if he believed everything he’d heard, he knew instinctively that he stood on the brink of the void and the hurricane was at his back pushing him over.

"I am not a vampire," was all he said by way of an answer.

"Not yet, not yet.”

"Never! Can we fight this?"

"That’s why I’m here. This has been a fight that has lasted hundreds of years. Up until now, they’ve always won. There is a way but it’s not all that clear what we have to do, and I was hoping that you might have an idea.”

"Me?" Smith exclaimed. "How the hell would I know what to do? I’ve only just found out. I was hoping you’d know what to do.”

"It’s not that easy,” Michael admitted with some embarrassment. “The signs are there and I think the tools, weapons, or whatever you want to call them, are to hand. The trick is knowing how to use it all. I’m pretty sure the tree in the village, as Maria calls it, is involved but otherwise I don’t know. We have to get our hands on the 'Book.' It’s as simple as that.”

"Oh my God," whispered Smith. "What the hell are we going to do? We’ve got to do something now. We haven’t got the time to puzzle it out first. Did you just turn up here hoping to be able to work it all out in time or do you have a definite plan of attack?”

"Look, this is no time for recriminations. We’ve got to work together to try and find out if we can do something. If not now, then we’ll have to leave and come back when we know what to do. My task, first and foremost, was to contact you and inform you of the situation. That I’ve done already. As long as you don’t go hopping into bed with Lilith, which you’ve already halfway done, we’ve got a chance. Luckily we know Iullia is the one to be, er, impregnated. You’ve just got to stay away from her and keep your trousers on. Should be a snap if you’re as British as I think you are.”

Smith remained serious. "I’m glad you find it all so amusing. So what exactly are the signs, tools, weapons?”

A sharp rap on the door startled the pair of them. Without waiting, Maria stormed in. There was a second’s pause and Michael stood up. She barked something at him in Romanian as Smith wordlessly looked on.

Michael nodded and left the room.

"Come, James, we need to talk." Maria's tone accepted no refusal and she was visibly shocked when Smith declined.

"Actually, old girl, I’m whacked, what with hiding from the Germans all night.”

"The Germans are Romania’s allies or don’t you know that?" she countered.

"Don’t give me that. You know exactly what I mean. What is going on here, Maria? Why is it that one day after my arrival a squad of Germans, SS if I’m not mistaken, turn up? If it hadn’t been for Michael, I would have been long gone now.”

"You’re in no danger, James, believe me. You’re under your brother’s protection.”

"Whatever, I’m jiggered, so if you don’t mind, I’ll turn in for the day, which seems to be the done thing in my family."

Smith walked past her and left for his room.

Michael smiled secretly to himself.

Chapter 18

Von Struck’s men spent an easy day cleaning weapons and patching uniforms. They ate in the stables, swapping stories about their individual and shared experiences. From the safety of reflection, events that had been dreadful and grotesque were now vaguely amusing or downright hilarious.

Rohleder, as was his style, had started the ball rolling with an anecdote about the patient in the bed next to him in hospital. He always looked over to Rohleder in pity as he surveyed the Rottenführer's scarred and melted flesh. However, Rohleder had felt even more pity for his neighbour who had been neatly castrated by a stray piece of shrapnel.

Only Henning and Rohleder had been in long enough to remember the advance into Russia that had faltered and then been turned on the banks of the Volga. Henning had taken part in the attempt to seize Stalingrad and Rohleder had lost his brother, the last remaining member of his family, there. The newer recruits listened silently as they heard about the triumphant advances into the Eastern territories and of how entire villages had greeted them in the Ukraine as deliverers from the hated Russian Communists.

In the eyes of the Ukrainians, they had invaded as benevolent liberators. However, the truth of their situation turned out to be as sour as milk left out in the sun. The Germans had come as conquerors and benevolence had no place in their conquest. Henning had seen the look of betrayal in the eyes of the 'delivered' women and children, and had felt ashamed, ashamed at the round-ups of suspected Communists who always turned out to be old men over sixty, ashamed at the naked fear the young women showed when they marched into a village or town, ashamed at the sight of desperately hungry children scrabbling for scraps because the German army had confiscated the village’s food for the Third Reich. It was shame that struck the death knell of his love affair with National Socialism.

He looked around at the young faces of Rohleder’s squad. They were all under twenty and yet had the air of men who knew the world. They squabbled and argued, and yet he knew they would gladly lay down their lives for each other. They were Rohleder’s Boys and they were proud of the fact that they had been taken into his care.

There was also an irony to Rohleder’s situation that was not lost on Henning. Michael Rohleder would, in a National Socialist environment, normally have been an outcast. In a society that hated the ugly, shunned the disrespectful, and locked up the cynical; Rohleder should have been a prime candidate for the camps. And yet, perversely, all these young soldiers would, without question or thought, willingly give their lives for their scarred and sarcastic Rottenführer. They looked at him and saw through the scar tissue. They only saw the experienced veteran who had taken them under his wing and moulded them to be the hardy, battle-tried, professional brotherhood that they were.

Henning examined them one by one as they bantered with each other. He hadn’t known them before but, from the first, he’d felt as at ease with them as had they with him. Rohleder’s recommendation had been enough for them all to know that everyone was of the same mind-set. They were all tall, a pre-requisite for joining the Waffen SS, and gaunt and pale from their exertions in the East. Otherwise they looked like just another rabble of young soldiers.

Nils Muschinski, the Bavarian, was the loudest and the youngest. Fast-tracked for promotion after numerous feats of bravery, he’d been the rising star of the company. However, the jealousy of his comrades caught up with him and he was reported for telling jokes about a certain failed chicken farmer who was now the head of the SS. He had kept the rank of Sturmann in recognition of his bravery, but knew that he had now ceilinged at that grade.

The other Bavarian, Jurgen Muntner, was one of the oldest of the squad. Scornful of officialdom and rank, he had consistently turned down promotions since joining four years before. The only authority he recognised was that of SS Rottenführer, Michael Rohleder, who had more than proven himself worthy to lead. Von Struck and Henning were approved of but, in his eyes, still on probation, not that they knew it.

In direct contrast to the good-natured Paderborner, Andreas Schneiderat, was the dour and serious Leipziger, Bernd Grand. Solid as a rock, and twice as hard to move, SS Oberschütze Grand was the strong silent one in the squad. He was as big as Henning but seldom gave comment and, when he did, it was always measured and mainly negative. He was the best machine gunner in the troop and, if it were not for the persistent questioning of his superiors, he too would have been put on accelerated promotion.

Matheus Nau and Thorsten Gruhn came in a double pack. Rohleder had been given them straight from training and had consequently moulded them to his form. Fearlessly brave but irreverent, corrupt and yet doggedly loyal, they were both brother and competitor to each other. Nau hailed from Soltau and Gruhn from the Baltic island of Fehmarn. They both spoke the Northern German dialect called Platt-Deutsch as their first language and had been warned on many occasions about cursing officers in a foreign tongue.

All looked up to their Rottenführer as their true leader, a man who, had they all been true-to-the-party civilians back in Germany, they would have ignored and even despised.

"Such are the turns of fate,” Henning pondered to himself.

The afternoon dragged on. They slept, ate, washed and generally lounged around until the evening. Henning was just counting his winnings from a game of cards with Rohleder and Muschinski as Von Struck walked in. "Gambling is the Devil’s game, Herr Oberscharführer."

Von Struck smiled.

"I’ll play with him when I see him. ‘Til then I’ll make do with his apprentice,” Henning absently replied without looking up.

"That’s rich coming from you. Even Old Nick would have a hard job keeping up with your cheating," growled Rohleder.

Muschinski grunted in agreement.

"We’re out tonight. The good doctor has just told me we’re to march to the barracks to meet the legendary vampyrs." And then, as an aside to Henning, "They’ll have to send a guide. I hope they do anyway. This area is not on the map and I don’t have a clue where the barracks are.”

Henning shrugged. "That’s not our problem, Boss. If they need us, they’ll come for us."

"Is that coffee I smell, Michael, my old and trusted friend?" Von Struck sniffed.

"Ersatz, but you’re more than welcome to try out our new improved Romanian blend.” Rohleder grinned, offering a tin mug filled with a steaming liquid the colour of tar.

*  *  *

It was just before four when Maria came for them. She strode into the stables to find them sleeping but dressed ready for movement.

"Standartenführer?" she queried through the gloom.

"Here. Are you the guide?” He stood up and stepped forward to look at her in the light of the doorway.

She was beautiful. He could almost hear his heart pounding as he stared like a breathless adolescent at her. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth and he didn’t trust himself to speak. She awoke long forgotten stirrings in him that the East had all but buried. Desires he thought had been sated in the field brothels came back with a voracity that broke all barriers. The sexual awakening drowned out all other thoughts and he had to physically shake his head to gather his wits.

She smiled demurely at his obvious discomfort. "I’m to take you to the barracks.”

"Fall in outside, lads," Henning ordered, kicking them awake. They filed out, each one eyeing her as they passed. She relished the attention but didn’t acknowledge it, and Von Struck felt vaguely resentful.

They marched around the building and into the wood. The way was dark and the only light was Maria’s torch. Luckily, the path was free of debris and seemed well used.

The ring of cottages was deserted, lit by small fires that cast eerie shadows into the wood surrounding it. Maria followed a route around the edge of the buildings, on the periphery of the light thrown out by the fires.

The great oak in the middle dominated the circle like an all-seeing entity. Its immense presence seemed to bear down on them and the vast branches reached out like clawing arms. The mood of the squad darkened and tensed. Nobody articulated the oak's existence but all felt it as they passed. The only sound to be heard was the crunch of snow under their boots as each wrapped himself in his own thoughts and reservations.

Before long they reached the meter-high wall that surrounded the barracks. The building looked completely out of place in the wood. Three stories high, with white walls and a slate roof, it resembled a German barrack block and the men found an indistinct comfort in the recognition.

Von Struck saw the count and the doctor waiting for them at the main door to the building which they reached and stood round in a circle. The men ignored Rasch and the count as they leered at Maria in the raw light of her torch. She seemed unaware of their attention.

"Standartenführer, can’t the men fall in so they resemble a military unit and not a crowd of sightseers?" quibbled Rasch in a loud whisper.

"Remember what I said about how you handle the men, Doctor?" Von Struck warned.

Rasch backed down and turned to the count.

"So, Your Excellency, Standartenführer Von Struck has arrived. May we continue?”

Without a word, the count turned and walked into the building, followed by Rasch and the men.

Von Struck lingered at the back and turned to study Maria. To his horror, and secret delight, he found her openly staring at him. He nodded awkwardly and looked away.

Maria privately sneered and followed them.

Von Struck stood alone in front of the doorway for a minute to catch his thoughts. What was it with this woman? What had she done to him?

The doorway stood dark and foreboding before him and he suffered a brief premonition of doom.

He hesitated, entered and was soon swallowed up by the impenetrable blackness.

Chapter 19

It was dark when Michael rapped on his door. He waited but there was no answer. He knocked once more and went in.

Smith had spent the day in his room. He had eaten there and feigned sleep as Maria had looked in on him.

When Michael walked in, his face turned from apprehension to relief when he saw it wasn’t her. "I thought it was Maria.”

Michael closed the door behind him. He was dressed to go outside and had on a long coat and Cossack boots.

"As I was saying this morning before we were interrupted, we know that the tools are here but we don’t know what they are. What we’ve got to find out is—"

Smith cut him off. "Now just wait a minute here, I haven’t even decided whether I believe your story or not.”

"You’ve got to believe me. There’s so much to do and your quibbling about whose side you’re on is not being very helpful.”

Smith opened his mouth to defend himself and closed it again. He got up off the bed. "What are we going to do?”

Michael nodded curtly. "We’ve got to find the book. If we find it, we’ve got a chance to extract the knowledge from it to destroy them.”

They talked while Smith dressed.

"Where do you think it is, then, this book?”

"Marik and Maria have both got keys for the crypt under the building. I’ve got Marik’s key. He sleeps at night. I’ll put it back when we’re finished.”

"Right, let’s go then."

Smith shrugged on his coat, patted his pistol and slung on his Stengun. He felt good now that he was doing something. With a weapon in his hands, he felt a bit more in control of his destiny.

They moved quickly along the corridor and down the steps to the door of the crypt. "Stay close. It will be dark and I don’t want us to get split up.”

Michael creaked open the door that was as ancient as the rest of the castle, paused before the blackness and walked down the steps. Smith closed it after him but didn’t lock it.

The stench of putrefaction was nearly overpowering.

"My God, it stinks down here. What the hell is that?" Smith whispered.

"It’s the book. The closer we get to the book, the more the decay and rot. That’s why upstairs is relatively clean and downstairs is so filthy. Here, of course, it’s even worse.”

It took a while for Smith's eyes to get used to the dark. Michael struck a flint and wordlessly lit a torch. When it was burning, he gave it to Smith and lit one for himself.

The walls seemed to suck in the light of their flaming torches. Michael turned to Smith and whispered, "As I said, stay close. The book is near. I can feel it, can you?”

"All I can feel is the bloody cold,” Smith retorted. "Let’s get this over with before I catch my death.”

Michael nodded and turned to move off. They set a good pace, blindly following their noses. After ten minutes they came to the main chamber where a sarcophagus dominated the middle of the room.

They approached it slowly.

"This is where your brother sleeps.”

"You have got to be joking.”

”Now do you have any doubt as to what I told you about your family? Do you accept what I’ve told you as the truth?”

Smith didn’t answer. Something glinted in the torchlight in one of the passages leading off from the crypt. He walked over to it and saw that it wasn’t a passage but a small room. On the far end of the room was an altar and on it lay an object obscured by a shroud.

He called Michael who let out a whoop of triumph when he realised what it was. The smell of corruption had been bad in the crypt but here, in the altar room, it was unbearable. They covered their faces with their sleeves to try and filter the air but it was to no avail. The stench was too strong. It felt like breathing treacle.

The shroud was acting as a form of altar cloth covered in bizarre symbols, the form of which Smith couldn’t relate to any religion he knew.

"Sumerian,” muttered Michael as he drew the cloth off.

The book was bound in hide. "Human skin,” Michael elaborated. "Taken from Szaran’s first wife, the one he left for Lilith.”

Smith shuddered as he surveyed the binding. It was covered with what looked like old brown leather. There was no writing or markings of any kind, but the spine of the book had two large golden-coloured hinges and it was held together by a large lock with a key protruding from it.

"Open it up,” said Smith. "See what’s inside.”

"No, we’ve got to get away from here. We have the book but we don’t know how to use it, or even how to read it, for that matter, or can you read ancient Sumerian?”

Smith looked at him to see if he was joking and shook his head.

"Right, wrap it in that cloth and let’s go, then.”

They turned back to the crypt, only to find their way barred. Framed in the doorway stood the hulking silhouette of Marik, the ancient and decrepit manservant, but now his ears, nose and mouth had elongated to take on canine features.

Smith noticed the frayed remnants of a collar and cuffs and blurted out his recognition. "It’s the bloody butler."

The creature's clawed hands, large as shovels, opened and closed in animated tension as it took in the scene before it. It was breathing heavily through its mouth, almost panting, and great icicles of saliva hung from its overgrown canines.

Growling menacingly, it took a step forward.

It eyed them both in turn and looked at the book before growling again. Time stopped for Smith as he realised that he was facing a werewolf.

Acting on instinct, in the blink of an eye he unslung his machine gun, cocked it and fired off the whole magazine. The sound was deafening but the rounds had no effect on the beast which looked down at the holes in his torso before advancing another stalking pace forward. The bullets that had been absorbed by its body were now being expelled through the entrance wounds, making a muffled pinging sound as they landed like discarded trinkets.

Shaking his head, Michael gave Smith the book and put up the torch to use as a weapon.

"Fire!" he exclaimed, looking from Marik to Smith. "They fear fire." Then with a sound like a large pair of scissors opening up, he produced a sword. "Fire, silver and the words of the Lord.”

He advanced on Marik with the flame held at head height and the blade pointed at his middle, chanting under his breath with every step. Marik, roaring like a lion, took a pace back and then another until he was backed onto the sarcophagus and could retreat no further.

Smith watched, mute with fear, as Michael trapped it and slung away his weapon to pick up the discarded torch.

Marik dashed to Michael’s left in an effort to get by him. Michael blocked him with the flame and sliced with his sword. The werewolf howled in pain as the metal cut through the bone of his left arm from the elbow down. It fell to the ground and blood hosed out of the stump, catching them both, before Marik ran off, howling and whimpering into the dark.

"He’ll be back soon, so we’ve got to go. Come on.” Michael ran off. Smith followed and they sprinted out of the crypt. After a few minutes of wild fleeing, they both stopped simultaneously. "Do you know where we are?” Michael gasped.

Smith could only shake his head. Behind them, invisible in the dark, they could still hear Marik’s’ snorting and growling.

"He’s not howling anymore," Smith noted.

"Werewolves possess enormous powers of rejuvenation. The arm won’t grow back yet but it soon will. He’ll also be angry because the pain will have dulled to a healing itch.”

Smith could only nod. "I can’t believe we’re talking about werewolves here.” He looked at the sword. It was hinged in the middle of the spine of the blade and held together by thin metal clasps. "Where did that come from?" he asked.

"I’ll tell you later. I have one made of silver as well. It's just a pity it isn't here. Come on, we’ve got to keep moving."

He dashed off and Smith followed.

It was as Smith’s torch went out that Marik caught up with them and pounced on his back. Smith heard him coming up from behind but had refused to believe it was Marik. Denial comes easy to the hunted. Crashing down under Marik’s weight, he felt the teeth bite deep into his left shoulder. There was no pain; just a nauseating tug as the werewolf started ripping at the wound.

He screamed in fear and tried to bat over his shoulder with the now smouldering torch. The Stengun was trapped on his back and the book had flown from his hands and was lying open in front of him. From the floor he could see that Michael had stopped and turned around. Smith heard the whoosh of the blade and the thud as it bit into the werewolf’s neck and nearly severed the head.

Smith cried out in agony as pain shot through his body like a lightning bolt. He watched Michael’s boots walk around him, stop and pick up the book.

"I can’t help you now, English.” He turned to go.

Smith’s eyes felt heavy. A stalking coldness was washing over him. Prone on the floor, he watched as Michael turned back and crouched down.

"I will come back, but for now you’ve got to stay with them here. They need you as a vampire and that is why they will stop the lycanthrope infection. Trust me on this. I’ll be back to help you, and Iullia.”

"Iullia?" Smith croaked.

The name was familiar to him but his fevering brain couldn’t grasp who she was.

"She was a nun before they stole her away to be their womb for your seed. She is also my sister. Stay strong, English. Remember that I will come for you.”

Smith failed to catch the last promise. By then he had slipped into painless oblivion.

Chapter 20

Von Struck walked in after Maria and the dark swallowed them all. Gruhn was the first to switch on his torch. The beam was weak but reassuring, and soon they were all holding illuminated flashlights. Although from the outside the building looked to be three separate stories, it was in fact one big hall. Unlike the main building, the tiled floor and the stone walls were free from dust and dirt. No candles and no decoration of any kind were visible. Thick black curtains, obviously designed to block out the light, closed off the windows. There was nothing for them to see until they looked up.

Running the entire length of the walls were ledges. They were evenly stacked with roughly two meters’ headroom between them. Perched on these ledges, barely silhouetted in their weak beams, squatted the count’s soldiers.

Not a soul moved. As their eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark, they were able to make out more detail. The ledges were many but the soldiers were few. There were thirty soldiers, if that, Von Struck counted, but enough space for a hundred times that number.

Rasch looked at the count who in the torchlight looked to be grinning in triumph and pride. The count spread his arms with a flourish and announced, "These are my soldiers of the night. Together, Dr Rasch, we will expand their numbers and take your war in the East to new dimensions.”

Rasch was lost for words. He had known what to expect but the confrontation with the reality of it had astounded him. Here in this hall was the beginning of a vampire army, vampires who were willing to fight for the Third Reich and the new utopian Nazi Europe. How could they fail now? In his mind’s eye he could already see his triumphant return to Berlin. He would be a hero, and not just in the scientific world. The whole of the new world order would know his name and sing his praises. He just had to leap one last hurdle and their worship of him would be his for the taking.

The Squad looked around as one.

"What the—" muttered Muntner to himself, but they were the only words voiced. They felt no fear for they were in friendly territory but the strangeness of the situation was hard to comprehend in one go. They stared open-mouthed and dispassionate at the crouching shadows above them.

After at least a minute, Rasch broke the silence. “It will soon be dawn, Your Excellency. Do you wish to pick a volunteer?”

"Of course." He clicked his fingers and one of shadows jumped down to where they were. He fell slowly from a height of twenty meters and landed like a feather. An audible gasp arose from Von Struck’s squad and Rasch angrily turned on him. "Didn’t you brief your troops as I ordered you to?”

Von Struck was shaken but he didn’t need to let Rasch know it. He stared at him for a second as if he were mad and then, "Of course I didn’t, Rasch. They would have thought I was as touched in the head as you are.”

Meanwhile the squad had collectively unslung their rifles. It was dark and they were suddenly nervous. The wrongness of what they had just seen had struck home and Von Struck knew that if they were left to act on their own they would soon be firing.

"Easy now, men." He turned to them. "These are our allies. I know it seems strange but don’t forget that they’re on our side … " He went on placating them until one-by-one they pointed their weapons down to the ground. They muttered among themselves, loudly whispering questions and listening to his hushed replies.

The count looked on in obvious amusement.

"Just think, Herr Doctor, if that is the effect my soldiers have on our allies, imagine what effect they have on the enemy.”

"Indeed, Your Excellency." Rasch could hardly contain his anger and was already writing up his report on what had happened in his head. Nevertheless, he affected a casual air and turned to the count’s volunteer. "Shall we proceed?”

It was dressed in the black parade uniform of the Waffen SS. The tunic was bare except for the SS runes on the collar and a thin armband with 'Vampyr' stitched along its length. Powerfully built and tall, it wore no headdress and its white, shaven head seemed tiny in comparison to its massive shoulders. Its eyebrows were equally bare. The ears were big and pointed, as was its nose, and it studied them with the cruel intelligent eyes of a cat studying a nest of mice. Its hands were large and the nails long and it smiled slowly at Von Struck’s squad so that they all saw the mouth full of razor-sharp incisors. On its belt hung a scabbard, but no sword.

"Someone should tell him the nail-file is for his nails and not his cakehole,” whispered Rohleder to nobody in particular.

Rasch studied it unashamedly, trying to place it on the tree of humanity. "Amazing," he whispered to himself. "Are all your, err, soldiers so formed?" In his eagerness to study the beast he had forgotten his usual obsequious demeanour.

"Yes, Herr Doctor. When they become one of mine, the change is complete and lasting. Only on my death will they revert to their former selves. The metamorphosis is painful but quick. About an hour all told.”

"Fascinating …” Rasch trailed off.

"I see that you find them as beautiful as I do, Herr Doctor." It was Maria. She had kept to the back the whole time but now came forward to where they stood. "The perfect soldier,” she crooned while caressing its shoulder. "And the perfect predator. Strong, fit, fearless and, above all, loyal.” She turned to Von Struck. "Isn’t that the quality the Waffen SS admire most, Standartenführer? Loyalty?” She half-smiled. ”Meine Ehre heißt Treue …”

"That is our motto, yes, but I prefer competence to loyalty. It aids in survival." He smiled coolly but his insides squirmed like a bag of maggots.

"It truly is awe-inspiring. You say that he is one hundred per cent committed?”

Rasch wanted to discuss the specimen in depth but the count cut him off. "Herr Doctor, sunrise nears and I wish to see the fruits of your labours.” The count ushered him on. Rasch nodded and they followed the count to a door at the other end of the hall.

As they walked the length of the hall, Von Struck’s squad raised their weapons again. Their steps echoed on the tiled floor and the volume of the echo only served to disturb them even more.

"What the hell is all this?" Henning whispered to Rohleder.

"I don’t know, but right now I’d sooner be in the East facing Ivan than here with our ‘allies.’”

"Me too," echoed Muschinski.

"What’s gotten into Markus?" Henning hissed. "I don’t like this at all.”

"Me neither. He’s drooling over that bloody woman like a damn rapist. I hope he doesn’t fuck this up for the sake of his dick,” Rohleder lamented.

They muttered their discontent until they came to a set of double doors at the other end of the hall. The count swung them open and led them into a large courtyard of about three hundred meters square. It was surrounded on all sides by ten meter high walls and had another double door at the opposite end to where they now stood.

"We’ll conduct the test here, Herr Doctor,” said the count. "I’ll wait inside for the results which I’m sure will be positive." He was straight-faced and businesslike. "Report to me when it’s finished.”

"Of course, Your Excellency," and then to Von Struck, "Standartenführer, would you form the men up somewhere out of the way?”

They moved off in a rabble to the wall on the left, flapping their arms and stamping their feet against the pre-dawn chill. Von Struck wanted to go with them but he knew that Rasch would see it as a sign of weakness, so he stayed where he was.

Rasch opened up his modest doctor’s case and set about preparing the syringe. Von Struck stared at the vampire who seemed oblivious of the men. It was staring straight ahead at the halo of red that hung above the wall, the soft glow on the clouds signifying the coming of the new dawn and possibly his death.

Rasch injected him and stood back. "No need to worry. All will be over soon." He smiled at the vampire. "Nothing will happen. Just stand there, there’s a good fellow.”

He sounded almost kindly and Von Struck was shocked at the compassionate tone from the normally sterile doctor.

Rasch noticed his expression and quietly explained. "As I conducted my experiments in the camps, I found the test subjects easier to deal with if I affected a soothing tone of voice. Inane platitudes breed hope in even the most tragic of the lost, Markus."

Von Struck nodded as if that explained everything and turned away from Rasch in loathing to observe the creature. It was agitated and although it stood stock-still and silent, they could both make out the turmoil of fear in its eyes. Slowly, as unhurried as the blooming of a flower, the sun’s rays crept ever outwards. The vampire now looked around as if searching for some form of cover, but the snow-decked courtyard had only the shadows of the walls for protection. And yet, despite its’ growing panic, it didn’t move from its place. Rasch examined it as its fear of the sun and its fear of the count inwardly fought for control. "Fascinating," he muttered.

Von Struck turned in disgust.

"Don’t you want to watch, Herr Standartenführer?" The lilt of mockery in Rasch’s voice almost turned him but he carried on walking towards where the men now lined the wall.

"What’s happening, Boss?" It was Henning who put voice to their expectant faces.

"An abomination, that’s what’s happening. Rasch has made a serum to protect the count’s vampires from the sun’s rays. This is his first test. This is why we’re here, to watch that sick bastard do his experiments."

No one said a word. They had all seen the count’s soldiers. They knew with what they were dealing but until now no one had used the word ‘Vampire’ to describe what they were seeing.

"Holy Mother of God," whispered Muntner.

"The Undead,” echoed Grand.

Henning shook his head in amazement. "Soldiers of the night—”

"Exactly. Soldiers of the night," Von Struck confirmed for them.

"What if it doesn’t work?" asked Muschinski. "What then?”

"We’ll soon find out, Muschi," Rohleder answered him. "The sun’s up.”

He was right. The shadows behind the wall were slowly draining away as the sun’s rays solidly advanced on the test subject. Though still decked in shadow, it radiated terror like a lighthouse beacon, and despite the fact that it was a vampire, the squad now found a waxing pity for it. Rooted to the spot, it pathetically held up its arms to protect itself from the dazzle.

Reflected off the snow, the light was blinding, and like a cleansing sword it swathed its brilliant curtain into the square. With almost a glint it struck the vampire’s head and moved down its face and tunic. They all held their breath as the night was beaten back. No one knew what would happen. Finally, it was completely bathed in the brilliant dawn of the winter daybreak. They still held their breath as it slowly let its arms drop and turned to look at them.

Any compassion that they may have felt for it now fell like a cannonball as it turned and, like a gloating python, smiled at them. All inwardly shied away in horror from that reptilian sneer. It looked around to find Rasch and deliberately nodded its head to him.

Von Struck looked on as it opened its arms to greet the now fully-formed sun.

"My God, what have you done, Rasch?” Von Struck whispered to himself.

Rasch was ecstatic. "Look, Von Struck. Look at him. I’ve done it, I’ve done—" But his words fell dead in his throat. Von Struck looked at Rasch who had suddenly stopped raving. Rasch’s face had dropped and he stood there gaping, half-pointing at the count’s man.

The tunic of the vampire was smouldering, but from the inside. The vampire stood motionless, looking at its hands that were turning black and starting to peel. Blisters appeared on its face and it threw back its head to scream. Rasch flinched at the unholy shriek that was let loose. It was the scream of rage and agony, of panic and confusion. Rasch turned white and sprayed vomit onto his highly polished boots. The men lined up against the wall stood numb and silent at the sight of the immolation. Although they were used to death in all its many forms, they were still traumatised by what had happened.

Its once white head was now burnt black and then it burst into flame. It made no sound or movement after the first scream and stood immobile and burning like a Celtic wicker man. Its eyes burst with an audible pop and slowly it started to crumble and break up. The legs snapped first and, as it hit the ground, the charred and still flaming head came off. The light given off from the fire was now so intense that it was impossible to discern what was burning.

Rasch chanted to himself, "Oh my God, oh my God," over and over again.

The fire now raged around the body and the heat forced Rasch to take a step back. It took about ten minutes to burn out, and in those ten minutes only Rasch made a sound.

Finally, it was over. All that was left of the count’s soldier was a carpet of ash. Rasch, wild eyed and hysterical, looked to Von Struck. "What do we do now?”

Von Struck had no answer. He shrugged and turned to the men. "Put a round in the chamber. It could get uncomfortable now.”

Rifles were unslung and cocked.

"Rasch, I think you’d better go tell the count.”

The doctor stiffened with indignation and, resigned to the facts, dropped his shoulders and nodded." Yes, you’re right. Will you …” he hesitated to ask but forged on, "will you accompany me, please, Markus?”

There was a pause as Von Struck looked at the doctor and then to the charcoal patch in the snow. He nodded and said, "Of course, Herr Doctor, that’s why we’re here." And then to the men, "Let’s go.”

Surrounded by his bodyguard, Rasch went forward and timidly knocked. The door opened and once again they entered the darkened lair.

Once inside, the large doors slammed behind them. The instant darkness acted like a trigger and the vampires pounced en masse. Quicker than the human eye, they seized the weapons and held the men fast. Two vampires to each man, the squad was helpless. The count moved forward and into their sight.

"You have failed me, Doctor." He was calm. He stood in front of Rasch who audibly whimpered his fear. Rasch’s legs had given way and two vampires were supporting him at his side.

"I, I, this is, I don’t know … " he stuttered.

As Rasch mewled and pleaded, the count started to swell in size, in height as well as breadth. He was growing startlingly fast. His face contorted with the effort but he made no sound until he seemed to be eight feet tall and just as broad. His normally billowing lacy shirt and black trousers were stretched dangerously but they didn’t give or rip. His head had swollen with the rest of his body and his features were now longer and sharper so that he resembled one of his own troops. Von Struck’s squad, horror-struck and frozen by the metamorphosis, collectively jumped as the count gave vent to his anger.

"Failure was not an option," he bellowed. "Failure will only be rewarded by death.”

Like a child taking a doll, he grabbed Rasch. Rasch was by no means a small man—he was easily the tallest of them all—and yet the count now dwarfed him. Slowly, as if to prolong the act, he turned Rasch’s head and drew his neck to be bitten. Rasch squirmed and flailed in his grip but the count ignored his feeble protestations and easily manoeuvred him into position. His mouth stretched open to an impossible degree and teeth, like spring loaded daggers in slow motion, gradually extended from their sockets. A dark patch blossomed at Rasch’s crotch as he pissed himself and a fetid stench filled the air as his bowels voided audibly in sheer terror.

All watched, helpless and silent, as Rasch’s end played out. The vampire on Muntner’s left released his grip slightly to get a better view. Muntner saw his chance and shrugged him off. With a shout he slipped his SS dagger out of its sheath and swung it round to stab the vampire to his right in the neck. But the vampire soldier’s reactions were quicker; the blade was knocked to the ground and Muntner was once again helpless.

"You bastards!" he screamed. "We’re on the same side. We came to help and you treat us like this?”

The count dropped Rasch, who fell in a faint to the floor, and strode over to where Muntner stood. Muntner was undeterred and screamed his defiance at the count. The squad, taking their lead from their bold compatriot, started to struggle with their captors. It was all to no avail but their efforts unsettled the count who was only used to sheep-like submissiveness.

"What are you doing? Who do you think you are to look down on us? What are you, some kind of damned freak show ringmaster? You fucking Gypo bastards. Let me go, fucking let me go, you!”

"Enough!" the count roared in a voice that shook the very foundations of the building they were in.

Muntner fell silent. Then in a low growl that rumbled through the hall, “And who are you to shout at me as if I am a nothing?”

They all stopped their struggling as the count, with a speed that belied his size, seized Jurgen. He held him up with one hand so that his legs left the floor and dangled under him. With the other, he turned Muntner’s head to present his jugular. He slowly stretched his mouth again as he pulled him ever nearer. His jaws opened to that incredible angle and the white points of his teeth achingly reached out to Muntner’s exposed flesh.

From nowhere, Von Struck found his voice, stirring the insensible Rasch. "No!" he screamed. But it was too late. With a sickening crunch, the count bit into Muntner’s neck. Snarling, he greedily worried at the wound he’d made, slurping the blood noisily. It all happened in a flash and as quickly as the count had pounced, it was over. The Dracyl threw Muntner’s used body to the ground and stepped back. Jurgen lay motionless on the tiles. The sudden violence of the attack had stunned them all and once again no one moved or spoke.

Rasch, as if asking the time, broke the hush. "Is he dead, er dead…?”

The count gave no answer and stared at them as his body began to shrink back to its normal size. He smiled and started to wipe away the blood from his mouth. Taking in their anxious expressions, he shook his head in amusement and unhurriedly smoothed his slightly askew garments before answering. "No, my dear doctor, your brave comrade is not dead, well, not in the true sense of the word.” He let that hang in the air, enjoying the moment. "You took one of mine, so I have taken one of yours as a replacement." Gloating, he smiled once again.

Henning cut his preening short. Taken off guard, his captors lost their grip as he lunged. He threw a punch as he moved, hoping to connect with his whole bodyweight behind it. But with supernatural speed the vampire moved at the last minute and Henning followed his arm into space. He landed hard, rolled and turned, but he was too slow. The count stood above him and Wolfgang found his throat in the count’s talon-like hand.

"Don’t anger me, mortal. I can snap you like a twig. Your friend is now one of mine but he is not dead, not yet. You owed me a soldier so I took one. Be thankful you are on my side because if I thought you would want to start getting tiresome, then I could get angry.” He stood back and allowed Henning to get up. He turned to Rasch. "Was that a complete failure, Herr Doctor, or do you think you can succeed?”

Rasch woke up from his stupor and shook his head. "It worked, Your Excellency, it worked but then the effects seemed to wear off. I don’t know yet and I won’t know until I’ve done more tests. I’ll probably just need to increase the dosage or decrease the dilution, I just don’t—"

The count cut him short. "Yes, yes, I don’t want any more mistakes, do you hear me, or I’ll have to take another soul in recompense." He looked meaningfully at Rasch and stormed off into the darkness of the hall behind him. Maria, who had remained in the background the entire time, followed him.

Like arrows, the count’s soldiers took to the rafters and suddenly they were alone with Muntner’s broken body.

Rubbing his bruised arms Rohleder walked up to where Muntner lay. "Poor bastard. I can’t believe he gave his life for you, you arrogant fuck!"

"Herr Rottenführer, please. I am an officer and he was one of my bodyguards. He was doing his job.” Rasch was taken aback by the outburst and pleaded with Von Struck, "Please explain to the men—”

However Rohleder wasn’t finished. "I can’t believe it because he hated you. He hated you and all that you stand for. He hated you but he still tried to help you, to save you even though you’d shat your pants.” He turned back to Muntner again. "Poor bastard.”

"Now isn’t the time for this," Henning broke in, seemingly unruffled after his skirmish with the count.

"Henning’s right. We’ve got to regroup on this and get a plan together," agreed Von Struck. "Herr Doctor, what is it you have to do? If I lose any more men because of your mistakes—" He thought of the worse threat he could possibly make to Rasch. "I’ll be forced to write a very strongly worded letter of complaint to the Reichsführer SS himself indicating how well you handled the situation.” Standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes wandered from Rasch’s face down to his soiled trousers and dared him to be arrogant.

The haughtiness that had kept him afloat nearly all of his working life was all but used up and Rasch could only look down and shake his head. With tears in his eyes, he said, "I can’t believe it went wrong. I was so sure and—” He stopped and dropped his gaze to his feet again.

Standing in a circle around Jurgen Muntner’s now twitching body, they all wordlessly looked at Rasch as he wept the tears of his humiliation.

Rohleder made the first move to dispel their inertia. "Boss, let’s get back. This place gives me the creeps. Perhaps that bastard can think of something later on." He indicated the crying Rasch with his thumb and, with a disgusted look on his face, shook his head.

"Right, but we’ll have to leave Jurgen here. He’s one of them now.” They all nodded and mumbled their agreement.

Henning took control of the marching order. "Michael, Thorsten and Matze, take the front, the doctor and the boss in the middle, and the rest of us follow on. Any questions?”

There were no questions for they knew the drill, and they moved out with arms at the ready. Without looking once at the vampires above them, they passed through the hall and out into the brilliant morning sun. The dawn’s blinding rays helped burn off the residue of the nightmare they had just endured, but the memory of Jurgen Muntner’s body, drained and already transforming, was in the forefront of all their minds. They flinched in unison when he screamed in agony as the metamorphosis began in earnest.

Chapter 21

Smith came to in his bed. The wound throbbed and he warily probed the area where it hurt. He had been undressed, washed, bandaged and placed in his bed to sleep. He wondered who had nursed him. Even though he now knew the truth about Lilith, he half-hoped it had been Maria who had attended to him.

The door opened and Iullia walked in holding a bowl of steaming soup.

"You’re awake,” she smiled. Smith could only nod. He couldn’t take his eyes off what she was wearing. Sheer to the point of transparency, she wore a long silk nightdress that left nothing to the imagination. Smith automatically thought of Maria.

Her hair was down so as to frame her young and pleasing face, and emphasise her slim neck and shoulders. Even in his weakened state, he could feel the warmth of arousal swelling in his loins.

Iullia seemed unperturbed by his amazed expression and busied herself with the soup. "It’s a bit hot so you’ll have to blow on it before you eat. Can you manage or should I help?" She had a slight accent that he hadn’t noticed before. It sounded almost French and added to her charm.

"I think I can manage,” he answered.

She smiled and helped him to sit up, chatting all the while about how they had found him wandering the hall downstairs.

"You were quite dazed, and kept on rambling about a big dog or a wolf. I didn’t quite understand what you were saying. You were quite out of sorts so I brought you to your room and helped you get ready for bed. I washed the wound. Does it still hurt?”

He smiled at her chatty manner and marvelled at the difference in her since their last meeting. Slightly embarrassed, he turned his head up to look away from her gossamer threads and into her face.

Then he caught her eyes. They were on fire.

Her face held the purity of a cherub but her eyes danced with the glee of the devil. Michael’s words flooded back to him and his libido shrivelled like a salted slug.

"You look so alarmed, James,” she purred, moving to touch his face. He flinched as if burnt, gasping as a wave of pain radiated from his wound. He tried to push himself back, away from her, but she caught hold of his arm in a grip of steel and held him.

"Now now,” she cooed. "Nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen." She was on the bed, stroking his face with her other hand. She slid her hand down his neck to his shoulders and then across to his chest.

Smith was terrified. He instinctively knew that it was all wrong but he found his traitorous body reacting to her touch. He began to mentally chant, "Don’t, don’t, don’t,” over and over.

He strained back, away from her caress and her face turned to a look of rejected hurt. He was confused and torn by her iron grip, her blameless face and the ardent heat between his legs.

"Don’t you want me?" she asked, feigning tears. "Am I not good enough?”

She looked away in an apparent show of coyness. He opened his mouth to answer and for one mad moment he nearly said yes. But as his hand reached out to touch her, he saw from the corner of his eye the shadow of a sly smile. She turned her head back to him. Triumph lit up her face as she recognised his weakness and fell on him like a ravenous beast.

He tried to resist, grappling her off him, but her strength was born of the supernatural and she pushed him back down. She ripped the bedclothes off and straddled him. With one move, she removed her nightdress and manoeuvred her sex over his. She held him fast with one hand and with the other stroked his groin area.

To his horror Smith realised he was erect. She grasped him violently and moved to guide him into her. He made an almighty effort to push her off but screamed in agony as his wound burst under the strain. Despite his best efforts, Lilith’s power was stronger and Iullia plunged herself onto his engorged member. She rode him hard and fast. He tried to move from under her but it felt like a massive weight on top of him that pinned him to the bed, leaving him powerless and frozen.

Gnashing and grimacing, her face a diabolical mask of rage and evil, she milked him with her body, clawed at him, and left deep gouge marks down his shoulders and chest. The pain of the wounds was too much and Smith shut his eyes to scream his horror. Bending forward, she snarled and bit into his neck and shoulders, drawing blood. Against everything he wished for his body began to betray him, tensing for the impending climax. He tried to refuse her but could feel the gathering sensation in his lower abdomen as Iullia bucked ever faster on his helpless and prone form. He shook his head and wailed his denial repeatedly but nature took its course and, grunting, he involuntarily gushed inside her. She screamed in victory and release.

The climax seemed to go on forever and it felt to him like a large worm moving through his gut; thick and slimy. Iullia violently shuddered as it passed out of him and into her.

He opened his eyes and saw to his utter terror that Iullia's face had now changed. The unlined, youthful girl had been replaced by the ancient and evil reflection of the true Lilith. Thin wispy hair clung to an undersized head. Her eyes were red, hysterical and staring, her skin was like age-browned parchment and under a hooked nose there was a slavering mouth of enamel razors. Smith felt her presence envelope and smother him before he passed out into the untroubled haven of oblivion.

She drooled onto his chest and threw her head back to laugh. Maria and the count watched from the door.

"Have you finished?" he asked Iullia. She stopped laughing and sat bolt upright. She turned her head to the count and nodded.

"Yes,” Maria replied, looking at Iullia. "I have his seed and it now grows inside of me.”

She put her hands to her stomach and triumphantly turned to the count. "It’s growing, I can feel it already.”

"Has the Werewolf Germ passed over to you too?”

"Yes, I have that too,” she confirmed.

"You are sure; I don’t want him harmed in any way until the time is right.”

Maria answered and Iullia mouthed the words, "I have it. The germ will die when we kill the girl.”

The count nodded.

Iullia was now next to the bed, still naked and facing them, her body smeared with Smith’s blood and her hair matted and tangled. She came around to stand before them both.

"When is the birth?” the count asked. “We must get everything ready. There is so much to prepare.”

Once again, Maria answered but Iullia mouthed the words, "I’m not sure when the birth is but I do know that we don’t need your brother anymore. We should kill him now. I thought we would need the ceremony for him to change but I was wrong. It’s growing inside me now so that’s proof that he doesn’t have to be a vampire to father your son. I say he dies now.”

"No, what if something goes wrong? We don’t know for sure. You said yourself that you sometimes make mistakes. We wait until the birth and then he dies, the same time as the girl.”

"As it is written in the Book. As your mother died, so will your son’s mother," Maria acquiesced.

The count suddenly had a flash of inspiration. "No, even better, I’ll give him to the Germans to look after. I’ll explain that he’s my brother so he shouldn’t be mishandled but that he’s also a danger to the Reich and he should be locked away somewhere.” Pleased with himself, he turned to Maria and smiled as he elaborated on his idea. "After all, they are our allies now. We can’t be seen to be harbouring the enemies of our allies, can we? And if all goes wrong, we can bring him back." He laughed aloud his pleasure and Smith stirred at the sound.

"Have Michael clean him up and treat his wounds. I’ll keep him here for a while to—" He stopped talking.

"Where is Michael anyway? I haven’t seen him.”

"Michael,” Maria breathed. She had closed her eyes and now seemed to be concentrating very hard on something.

"He’s gone. He has the Book," she exclaimed. "The Cronica Insangerata!”

With a roar the count turned and stormed out of the bedroom. His only thought was to retrieve the Book, to give chase and exact vengeance for the theft of the Cronica.

However, it was too late. Once again the sun’s long fingers tapped at the window and he knew he must take to the crypt.

Michael was away with the Book but Vlad Dracyl consoled himself. He now had an heir and a possible end to the curse of the sun. Soon the power of the Dracyl would be inflicted on humankind in such ways that hadn’t been seen for four thousand years.

He walked back to the room where Maria and Iullia waited, his mood blighted by the stain on his triumph. "Get her out of sight and show that doctor where my brother is. There is still a lot to do. We have an heir but I still have no army.”

Part 2

Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

Lao Tzu

Men exist for the sake of one another.

Marcus Aurelius

Chapter 22

Rasch felt a new sense of confidence surge through him as he surveyed the men before him. The Ukrainian guards had set up the barbed wire fencing the day before and now, with good German timing, the Reichsbahn had delivered the first rations for the count’s troops. They were well-fed and looked fit.

It had been his idea to use the Sonderkommando, the men who cleared the gas chambers and cremated the bodies after an 'Aktion,' and he was feeling very pleased with himself as he walked back to the Castle.

The Sonderkommando had always been better fed than the normal prisoners and consequently they were better livestock, as the count so cynically put it. Plus this helped solve the replacement problem. The Sonderkommando was rotated every three months; the old crew was liquidated and the new crew cremated their remains. This way left no questions as to what had happened to the old crew. It was perfect all round as far as Rasch could see.

The count was waiting for him in the library. He turned as Rasch walked in and smiled warmly. "From the satisfied look on your face, Herr Doctor, I take it all is well and going to plan.”

Yes, Your Excellency." He was excited. "All is set but I would wait until tomorrow night, Your Excellency. They will be rested and easier to control.”

"Have your men pick out the first forty ready for tomorrow then, Doctor Rasch. Tomorrow we will feed." He almost smacked his lips in anticipation. "Send Standartenführer Von Struck in, please. I need to talk to him.”

Rasch felt his newfound confidence slip away like a guilty fox and he started to anxiously wring his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the count. He feared disappointing the count. "I’m afraid Von Struck is still not back from taking the prisoner, I mean your brother, to Dachau. He will be back tomorrow morning, Your Excellency.”

Rasch almost fainted when the count nodded his head. He still hadn’t emotionally digested the raw horror he’d experienced at his hands and he tiptoed around him with the air of a flogged slave. Death had touched him on that frosty January morning and shown him the true colour of his soul. The experience had found him wanting.

"Doctor, you know of my plan to send Von Struck and his men into the field soon with my men. Well, what I need to know is, is your Standartenführer up to the job?”

"He has a lot of experience, if that’s what you mean, Your Excellency.”

"No, Herr Doctor, that is not what I mean." His voice rose in volume as he spoke and Rasch physically shrank back. The count smiled down at the trembling Rasch and savoured his terror. He enjoyed frightening the man; he was so unrestrained in showing his fear. He banged the table to make him jump. "Well, Rasch, is he?" Calm again.

Rasch was close to tears. He couldn’t control the quiver in his answer and he was so scared, so very, very scared. It was all too much for his delicate soul and once again he subconsciously blamed Von Struck for his not being there.

"Standartenführer Von Struck is up to the job, Your Excellency." Noticing the count’s mocking smile, he tried to straighten his back and put more force into his voice. "He is a good soldier—no, he is a great soldier, as are all in the SS. He will do his duty to the best of his ability and will not falter or fail through any fault of his own.” As Rasch spoke, he felt himself emboldened by the statement. He almost felt that Von Struck’s very name was a means of protection against the count’s menacing aura. Suddenly he experienced a spark of defiance as he spoke. It was as if Von Struck’s ability and soldiering skills were his own. The tremor of angst left his voice. "He will look after your soldiers during the daylight hours, Your Excellency, better than any man alive. His troops will see to it that—”

"Enough!" The count knew where this was going and he saw that Rasch had somehow regained his composure. Rasch bored him now. “You may leave me now, Herr Doctor. Have me notified when Von Struck gets back.” He made a small shooing motion with his hands and turned his back on him.

"Very well, Your Excellency." Rasch nearly bowed, but at the last moment he didn’t, and turned and left. Closing the door behind him, he walked straight into Maria.

"In a hurry, Doctor?”

Rasch started like a shot rabbit. Maria smiled at his shock and, without saying a word, she stepped forward, reached up and stroked his face. Appalled, Rasch tried to back away into the door. Maria pressed herself up to him and continued to stroke his face. "Hush,” she cooed. "Don’t be scared. I mean you no harm.”

She caressed him and slowly he began to thaw. The silence was intense. Only the closeness of their bodies communicated the moment. She worked her mystical charm and he began to respond. Her sexual authority swept over him and the emotionally blank Rasch was suddenly spilling over with desire. She rubbed herself against his leg and, closing his eyes, Rasch began to pant. He made to bring his arms up to hold her and pull her to him but, in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

Standing like a mannequin with his arms held out, Rasch blinked and woke up. Had he dreamed what had just happened? He heard Maria’s laugh coming from the library. Was she laughing at him? He felt foolish and odd. He hadn’t felt so belittled since his school days when his abnormal height and faint heart had singled him out to the bullies as a regular target.

He struggled to shake off the host of terrible memories that prowled the edge of his psyche and took a step forward. This broke the spell and allowed him to start shambling back towards his room.

Iullia was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. She had watched him like a panther ghosting a crippled prey and she knew that now was the time to pounce. The Lilith in her had planned the meeting outside the library and Rasch was at last ripe for what she planned. She knew he found the body of Iullia attractive. All through the last month he had watched and cherished her from afar, not knowing that Iullia's essence was prisoner to Lilith's command. The Iullia he saw was a vacant shell, occupied only by a captured soul and a demon’s will.

"Doctor Rasch?” she enquired, concerned.

Rasch looked up from his faraway place and blanched when he saw it was Iullia. Iullia was talking to him.

"Are you all right, Herr Doctor? You don’t seem too well." She moved along the banister and down the stairs towards him. Rasch hadn’t moved from where he was standing when she first called to him. He gazed at her as she took his hand. "You look terrible, Herr Doctor. Let me help you.”

Rasch had never heard Iullia speak and was surprised to hear she was speaking German to him, fluently and without a Romanian accent.

"You speak German?”

"Of course. I am German, from Ost-Preussen." She smiled at him. "Where do you come from, Herr Doctor?”

Rasch felt completely enchanted by her sweet, caring character. The inner defence mechanism that had protected his badly mauled psyche as a child now sprang back into action. It eradicated the memory of Maria and concentrated on the girl in front of him. Lilith read all this and played the helpful, honest country girl role, knowing that it would most please him.

"From the Saarland. What are you doing here—I mean here in Romania?” Rasch asked as she helped him up the stairs. He towered over her slight form. He took in her fine-boned fragility and immaculate aura. Her very innocence recharged his deflated libido.

"I’m here to help the Fatherland, Herr Doctor, to keep an eye on the count for the Führer.”

Rasch stopped in his tracks, confused by the situation she had just described.

"You mean you’re a spy?”

"Yes, I’m here to make sure all goes to plan, that Von Struck doesn’t mess this up." She looked up at him, resolute and straight-faced. Rasch didn’t really believe her, but why else would she be here? She continued. "Berlin knows that Von Struck doesn’t have the necessary zeal required for the task, so I was sent to prepare the count for your arrival.”

She knew she'd hit home by allying herself against Von Struck. Rasch felt an instinctive connection with Iullia as she explained that Heinrich Himmler knew that he could rely on him but Von Struck was a problem that needed watching. "I knew that the Reichsführer Himmler would never leave me on my own with that pack of SS degenerates.”

His earlier confidence in Von Struck shrivelled and died in the shadow of his new ally. "Who sent you here? When did you get here? What is your cover?”

Iullia had no answers. She needed him on her side but she didn’t possess enough information to make a detailed enough lie to be convincing. She settled on obfuscation to keep him interested but still in the dark. "I can’t tell you everything, Herr Doctor, but it’s enough to know that we are allies and that if you need me, and if I can help, I will. Can I count on you, Doctor Rasch, if I’m in trouble?”

Her expression was one of relentless purpose but her eyes were brimming with the hero worship and the need for his protection that he craved. Her whole body language screamed at Rasch what he needed to hear from the weaker sex: I am frail, I need your help.

Standing on the head of the stairs looking down at Iullia, the sterile Ernst Rasch felt, for the first time in his clinically proper life, a rush of passion. He needed to have her, there and then, to love, dominate and shield her from the trials ahead.

He pulled her to him and stooped to press his face to hers. His urgency was blinding and swift but she turned and, with surprising strength, broke away from his grasp.

"No, Herr Doctor, not here." She stepped back from him and started to walk away.

Once more rejected and humiliated, Rasch’s confusion turned gradually to anger. The burn of rage simmered in his gut like a malevolent octopus, slowly stretching its tentacles to engulf his entire body. "What do you mean? I thought—” he spluttered.

Iullia turned around and smiled at him. "Not here, Ernst,” she murmured, her eyes smouldering with desire. "Come with me to my room where we won’t be observed.”

Rasch wordlessly followed like an obedient puppy and Lilith inwardly cackled with glee.

Chapter 23

Dachau

The SS officer sat behind his desk and looked intently at Smith for some time before talking. He recited in rapid, clipped bursts of unintelligible German what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech.

Smith stood before him at the attention and stared blankly ahead, saying nothing. He didn’t understand what was being said and felt uneasy and confused, but there was no way he was going to let it show to the condescending imbecile seated opposite.

Dazed by the maelstrom of events over the last couple of weeks that had been enough to keep any man off-balance, to find himself a prisoner in a concentration camp seemed to be the cream on the top of a bloody awful cake.

Smith disliked the German officer on sight. He knew the type; more at home with a typewriter than a rifle. The troops who had escorted him to the camp had been of a different cut to the supercilious idiot behind the desk in front of him. The four of them—an officer, a dreadfully scarred NCO and two privates—had been professional and practised in their handling of him as a prisoner, their insistent force tempered with courtesy and humanity. Their uniforms were frayed and shabby but the weapons they bore were pristine and cared for like their own children. They hardly spoke to Smith on the journey except to offer him food and drink. The officer in charge had asked a few questions in accent-free English but in the main they had left Smith to his own thoughts.

In stark contrast, the camp guards were surly and abrupt. Polished and well turned-out, they took him off his escort’s hands at the main gate of the camp, and the shouting and browbeating started almost immediately. Smith didn’t understand what it was they wanted him to do and the resulting inaction led to a shove from one of the guards. His reaction was quicker than his thoughts and the SS guard was laid out in one punch.

The downed man’s comrades pounced on him at once, wrestling him to the ground to put the boot in. He curled into as tight a ball as was possible as the Germans kicked him repeatedly. The struggle with the three guards stopped abruptly and he looked up to see the officer who had delivered him shouting at the camp guards. Grey faced and ramrod straight, they were obviously not used to such a verbal barrage and sheepishly turned to pick him up when the officer had finished.

Smith nodded his unsaid thanks and turned to the gate. He would like to have said more, to communicate his gratitude, but it seemed inappropriate, so he didn’t.

He read the words on the gate and wondered what they meant.  "Arbeit macht frei.”

The sentence didn’t make any sense to him and he wished he’d taken more time to learn the language of his enemy before he’d let himself be dropped into its lap.

They marched him, two in front and two behind, around and to the right of a large drill square. On its left were the long lines of barracks that made up the camp. Armed guards held cruel-looking dogs that snarled hungrily at the running lines of prisoners. The inmates were emaciated, downtrodden and dressed in a bizarre striped uniform. They kept their eyes to the ground; not daring to look a guard in the eye in case it attracted the unwanted attention that could lead to a beating or worse. The oppressive air of terror filled his nostrils and Smith felt a knot tighten in his gut. What the hell had he done to deserve this?

On their right was another set of buildings running adjacent to the main square. They marched to the end of the block and halted outside the door. One of the guards turned to him unexpectedly and said in English, "So, Englishman, this is your new home. Welcome to the Bunker.”

Smith was taken aback by the English and another knot tightened as he contemplated the connotations of a building being called the Bunker.

He was led inside to an office where the self-satisfied looking officer sat behind his desk. A small cardboard sign told him that he now stood in front of Obersturm Parzich.  Smith guessed that he was in charge so, in an attempt to point out that he was a soldier, Smith stood to attention.

After the initial speech in German he turned to the English speaking guard.

"Did you understand that Englishman?" asked the guard.

"No, not one bit. What did he say?”

"SS Obersturmführer Parzich welcomes you to Dachau concentration camp. You will be here until you are deemed no more to be a threat to the Greater German Reich. Your status as an honour prisoner entitles you to wear civilian clothes and to keep a civilian haircut. Your cell will not be locked but, believe me Englishman, escape is impossible. You will not be required to work. You will obey the camp rules at all times, and although you are not subject to any of the camp punishments, any attempt at escape and you will be shot.”

"Honour prisoner?" He was confused. "What ... what is an honour prisoner?”

"Honour prisoners are the politicians, religious leaders and royalty who are sent to the Bunker to sit out the rest of the war. Be thankful, life outside these walls is hard and unpleasant. Your connection to the Romanian nobility has saved you, Englishman. You are a VIP prisoner and thus will be treated differently. The Jews and the Communists in the rest of the camp do not enjoy the same standard of living as you will. Even the SS prisoners next door endure a harsher treatment. I will translate for you if the need arises but I think your time here will go better if you learn German.”

Obersturmführer Parzich didn’t like being left out of the loop and he sneered something to Smith’s interpreter.

"Obersturm Parzich asks if you saw the sign on the gate as you came in.”

"Yes, I did. 'Arbeit macht frei', I think it said."

"Indeed.” He nodded. "Liberty through work. I’m afraid, though, that as you won’t be required to work here, the Obersturmführer thinks your liberty will be a long way off.” He delivered the last line without a smile whereas Parzich banged his desk in delight and laughed raucously. As if on cue, he stopped laughing and nodded to the translator.

"I’ll take you to your cell now.” He turned and shot his hand up in salute. "Heil Hitler!”

The young officer lazily lifted his hand in return and looked down at some paperwork on his desk. Smith was dismissed. The guard followed him out and nudged him in the right direction.

The corridor was narrow and the cells were small. They stopped outside an empty one at the end of the row.

"Englishman, a word of advice. You attacked one of my Kammeraden earlier.”

"He attacked me, from behind.”

"It does not matter. The fact is you struck a Watchman. Normally you would have been shot. You were lucky. If that Waffen SS officer hadn’t been there …” He shook his head slowly and let the statement dangle before carrying on. "The man you hit is also the NCO in charge of the Block we are in. Be careful of him. His brutality is outweighed only by his capacity for hatred.”

"I’ll bear it in mind." He paused as if to consider something. "Where did you learn such good English?”

"Englishman, I think it would be wise to forget my English and concentrate on your problems with Oberscharführer Müller." The guard walked past him and into the cell. "Your bunk has blankets and a pillow. The washrooms are at the other end and the canteen is around the corner. The cells are not locked and you are free to roam the building. As Obersturm Parzich explained earlier, you are not required to do any work. You are, though, required to clean your own cell and cooperate in any form deemed necessary. Passive resistance will be treated as sabotage and you could find yourself wearing the striped uniform in another part of the camp. You do not want that, Englander, take my word on it. Any questions?”

A thousand flitted through his head but none found their way through to his mouth, so he contented himself with asking for the guard's name in case he needed a translator.

"Heinz, Heinz Inselman. Don’t forget what I said about the Oberscharführer.”

Although he hadn’t smiled the whole time, Smith felt a connection to him. The episode with Oberscharführer Müller seemed distant and unimportant, and despite the warning, he felt quite safe in his status as an Honour Prisoner. A mere NCO wouldn’t be able to harm him, he was sure.

He surveyed the cell. On the wall were the rules he had to follow, written in German, and by his bed was a small table. It all looked clean and the blankets folded into a bed block gave it a military edge that Smith felt he could adjust to. Despite his situation, he felt strangely confident and on known ground.

He sat on the bed and thought back to what had happened the last month. His brother had betrayed him to the Germans, Michael had left him to die as soon as he’d found what he needed, and Maria had turned out to be on the German side too.

He couldn’t remember much after they had found the book, but he sometimes had vague flashbacks of hinged swords, sex with Iullia and huge dogs. All very peculiar and most disconcerting.

Could it get any worse, he asked himself. Surely not. However, he was dreadfully wrong. That night Oberscharführer Müller and his cronies came for him as he slept. Five of them raided his cell carrying truncheons. They dragged him from his bed and beat him pitilessly until he was knocked out cold. They woke him with a bucket of cold water and started over again, this time concentrating more on the stomach and kidneys to prolong consciousness.

When they were finished, Müller knelt on his chest to discharge his fermented threats into Smith’s face. Battered and exhausted, with one eye closed and a nose and mouth that seemed to have grown into each other, Smith didn’t have the energy to turn his face from the German’s sour bluster, and so he lay under him and endured the spittle shower.

His head was pounding, his ribs seemed to be stabbing his lungs and the dull ache of fractures pulsed through his arms and hands. He knew what Müller had said. His German was non-existent but the message was clear and Smith prayed with his whole heart that he was wrong.

Chapter 24

Transylvania

They had spent nearly a fortnight learning to ride horses. Von Struck, Rohleder, Gruhn and Nau could already ride so they had travelled with Smith to Dachau. Henning, Muschinski and Grand were left behind to prepare for the coming months in the field with the count’s men. Though Schneiderat could ride, he had stayed with Rasch simply because there was no need for so many men to accompany Smith up to Dachau.

Rasch, who had been forced to learn to ride by his outdoors loving father as a child, taught them how to saddle and ride their mounts and how to take the due care and attention of a horse in the field.

Fortunately, the 22nd SS Cavalry Division was due to be stationed in Hungary as part of the coercive force sent to ensure Hungary’s sustained collaboration. Rasch telephoned Himmler to request mounts and the appropriate tack for the troop and suggested raiding the 22nd’s stores.

Himmler had been beside himself as Rasch told him of the plan to teach the men to ride and had approved the request on the spot. His imagination running riot, he envisaged the Bolshevik hordes being vanquished by mounted SS by daylight and night stalking vampires during the hours of darkness. The 22nd Cavalry Division was due in March but Himmler had the saddles—the old Armeesattel 25 models with the new issue saddle bags—sent down with the special SS issue Cavalry webbing for the men. The M1934 saddle bags were situated behind the saddle and held all the equipment they would need to be self-sufficient in the field for a number of days.

The supplies for the vampires came in on the train with the first prisoners. The first lessons were given a day later.

Andreas Schneiderat picked for himself a five-year-old brown mare called Stephanie. She had a long fringe, huge eyes and long lashes that batted at him almost seductively when he patted her neck. The stable boy, who knew a horse expert when he saw one, had nodded approval at his choice. Andreas had been very careful in his selection of a mount, knowing only too well that the choice of horse could well be a matter of life and death in the months to come.

By the time Von Struck had returned from Dachau, the whole squad could ride and look after their mounts. He had yet to pick a horse for himself but he had no special needs unlike Henning, who, as Rohleder pointed out, needed a draft horse just for his rations, so he let Schneiderat pick one out for him.

Their first patrol as a troop was like a schoolboy's outing. Nau and Gruhn had raced each other for a crate of Astra beer, to be bought on their return to Germany, only to be beaten by Berndt Grand and his huge gelding, Tiger. Rohleder had named his mount after the madam who ran a field brothel outside of Kiev, Madam Le Peau. The joke that Rohleder was finally getting a free ride from Madam La Peau after all these years as a loyal customer had them laughing for over a half an hour. Even Rasch seemed affected by the liberty and pleasure they experienced on that, the first of a thousand patrols. The sinister cobwebs of that January morning in the barracks, and Jurgen Muntner’s transformation, were all but forgotten for the few hours it took to ride their route.

Von Struck rode a white mare called Aphrodite. She was, he had been told, even-tempered, swift when the need arose and, above all, experienced in battle. The stables had acquired her from the famed Romanian Calarasi Regiment and she had seen service at the sharp end of the Russian guns.

While the men raced and amused themselves on the patrol, Von Struck thought back to the Englander they had transported to Dachau. His dealings with the British were limited to the few prisoners he had met and the English teacher at his school. He felt no hatred towards his enemy but he was curious as to what he was doing here. Although he hadn’t asked the circumstances of his capture, Von Struck felt that the man had somehow been betrayed by the count, or Maria, or both.

Rasch had called him in and shown him the unconscious Smith on the bed. His face and body were ripped as if from an animal's claws and tubes ran from his arm into a suspended bottle at his side. However, it wasn’t his wounds that shocked Von Struck the most, it was the expression on his face.

His features were frozen in an articulation of sustained horror. It was as if he were caught in the middle of a scream and transformed into stone. The expression told Von Struck everything he needed to know about what the Englishman had endured.

Rasch appeared calm and untouched by the man’s soundless anguish.

"He’s a spy, Markus. He is also the count’s brother. Maria has assured me that he will be ready to travel tomorrow, though I must admit that I find that hard to believe myself.”

Rasch looked once again at Smith, shook his head and carried on,

”He is to be transported to Dachau and delivered to the camp authorities for processing—”

The word 'processing' suggested unsaid, dire nuances to Von Struck.

"Do you speak English, Markus?" he enquired.

"Yes, well, school English, why?”

"Do not make any attempt at conversation with this man. Just deliver him to the camp and come back to continue your mission.”

"And what exactly is my mission here, Herr Doctor? It seems that we’ve accomplished all that we came to do, and more. Is there something the Reichsführer SS forgot to mention at my briefing?”

Rasch deliberated for a second before speaking. "You, that is you and your squad, will go into the field with the count’s men. By night, they will carry on with their role of spreading mayhem and panic behind Russian lines. By day they will rest and hide. It is your task to provide security for the count’s men during their rest phase. You will be mounted on horses provided by Count Blestamatul. I take it you ride, Markus?”

"I do, but I’m not sure of the men.”

”A minor problem. Take with you three men who can already ride and the rest will stay here to learn. On your return you can take your men out on horseback and hopefully, within two weeks, you’ll be killing Communists for the Fatherland again.” Rasch endowed on Von Struck one of his abysmal smiles in an attempt to convey his good will, and turned to stalk out.

Von Struck looked at the Smith again. The resemblance to the count, apart from the hair colour, was uncanny. There was no doubting the kinship. The wounds were dry and slowly healing but, thought Von Struck, the scars of what he had endured would be much worse inside.

The next day, as pledged, Smith was waiting for them at the main door with Maria. He was pale and the welts on his face looked raw and brittle in the frosty air, but he stood erect and, Von Struck thought, somehow angrily resolute. Of the terror he had born as he lay comatose there was no sign.

He had spoken with Maria and walked to the horse that one of the faceless minions who worked the stables had brought for him. The plan was to ride on horseback to the train station and from there with the Reichsbahn up to Dachau.

"Boss, he looks as bad as I do,” whispered Rohleder.

"Let’s just get him to Dachau and get back," Von Struck answered curtly and rode towards Smith.

"Good day, Englishman. My name is Standartenführer Von Struck. I will accompany you to Germany. I will dispense with the handcuffs but if you prove difficult, we will have to use them. Are you going to be difficult?”

Smith smiled sardonically and shook his head. "No, I’ve had enough intrigue and mystery to serve me a lifetime. At least in a concentration camp I’ll know who my enemies are.” He looked pointedly at Maria and back to Von Struck. Von Struck nodded to Rohleder and the five of them cantered off.

The journey up had been uneventful and Smith had spent most of his time in silent contemplation, which only provided more fodder for Von Struck’s curiosity. He almost asked him what he was doing in Transylvania but decided against it. If Rohleder, Nau and Gruhn saw him talking to the prisoner, there would be no holding back. Rohleder, despite his lowly grade, was an accomplished linguist and a relentless prattler. Von Struck had emphatically ordered him not to try his English out on the prisoner because the sooner he learnt German, the better it would be for him.

The infamous gates of Dachau loomed before them. The guards, polished and clockwork, marched out in a squad to meet them. Although the concentration camp guards were held to high standards of discipline, their brutality to the prisoners was ignored and often encouraged. It was deemed long ago that the camps always ran better with a healthy undercurrent of violence coursing through the daily routine.

Von Struck hated them. In his eyes they were the base product of a system that sought after the weakest of enemies to validate its own authority. The men themselves were only human and, regardless of how decent any of them once were, the constant brutality towards the prisoners and the absolute power of life and death wielded by the guards corrupted even the most dutiful of soldiers.

As the guards approached, Rohleder began to whistle the theme tune to 'Laurel and Hardy' to the timing of their step. Nau laughed out loud until Von Struck turned and silenced him with a scowl.

The lead guard approached Von Struck and, noting his officer's rank, shot his arm up. "Heil Hitler!”

Von Struck saluted back and nodded to Smith. "Here’s your charge and here’s the paperwork. It’s all in order. Where’s the nearest canteen?”

"You passed the SS barracks on the way here, sir. There’s an Officers' Mess and an Ordinary Ranks' canteen there, Herr Standartenführer,” the NCO replied with a snap.

"Everything in order, Oberscharführer—” He looked at the name tag. "C … Müller?”

The guard nodded.

"Then we’ll leave you to it."

Von Struck turned to Rohleder. "Let’s go find something to eat. I’m famished.”

As they walked off they heard the NCO giving orders to Smith.

"I hope he doesn’t expect the Tommy to understand him …” He let it trail off as they heard a smack and then something fall to the ground. They spun around in unison to see the NCO laid out on the floor and the other three guards kicking the curled-up figure of Smith.

Nau took a step forward in a reflexive move towards them, but Von Struck pulled him back with one arm and strode past him to the scuffle.

"Now they’re in for it," Rohleder muttered.

"What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing, you gutless bunch of imbeciles?” They stopped the beating and froze in position.

"Stand to fucking attention when a senior officer gives you a bollocking, you spineless idiots!”

They sprang to attention at the sight of his anger; faces creased with worry and confusion.

"This prisoner is a member of the Romanian nobility and he will be treated as such, do you understand me?" They were too pre-occupied with the thought of going on report to answer, and Von Struck had to shout the question again to illicit a response.

"Jawohl!"

"Oberscharführer!”

The NCO was now on his feet and marched one step forward to answer, "Yes, sir!”

"Oberscharführer, I will personally take an interest in this prisoner. If I find he has been harmed in any way, you’ll be on the front with me fighting Ivan in the blink of an eye. Do you understand me? Don’t just stand there, help him up!”

The NCO clicked his heels as he answered. "Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer!”

The guards rushed to help Smith off the ground but Müller stood before Von Struck, still at the attention. His actions spoke deference but his eyes shot daggers. Markus noted his hatred and smiled inwardly. "I hope I don’t mess up so badly that I end up here," he thought to himself. "Because if you’re in charge I won’t survive the first week."

The Englishman nodded to Von Struck as they moved off and they were gone. He could make out the NCO muttering his infantile threats but he ignored it and turned to his men. "Now I’m really hungry. Action does that to a man. Let’s find a cook to terrorize into frying some eggs for us.”

Chapter 25

Four days later

The count kept them waiting in the library for almost twenty minutes. Von Struck had picked himself an old book off the shelf and started to read. Rasch paced up and down, his hands wringing in agitation.

"What does he want now? I’m working on it as fast as I can.”

"Sit down and stop worrying." Markus didn’t look up from his book as he spoke. "He wants to brief us on the mission tomorrow, that’s all.”

"I hope so," Rasch muttered.

Von Struck smiled into his book.

Throwing the double doors wide open so that they crashed against the walls, the count burst in. Rasch jumped out of his skin and, as the count passed him, he hunched his shoulders and ducked his head in a subconscious cower. The count strode into the middle of the room and stood before Von Struck, who put his book down to look the count in the eye.

"Tell me, Herr Doctor," he said without taking his eyes off Von Struck. "Tell me how far you are from developing the serum?”

Rasch was startled by the question. "Oh, er, I haven’t really done any more tests, Your Excellency. I’ve been far too busy teaching the men to ride, as you ordered." Von Struck frowned as he listened to Rasch simpering to the count.

Still looking down at Von Struck, the count continued. "Well, isn’t it about time you got back to work on the serum you promised me?”

Rasch hesitated to answer, not sure if he wanted an answer or if he should just simply leave immediately.

"Now!" boomed the count, as if he had read his thoughts. Rasch scuttled out, muttering platitudes, and closed the door behind him.

"The doctor is very confident in your abilities, Herr Von Struck.”

"I’m surprised he discussed me with you but it’s always nice to have a vote of confidence from an unexpected corner.”

The count turned and sat in the chair opposite to Von Struck. He wordlessly studied him as he sat back to cross his legs.

Von Struck, in turn, looked directly at the Dracyl. "You wanted to brief me on the operation tomorrow?" It was more of a command than a question and the count bristled.

"Yes, yes of course. You have met my soldiers, Standartenführer. Tell me what you think.”

"What I think?”

"Yes, how the operation should run. How we should coordinate, communicate with each other. I’m sure you have experience of working with other armies and I would like to know how you think we should work together to achieve the best results.”

Von Struck nodded and his demeanour abruptly transformed as he set his mind to the task ahead. "As I see it, your vampires will carry on as normal, the only difference being that they will not return here every night Instead they will return to a safe haven, secured by us, to rest during daylight hours. The problems as I see it are as follows: positioning—do your men read maps? Communication—do your men speak German? And the third, what happens if Ivan bumps us in the day?”

The count nodded as he listed the problems.

"Lastly, and perhaps the most important, who has the final say in the field? Here, you have command. This is your castle and your country. In Russia we’re both in enemy territory. The last thing I need is to get into a 'whose-dick-is-the-biggest' competition with your men’s OC while we’re out in the field.”

”Very eloquently put, Herr Von Struck. I see that you have spent some time deliberating the operations ahead of us. I have some answers for you and some questions.”

Von Struck nodded and the count continued.

"Yes, my men do read maps, German maps too. Not that we have any of Russia, but if the need arises we can use them. Secondly, my men speak their own language. It is a very old tongue, thousands of years old, actually. During the change they take leave of all the remnants of their past lives and acquire the skills and traits of our kind, which includes, of course, our language." Von Struck opened his mouth to say something but was hushed by the count. "I’m not quite finished. Let me talk and then you may ask or answer anything that’s not settled. I have made plans for how we should communicate. I will tell you after you’ve answered one question for me.”

"And that is?”

"If you are contacted by the enemy during the rest phase for my troops, are you willing to sit out the fire-fight until my men are ready to fight, that is until darkness falls, or will you run at the first sign of trouble and leave my men to their fate at the hands of the Russians?”

"I have never run from the enemy.” Von Struck bridled at the assumption. "We will wait until your men are ready to provide us with assistance. Reinforcement is always better than retreat, especially if the reinforcements are as skilled in night-fighting as your men.”

The count stood up. "Good. I can assure you that my men will not let you down, Herr Von Struck. As to the point about communication, I have devised a way to solve all your problems. The leader of my men is called Arak. He speaks German and reads your maps too. When he went through the change, I allowed an inch of his former self to remain in him, so there should be no problem on that front. As to who is in command, I leave that up to you—”

"That’s exactly what I mean," Von Struck protested. "In the field there has to be one man who makes the decisions. Two men in charge will never work. If needs be your man can take charge but we cannot afford questions of authority in Ivan’s backyard." Von Struck inwardly shuddered at the thought of taking orders from one the count’s ghouls but need dictated a clear line in who was to command. He hoped the count wouldn’t take him up on the offer.

The count smiled at the outburst and nodded his head as if he understood. "Yes, yes, I know this. I also realise that my soldiers are completely foreign to you and your men, so I decided long ago to ease the situation for you all. I decided that whoever is in command of my men should be used to being subordinate to you already.”

Von Struck’s mind worked furiously as he tried to understand what was being said.

The Dracyl’s smile broadened into a triumphant leer. "I have named him Arak; you know him as—“

"Muntner,” Von Struck inaudibly finished with him. He felt the steel in him shudder at the thought of his lost comrade in arms.

"So you see, there will be no problem with control. Muntner was your man and now, as Arak, he’s mine. You will be in command, Standartenführer Von Struck. Your experience is needed if this is to be successful. Arak will look to you for orders." He looked at Von Struck’s stricken face.

"What seems to be the problem?” He smirked.

Markus sat back down and looked at his hands in horror. How could this be? How had he been driven into this nightmare?

"We will talk tomorrow evening, before you go, Herr Standartenführer." And then, with a sigh of parted air, he was gone. Only the faint echo of his presence left any clue to his having been there.

Chapter 26

Inside the Ukrainian Border

One week later

Henning suggested the quarry as a possible base. Situated just inside the Ukrainian border, it wasn’t listed on any of the maps but the contour pattern and its situation in the middle of a forest looked promising. He pointed it out to Von Struck who in turn showed the count. They agreed it was to be the first rendezvous point with the count’s soldiers and possibly a semi-permanent camp.

Abandoned, overgrown and forgotten, it was perfect for what they needed. Leading off into the sides were mine shafts dug after the quarry had been raped of its assets in an abortive attempt to find new wealth. The fact that it was set in the middle of wood, and that there was no more than a rudimentary track leading past it, bore witness to the length of time it had lain dormant and unused.

They approached it on foot from the east. The initial recce had shown nothing, so Von Struck decided to move in. It was so well hidden among the fir trees that Gruhn, alert though he was for any enemy activity, had walked right past it and had to be called back to the squad.

Gathering just outside a natural split in the rock that served as an entrance, they knelt down and Von Struck whispered the order of attack to the men. "Nau, Gruhn, you go in first. No grenades and no spraying the area with lead to clear it. We don’t want to advertise our new home to any locals, so stealth, please, gentlemen.”

They both nodded.

"Berndt, Andreas, Rohleder and myself move in next and then Muschi and Henning as rearguard. Any questions or comments?”

There were none. This was serious and they all knew not to play the comic when the intensity turned up a notch. Using only hand signals to communicate, they went in.

Nau was the first through the gap. It was about two meters wide and Matze took the right-hand side. Gruhn followed at a small distance on the left. The quarry itself was about a thousand meters square with steep walls that looked very high. It was almost like a small valley, closed off at one end. On their right as they moved in were two shored-up entrances to what they took to be the old mines. On their left, taking up three-quarters of the area space, was dense conifer. It seemed deserted, so Nau turned to give the nod. It would be bad procedure to try to clear the area alone with so many unknowns, such as the mines or the heavy foliage. As he turned to signal to the rest, he caught the feint snort of a horse.

It came from the trees. Von Struck and the others were now in with them and Matze appraised him of the situation.

"I didn’t see anything. I just heard it coming from the fir trees there.”

"Right.” Von Struck turned and signalled for Gruhn and Rohleder to clear the area with Nau. The others were to stay. They moved into the foliage, three abreast. They couldn’t help but be loud due to the density of the undergrowth and within seconds they were lost from sight.

They waited for any sign of hostile action. Was it an ambush, Red Army deserters or was it just a runaway horse? Unexpectedly, and all too loudly for Von Struck, Rohleder shouted from the bush.

"Boss, come here, I’ve found them.”

"Does he always have to be so damnably loud?" he cursed to himself.

Only Von Struck moved forward; the rest waited for the signal. Who or what had he found? He moved through the tangle of branches until he saw Rohleder’s grinning face. He saluted Von Struck with a schnapps glass as he came into view.

"What the hell?”

"They’ve got booze, Boss. This could be a very comfortable operation if we’re good to them." Rohleder was beaming from ear to ear as he indicated the people who had given him the schnapps.

It was an old man, his wife, two young women and four children—a boy of about twelve and three little girls who all looked to be between seven and ten.

"Thank the Führer, German soldiers. We were so worried. We thought you were Russians or partisans. German soldiers. Look girls, German soldiers. SS. We’re safe now,” the old man babbled in obvious elation.

The women all stared at Rohleder in alarm. The German uniform did nothing to allay their suspicions and they said nothing. Only the old man animatedly handed out glasses and jabbered their story to no one in particular.

"We had a terrible time in Lemberg. The peasants hated us and nothing would grow. I’m convinced the partisans were poisoning the crops. Then, when we heard of the Russian advance, I knew we had to leave. All was well until our horse here went lame on us." He indicated an old nag, one eye closed and nothing but skin and bone.

"You’re German, then?" Von Struck asked the obvious to slow him down.

"Yes, Volksdeutsche. We were given a farm not far from Lemberg in the Ukraine. Only a smallholding, really. Not very profitable, I’m afraid, but nevertheless, we didn’t make a loss. How far are we going to let the Russians come? Is it a feint to lure them into a trap? I was in Verdun. Those Frenchies never knew what hit them." He was off again, so Von Struck stopped him short.

"Can you tell me if there are any enemies in these parts—Communists, partisans, Russian soldiers?”

The old man paused and realised he’d been babbling. The soldier in him grasped what they needed to know and he visibly calmed down.

"We have been here for the last two weeks and we have seen no one. There is a small brook not far from here." He nodded to the entrances. "And the mines there are deserted, though we haven’t been inside because it looks too dangerous.”

"Fine, we’ll send out a patrol anyway but this will do, I think,” Von Struck said to nobody in particular. "Go and get the others, Matze.”

The women and the children hadn’t taken their eyes off Rohleder throughout the whole exchange and their mute, open staring had started to unsettle him. He was fond of children and once, in a different life, he and his wife had made plans to bring their own into the world. The flame-thrower had not only erased his face, but also the future he had once so ardently planned for.

The men in the regiment were used to the sight of his disfigurement but now, under the horrified scrutiny of the women and children, Rohleder was forcefully reminded of what he had lost and of what he had become.

"What happened to your face?" It was the young boy. He approached Rohleder and candidly stared at him, waiting for a reply.

Taken off-guard, he was at first too stunned to answer.

"Did the Russians do that to you?” the boy persisted.

"Yes.” He nodded, trying to smile.

"I hate the Russians." It was said to himself more than to anyone else. "Did you kill them, the ones who did that to you?”

Rohleder tried to laugh but he felt somehow choked. A thought matured in him that this was the first person outside of his comrades in arms to speak to him as an equal and not as a figure of pity or horror. Taking their example from the boy, the three girls moved to stand in front of him. All gaped up at him as they listened to him speaking.

"I’m afraid to say I didn’t have the chance. But I’m still looking for them and if you see them, tell me so I can get them." He spoke in a mock-serious voice to hide the welling-up feeling he was going through.

"I will," the boy answered in all solemnity. "I will.”

Rohleder nodded to the boy and looked up to catch a softening in the eyes of one of the two women. He ruffled the boy’s hair and turned to walk away, appalled to find he was close to tears himself.

They set up a camp and patrolled the area. Von Struck decided to explore the mines to see if they were suitable for the count’s vampires. They crowded around the entrance as Von Struck pushed his way through the rotten timbers barring the way in. As if it were made of dust, the wood crumbled around him.

"Not a good sign," Henning muttered.

Though the entrance was small, soon it opened up and was big enough for a man to walk erect. The wooden supports inside, in direct contrast to the wood barring the entrance, seemed solid. It was deep, dark and well hidden, and after following the path inside, Von Struck decided it was spacious enough for the count’s men. For the next couple of weeks the quarry and the mine would be their home, their base and perhaps their coffin.

*  *  *

They now numbered over a hundred; two packed trainloads of Russian prisoners had provided the rations and extra soldiers. The Ukrainians at the compound were now a well-oiled team and the segregation and containment of those not yet picked now ran smoothly and by the numbers. From delivery to selection, the process was gaining pace and routine.

Disciplined and silent, Arak’s troops flitted through the treetops to the rendezvous at an extraordinary speed. They passed potential victims noiselessly overhead with only their destination and mission in mind.

Arak directed the move from the middle, telepathically issuing his orders to the scouts at the front of the march. What had taken Von Struck’s squad six days to reach was only allowed to take them a night; for the night was all they had.

It was still dark when they arrived. Arak alone approached the quarry. Ghostlike and silent, he dropped down in front of Muschinski who nearly cried out his terror. Arak growled the code, though Muschi didn’t need any verification of his identity.

"Where do we go?" His voice was grave and extremely deep, inhumanly so.

"Inside. Wait. I’ll get the Standartenführer." Muschinski was not aware that he was talking to what was once his friend and ally, Muntner. Von Struck had opted not to tell the men of his conversation with the count.

Von Struck was summoned and he showed Arak the mines.

"We’ll close it up during the daylight hours. We can talk about the mission plan tonight. It’ll be light soon." He studied Arak in the half-light as he addressed him. What had once been Jurgen Muntner was now so far removed from anything earthly that Von Struck had problems visualising his former comrade.

He was now a clone of the count’s ghouls he had seen at the castle. There seemed to be no difference between what stood before him and what they had watched burn on that cold January morning a million years ago. It was only as Arak spoke that Von Struck caught a fleeting and buried glimpse of the old SS trooper.

Jurgen Muntner was no more and Von Struck decided not to tell the men who he had been.

Arak turned and evaporated silently into the night. The scene was deathly quiet. Nothing stirred. It seemed that neither bird nor beast dared draw attention to itself. The tension was not lost on Von Struck who cursed providence and the folly of his superiors.

"What the hell are we doing?” he asked himself.

Like a noiseless express train, the vampires zipped past him and into the mine. One after another they dived in at breakneck speed, like a swarm of monstrous hornets, until only Arak was left standing at the entrance. When all were inside, he turned and wordlessly followed them in.

Von Struck slowly shook his head. "This is so wrong,” he muttered, "so very, very wrong.”

They spent the day standing guard and transforming the quarry into a tactical hide. The horses were brought in and their area covered to protect them from the elements and prying Russian eyes. The civilians kept to themselves with only the old man and the boy showing any interest in what the squad were doing. The old man enviously eyed the soldiers’ horses. He knew his old beast was on its last legs and he secretly hoped that one of the squad would take a bullet and leave one of the horses to him.

The atmosphere was strained and the boy seemed to sense the uneasiness in Rohleder whom he’d taken to following around.

"What was all the noise last night?”

"Nothing for little boys to worry about.” Rohleder smiled as he brushed Madame Le Peau down.

"Oh," he answered. He’d learnt a long time ago not to press for answers in wartime because sometimes the answers were better left unsaid and unheard.

That night, as was planned, the vampire soldiers left them to hunt and spread terror behind the Russian lines. They watched from the entrance of the quarry as the count’s men flew into the night. With their departure, the cloud of dread that had subdued them throughout the day magically lifted and it was Rohleder that voiced their feelings. "What have we gotten ourselves into, Boss? Is this right what we’re doing?”

"We haven’t been doing the right thing for the last five years, Mickey, so why should we start now?” With that, he left them to contemplate their next move.

Chapter 27

March

Maria’s body was arranged corpselike on her bed. Barely breathing, arms across her breasts, she lay frozen and beautiful like a perfect mannequin doll. Many years ago she had been a disciple of the cult that followed Lilith and the Book of Blood. Maria’s beauty had shone brighter than the Sirius star and she had been loved by priest and follower alike.

However Lilith too had coveted Maria and saw in her faultless lines the perfect vessel for herself. Thus, the same divine exquisiteness that had braided Maria’s golden life would now sentence her to be hollowed out and possessed by a demon. Now she was merely a shell, a human crust, to be used until Lilith bored of her and found a new host.

The entity Lilith had retreated into herself to gather her strength for what she now planned to do. The part of Maria’s body that was still human suddenly experienced, for the first time in over a century, a glimmer of freedom in a sudden spark of awareness. There was no question of control, just a consciousness of whom she was—a mere undercurrent of humanity caught in the tidal wave of a demons’ will.

Lilith herself was angry. She had originally made her plans for power as the first stirrings of civilisation had infected humanity. Her Machiavellian intrigues had called on her to lay with deity and mortal alike, to start countless wars and conflicts between mankind and the Gods they followed, and had condemned her most loyal of followers to a living damnation. Now, just as the prophecies in the Book of Blood were about to come to fruition, disaster had struck.

The Book of Blood had been written in a past life that she could no longer recall. The reason why she’d been able to foretell the future was as faint a memory as her own birth. She only knew that in its ancient text lay the key to her absolution and her expected path to power. Millennia had passed by as one-by-one her prophesies, those that she had written down at the genesis of humankind, had come true. The precision of those ancient predictions had shown her just how powerful she had been in the days before the curse.

The power she had wielded in those times of old had been overwhelming and she had relished her role as a semi-goddess. As the Book of Blood had been at the height of its popularity, the power and control of the supernatural it had given her had seemed limitless. Her newfound capabilities and confidence had been the catalyst for the second march against the Old Gods.

However, with faith in the book almost non-existent, she found her potency somewhat diminished and at present she could barely control Iullia whom she needed to carry the baby. Now that Michael had taken the Book, her powers were weaker than ever before.

If only she had gone her own way from the first, she reflected. To have simply left Szaran as he was banished by the Gods would have been the sensible, and demonic, thing to do. She deliberated on this for a while and decided that at that time she had needed an ally to help her win their would-be followers over. A demon on her own, with no backing from neither royalty nor deity, would have been despised and distrusted.

No, as she had long ago determined, Szaran had provided an acceptable front to the masses. It was just the weight of his ancestry now seemed too big a price to pay for that one mortal lifetime. Szaran’s bloodline had been sent to test her, she was sure.

This latest disaster was typical of the trials his lineage had put her through. Just as it seemed all was moving into the right constellation to bring her the supremacy she had toiled for, that damnable vampire had sent his brother out of her reach and thus endangered her entire design. The predictions in the Book stated that the child sired by Utu, or in reality his spiritual successor, would be the tenth name in the Book of Blood. Accordingly, all ten must be present at a ceremony on the Winter Solstice for the Dracyl to be set free from their nocturnal shackles. The only exception to them all being present was Szaran, the first name after Lilith and the only mortal in the list. He was dead and now all but dust, so only his earthly possessions, a suit of armour and his sword, would be laid out as if he were present. The others named who were not sentient would be raised to take part.

Ten names were needed for the ceremony to work, ten being the number of universal potential. The concept of all things being possible manifested itself in the fact that all the numbers used by man are represented in the numbers zero to nine.

However, and more importantly to the vampire clan and Lilith, ten was the number of rebirth; one and zero equalled one, the perfect and expected end, and thus new beginning, of the cycle. The ten names would symbolise the rebirth and continuation of the old ways before Utu’s curse and thus the return of Lilith’s powers.

Unfortunately for Lilith, with Utu’s curse broken, the vampire bloodline would once more be able to stalk the day and it was just that the demon needed to hinder. If that should happen, then the Dracyl would be too strong for Lilith and, once again, she would have to take second place to Szaran’s line.

The problem that Lilith needed to solve was how could she assemble all ten named ones in the Book of Blood and yet still disrupt the ceremony enough to harm the Dracyl?

The best method to surreptitiously sabotage the rite would be to kill Smith now that he was out of contact with his brother, so perhaps sending him away had not been such a bad idea, she mused.

Whilst under the count’s protection, he had been safe. She could never have stood up to the count, although she had known that her only hope for success lay in the disruption of his ceremony.

The Son of Utu was a key figure in the writings in the Book of Blood and his absence or silence during the proceedings could only be harmful for the Dracyl, she was sure of it. That meant she had to murder Smith.

Lilith had wanted to kill him after the conception but the Dracyl had forbidden it. If only Smith was somehow not functioning or, even better, not present at the ceremony, then the consequences for Szaran’s ancestors could be catastrophic.

She thought about how she could pacify the Dracyl if Smith was killed and decided they could lay out his possessions like Szaran’s. She was sure the vampire would take Lilith’s word on the matter that he need not be present for the ritual. Lilith herself needed only that he be there in name.

So Lilith would be reborn as a result of the birth of a son fathered by the Son of Utu, a son that would reconcile her with the ancient Sun God as she had prophesised all those many centuries ago. The Dracyl, however, would remain under the curse to forever roam the night and shun the day.

Well that was the plan, anyway.

At the height of the ceremony, with all ten named ones present, she would be taken into the great tree at the centre of the circle. This would complete the cycle that had started all those eons ago in Inanna’s Tree of Life. Then her powers would be returned to her as they had been before Utu’s curse and the war with the Gods.

Time is of the essence, she decided.

Then it hit her, the realisation that the ceremony was tainted already by the very fact that Smith was the father. She didn’t need to kill anybody because Smith had done all the work for her by fathering a child with her second body, Maria.

Chapter 28

Marienberg, East Prussia

His name was Raphael Czerolka but he was known to all as simply the librarian. He had served the Order for sixty-two years, in armour and in sackcloth, and he had accomplished many things but this was his crowning achievement; the reading and deciphering of the prophesies laid down in the Book of Blood.

Michael had brought it from Transylvania to the castle at Marienberg six weeks before. He was a man of few words and had only given the bare outline of the story to the Brethren. The Grand Master of the Order put all to the study, translation and interpretation of the ancient texts. The majority of the book was written in the ancient Sumerian cuneiform and the translation had been ponderous and dense. Only the most learned of the brethren were allowed to take part and Raphael, the librarian, was considered to be their most academic member.

The book consumed him. By day he read it through and made his notes, and by night he dreamt of vampire armies, furious Gods and secret cults. Now finally, after weeks of hard work, he had in his grasp the knowledge to wipe out the pending vampire plague. He knew how to beat the Dracyl and Lilith.

He told the Grand Master his idea in a closed assembly. Only those that had been chosen to work the book were present, and Michael. All wore their ceremonial robes and swords.

"Are you sure on this, Librarian?” the Master asked. "It all sounds very heretical.”

"How can anybody be sure of anything? We’re talking about a book that was written over a period of thousands of years by a demon who was obsessed with a private war against a host of Sumerian Gods. No, Master, I am not sure. I can only surmise from what I’ve read."  Brother Raphael was renowned for his sharp tongue and his dislike of earthly authority. It was one of the reasons why they had left him to rot on his own in the library. He was eighty-three now and all the signs were that he was not mellowing with age.

The brothers mumbled to themselves until the Grand Master called for silence.

"So there are no guarantees?”

"No." He stood before them, defiant and ready to defend his propositions. The floor was silent.

"Tell the story again, Librarian. I want to be clear on this.”

So he did.

*  *  *

The priest was renowned throughout the land for his bravery and daring. His name was legend and his deeds were retold in the cold winter months to frighten children into bed. It was said that his great-grandfather had eaten the flesh of the heretic at Ma'arra and had found the Holy Lance. His grandfather had survived the debacle at Damascus and his father had ridden with the Lionheart to take Acre. Of himself, it was said that he’d fought against the Egyptians at Damiette with such valour that his fellow knights had composed hymns to honour his glorious deeds in battle. So the myth would have it that his life, and the lives of his whole bloodline, had revolved around war and conflict in the Lord’s name. However, now he was just an old man, half blind and dressed in rags. With his wild hair and limping gait, he looked as much a warrior as a lame dog, and the villagers found it hard to conceal their disappointment and doubt.

Barely managing to hide his cynicism, the village head finally told him of their problems. How every month their lord and master takes a victim to his castle to be no longer seen or heard of again. Defence against him with earthly means was useless. They needed divine help and guidance.

"Build a church," was the old man’s answer. "Hide there when he comes. The Lord will protect you.”

"He forbids a church," was the reply.

"Then a cross. The shadow of the cross will repel all evil if you believe strongly enough in its power.”

"A cross would be seen as an open act of defiance.”

The old man thought for a moment. He rubbed his whiskered chin and looked slyly at the village head. "Do you know your Bible?”

The headman looked shocked. He knew the stories but he had never seen a Bible; he had never even seen a book. The old man opened his sack and pulled out a huge leather-bound manuscript. The villagers crowded round, sighing as they looked on in admiration. He knew they couldn’t read Latin so he opened it up to the relevant page. He read slowly, translating after every line. The progress was slow but the villagers listened and their excitement grew. After he had finished reading, he looked up and asked if they had understood what had to be done.

"A tree." The headman answered.

"A tree." The old man confirmed.”

*  *  *

”Librarian—" All looked to see who had spoken. It was Michael. "I think I know the tree that you spoke of. I think you may be right.”

Raphael let a smile slip from his crabby demeanour and then scowled at the only man in the order he actually respected. The librarian had once been a knight of the Order too, but now he was just a functionary.

"Of course I’m right. There is no other way to read it. The Book of Blood and the writings of Thomas of Trent all point to it being so.”

"Who was this Thomas of Trent again?” the Grand Master asked for the crowd. The librarian scowled in disgust but the Master went on. "Seeing as not all of us have had the benefit of sixty years of living in a library.”

The librarian glowered even more but relented. "A crusader, one of a whole family line who gave their lives to God and the fight against evil. He roamed Medieval Europe and his writings relate one of the first encounters with the Dracyl."

"Ah yes, well it is a good theory, Brother Raphael. Perhaps we need to look at it a bit more.”

"There’s no time. We have to act now. The solstice will soon be upon us and …” He fell silent as Michael approached the middle of the sitting.

The Grand Master looked quizzically at him."Well?”

"Master, Brothers, I have a plan. I think that the librarian may have found something and, as he said, we have to act now. I beg of you all to hear me out and give me your blessing for the mission ahead.”

They listened as he laid his plans out before them but Michael knew they would never give their blessing and consent. The Order was now Himmler’s pet and the Grand Master was but a puppet for Heinrich’s fantasies.

He would have to go it alone.

122

Chapter 29

Ukraine

Von Struck smiled as he watched Rohleder and the boy called Paul chatting together. Rohleder was cleaning Helga, his machine gun, and telling a story. Paul sat next to him and listened intently. He had followed Rohleder like a lost puppy from the first and Von Struck smiled to himself as he thought of his hard drinking, whore-mongering comrade-in-arms as a father figure.

"Whatever next?" He grinned to himself.

"So what’s the plan for tonight, Boss?" It was Henning. They needed to find a new hide in the next few weeks. The patrols they had sent out had all been on foot and they had come up with nothing. It was time to do a long-range patrol on horseback.

"Well, I asked Jurgen—I mean Arak—if they could keep an eye out for a suitable spot but he didn’t even bother to answer. So it’s up to us. We’ll ride out early evening. I think I’ve found somewhere on one of the maps, so we’ll go there to check it out.” He’d relented on not telling the men about Jurgen.

Henning looked across to where the two women were cooking over an open fire. "And what about the civilians?”

"The women, you mean, Wolfgang?" He smiled as he asked.

"Yeah," Henning turned to face him and smiled back. "The women.”

"You can stay behind and look after them with one man. Pick someone and keep it in your trousers.”

Henning laughed. "I can’t promise anything.”

They rode out under a cloudless sky. Every star had turned out to light their way and the going was good. They stuck to the tracks. It wasn’t tactically clever but the Russians used cavalry as well and the idea was that they would be in the midst of the infantry before they realised they were German.

Henning had stayed behind with Muschinski. Rohleder had voiced his doubts as to the wisdom of leaving the two biggest womanisers alone with the women, however he’d smilingly backed down when Nau mentioned his interest in little boys.

The horses hadn’t had much exercise since their arrival at the quarry and Aphrodite, Von Struck’s horse, was puffing after the first hour. They slowed down to a canter but didn’t stop. Von Struck’s sixth sense started to tingle as Andreas Schneiderat called out, "Boss, we’ve got company.”

Immediately Von Struck reached for his pistol and scanned the way ahead for Russians.

"No, above us. It’s the vampires," called Grand.

He looked up to see the silhouettes of the count’s soldiers jetting through the treetops. There seemed to be no end of them and Von Struck felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back as he watched their soundless parade.

"I don’t know about you, boss, but I shit myself more and more every time I see those things," Rohleder whispered. They came to a stop to watch them stream by. Nobody moved or uttered a word until they had passed.

"I’m glad they’re on our side," Gruhn said to nobody in particular as the last of them passed out of sight.

"I’m not even glad about that," Rohleder answered him.

"They’re not on anybody’s side. They’ve got their own agenda. The more I see of what happened to Muntner, the more I doubt the wisdom of having any dealings with them at all,” Von Struck whispered to them all.

"Amen to that," Rohleder agreed.

*  *  *

Arak didn’t always like to lead from the front but tonight he was hungry. He hadn’t tasted blood in days but he knew that on this night he would slake his thirst. The vampires were strict on the issue of who fed and when, and Arak, who had devised a rotation plan for the lean times, stuck to the system as closely as his men.

However, tonight there would be rich pickings for all and there would be no waiting hungry on the side as his men took their fill.

Tonight they would all feed.

The target was a regiment of Siberian infantry based temporarily in a low valley east of their hide. They had been spotted by one of Arak’s scout groups and now their time had come. After tonight the regiment would no longer exist.

They arrowed through the treetops like silent rockets and passed over the Germans on their agitated mounts. Arak saw Von Struck’s men in the dark as a trace of hot arteries all flowing to the pumping muscle of a heart. He could hear their collective pulse and smell their loathing for him and his kind. He smiled to himself as he passed over, knowing that soon they would not need the humans and he would be free to do with them as he pleased.

Shortly the ground fell away and the valley loomed out in front of them. They swooped down through the branches and onto the first of the sentries, slashing them with their long blades. The vampires pounced on them like starving pigs to the swill and in seconds the guards were noiselessly slaughtered. They fell on the encampment like a black rain and they took their first victims virtually simultaneously. Swords held at the ready, they moved through the fir trees like avenging demons, snatching the terrorized Russians at will.

Arak made directly for the regimental commander’s tent. The Russian infantry were nearly all peasant farmer boys who were as familiar with the supernatural as their city dwelling comrades were with cars or electricity. Their superstitious background made them excellent prey for his men and their unbridled fear paralysed their limbs and sweetened the blood.

The Commander rushed out of his tent and straight into the stinging caress of Arak’s sword. He clutched the blade at the entry wound and sank wordlessly to his knees, eyes wide in fear and incredulity. Arak pulled the blade and let it fall to the ground in his eagerness to gorge himself on his quarry. He swatted the ineffectual flailing of the Russian and opened his neck up with one swipe of his talons. The blood spurted and he knelt down to gobble greedily at the opened gash.

A while later, Arak moved through his men as they fed, wiping the juice of the regimental commander off his chin. No words of acknowledgment were spoken to him. First they would feed and only then could he restore order and discipline.

The feasting over, his soldiers sated, Arak gave the order to dismember the corpses. This was not normally the vampire way but he wanted to spread terror among Ivan’s rank and file and what better way to do that than wanton carnage?

*  *  *

The mission was unsuccessful and Von struck started to resign himself to a long stay at the quarry. The stars made the going a lot easier and the squad were in high spirits as they walked the last couple of hundred yards to the hide.

Henning was waiting for them. He looked perturbed and Von Struck knew automatically that something was wrong.

They crowded around and Henning started straight in. "Boss, something’s happened. There’s been no enemy movement and all was quiet. Muschi stood first stag on guard, so I helped the women to sort the camp out.” He stopped to look at Rohleder and then carried on. "I’m not sure what happened but I heard the boy screaming and—”

"What, is he alright? Where is he?”” Rohleder cut in.

"He’s fine, he’s with his mother. He went into the mine about an hour after the count’s men came back, don’t ask me why, and the next I know he’s screaming and hysterical. Like I said, he’s with his mother but he’s very pale and he’s not saying a word.”

Rohleder wordlessly strode off. Henning looked to Von Struck and briefly raised his eyebrows in a facial shrug.

Rohleder found them both in the undergrowth. She was sitting on a blanket. The boy lay with his head on her lap. She crooned softly to him while stroking his head. He felt like an intruder and was tempted to turn away but she saw him and smiled.

"Is he alright?” It was lame but it was all he could think of. She was pretty, young and slim, but the well-defined knot of muscle in her bare arms and the dark patches under her eyes told the story of hardship and toil. Over the last few weeks he had felt inadequate and self-effacing when they had spoken, but as he concentrated on the boy’s pallor and appearance, for once his scarring seemed to be at the back of his mind. He approached them both and knelt down to study him better. He was pale but there was no blood or marks to be seen so he didn’t think he’d been bitten.

"Are you alright, little man?” He reached a hand forward and laid it on his shoulder. "Tell me what happened.”

The boy stayed silent, Rohleder looked up to his mother. It was then that he noticed she was crying.

"Should I go?" he asked.

She shook her head and roughly wiped a tear away. "No, stay here." She looked up and added, "Please.”

Rohleder nodded and, without a thought for his own perceived unsightliness, he reached to her and stroked her hair.

"Don’t cry. He needs you to be strong.”

She sniffled loudly and nodded. Her acceptance of the gesture seemed natural and appropriate, and as he let his hand fall away, he realised that she was the first woman he had touched since his wife had left him an aeon ago.

Unexpectedly, Paul turned briefly to look at Rohleder and turned away again. Without looking at him, he asked, "Are they Russians, those men in the mines, are they Russians?”

"No, they’re on our side." He wanted to say more, to reassure him, but he couldn’t find anything to say. There was nothing to say because he didn’t like what was in the mine either.

"But they’re not German, are they?" he asked, and then pleading "Are they?”

"I don’t know what they are but they’re on our side and they won’t harm you, I promise you that.”

She looked up and into his eyes. Rohleder inwardly shrank from her gaze but forced himself to look back at her. Shocked, he saw she was smiling at him. A barrage of emotions assaulted him from all sides and for the second time in the space of a month he felt the sharp prickle of tears welling up.

"My name is Stephanie.”

"I know, Paul told me." He averted his eyes back down to the boy and blinked his smarting eyes. "I’m—”

"Michael,” she finished for him. "Paul told me too. He’s told me a lot about you. Where do come from?”

"Hanover, well Langenhagen really, but my last address was in the city itself, not far from the Steintor part of town, so I was in the nicer area." Steintor was the infamous red light district in Hanover and he smiled to emphasise that he was joking.

She laughed back at him and Rohleder was suddenly aware that here was an attractive young lady actually smiling at him and sharing a joke. Is she seeing through the scars and really looking at me? he dared to hope. Henning shouted his name and Rohleder turned to go

"We’ve got to sort out the sentry rota for tonight and I don’t want to get the graveyard shift again.”

She nodded and looked down to Paul. He took it as his leave to go, pausing as she looked back up at him again. "If you want, you can eat with us tonight. That’s only if you want to, that is." She was smiling at him again and Rohleder’s heart did a flip.

"I’d love to. No, better still, I’d be honoured." He nodded, smiled and left them alone.

"What happened?" Henning asked.

"The boy went in to the mine. He’s ok but he had a shock. Remember how terrified we were when we saw the count’s men for the first time? Multiply that by about a thousand and that’s what the kid’s going through now.”

"You can say what you want, those ghouls are evil. They shouldn’t be on our side. We’re the good guys!" It was Muschinski.

Henning laughed. "If we’re the good guys, why is the whole world against us?”

"Are you trying to tell me that the Ruskies are the good guys?”

"No, but we’re no better than them—”

"And they’re no better than us." Muschinski squared up to Henning, who now looked puzzled as to his intent.

They froze in this position until Rohleder broke in. "Come, on boys, we don’t fight among ourselves. It’s a shit war and the bastards who started it are sitting on their fat arses laughing at us, laughing at us stupid bastards while we suck the shitty end of the stick. The last thing we need is to start beating each other up." He looked to the two of them. Henning, who hadn’t taken Muschinski’s challenge seriously anyway, shrugged and held out his hand. Muschinski smiled sheepishly at Henning and took his shovel-like hand in his.

"Sorry, Wolfgang, I don’t know why I get so worked up about it. It’s all a load of bollocks anyway, I just want it to end. I hate being the bad guy. Even the Wehrmacht hate us and some of them are just as psychotic as the SS.”

"I know." Henning nodded. "But when Ivan starts getting tough, they always scream for the SS to sort it out for them. Don’t take it to heart, Muschi, it’s not worth it. We all fucked up joining the SS in the first place, so accept it and just be grateful you’re in a troop of like-minded Party dropouts.”

Muschinski sniggered. "There’s no way they’d let him in the Party anyway." He nodded towards Rohleder. "Too ugly for the shining National Socialists.”

"But a rabid Party hardliner if ever there was one," Henning rejoined.

"Oh well done, Laurel and Hardy. Hilarious.” Rohleder grinned. "Now that you two drama queens have sorted out who the good guys are, I need to know something. Henning, do the vampires see the civilians as German?” He paused to incline his head to Muschinski and sarcastically smiled. “And therefore as friendlies, or are they to be seen as food?”

Henning looked bemused. "Well, I suppose they … I would have thought that they see them as …”

"Food," Rohleder finished for him.

"No, they can’t do that!”

"They probably can, Muschi, and what’s more they probably do." Rohleder sounded philosophical but Henning noted the calm formality of suppressed dread in his voice.

"Let me talk with the boss, Michael. He’ll put things straight." Henning patted him on the back. He wanted to make a joke of his attachment to the boy but he stopped himself and walked off to talk to Von Struck.

"I shouldn’t think so, Wolfgang," Von Struck answered. "If that was the case, why are the civilians still alive now?”

"I don’t know. Perhaps they haven’t yet registered their presence, as it were. Perhaps they’re just not hungry or they’re saving them for a rainy day. I don’t know but I would be happier if I knew for sure." He paused and added, "And I’m pretty sure Michael would be happier too. He’s gotten very attached to the boy and he’s probably got designs on the mother.”

Von Struck nodded. "Right, well I had better ask Jurgen, er, Arak, as soon as possible. Don’t say anything to Michael. I’ll find out tonight before they go out.”

"I hope you get the right answer or there could be trouble, and I don’t want to have to scrap with a vampire again.”

It was a clear spring evening, lit by a burning moon and a billion stars. Von Struck waited at the entrance to the mine for the vampires. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t thought of this line of threat. It was just another sign of the ever-increasing burnout he was experiencing, in fact what they were all going through. None of them had had any sustained time off from operations in years. This was meant to have been their rest and recuperation from the front.

"A cushy posting in friendly Romania. Ha!" he spoke aloud to himself and jumped when the unsettling growl of one of the vampires rumbled from within the mine.

"Madness comes quick to those who are loud in their own company.” It was Arak.

"Jurgen," he had decided to steadfastly refuse the notion that Jurgen was now Arak. "I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

Arak rose out of the mine and stood in front of him. His tunic and boots were scuffed and tattered. His face looked dirty and his long talon-like nails were black. He smelt of putrefaction and earth.

"Well?" The bottomless power of his voice raised every hair on Von Struck’s body. There was no doubting the predatory malice in the beast that stood before him.

Could this really be Jurgen?

Von Struck steadied his wavering mettle. "It’s about the civilians.” He paused to let it sink in. Arak seemed to be occupied with something else so Von Struck pushed his face into his line of sight to get his attention. "I’m not sure how you and your men view them but they are German civilians and I won’t have them being molested, or worse, by your men. Do you understand?”

Arak didn’t answer immediately. He looked through the trees to where the civilians had set up their camp and, as if seeing them for the first time, his eyes widened and closed as he smiled to himself.

"I asked you if you understood me.”

Arak looked back at him and, ever so slowly, nodded that he understood.

"If any harm comes to them—”

"You’ll do what, human? I was given no direction in regards to the civilians from the Master and even now he doesn’t speak to me. They are, as I see it, cattle.”

In his anger at the rebuke, Von Struck completely forgot his earlier anxiety about the vampires. He also forgot to call Arak Jurgen.

"I am in charge here, Arak. Your Master gave you very clear direction in that regard. The civilians are German and therefore on our side, and not to be touched.” He pointed his finger into Arak’s chest as he spoke. "Do you understand me?”

The naked hostility in Arak’s expression almost made Von Struck take a step back, but he managed to brace himself to back up his demand. Arak said nothing and Von Struck swallowed his fear to meet the vampire's gaze full on. The standoff dragged on for a good twenty seconds, neither willing to give ground and look away. Von Struck only hoped that Arak was as obedient to the count’s will as he had been led to believe. He was in command and Arak knew this, but did he accept it? Without moving his gaze from the vampire’s, Von Struck asked him again. "Do you understand me, Arak?”

Silence and malice met him. Finally, after what seemed like an hour to Von Struck, but was in fact only a couple of seconds, Arak answered him. "The cattle are safe, for now. You are in command but when you are gone, I will say what is to be done with … " He paused and smiled again, and drool slithered off from one of his fangs and fell onto his tunic. He ignored it. "…the supplies.” Then he turned and was gone, back into the mine.

A weak, sickly feeling churned in his stomach. They had escaped the nightmare of the Russian front only to be tossed into a new, even worse, nightmare.

Later he told Rohleder and Henning what had happened, leaving the bit about him being nearly scared out of his wits to their imagination. As he spoke, Rohleder turned and looked at the boy and his mother whilst listening with one ear. "If they are harmed," he said after Von Struck had finished, "I’ll kill them all. God knows how but I’ll kill them or die trying." He looked defiantly at the other two, who nodded their understanding.

Henning placed his hand on Rohleder’s shoulder. "Michael, you won’t be alone if that happens.”

Arak had heard them. They were at the other end of the camp but he had heard every hushed whisper. He smiled to himself and settled down to wait for the night.

Chapter 30

Transylvania

Rasch could not fathom it. It should have been a simple case of refining the dosage, for he was sure that the serum he’d created worked, but it wasn’t. He paced the laboratory and worried at the problem. He had imported the best laboratory equipment the Reich could provide. His patented machinery and devices had been shipped from Heidelberg, along with his entire library, and built in direct copy of his set-up in Germany. He had personally picked his two assistants. From the extensive pool of learned men that languished in the concentration camp system, he had found three brilliant Jewish scientists to help him in his quest.

However, his initial confidence that he could provide a working serum for the count was rapidly dwindling and his nervousness at the realisation of impending failure clouded his thoughts. Scenes of the count’s rampant anger plagued him in the night and sleep was nigh on impossible. Only the saccharine succour of his newest ally helped keep him on the right side of sanity.

He looked up at the clock—an hour still to go. The waiting seemed interminable and he knew he would never get anything done here until she came for her daily visit. Every day at eleven o’clock precisely, Iullia visited him at the laboratory. He had come to depend on her visits and he knew, on a different level of consciousness, her importance to him had grown out of all proportion to the depth of their relationship.

He stalked past one of his assistants, a small, elderly professor of chemistry who tended to cower in Rasch’s presence and rub his hands, and casually batted him with the riding crop he had taken to carrying.

"Get on with it—" He struggled to remember his name. It was something horribly Jewish, he was sure of it. He carried on pacing.

The three assistants Rasch had selected couldn’t believe their luck when they were told they had been chosen to perform important research for the Reich. Two of them had spent the last year in the quarry at Mauthausen Concentration camp. Eleven hour shifts, minimum rations and beatings on a regular basis had taken their toll on the pair and they both knew that an invalid transport to one of the death camps they weren’t supposed to know about was looming on the horizon.

The third had found a comfortable niche for himself in the warehouse known as Canada at Birkenau, the second camp at Auschwitz. The valuables, clothing and possessions of the gassed victims were brought here to be sorted and then either sent to Germany or issued to the camp inmates. Amongst the valuables and clothing were also glasses, false teeth, false limbs and a whole array of medical equipment. It was his job to sort out what was good and what was not.

The name of the lager, Canada, had puzzled them all. Why Canada? Nobody knew for sure but he had a theory, and as morbid and ghoulish as it was, his associates had all agreed with him. He surmised that the word Canada was a bastardisation of the German phrase, Keine Da— nobody there. The property of the victims was all that remained of them. As loosely fitting and as wrong as the theory was, it summarized for him the tragedy of Canada and the horror of Auschwitz.

The timely transfer from the backbreaking quarry work, and the heartbreak of the warehouse, to the sedate laboratory had saved their lives. However they were now sure it hadn’t saved their souls.

Rasch had them lined up in front of his desk to welcome them and inform them of his plans. He spoke at length and omitted nothing. It didn’t matter if they knew everything because the plan was to shoot them after the work was completed anyway. When Rasch finished apprising them of their task, they all steadfastly refused to cooperate. Despite their medical and scientific background they were all religiously devout men. This, to them, was a crime against God and Heaven that would be paid for in the next life, not in this.

Rasch, however, had anticipated this would happen and had made plans accordingly. He nodded to one of the guards who, without uttering a word, shot the most voluble of the three.

His weapon was already cocked and he shot from behind so there was no warning. The blast was unexpected, and in the close confines of Rasch’s office, unsurprisingly loud. It had the same effect as a stun grenade and even Rasch, who had expected the discharge, found his heart racing and a warning spasm flitting through his sphincter.

He coughed and rubbed at his ringing ears before continuing. Affecting a nonchalant air, he asked them if they were still of the same opinion, adding that he only had to make a phone call and they would be replaced by another two professors on the next train. He left the fact that he hadn’t mentioned their fate, if and when another two came to replace them, hanging in the air.

Mordechai Bluhm, onetime professor and onetime rock-breaker, shuffled his feet. Did he really believe in God nowadays anyway? Somehow he now identified the Synagogue, the observance of the Sabbath and all the trappings of his belief as a representation of the good old times, his life before the Germans. Was there really a place left in his soul for his old religion, now that he had been so long under the Nazi yolk?

It was true, his faith had fortified him through the early years in captivity. Nevertheless, as time had dragged on, his convictions had withered and were now merely a warm and distant nostalgia for an earlier, much different life. And that was the crux of the matter, it was no longer his life; it was a memory.

He decided there and then that he had laboured under the Nazi whip for too long to die here, in this God-forsaken place, for some remote notion of good over evil. He was vaguely aware of the foetus of guilt forming in the back of his mind but it was being quietly eaten by a very predatory survival instinct. He opened his mouth to acquiesce and was taken aback as the man next to him answered for them both.

"Herr Doctor, we will of course assist you in your program.”

Rasch smiled his best gloating smile and knowingly shook his head. "Typical Jews," he said aloud. "Take them out and feed them. I want them back here in one hour, ready for work." He dismissed them with a shooing motion and returned behind his desk.

Whilst they were eating, Mordechai's new partner introduced himself. The guard had left them alone to eat and Mordechai felt as if they’d been given the keys to leave the building. For the first time in four years he was left in peace to eat. No weapons were pointed in his direction and nobody screamed insults into his ear. The calm was heavenly and he felt an insane happiness creeping through his bones. He actually began to enjoy his meal, as revolting as it was, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps all would be well now … perhaps.

Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, his compatriot theatrically whispered, "Professor Reuben Stein at your service. Professor of Biology and Typical Jew.”  Mordechai found it hard to suppress his shock at the comedic introduction and his grin. "And you might be?”

"Professor of Chemistry, Doctor Mordechai Bluhm, at your service, sir.”

"Have you any idea of what he was talking about back there? Vampires? Day-walking? What on earth have we got ourselves into here? If Rabbi Neumann knew I was here, he would throw a fit!”

Mordechai couldn’t believe his ears. Was he making jokes about this?

"I have no idea." He smiled shyly and added, "and I’ve no idea who Rabbi Neumann is either. What a Mishagoss. I can’t believe that I‘ve said yes to do this devil’s work. What are we doing here?”

Reuben Stein, one-time professor and one-time Auschwitz survivor let the smile fall and nodded sagely. "We’re surviving, my friend. We’re surviving.”

Mordechai wordlessly concurred before asking, "Why did you change your mind? You were just as vehement against the idea as Peter."

"I was just following you two.” He changed his tone and put on a simple-minded smile. "After all, I’m only a Typical Jew.”

"So am I.” Mordechai sniggered at the memory of the phrase and the laughably arrogant way it had been used. "A Typical Jew.” He started to giggle and, by force of habit, he put his fist into his mouth to stifle the sound. Reuben started as well and they noiselessly snorted their amusement into their fists until the tears ran into their cabbage soup and their pact with the devil was forgotten.

This first cynical exchange set the tone for their working relationship with Doctor Ernst Rasch. In a cold and damp baroque laboratory at the foot of the ancient and mysterious Carpathian Mountains, Reuben and Mordechai cultivated a new daring in their 'Typical Jew' character.

Rasch’s entrance into the laboratory would be the catalyst for an ever more ridiculous pantomime. Bending over in a hunchbacked manner, they would rub their hands greedily and show Rasch as much servile timidity as they could before he left the room in disgust. Rasch never thought for a minute that there was anything wrong in their manner and this emboldened them to ever more ridiculous caricatures.

The food was good, the work was easy and their superior was a Schmuck; what could be better?

It was Iullia who put the vinegar to their cream. "Why do you behave like that in front of the doctor, Jew?” she had pleasantly asked. She came with a summons for Rasch from the count and had watched their charade in bemused silence. Rasch went pale when Iullia conveyed the Counts’ instructions and had wordlessly stalked out.

"What ... what do ... what do you mean, ma’am?" Reuben was mortified by his exposure, stuttering in fear as he tried to answer.

"You know exactly what I mean. What’s your name, Jew?” She was smiling as she spoke but somehow the smile stayed rooted to her lips and never reached her eyes.

He subconsciously reached for a cap to doff, but he had none and, in his terror, he started to babble. "Stein, Reuben Stein, ma’am. I work here and—”

He was cut off by an abrupt slap in the face. The violence flicked an old switch and he automatically stood to attention, eyes staring at a point above her head. The most awful scars of the camps were not those worn on the outside.

"Reuben, don’t be afraid. I need your help," she whispered.

The words sank in and Reuben cautiously let his eyes drop down from the ceiling.

"I’m sorry I hit you," she continued. "But you were babbling and I don’t want the doctor to hear us.”

His bewilderment intensified and he now looked into her eyes.

"Get your friend. We need to talk about stopping this. You know that what you are helping to achieve is wrong, don’t you?”

He nodded, finally comprehending that she meant no harm. "I’ll go and get Mordechai.”

They stood in front of her in Rasch’s office. Mordechai had been almost speechless in his fear but Reuben had reassured him and now he seemed to be the one most at ease with the situation. Reuben still could not bring himself to trust that soulless smile.

"So all I need of you two is to make sure that no serum is made. I don’t know how but you have to do it.”

Mordechai was nodding. He felt better about the whole project now he was being asked to sabotage it.

"He’ll find out.” It was Reuben who was worried. "It won’t take long and then what will happen to us? Will you be able to help us? Where will you be when they line us up on the wall?”

"Professor Stein.” Iullia looked him in the eye. "What do you think will happen to you both when your role here is finished? Do you think you will be sent back to Germany for a teaching post in Heidelberg?" She let that sink in before continuing. "You know this is wrong. I know this is wrong but I cannot do anything about it. You two can and I think you should. In the name of all that is holy, you must do something to stop this madness.” She almost convinced herself and one look at Mordechai showed her how good her acting had been.

Mordechai, who up to this point hadn’t been one hundred percent committed, was violently nodding his approval at the plan and was unswerving in his desire to sabotage the program. He had inwardly shunned his God but recognised this chance as his way back to salvation. God had tested him and he had failed him. However, he finally had the means and the will to see it through and he would pass this trial of faith.

"Reuben, we must help, if it’s the last thing we do. This could be our redemption. This might save our souls.”

Reuben knew the situation they were in; he wasn’t blind and he definitely wasn’t stupid, but he wanted to delay any decisions that could rock the boat. For the first time in years he had felt relatively safe and now she had come along and threatened to wreck everything. Was that fair? Why must they put everything on the line? Why was it down to them to save the Germans? They hated them so. Why?

"I know what’s going on in your mind, Reuben," she said. "You’re asking why it must be you, why must you save Germany from this evil, this plague?”

Reuben said nothing. On another level he knew this woman could read minds. He didn’t question it and he didn’t follow the thought further, he just knew.

"Do you really want to go to your God knowing that you helped cause this? I am German, this is true, but I’m not a devil and I know wrong when I see it. Reuben, do you really want to be a 'shabbes goy' for the Nazis?"

They were both taken aback by her use of the Yiddish tongue and Mordechai found himself nodding accusingly at Reuben. A 'shabbes goy' was a gentile who performed labour forbidden to observing Jews on the Sabbath. It was also used for someone who did the dirty work for another person.

Reuben paused and looked at his feet. "No, you are right, we must help. I will do what I can to hinder production." He looked back up at Mordechai and smiled determinedly. "We will do what we can.” He held out his hand to his friend and new brother in arms, who took it and shook it in agreement.

Iullia smiled up at the scene of the two men assenting to die for a cause and inwardly she shrieked her triumph. "Why is it the good are always so easy to deceive?” she asked herself.

*  *  *

Rasch walked slowly to the count’s library. He had managed to avoid the count recently but he had been summoned and had no option but to obey. He felt like a man walking to his execution.

How had it all gone so horribly wrong? He wasn’t sure, but the lack of positive results was something that he hadn’t had to deal with before, and it was hurting his sense of self. It was as if the Gods themselves were interfering and trying to sabotage his progress. The building of the laboratory had taken a lot of time; the transport alone had taken four weeks. So it stood to reason that he would need more time than the count had given him. "Science cannot be rushed," he told himself. "He’ll just have to be patient.”

However he knew that patience was not on the agenda with the count. The count demanded results straightaway and the penalty for failure didn’t bear thinking about. If only he hadn’t been as cock-sure and positive before they had conducted the final test, then the count wouldn’t have expected so much and perhaps that might have tempered his haste. He was sure the two new Jews would be of help, they were willing and industrious, but he needed more time. That was what he would now ask for, more time.

He knocked on the library door and waited for the call to enter. Normally he would have marched in but he subconsciously valued every second of postponement, so he knocked and waited.

"Come in, Doctor, please come in." The count sounded jovial but Rasch knew that that was no guarantee of safety.

The door opened before him and Rasch steeled himself to walk in.

"You wanted to see me, Your Excellency?”

"Yes, yes I did.” The count got up and walked around his desk. He put his arm around Rasch’s shoulder and guided him to a chair.

"Tell me, Doctor, and please be as candid as you can be; tell me how far off we are from a serum?” He sat down opposite Rasch and gravely waited for an answer.

Rasch coughed into his hand to gather his thoughts. "How do you want me to answer, with a date or are we talking in the abstract?" Buoyed by the count’s air of benevolence, Rasch tried to assume a tone of confidence.

"Could you give me a date?" the count asked almost hopefully and Rasch found himself forgetting his earlier fear.

"Er, well it wouldn’t be easy to give a date straight off of the top of my head, but—”

The count held his hand up for silence. ”Doctor, I realise that I have put a lot of pressure on you and I have had a rethink of how best we move ahead with our plans.” Rasch nodded that he understood and the count pressed on. "I told you, somewhat rashly, that the next experiment that fails will cost you dearly. At that time my numbers were small and precious. It seems now that we are in a position where we can start to take chances with the lives of my soldiers. Every week we receive a delivery of men who are either to be used as rations or to be turned to soldiers. Why not use one or two of the newest recruits as test subjects?”

Rasch sat up, delighted by the idea. "Of course, Excellency, brilliant. I see a whole new pace being set by your proposal. In fact, I—” Rasch stopped himself in mid-flow.

"I’m glad you approve, Doctor." The count smiled and Rasch felt the icy fingers of apprehension throttling his poise.

"I will give you six months to develop, test and present to me a working serum. Six months, Herr Doctor Rasch, is an adequate time for success and an overly excessive amount of time for failure.”

"Yes, of course Your Excellency. I will not let you down. I’ll get started right away,” he babbled.

"Good man. Speak to the guards about picking your test subjects. You know the way out.” He nodded to the door.

Rasch stood outside the library and counted the months off in his head. Tomorrow would be the first of April. Was that six months including March or did he mean six months as of April. He was panicked and weary. He needed Iullia. Iullia would sort him out, he was sure.

Chapter 31

Ukraine

The mine was getting too full. Every week brought more vampire soldiers and now their numbers had swollen to over six hundred. They didn’t all go out every night either now as it had been considered a better tactic to hold them back and wait for the 'Big Push,' the counter-attack that would send Ivan back to Moscow.

Rasch had put the idea forward and Himmler had liked it, or so he had said. The theory was based on the effect the British tanks had had on the German soldiers during the First World War. Churchill had reckoned that if they had used the tanks en masse across a large front instead of using them in ones and twos, the effect would have been a thousand fold more potent and could possibly have turned the war a lot quicker. The theory was sound and they decided to copy the idea. The only problem was, as ever, logistics. The feeding and sheltering was turning into a nightmare.

"We’ll have to send them back," Henning suggested. "We’ll stay here with a nominal force to use as a raiding party and the rest can come up for the Big Push later.” He stressed the 'Big Push' to show his disgust at the idea.

"I think you’re right. They should go back to the castle. There’s bound to be a cellar there and they’re not doing anything here. It makes sense to get them away.”

Rohleder chipped in. "Who’s going to put it to Arak, because I’m not fucking going to.”

"Oh you’re a great help, you are," Henning growled.

"We’ll all go," Von Struck decided and they turned as one to the mine.

Arak stopped them in their tracks. They hadn’t heard him appear and didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Rohleder was more embarrassed than shocked and he ludicrously hoped Arak hadn’t heard his outburst.

"I heard your conversation. I have spoken with the Master and he agrees. We leave tonight.”

Von Struck was the first to gather his wits. "Are you going as well?”

"I have to guide them back and to report to your Master." He sounded almost casual.

"My Master?"

"The doctor.”

Von Struck was speechless but he could hear the two behind him as they choked on their laughter.

"Arak, the doctor is not my Master, he is my superior for this mission—”

”—and therefore he is your Master." Arak finished for him, dry faced and serious.

"No, yes, oh whatever you wish.”

Henning and Rohleder calmed down when Von Struck asked Arak what he was supposed to report on.

"That is for your Master.”

"Of course." Even Von Struck had started to see the funny side and he smiled to himself. "We have to talk about how we should continue after you get back.”

"What do you mean?"

Both Rohleder and Henning looked at him too.

"When you go back, we’ll have a smaller number of soldiers and therefore we will have more manoeuvrability. We can afford to leave the quarry and move.”

Henning was impressed. "Did you just think that out or have you been planning this for a while?”

Rohleder butted in aggressively. "What about the civilians?”

"They’ll have to make up their own minds what they’re going to do—”

"So we just leave them, do we?" He was angry and Von Struck recognised the danger signs. Rohleder had over the last few weeks lived in a make-do family environment and he did not want to let it go. The boy and his mother had come to mean a lot to him, too much in Von Struck’s opinion, but he had already thought about the problem.

"Listen, we’re going to have a couple of days on our own. I want to use these days to scout out a few alternative positions.  We’ll scout out the places; it shouldn’t be too hard. There will only be a few of us and you can escort the civvies westwards towards our lines. Ok?”

Rohleder nodded his assent. He wasn’t happy about the change in their situation but he knew he had to accept it.

"Right, boss, I’ll go and see what they want to do.”

"Mick—" Rohleder turned back to Von Struck. "It’s up to them what they do. Don’t try to make their minds up for them.” He nodded and walked away.

Arak had slipped off during the exchange.

"Boss, I still can’t get over the fact that I just heard Jurgen call Rasch, 'The Master'."

Von Struck laughed and they both went to his tent to pore over the map. "Obviously we need to know what numbers they’ll be coming back in but I propose we use the cave systems we found here and here," he said, pointing at the map.

Henning nodded, trying to envisage the areas they had already covered in their recent searches.

Chapter 32

He approached the old man first. Rohleder didn’t particularly like him but, as the recognised head of the party, he knew that if he could bring the old man to his way of thinking, the whole party would follow.

His plan was to take them West into Hungary and send them north-west up to Bohemia. Michael had a friend who owned an arms factory in Prague and was sure he’d put the two of them up. It all hinged on what the old man said.

"This looks a good place, too.” Henning was pointing at the map when Rohleder burst in, fuming. "That old Nazi bastard, I can’t believe it, I really can’t.”

Von Struck turned to him. "What’s wrong? What did he say?”

Rohleder was breathing heavily and the anger blazed in his eyes. "He doesn’t want to leave here. He wants to stay and hide. His horse is lame, he says, and they don’t have any rations. I told him he can’t stay here because Ivan is coming but he doesn’t want to know.”

”Calm down. Let him stay. I don’t even like him,” Von Struck placated. "What did Stephi and Paul say?”

Rohleder looked mystified. "I didn’t ask her. I thought she’d just do what the old man said.”

Henning smiled kindly. "Go and talk to her. She may have come here with him but she’s your responsibility now, and the boy. They need you to tell them to get out of here.”

Rohleder nodded his head while Henning spoke to him. He looked to Von Struck who concurred and gesticulated with his thumb for him go.

Stephanie and Paul were washing clothes when he found them. He felt unsure, as if this was the Litmus test of her feelings. He knew rejection would kill him. He coughed to gain their attention and, when they looked up to him, he spilled out everything he wanted to say in one breathless burst.

"We’re moving out but the old man wants you all to stay here. I know a man, well a friend really, in Prague that could put you both up for a while. I can take you to Hungary but then you’ll have to make it on your own until you get there. I’ve got his address and—”

"You’re leaving?” The concern in her voice broke through his anxiety about rejection and he stopped to gather his thoughts.

"Yes, but I’ve been given some time to help you for a couple of days. We’ll head for Hungary and hopefully we can find a couple of horses.”

She was silent, looking down at the floor. Paul hadn’t said a word and he too looked down at the ground.

"Like I said," he continued. "I know somebody in Prague who could help. He owes me and I’ll write a letter for you to give …” He broke off as she looked up and he saw the tears in her eyes.

"Can’t you come with us?”

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Why?” shouted Paul and he ran off into the undergrowth.

"You’ve got to leave here. When Ivan gets here, they’ll find you all and then it really will be too late.”

She was crying into her washing. Rohleder stood helpless and uncomfortable, awaiting her decision. She sniffed and looked up. "I’ll start to pack, and will you please get Paul? Talk to him. He needs you to talk to him and promise that you’ll come to us in Prague.”

He smiled once and went to leave.

"Michael?” He turned back. "Thank you, thank you for everything. You’re a good man and I can’t say that I’ve met too many good men recently.”

"No. Thank you. Before I met you I’d forgotten that I was a man at all.” He left her to fold their clothes.

He knew where Paul had hidden so he made a beeline for it. It was the hollow trunk of a once mighty oak. Only the outer shell remained. The soft inside had been stripped away by time and termites. It was open to the heavens as the branches had all starved and rotted away, and the only entrance was a crack in the outer layer. He’d run to the tree but now he stood outside and thought about what he was going to say.

He started with the first thing in his head. "Paul?” No answer. So he tried again.

"Why do you want to leave us?" came the soft question in answer.

"I don’t want to leave you, but I’ve got to." His heart leapt to his throat and he was once again taken by surprise by his emotions. "But I promise I’ll come for you and your mother. I promise I will.”

"You won’t. My dad said he’d come back and he didn’t. He never came back and we had to leave everything behind. Now you want to leave us and—”

Rohleder briefly wondered about his father and then said in one breath, "Listen, I’ll ride with you both until we get to Hungary and then I’ll send you both up to Prague. I’ve got a friend there. He owns a factory that makes weapons, guns and cannons, and he’s very rich. He can buy sweets and you can stay with him until I get there. When I get there, we’ll all go to Germany and live together on a farm.”

Paul had come out of the tree and was looking up at Rohleder. "No, in the city, so I can go to the cinema."

Rohleder, who hadn’t yet seen him, was rudely jerked out of his musings. "Ok, in the city. Hanover, is that city enough for you?”

"Yes, swear that you’ll come to see us and that we’ll all move away from the Russians.”

He nodded sombrely. "I swear.”

Paul nodded and smiled up at him.

"That’s better. No need to be sad. I’ll be gone for a while and I’ll come for you. We can all live together, like a real family." Rohleder realised that he had never wanted something so much in his life and he swore to himself to do right by the pair of them.

"Yeah, like a real family," Paul echoed wistfully.

Chapter 33

The plan was simple. Barring Rohleder, they would go out in pairs and reconnoitre the various positions they had seen over the last couple of months. When Arak and whoever he had with him came back they would brief him on the whereabouts of every hiding place. During the day, the count’s men would sleep and Von Struck’s men would either stand guard for them, as they had done, or go out on fighting patrols deep inside enemy territory. The vampires would hit the targets further afield than the horsemen, the idea being that Ivan would find it hard to put a fix on any one area of operations.

Arak agreed with the idea after a trance-like conversation with the count and promised to bring explosives and extra ammunition with him when he came back. The only sticking point was the civilians.

"Are the civilians still under your protection?" Arak had asked.

"Yes. Don’t even think it, Arak.”

"It’s a long journey and some haven’t taken sustenance in days because they haven’t been on any raids.” There was no pleading or threat involved, just the ice-cold reasoning of the hungry predator. He spoke of the refugees as if they were provisions for the journey.

"They are German civilians and they will not be touched. Is that clear, Arak?”

Arak grudgingly nodded. "Your instructions are clear. So long as you’re here, the civilians are not to be touched. We will obey your orders," he said over his shoulder.

"You’re damned right you will!" Von Struck was mainly angry at Arak’s dismissive air but he soon forgot the comment when Henning came with the list of pairs for the patrols.

"Do you know what, Wolfgang?" He sighed. "I can't wait to get out in the field again. This quarry was a useful hide but it’s so claustrophobic, it’s a health threat.”

Henning smiled. "I can’t say I’m looking forward to fighting again but I am looking forward to getting out of here and away from them." He indicated the mine with his head.

Von Struck nodded, acknowledged the groupings on the list and said, "Let’s go and see Michael off.”

Henning laughed. "Yeah, the lucky bastard.”

Arak came back three days later with ten men. They were his oldest and most trusted warriors. The extra numbers had been a weight on his shoulders but now he was alone with just the ten and he felt free. Free to hunt.

The civilians left two days after Rohleder and Stephanie. They packed everything onto their wagon and harnessed the horse. Polite goodbyes were observed and Muschinski gave the little girls a small piece of chocolate each that he’d saved from his ration pack. They silently made their way through the opening in the quarry and out into the wood. The women had never really trusted their SS uniforms and only Rohleder and Muschinski had managed any sort of rapport with them.

The old man stopped at the entrance and turned around. He drew himself up to stand to attention and saluted them. "Heil Hitler!" he exclaimed and waited, like a statue, for their answer.

Von Struck relented. "Heil Hitler," he muttered and lifted his arm in a half-hearted parody of a response.

"Good luck,” Henning whispered. "You’re going to need it.”

"We’re all going to need it, Wolfgang, so don’t wish it away on people we’ll never see again.” It was Berndt Grand, as dour and cynical as ever.

"I feel sorry for the kids, to be honest. That old Nazi will just lead them into trouble,” Muschinski joined in.

Von Struck had the last word. "I don’t want to sound callous but they’re not our problem now. They’ve gone but we’re still here, so let’s get our things together and sort out where we’re going to survey today.”

*  *  *

They worked together surprisingly well with the count’s men. By day they left a guard at their location and rode out to the villages to show that there was a German troop in the vicinity. Von Struck spoke with Arak briefly every morning before patrol to discuss the next overnight location and the various other administrative problems that might turn up. They were given radios to keep in contact but they were useless in that they didn’t hold enough range or battery power. Up to that point they had not bumped into any Red Army soldiers and Von Struck was confident that the remoteness of the area was a major factor in their not being detected.

By night Arak would take his troop out to wreak mayhem among the front line soldiers. He hunted with relish, as only those re-born to kill could understand. They slashed and fed on Russian troops every night, knowing no bounds to their blood lust. It was vampire heaven, spoilt only by the coming of the blazing dawn every day.

Von Struck had decided from the start that they should try to win over the hearts of the peasants. In every village they came across they made an effort to be civil and respectful to the village elders and the local populace. Soon, the myth of the ghostly mounted German squad, who were humane to the people but merciless to their enemies, grew out of all proportion to their deeds. Gone were the days of cowering peasants and terrified children. It was, for them all, a good feeling.

"This is what we should have done when we first came," Henning said one evening as they set up camp. "Just goes to show how stupid they are in Berlin."

In every village they heard the same story. The Red Army would come and take all the males in the village for cannon fodder, confiscate the food and demand shelter and entertainment for the Commissars and Party officials. The Commissars would hold court and pass judgment on those accused of helping the German invaders. The sentences were never lenient.

"They just can’t win, can they?" Gruhn had once said aloud to himself. "It just hasn’t stopped for them, has it?”

"First we came and robbed them blind,” Muschinski answered him. "Now they’re liberated by the Russians and they’re robbing them blind.”

"They must hate the world,” Henning opined to all, and then to himself, "I know I would.”

The days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. Every day was the same routine, broken only by contact with the enemy or the villagers.

The rations came every week with orders from Berlin. Arak would send two of his men back to the castle every third night and they would return the next evening with their provisions. They had all wondered at the stamina of the vampires and their inhuman endurance.

Rasch sometimes wrote Von Struck a brief note imparting news from Germany or on developments at the castle. They were invariably full of regurgitated rubbish from the propaganda department in Berlin or wild fantasies about the progress he was making with the serum. Von Struck had given up reading them and they ended up customarily on the fire or being used for sanitary purposes.

It was the middle of May before they met with the results of their allies' work. The patrols started well before dawn and usually ended before dark. They would ride out on an empty stomach and stop around eight to eat and rest their horses.

The sun was dazzling and it tired their already fatigued eyes with its intensity. They had found a shaded glade in which to rest for breakfast and the sun’s rays poking through the leafy boughs added to the pleasing feel of the early morning break. They ate their food cold so as not to make a fire and spent some time cleaning weapons or grooming the horses.

It was Nau who made the gruesome discovery. He was looking for a suitable spot to perform his ablutions, a shovel in one hand and a bunch of Rasch’s letters in the other. The undergrowth was sparse and he was forced to go quite a way from their spot to achieve any privacy. After a couple of minutes he noticed an area where the foliage seemed to be denser, and thus more secluded. He pressed into the low-hung branches and through to the other side. An errant branch whipped his face and he closed his eyes as he walked through, only to open them again to a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

The first thing to strike him was the smell. Sweet and rancid, it hit his senses like a freight train, forcing him to gag. The crescendo of a million disturbed flies provided the soundtrack to the butchery before him. There were three command vehicles, camouflaged and ready for action, spread around a clearing measuring approximately twenty by twenty meters. Draped on the vehicles and hanging from the boughs of the trees were the remains of what had once been a command and control troop.

Naked human trunks, their limbs hacked off and thrown around the clearing, were strewn on the floor like slabs of beef. Every single one had had its throat slit, gouged or sawn through, and every face held a rigid scream of terror etched on its features. The bodies showed signs of mutilation after death, and were it not for the human heads attached to the torsos, it would have been hard to recognise these ragged carcasses as being once human.

Nau surveyed the carnage with the calm, analytical mind of a man who had seen a lot of slaughter. He had once thrown a satchel charge of explosives into a pillbox and followed inside to wipe out the survivors. The men he had killed had looked almost untouched, as if they were all sleeping. The concussion had produced only a minor trickle of blood from one of his victim’s ears. Nothing more could be seen. He had also seen the results of a Red Army salvo on a field hospital. But he had never seen anything like this.

He counted the torsos. There were eighteen in all. Eighteen destroyed bodies—legless, armless, throats gashed open, the cadavers defiled and exploited for every drop of blood. He could almost feel the residue of the rage and hatred of the attackers and he subconsciously crouched before its spectre.

"I once saw an artillery barrage hit a graveyard,” Henning said when he surveyed the butchery. "There were corpses thrown everywhere. The stink was unholy and it lingered in the fabric of our tunics for days after. This is ten times worse.”

"Don’t think about it. They’re the enemy and they’d probably be singing and dancing on our corpses if that was us," Gruhn offered to nobody in particular.

"What little of our corpses that would be left," Grand added. "They must really hate old Ivan. Look, the wounds are dry so they killed them, sucked their blood and mutilated them.”

Von Struck ended the reverie. "I think they hate all of us. All humans, regardless of nationality, are their prey. No, I’m wrong. They don’t hate us, they just don’t count us as their equal. We‘re the chickens and they’re the foxes. The only thing that’s stopping them from doing this to us is their own private, Godless agenda.”

"What are we doing with these monsters? This isn’t right, boss." Muschinski was staring at the flyblown massacre, shaking his head in shock.

"Calm down now, Muschi." Henning went to put an arm on his shoulder but Muschinski pushed it away. They all looked at him as he took a step back, his tone of voice mushrooming in pitch.

"No, this isn’t right. First we build the camps and then we decide to shoot all the Jews. We push them into death camps because shooting’s too much of a strain. Now this, this sacrilege from people we call our allies. When’s it all going to end? When are we going to stop? I didn’t march into Russia to kill children. I came here to fight Communists."

Henning took a step towards him. "Muschi—”

"No, it’s true Henning, we’re damned, damned for all eternity, and do you know what’s unfair about the whole thing? I haven’t done a fucking thing wrong.” He opened his arms, palms upwards, as if pleading to them. "Have I done anything wrong? Have I killed women and children? No. I haven’t killed any civilians. I’ve fought against an enemy that wanted to kill me but I’ve never killed anybody who doesn’t deserve it. I was in school when this fucking war started so I didn’t even help begin it. It’s not fucking fair!"

The last was screamed at the stunned and silent squad. Muschinski was panting loudly but otherwise nobody, except for the uninterested flies, made a sound. He turned towards the site of the mass execution. “Who will pay for this? Who will be held accountable?” Nobody answered. "I’ll tell you who’ll be blamed—us! We’ll be blamed and we’ll pay for this with our souls.”

Von Struck wasn’t immune to the feelings that Muschinski had just articulated but he knew he had to take control of the situation as Muschi’s outburst had unsettled them all.

"Muschinski," he barked. "Get a grip, man. We all know it too but we don’t snivel about it like women. Let’s get out of here and do our job—”

”And what is our job?” he cried, now totally abandoned to his anguish. "To help these devils send us to hell?"

"Our job is to protect the Fatherland, our families and loved ones. Men, this is what we cannot allow ourselves to forget. If we give in, nothing stands between Ivan and our kith and kin.”

He turned to the rest of the group who had played mute witness to the drama as it had unfolded. "Your parents, wives, girlfriends, everybody you know, is looking to you to carry on the fight, to save them from Ivan’s terrible revenge. And make no mistake, they will want their revenge. For all the slaughter, the terror and the inhuman tragedy that we have inflicted on them in the name of our Führer, they will want their revenge.”

Henning was slowly nodding his head in agreement but that was the only movement in the squad. With faces like stone, all had locked their eyes onto Von Struck who, for the second time since they met him, reiterated their situation in lucid, apolitical terms.

"It’s all I ask of you. Let’s stay true to ourselves and do our job honourably and as soldiers. As long as we keep to the code, as long as we kill only those who choose to march against us, we cannot be blamed for atrocities like this. Remember, we are not the villains here." He looked each one in the eye before he carried on. "Over the months, we have set an example in this region that is beyond reproach. Let’s keep it together and look after each other. Muschi is right in one respect, though—our new allies are an abomination. However, if they manage to keep Ivan from raping Berlin, well that’s fine with me. We don’t have to like them but we can use them for the time-being.”

He walked over to the now silent Muschinski and picked up the rifle that he’d dropped during his tirade,

"Take it, SS Sturmann Muschinski,” he said compellingly. "And then take your place in the squad.” Quietly, with one hand on Muschinski’s arm, he continued, "Nils, I need you. We need you, please …”

Muschinski nodded acceptance and took the rifle. Von Struck looked to the men and Henning took his cue. "Right, come on lads, let’s get going.”

They left the annihilation behind them and wordlessly went back to the glade to prepare for the day's ride.

Chapter 34

Transylvania

June

Rasch was always present at the railway sidings when the new arrivals came. It appeared to him to be the only part of his plan that wasn’t going awry. The trains were bringing up to two thousand prisoners a week. Some would be used as slave labour, some would become soldiers and the rest were used as food. The vampire soldiers now numbered over a thousand, and three new barrack blocks had been hastily erected to house and protect them from the sun. The complex of buildings also had its own concentration camp that held at any one time five hundred inmates and barracks for the Ukrainian guards. Rasch didn’t understand why the Reich employed these barbarians, and their coarse language and rough demeanour unsettled him.

The prisoners were put into four categories depending on where they came from. Russian prisoners of war were invariably used to reinforce the ranks. Once they had used a train full of Sonderkommando, but Rasch had complained so bitterly about the racial quandary of Jews fighting for the SS that the count agreed not to use them again. He himself saw no problem but he was respectful of his suppliers’ sensibilities.

Sonderkommando were in the first line, used for labour but also used as food. Common criminals from the concentration camp system were used as capos for the building sites and the rest of the inmates, the Jews, the Communists and the intelligentsia, depending on their health and the vampire’s feeding cycle, either worked or were bled.

However, that is where the accomplishments stopped. Rasch's camp administration was perfect but success with the serum was as elusive and far off now as it had been in January. They had tested five different formulae and each time there had been a fiery disaster. He was sure the two Jews he had in the lab were not pulling their weight. However, they seemed so scared of him that he could hardly believe they would have the audacity to shirk their duties.

As he jumped onto the lorry, one of the guards ran up to him and gave him the mail. He quickly scanned through the pile, recognising the heavy Gothic script his sister preferred to use, a communication from Berlin and a few letters for the guards.

He huffed at the Cyrillic figures on the envelopes addressed to the Ukrainians and contemplated how long it would take to teach these barbarians proper German lettering.

"Here, you.” He handed the bundle to one of the guards and sat in the cab of the lorry to read the message from Berlin.

The communiqué was dated June 12, 1944. Rasch read the heading and then reread it. He couldn’t believe his eyes and looked to see if it was somehow a hoax. "This cannot be—" was all he managed to gasp. The Ukrainian driver looked over to him and asked in heavily accented German if he was alright. Rasch could only shake his head, stunned into gaping silence as he read it for a third time.

The letter was headed, "Top Secret. For the eyes of…" and there followed a long list of SS and Wehrmacht dignitaries who were privy to the secret plotting within the Third Reich.

Rasch read it for a fourth time and understood that the end was nigh.

Chapter 35

Ukraine

July

It was early evening and Von Struck was reading a rare communiqué from Berlin. It was a plan for them to leave the region and return to the castle. The summons back to Transylvania could not have come at a better time. Their area of operations was becoming saturated with Russian soldiers and they no longer left the vampires alone during the day.

Von Struck read the instructions through and called Henning over. "What do you make of this?”

Henning read the brief. "It’s about time too. It’s getting far too risky here. To be honest, I was hoping we’d be pulled out soon. The only problem is Rohleder and where he is.”

Von Struck nodded absently. "Why do you think they’re pulling us back now, though?”

"Well I would have thought it’s because it’s getting too dangerous, but now you mention it, since when did the High Command ever worry about danger to their men?”

"Exactly my point. Something has happened and we’re either losing the war far worse than we thought or they’ve got a different mission for us. Personally I hope it’s the new mission option.”

"Yeah, me too. Here comes Arak.”

The vampire strolled up to them. "We must all go back. I am no longer under your command. We’ll be going back tonight.”

"That seems settled, then," Muschinski piped in almost happily. "Back to the world and hopefully back to Berlin for some well-earned leave. Berlin in summer—beautiful.”

Henning laughed at Muschi’s optimism but Von Struck turned back to Arak. "You are still under my command, though, Arak, up until we get back to the castle and then you can do what you please.”

The vampire sneered at Von Struck and turned away.

"Hey, Arak, did you hear what I said to you?”

Arak turned. His deep voice rumbled through the dusk, "Human, you have no command. Get back to the castle, they are waiting for you. I take my men tonight. You have nothing more to say to us." Then he turned and disappeared into the half-light.

"Damn, we have lost the war, then," Henning muttered.

"I can’t believe that. We haven’t had any contact with the outside world, I know, but I can’t believe we’ve lost the war, not yet anyway. If only we had a radio that could get BBC, then we’d know what’s going on.”

"Steady, boss. That’s treason, listening to the BBC.” Muschinski wasn’t smiling anymore.

"Well at least we’d know what’s really going on and not the condensed bullshit Berlin keeps spouting out.”

"I’ll give the men the good news. What time are we moving out?”

"We’ll go after Arak has gone. Hopefully we’ll meet Rohleder on the way back," Von Struck decided. "I told him to keep to the main route west so it should be alright. If we don’t see him, we’ll just report him as Missing in Action." Henning nodded and walked off to talk to Gruhn and Nau.

Arak and his troops left with no fuss and no farewells. One minute Von Struck heard them padding off into the wood and the next they were gone.

"Right, men,” Von Struck addressed his squad before they set off. “We haven’t got any pressure to get back but let’s not let our standard of march discipline slip. We’re still in enemy territory and the last thing we need is losses on the way home. We’ve made it this far. Let’s all get back so we can get drunk in Berlin.”

They shared the joke but nobody was under any false impressions about the seriousness of the situation. The pressure of living in the enemy’s backyard was only tolerable through the rigid following of drills and training. There was no way any one of them would risk getting killed now after six months behind enemy lines.

Although they stuck to a straight route, they hardly encountered any Russians. They rode hard and on the night of the third day slept in an old barn. It belonged to an old Ukrainian farmer whose son was in the 14th Waffen SS Galicia Division, a division made up mainly of Ukrainian volunteers. He had a secret cellar under the barn and for the first time in months they all felt out of harm's way.

Grand produced a bottle of brandy and Muschi, in Rohleder’s’ absence, provided the anecdotes. It was the last time they would spend a night under a roof together in freedom for a long time.

On the fifth day they found Rohleder. His horse hidden and camouflaged, he was waiting for them at the side of the road in the undergrowth.

Von Struck’s initial pleasure turned to consternation as he saw the look on his face. They trotted up to him, dismounted and gathered around. The air of tragic anger he radiated spoilt the moment. It was Henning who broke the brief silence. "What happened?”

Rohleder looked around at his comrades, gathering his resolve under their pitying gaze. Everybody knew that something had happened to the kid and his mother but they waited for his confirmation. He started to speak but stopped and swiftly looked away to blink the tears out of his eyes. Then he told them.

They were going too slow for Rohleder’s liking. Stephanie was tough but the months of hardship had sapped any stamina she once may have had and she was tiring easily and slowing them down. She refused point blank to ride the horse, insisting that Paul stay in the saddle. Rohleder held his peace but the delayed progress irked him.

On the third of June Stephanie turned sick. They set up camp in a cave and waited until she felt strong enough to move. Rohleder set snares for rabbits and they ate well enough and stayed warm. A week later Stephanie and Paul’s old travelling companions caught up with them. The reunion was brief and practical. Only the children seemed happy to see each other.

"We can’t wait for you,” the old man stated. “We’ve got to move on.”

"That’s fine." Rohleder didn’t want them to stay anyway because the bigger the crowd, the more the chance of being seen by Ivan.

"Have you got any medicine for Stephi, though? Her cough is turning bad.”

"We have nothing to spare but I might be tempted to trade some things for your horse.”

"Like what things?" Rohleder tried his best to sound amenable.

"We have a bit of medicine left over, for emergencies you understand, but not much. I could give you some more blankets and you could set up a nice home for yourself here. You all look cosy enough and that’s what you want, isn’t it, to make a home for yourself? It’s very private here, out of the way and out of the eyes of people who might not understand what a—” He never finished what he wanted to say.

Rohleder’s rage turned everything black and the only thing he remembered was Paul pulling him off the old man’s limp body.  He stood above him, panting from his exertions, and with a voice uneven from adrenaline he said, "Old man, give me what you have in the way of medicine and then go." He turned to the rest of the group. "You can stay with us if you want to, but as soon as Stephi is fit, we’re on our way. Now where’s the medicine?”

It turned out that they had a lot of medicine, a lot of blankets and a lot of food. Horst, the old man, had pleaded poverty to the soldiers but had secretly horded all their supplies for himself. He had rationed out their provisions with an iron fist, keeping the lion’s share for himself, leaving the leftovers for the women and children. Rohleder was surprised to find that even the old man’s wife wanted to stay.

They had money enough for the journey and now, with their new protector to lead the way, the women found a new desire to live. Only Stephanie seemed to get worse. The medicine was too little too late. They agreed to wait until she grew better but the cave was crowded and the threat of discovery bore down heavily on them all.

Horst had not left them to travel on his own but kept to himself at the back of the grotto, coming out only to eat and when it was his turn to fetch water. Otherwise they got on well with each other and the women’s acceptance of Rohleder encouraged his self-esteem and improved his confidence in the company of strangers. Suddenly he no longer dreaded going back to a life in civilisation. The idea of the curious stares and the whispered suspicion of his scars held no more fear for him. He realised he was looking forward to life after the war, regardless of what might come or who might win.

The days passed by and the weather improved. Life in the cave was almost pleasant. Stephanie’s fever swelled dangerously and broke. Two days later, a visibly improved Stephanie announced to the cave that she felt strong enough to move on. The relief was evident in all and a party atmosphere broke out among the inhabitants.

The women set to preparing food for the journey ahead and even Horst helped with the preparations. He knew that if the Red Army caught them, there would be no hope of salvaging what was left of his possessions. Horst had plans and those plans involved the goods he’d horded over the past months and the black market.

Rohleder had long ago given up wearing his SS tunic and wore cast-offs from one of the dead husbands of the women. He knew that if Ivan caught them, their chances would be slim, but if they were caught with him in uniform, their chances would be non-existent.

The plan was to drive along the main road westwards. If they were stopped, Rohleder would act the part of a shell-shocked invalid and the women and Horst would try to bluff their way through. Rohleder’s scars led weight to their story and their confidence in their alibi seemed to hinge solely on this fact.

The night before departure they all went to bed early. Rohleder was not as confident of their chances as the women were and he lay alone in the pitch darkness, worrying at the matter. His thoughts were interrupted by Stephanie as she cuddled up to him under the blanket. She had often held him in the night but this time he felt a charge in the air. Rohleder recognised the mood and hardly dared to hope it was what he thought it was.

Her hand moved slowly to his face and she traced the indentations of his scars lightly with her fingers. She kissed the rough skin on his neck and he moved position to accommodate her better. He hesitated and bent his head down to kiss her lips, dreading the rejection he knew would come but helpless against the force of his want. She kissed him back and the dormant passion that had simmered under the practicalities of their survival threatened to storm them both where they lay. She broke off and let her hand slide down onto his chest. "I wanted to thank you for what you’ve done for us, but don’t think this is gratitude. I want this because I want you.”

He opened his mouth to say something but she shushed him by putting a finger on his lips. "… and I want you because I need a good man, and that’s what you are, Michael. You are a good man.”

Rohleder had never heard any woman talk like that before, especially not the no-nonsense woman now sharing his bed, and his initial shock evolved quickly into pleasure. He smiled down at her. "Let’s go outside.”

They silently gathered a blanket and left the cave to wander out into the balmy summer night. Despite the warmth, he felt a shiver of anticipation run up his spine and she caught it and chuckled. "What’s wrong?  Scared of the dark?" she teased.

"Scared of wicked women more like." He liked her laugh, he decided. She should do it more often.

She took his hand in hers, whispering, "I know where we can go—over by the river.”

"But that’s miles away."

"Come on, it’ll be nice." She laughed like a child, carefree and excited, and he willingly followed her into the moonlit undergrowth.

He woke up to the dawn chorus with his own song in his heart. It was late, he realised, and he wondered why nobody had come looking for them. He sat up and looked around. Stephanie was still sleeping. She looked so young and composed in sleep and he felt a tenderness towards her that bulged in his chest.

"Hey sleepyhead, we’re late. Time to go back.”

She opened one eye and then the other. A smile came next and she stretched like a cat. "I could sleep forever. Let me sleep.” It occurred to Rohleder that he was sharing another side to Stephanie that she rarely let anybody see. Away from Paul, away from the responsibilities of being a mother, she let a trace of her younger self show through and he felt flattered by her trust.

Hand-in-hand they strolled back towards the cave. Stephanie chatted and laughed so much that he could hardly get a word in edgeways so he just listened, content in his new position in her affections.

"Do you want to hear something crazy?” he asked.

"What?" She stopped walking and turned to look at him.

"We’ve been on the march for what seems like ages. I’ve nursed you and loved you, and yet I still don’t know your second name.”

A cloud passed across her features. "Is it so important?”

"Important, no, but I am intrigued.” He laughed at her serious expression. "We haven’t even been introduced.”

He held his hand out in mock solemnity. "Rohleder, Michael Rohleder. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She didn’t look like she was going to take it until Michael said, "Are my advances to be spurned?”

She smiled and laughed. "Ok." She paused and said, "Stern, Stephanie Stern. Charmed, I’m sure.”

Rohleder blinked. "Stern? Are you Jewish?”

Her eyes held his. "Only you know, Michael. You can do as you please with me but I have told no other my real name.”

His face darkened and he broke away. "Are you mad? Do you know what this means?”

"No." She looked worried.

"I can’t believe this, it’s—” Then he suddenly laughed. "—it means we have just broken the Nuremburg Race Laws of 1933. How am I meant to make a career in the SS with such a heinous crime on my record?”

Her face turned from fearful to laughing in the beat of a heart. "Oh you …” She swiped at him, but he ducked away and turned to take her wrists.

"I don’t care if you’re Martian, Stephanie Stern.” They pulled together. "I just know that in my heart I feel as if I’ve found the right woman.”

She kissed him full on the lips and they stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, although it was in fact only a couple of minutes.

Ten minutes later, they rounded the last bend in the path and Rohleder instinctively knew that something was wrong. "Stop." He held up a finger for quiet. "What can you hear?”

"Nothing.” She puzzled until understanding bloomed and horror darkened her face.

They were thirty yards from the campsite, thirty yards from their group of women and children, and yet there was not a sound to be heard. Rohleder was positive something had happened. He turned to Stephanie but it was too late.

"Paul!!” she screamed. Ignoring Rohleder’s warning she sprinted for the cave and was gone from sight.

"Shit," he muttered. Training and drill took over and he crouched down and moved into the bushes. He crept through the foliage adjacent to the path, checking for the enemy, booby traps or anything that would denote that there was someone here.

The horses were still tied up outside and they looked healthy enough, spooked but not hurt. He cursed that he’d left his weapons in the cave but everything became unimportant as Stephanie staggered out of the cave carrying her son. Her face petrified in a noiseless wail of grief, she stopped and laid the body of her child on the floor. Rohleder was shocked out of his trance by the unearthly howl of anguish that ripped from out of her lungs.

He walked up to her, all training and drill forgotten, and stood over her as she keened her pain over Paul’s small, inanimate corpse. It looked like a wild animal had gnawed his throat out and he idly wondered what size animal could do that to a human being. He looked away, mute in his shock, and went to the cave.

Inside was carnage in all its hideous forms. No mercy had been shown and Rohleder wondered at the inhumanity of the war that had driven men to such brutality. Every corpse had had its throat ripped out; every face had the scream of fear still chiselled into the features. The only thing that seemed out of place was the lack of blood. The scene was remarkably dry.

He listened in a daze to Stephanie as her grieving took on a distinctly hysterical edge and, laden with grief, concluded that he would have to go and help her with her son.

Chapter 36

"So we buried the boy and here we are.” He looked around.

"Was it Ivan?" Muschi asked.

"Who else would do it? The bloodsuckers were under strict orders not to touch the civvies.” Von Struck looked at Henning and turned to Rohleder. "Michael, there’s something you should know. Arak spoke to me last night.”

"And … ?”

"He told me I no longer have a command.”

"Those bastards," Henning muttered. "What do you want to do, boss?”

"Kill the bastards, kill them all,” Rohleder answered for him, looking at nobody but speaking to all. "We’ll go in by daylight and burn them in their barracks. It’s gone too far now, boss. We have to do what’s right.” He stared at Von Struck who looked around at their solemn, young faces. He closed his eyes briefly to think and made his decision. "We’ll kill them. Just like Michael said, we’ll go in when it’s light and burn them where they sleep. We’ll have to be thorough. We can’t afford to let one of them survive.”

"What about the count?” It was Nau.

Von Struck looked at him and answered with a steely determination. "We’ll kill him, too. Fuck Himmler—this has gone too far down the wrong track.”

"That’s what I wanted to hear." Muschi smiled. "Now we really are being the good guys.”

Nobody laughed. They mounted up and rode off to collect Stephanie. The ride back was strained. Every man in the squad dealt with his own thoughts. Von Struck thought back to his father and their last conversation. His father had been right about so many things and his abhorrence for the Third Reich showed Von Struck what a decent man he had been. How things had changed since then, how he had changed as well. The code that his father had talked about had been broken a million times over and his own personal road to hell was opening up before him. But he would make amends; he knew what had to be done.

It felt good now that the decision had been made to kill the count. It would ruin him but the war would be over soon, he thought, so what the hell. He felt bad about bringing his friends into the mission but if he’d known the whole truth from the beginning, he didn’t think he would have taken it on, regardless of what Holaf or Himmler thought of him.

They rode hard by day but didn’t meet any Russians. It seemed as if God was paving the way for them and Muschi took it as a good omen. After four days, the castle came into view. Perched on the hill as it was, it looked to the men like a beacon of evil and their mood dipped once again.

"I hate that fucking place,” Nau whispered to Gruhn. "A torch is too good for it.”

"It would go a lot quicker if we had a flame thrower. What are we going to burn it with?”

Henning overheard them. "We’ll have to get inside and set the furniture alight.”

"I knew it wouldn’t be easy." Gruhn nodded to himself. "It never is.”

"Stop your whining. Anybody would think you want to live forever."

"Henning, you’re a sick—”

"Right, let’s lay the plans down," Von Struck interrupted. "Henning, you take the lads to burn the barracks. Any interference from the Ukrainians, shoot them. Don’t mess about. We go in hard and fast, light the woodwork and get out. It’s tinderbox dry at the moment, so we shouldn’t have any problems. We’ll ride together to the castle, from there you go on to the barracks. Emergency RV is here. Michael, you come with me. We’ll do the castle. Tell Stephanie she has to wait here.”

"You tell her. She won’t listen to me.”

"What? She can’t come with us Michael, she’s not—”

”They killed her boy. She’s been talking about this as if it’s her chance of revenge. She won’t listen to you either but you can try.”

Von Struck shook his head disbelievingly and then gave in. "Ok, she comes, but she’s your responsibility." Rohleder nodded.

The horses were skittish and hard to control, so they walked them the last kilometre, right up to the great double doors with the gruesome dragonheads. There wasn’t a soul to be seen, and despite the oppressive air, Von Struck felt relieved to be doing something positive. They gathered around for a final briefing. Von Struck opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the sound of the great double doors opening.

All at once there was action. From both sides of the building came two long lines of SS. They lined up twenty meters either side of the squad, weapons at the ready. Rasch walked through the doorway and down the steps towards them. His face was tense and Von Struck noticed he’d developed a nervous tick in his right cheek.

"What’s going on, Rasch?”

"Markus, it seems as though some gentlemen from Berlin wish to talk to you and your men.”

"Who? I don’t see anybody.”

As he spoke, the two men in question stepped out of the building and walked towards them. One was smaller than the other but was definitely the man in control, as was made evident by Rasch’s angst-ridden face. Their long leather trench coats and wide-brimmed hats gave them away as police officers of some kind, but Von Struck was too baffled to think clearly.

"Standartenführer Von Struck?" asked the smaller of the two, putting on a pair of pince-nez as if to inspect him.

"Yes, what seems to be the problem?”

He pulled out an identity card and waved it before Von Struck’s face. "My name is Major Jens Schmidt of the Geheim Feld Polizei and this is Lieutenant Meier.” He raised his arm in salute as if it was a part of the introduction. "Heil Hitler!”

Rasch bodily jumped at the volume of his tone. "What can I do for you, Herr Major?” His mind was racing. What the hell did the secret military police want with him?

"Herr Standartenführer, it is my sorry duty to inform you that your father has been arrested, tried and found guilty of treason. He is now at the Military Correctional Facility at Torgau where he awaits execution. You are to be transported to the SS penal complex at Dachau until it can be established beyond all doubt that your father did not corrupt you in any way. Your men are to go with you.”

Rohleder was the first to step forward, cock his weapon and point it at the policeman. The others followed suit. Schmidt didn’t flinch and calmly stared at Rohleder as he continued. "Any show of protest, insubordination or defiance will be noted for the court. Please hand your weapons over and fall in. The trucks are on their way to pick you up now.”

Von Struck signalled his men to stand back but they kept their weapons trained on Schmidt.

Von Struck was confused. "My father, a traitor? Impossible. He’s a war hero.”

"Herr Von Struck, your father was implicated as one of the plotters. He is guilty and has signed a confession as such.”

"The plotters? You’ll have to explain. We’ve been in the field—”

"It’s very easy," Schmidt interrupted. "Your father was one of the July Plotters. He helped in the attempted assassination of the Führer.”

As if on queue, the men let their weapons fall in disbelief. "Adolph is dead?" muttered Rohleder.

Henning shook his head. "The Führer, assassinated? What the hell has happened since we’ve been gone?”

"No, I said 'attempted'. He survived. The ringleaders have all been caught and tried. Your father, the general, is helping my colleagues in Torgau with a few more names. They have very robust methods and I don’t think he’ll be able to withhold the names we want him to give us for too long." The last was said more to his subordinate who laughed dutifully.

Von Struck reacted quicker than he thought. He landed a right punch flush on the Schmidt’s chin and he went down like a dropped anvil. "You can show a bit of respect, you insignificant little worm," he hissed. "My father is not a traitor and if he dies at Torgau, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

The policeman rubbed his chin. "This is not helping your case, Herr Von Struck.”

"It’s Standartenführer Von Struck—a rank I earned in the field.”

"You may not have any rank at all if you insist on mutiny. Think carefully, Standartenführer. We could kill you all quite easily here or you come with us peacefully and let the military court decide what to do." He took a step closer to Von Struck and whispered in his ear. "You don’t have a chance, I’ll grant you that, but think of your men. They’ll end up in prison for a while and then they can all go home. Think of your men and your men’s families.”

"My father is not a traitor,” Von Struck insisted.

"That is not for me to decide." He stepped back and addressed the squad. "You men, put down your weapons. Standartenführer Von Struck has already agreed. You will all come with us to Dachau until they see that you are innocent, then you’ll all return to your units. No harm will come to you, I promise.”

"No, we’ll go as soldiers with our weapons, or not at all,” Grand announced.

"Damn right!” Nau echoed, cocking his machine gun. The squad chambered a round as one and faced the two ranks with weapons poised.

Von Struck turned around to face them. "Give them up. We’ll do as he says and you’ll all be out by Christmas.”

However, nobody moved and the moment spanned out into a stand-off.

He tried again. "Henning, Michael, please give them up. It’s out of our hands now and at least this way we can all go home.”

A slight pause followed before Henning slowly placed his weapon on the floor and lifted his hands. Von Struck breathed a sigh of quiet relief as one by one they followed the Oberscharführer’s example.

Only Muschinski held his rifle at the ready. His face a granite mask of rage and confusion, he stood rock still with his weapon pointed at the nearest guard.

"Let it go, Muschi,” Rohleder whispered loudly. "The boss said it’ll be alright.”

"No!" he shouted, making everyone jump in the stillness. "These fuckers don’t know what we’ve been through these last months, what we’ve done. They think we’re the criminals and we’re bloody not, we’re heroes! We’re the good guys.”

"Muschinski, SS Sturmann Muschinski!" Von Struck shouted. "Put that weapon down now!”

"No sir, I can’t do it," he answered, angling his head slightly towards his superior officer.

A single shot exploded in the silence and Muschinski crumpled to floor. Rohleder gasped in horror as the bullet took the upper half of his friend’s head off, splattering him with blood, bone and brain.

Schmidt barked his orders to the waiting soldiers and the squad was manhandled away to the trucks that had just arrived.

Von Struck, the last one to leave, turned to Schmidt. "No harm, you said. You gave your word. There was no need to kill him, you bastard.”

"If he had obeyed your orders, he would be alive now. Anyway, do you think I really need to keep my word to the son of a traitor? Wake up, Von Struck, the war is over for you and with it, perhaps your life.”

The two guards on either arm jerked him away to the truck and Von Struck let himself be led without any commotion.

Stephanie was the last of the group to be dealt with. She stood among the horses looking small and afraid.

"And who might you be, child?” Schmidt leered. She caught the hunger in his tone and involuntarily covered herself with her shawl.

"Stephanie Raabe, ex of Pfatter near Regensburg. My husband, Herr Wolfgang Raabe, was killed by Communist Partisans. My son, Paul Raabe, was killed by vampires. We were given a farm to work in Lemberg in the Ukraine but were forced to leave due to the Russian advance. I’m the only one left of our family. The rest were all killed by either Russians or vampires. The Standartenführer and his men saved me from the vampires.”

"Most gallant of them, and what did you do to thank them for their deed?" He licked his lips and reached an arm out to play with her hair. She took a step back and Schmidt raised an irritated eyebrow.

Rasch, who had all the time stood in the background and said nothing, saw that it was time to step in. "Herr Major, may I remind you that this is a civilian and that you have no jurisdiction over this woman. She can stay here and earn her keep in the kitchens which are now so woefully undermanned thanks to your entourage. Come here, child.” Schmidt looked on, sour faced and impotent, as she walked past him. She stood behind Rasch who attempted one of his ghastly encouraging smiles on her.

Emboldened by his small triumph, the doctor gave some more orders to the guards. "Right, you men, see to it that these horses are taken away and wiped down before they catch something. You.” He turned to Stephanie. “Come with me. I’ll show you where the kitchens are.”

Schmidt turned to his second in command. "Come, Meier, let’s get this rabble to Dachau.”

Chapter 37

Berlin

For the fifth time inside of an hour, the tall SS officer showed his identity documents. He was tired and getting impatient with the upgraded security arrangements that had been put in place since the bomb attack at the Wolfschanze.

Finally he arrived at the Reichsführer’s office. He pondered briefly on what he wanted to say. His position gave him a lot of leeway with Himmler but he didn’t want to push it. He decided it was all or nothing just as the secretary opened the door for him to go in.

Himmler was behind his desk but he stood up and walked around to greet him. "Ah, von der Heyde, or should I say Oberstgruppenführer von der Heyde? How is your new rank? Does it sit well?" He took his hand and shook it as hard as his effeminate grip would allow.

"The pay is a lot better." He smiled in response and took his hand back.

"Come now, your family has no need of money.” Himmler laughed before turning serious at the flick of a switch. "Tell me what I want to hear. What is happening in Romania?”

Von der Heyde took a seat, sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "Exactly. That is the reason for my coming here, Herr Reichsführer. We need to speed our plans up there. If we carry on with that idiot Rasch running the show, the Russians will be knocking on our door before we can set everything in motion.”

Himmler steepled his fingers as if in deep contemplation. "Rasch came to me on your recommendation. It was you who pushed him forward. Now you say he’s an idiot. I don’t understand.”

Von der Heyde uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "At that time, Herr Reichsführer, I was of the opinion that we could only affect the change we need with scientific methods. I was wrong and I admit it. It would be wrong of me to prolong his work just to cover my own back.”

"Very noble of you. Carry on, I’m listening.”

"I’ve come across some ancient writings and these writings suggest that the vampire soldiers can influence their own destiny by the use of ancient rituals.” He sat back again and waited for Himmler’s comment.

"If they can do this, why are we waiting? Give them what they need and tell them to get on with it.”

"The problem is that they can only perform this ritual in December and that we have one of the key figures in the ritual incarcerated at Dachau. I need to get him out of there and take him back to Transylvania.”

Himmler nodded his understanding of the problem. "But if it can only be performed in December, why take him out now? Let him stay there a while so that he’s more compliant to our demands. We’ll take him out just before Christmas, send him down and they can do their ritual.”

"Herr Reichsführer, it’s not as easy as that. He’ll have to learn texts, and for that to happen, he’ll have to want to learn the texts. If we keep him where he is, he’ll not be very sympathetic to our cause …” He let Himmler finish the rest in his head.

"Oh, what the hell, take him out, spoil him and sort it out from there. Rasch can carry on until you are ready. Who knows, he might stumble on something. I want to know as soon as anything happens, do you hear me?”

"Of course, as soon as anything happens, I’ll be in contact.” He stood up and saluted.

"Sieg Heil, Herr Reichsführer!”

"Sieg Heil, my friend." Himmler smiled and stood up once more to shake von der Heyde’s hand in farewell. "Keep me informed. Ivan is getting stronger every day and we need that army to bring us victory in the East."

"Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer."

Part 3

Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head.

Euripides

We are twice armed if we fight with faith.

Plato

Chapter 38

Dachau

Two weeks later

Inselman dropped the bombshell as casually as a man speaking about the weather. "You’ll be receiving a guest today, and if all goes well, it could mean your release."

Smith looked up from his chair in utter disbelief. "Who?”

"Put it like this, he’s very high up. Apparently he’s on first name terms with Himmler, so that puts him in a different social echelon to the rest of the minions here, the camp commandant included. I think it’s probably something to do with your Romanian connections."

Smith shook his head in disbelief. He still didn’t think of himself as being Romanian. He was British and that was final, even at the cost of having to stay incarcerated. Transylvania seemed like a million miles away.

"When is he coming, do you know?”

Inselman nodded. "Today. Make yourself presentable. He’ll be here at four.”

"Four, right.”

Smith walked to his window and looked into the yard where the SS inmates were doing sport. The NCO in charge was beating them indiscriminately with a large cane as they ran sprints from wall to wall.

"It’s a bloody poor system where the sadists and the cowards get to run the show," he stated absently to no one in particular. He’d listened to the SS inmates being put through their paces all morning and wondered at a society that could punish its own so brutally.

"It starts from the top.” Inselman nodded sagely. "The people in government, and rolls down from there. However, the general who’s coming to see you is not in that mould, I can assure you. Be ready for four sharp. I’ll come and collect you then.”

Smith nodded as he left and turned to watch the NCO thrashing one of his hapless charges. One of the soldiers caught his eye. He wasn’t sure but it looked like the officer who’d accompanied him to the camp. Squinting to see better, he peered through the barred window until he was certain it was him. "What the hell is he doing here?" he pondered.

*  *  *

Von Struck looked on in impotent rage as the NCO whipped Grand with his cane. Every day was the same: beatings, humiliations and cruelty for cruelty’s sake. He’d made up his mind as to what they should do on the first day—escape. Henning and Rohleder were of the same opinion. If Ivan really was advancing as fast as they’d heard, and if the Allies really had landed at Normandy and were making headway into Europe, what was the point of waiting here to be caught? If the Russians arrived first, they’d be shot on sight anyway, so escape made perfect sense.

Oberscharführer Müller had given his NCOs a free rein with Von Struck’s squad, to do with them as they pleased, and this invariably involved torture and pain. He stayed away, preferring to let his men do the dirty work for him. The rumour was that he had overstepped the mark and was laying low for a while.

Today, watched over by a crowd of jeering, machine-gun toting guards, they had run sprints in the yard. The man who had come last more than ten times was being punished as they all stood to attention. This was, as always, Berndt Grand, owing to his wounded leg, a reminder of the journey from Transylvania. They couldn’t even run to his pace as the NCO in charge insisted on beating them as they ran. Berndt was physically and mentally a giant. He took every beating with granite imperviousness, silent and indestructible. Nevertheless, it still chilled the blood to have to witness every thrashing he was given. Von Struck wondered how long he could take the beatings before he broke.

The journey up had been brutal too. Muschinski’s death had shaken them all but that was only to be the beginning. Grand had taken a bullet to the leg from the senior NCO on their lorry. In the field, if a civilian had been wounded, Von Struck might have shot the man who had done it himself. However, as it was only a prisoner, the guard was only made to do a couple of extra duties as punishment. One of his duties was to take the prisoners for sport, hence the fact that Grand was now taking a thrashing for being last in the sprints again.

Von Struck found it unbelievable the way they’d been handled by the SS, their own brothers in arms.

"The apocalypse is all but upon us and the dogs are turning on themselves." Rohleder had preached his reading of their behaviour in a mock serious voice.

All that they had achieved behind enemy lines counted for nothing with the concentration camp guards. The bravery shown by Von Struck’s troop in the field bore little currency with these rear echelon toughs.

They were disarmed, and when they were manacled, bound and helpless, the beatings began. SS soldiers—German SS soldiers—punched the squad as if they were common criminals. One of the NCOs, laughing maniacally, started shooting near their legs and feet for sport.

Finally, the inevitable happened and a round gouged out a large piece of flesh from Grand’s left leg. This was the source of a lot of amusement for the guards and it was only when Von Struck struggled to his feet and demanded that Grand’s leg be seen to that the laughter stopped.

"And who are you to demand anything?" He looked at Von Struck’s rank and spat, "Standartenführer?”

Controlling his anger, Von Struck spoke low and clear so that only the NCO, a Rottenführer, could hear. "See to that man’s wound or I’ll see to it that when we get back," he said as he looked around the truck at the men, "we will kill you the first chance we get. Every time you take a work party out and we’re on it, you won’t be able to turn your back on us as we will be plotting your death.”

The guard’s arrogant smirk transformed to a papery smile and froze like a mud-pack. The doubt in his eye hardened again as he made his decision. He nodded to one of his subordinates. "See to him. Put the weapons down and conserve your ammo." Then he turned to look Von Struck in the eye. "We may need it for when they try to escape. We’ll let Müller deal with them if they all make it back alive.”

However, they were vacant words and the convoy rolled on to Dachau without further upheaval. They arrived at night and the men were woken by whistle blasts and dogs.

"Raus, raus, alle raus—”

They staggered up from the numbing floorboards and shuffled out, stiff and cold from sleep and inaction. Blinded by searchlights, they jumped down from the truck to be shoved by a waiting NCO in the right direction. Von Struck stumbled away only to be stopped by one of the men in charge.

"You there, stop right where you are.”

He halted and turned to look in the direction of the voice. Looking into the lights, he couldn’t make out who had said what until the disembodied voice approached him.

"Remember me, Standartenführer?”

Von Struck was disconcerted. He knew straightaway who it was. "No, sorry, I don’t.”

"It’s unimportant, Mein Herr. I remember you and that’s all you need to know.”

Von Struck read the malice in his tone and swore inwardly. He remembered alright. It was the NCO whom he had given a rollicking for beating the Englishman, and now he knew he was in trouble.

And so he was.

Chapter 39

Inselman was at his cell five minutes early.

"Ready?” He seemed somewhat uptight and Smith guessed it was the status of the visitor making him jumpy. He idly wondered why a lowly guard, and not the camp commander and all his toadies, was taking him to see one of Himmler’s trusted circle.

"Is it just you taking me to see him?”

”Yes, now come on, he’ll be here soon." They walked the corridor and into the canteen.

"Sit down. Try to be calm. I’ll be outside acting as a guard until he comes. Are you ok?”

”I’m fine, old boy. I think you’re the one who should have a sit down."

"I know," he grinned sheepishly. "It’s a big day for me, too. I’ll explain later.”

He closed the door behind him and left Smith to his thoughts. The door opened again. He stood up, as was the drill in the camp when a German entered the room, and gasped as he saw who it was.

Oberstgruppenführer von der Heyde stood framed in the doorway.

"Hello, English, are they treating you well?" He laughed. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

"What the hell is going on?" he said as he fell back down into the chair.

Michael turned and nodded for Inselman to close the door. "Is he fit, Heinz?”

"He’s ready to be moved but he doesn’t know a thing.” Inselman had lost all his earlier nervousness and was talking to the SS general on equal terms.

"Can somebody please tell me what is going on because I really am in the dark here? Michael, don’t tell me you’re the mysterious higher-up who’s been looking after my interests, and since when have you been a German? This is all too bizarre to be true.”

Michael ignored his shock. "English, are you ready to be told everything? There’s a lot to be said and a lot to take in. Once again I’m going to have to ask you to make a choice. Are you ready for the truth?”

"Try me. I think I’m owed at least an explanation. Where did you go? The last thing I remember was running from the wolf, or whatever it was, and being woken up to come here."

"I promise to tell you everything in good time but you must hear me out first. Can you do that?"

He pulled a chair round in front of Smith to sit with his legs astride and his arms on the backrest.

"Tell me everything," Smith said, shaking his head. "I still can’t get over you in an SS uniform.”

Michael acknowledged the situation with a smile and ploughed straight in. "Heinz here is one of the Brothers in my Order. As soon as I heard you were being sent to Dachau, I called in a few favours to get a man on the inside. Parzich has a terrible morphine problem and his family asked my help to secure his position here so he wouldn’t be sent to the front. I called him and he was only too happy to oblige me. Parzich may be a bullying oaf but he does know when he has to deliver.”

Smith nodded as if impatient to hear the rest.

"So I sent one of the Brothers here as the final part of his initiation." He turned to Inselman. "And I’m very glad to be able to say that you have passed your test, Brother. Welcome to our small but close brotherhood.”

Inselman beamed his pride and Smith smiled at his evident delight. These last months he had come to rely on him and had seen him as an ally, however now he felt like a big brother taking pleasure in his younger sibling’s success.

The moment passed and Michael turned back to Smith. "You may or may not have heard of the Order of the Teutons, the Teutonic Knights.”

Smith nodded that he had.

"A subordinate order to the Teutonic Knights is the Order of Dobrzyn and that is to whom we have given our pledge. It was formed in the thirteenth century to initially defend against the Baltic Prussian raids but due to the small number of knights, and their lack of success on the battlefield, the Order was integrated into the Knights of the Teutonic Order in about 1235 or so. But we weren’t just swallowed up by the Teutonic Knights, we remained a separate body within the larger organisation and were given the task of fighting more, shall we say, extraordinary enemies, namely vampires."

He looked for a response but Smith stayed passive and so Michael carried on. "The vampires you have met in Transylvania are by far the biggest threat to the human race that has ever been. They are the enemy I have sworn to destroy.” He paused. "Heinz may have told you about my connection to Himmler?”

Smith nodded that he had.

"Well, it’s true. Heinrich is deeply enamoured of our Order and wants so desperately to join. He was very near too, but we voted him out at the last minute, thank God. Anyway, he asked the Order for assistance in cultivating your brother, the Dracyl, and bring him into the war on our side. I’m ashamed to admit that certain members of our assembly did not show the right spirit of the Order and, ignoring centuries of vampire-hunting tradition, they bowed down to his request. It could have been a disaster but I had the idea of sending Rasch to help find a scientific answer for the vampire’s quest for immunity to sunlight. Rasch is a brilliant scientist but he would never be able to chemically alter the vampire’s genetic make-up. The vampires are an ill-fated race, born of the curse invoked thousands of years ago. There’s too much wizardry involved to treat them merely through science. And that brings us to how we are going to fight them.”

Smith blinked. "We?”

"Of course. I can’t fight them on my own. I’ll need your help.”

"Wait a minute." Smith had questions of his own. "First off, you tell me why you were there when I arrived. You were one of Maria’s trusted circle. What happened?”

Michael nodded and sighed. "My half-sister, Iullia, was a nun in a small convent in the Carpathian mountains. It was a very strict and isolated order and they lived far away from civilisation, so they were the perfect target for the Dracyl’s night-time raids. They were safe enough inside the convent walls but if they were caught outside, after dark, there was no hope to be had. My sister was the goatherd of the order and, when one of her goats went lame, she didn’t make it back to the convent in time.

“I heard from the Mother Superior about what had happened and decided to go to the castle to try and get her back. I went there but it was too late, she was already under Lilith’s control. I posed as a beggar and asked for a job. I don’t know why, but Maria took to me and she hired me. I've always had the impression that she's known who I am and kept me there to enjoy my helplessness in the situation.”

Smith thought of Maria for the first time in months. "When you say she took to you, do you mean—”

"No, English, I never slept with her. I was too far below her station. Lilith only wanted to lie with the likes of the Son of Utu. Pitiful beggars don’t get a look-in.”

Smith smiled. "Is that how you became embroiled with the Dracyl or did the Order send you?”

Michael’s shoulders slumped resignedly before he continued. "The Order is not what it once was. Since the Nazis came into power, it seems certain high-ranking knights have forgotten our vows. Let’s just say that the promise of influence and power has poisoned the decision making. The Grand Master and his cohorts were all for ignoring the Dracyl threat to please Himmler. I went there on my own and I’m afraid that, except for a few of the Brothers, the Knights of Dobrzyn will not give us any support. The politics of the Order are diabolical and the Grand Master is playing a two-faced game.”

"I see.”

"So, English, now we get to the crux of the matter. How do we kill your brother? This could be complicated so I’ll keep to the relevant points, ok?”

Smith noted that Heinz had locked the door from the inside and had come to sit by Michael, as if wanting to hear all the details for himself.

"I think that’s a good idea. Start off with how we’re going to kill the Dracyl because the last time we spoke you weren’t sure how to," Smith commented.

Michael and Heinz noted the 'we' and the way he’d distanced himself from his brother by calling him 'the Dracyl.' It was a positive sign and encouraged Michael to press on. "A long time ago, an English knight, Thomas of Trent, was called to destroy a vampire. Thomas wrote about it and how he had not managed to kill the vampire, but he had shown the terrorised villagers how to surreptitiously erect a holy symbol to protect themselves.”

"I never saw anything when I was there that—”

Michael held up his hand for him to stop. "He told them to plant a tree.”

"A tree?”

"A tree?" echoed Heinz.

"I know which tree it was—” Smith broke in but stopped when Michael again held up his hand.

"You see,” he continued, "the key to fighting vampires is belief. If you believe in a benevolent higher power, it’s possible to be able to use an icon of that belief as a weapon or a tool against them. How do you think they fought vampires in ancient Greece, or Iraq or Sumeria? They didn’t follow the Christian God, so how did they combat vampires without crosses and holy water?”

"Yes, ok, I understand that, but a tree?”

Michael nodded. "Tell me, how did Jesus die?”

"He was crucified on a cross.” Heinz wordlessly nodded his concurrence.

"How do you know this? Where does it say that?”

Smith shrugged. "In the Bible, of course. Everybody knows that. What’s your point?”

"My point is that there are conflicting accounts for the death of Jesus. In fact, the contradictions in the Bible have kept scholars busy for generations. The Scriptures are confusing when it comes to how Jesus Christ was murdered.”

Smith shook his head. "That can’t be true. Jesus was crucified on Calvary, it’s common knowledge.” He looked to Heinz who was nodding, albeit in a very reserved manner.

"I don’t want to linger on this but basically we have the well-known scene of Jesus dying on a cross, which we all know about, and a couple of other scenarios,” Michael answered him.

Heinz beat Smith to it. "What other scenarios? Jesus died on the cross, it’s as simple as that.”

"No, it isn’t as simple as that. Peter wrote in Acts that he was killed and then hung on a tree. Paul wrote in Galatians that he was killed and hung on a tree. Was he stoned, which would have been the traditional form of execution? Did he die of a stab wound to the side? Was he strangled or hung? It really is very vague, and Brother Inselman—”

"Yes?” Heinz answered.

"You should brush up on your Bible studies if you really want to get on in the Order.”

Heinz muttered that he would and Michael continued. "The tree is a very complex theory, though. It has been argued that it’s a case of bad translation, that it’s a metaphor and a hundred other things, but what interests us is that they mention a tree. Are you both with me so far?”

Smith was looking unconvinced but Michael forged on nevertheless.

"Just take my word for it that a tree can be used as a religious icon. Can you accept that much?”

Dubiously, Smith answered, "Yes, but wait a minute. We’ve got to the point where a tree has been mentioned. Why is it that none of the Christian denominations use a tree instead of the cross?”

Heinz looked from one to the other as Michael answered. "How do you know it hasn’t been used? The early Christians used the sign of the fish as their secret symbol, so perhaps another, long-forgotten branch of Christianity used a tree as its symbol. The fact of the matter is that the stories that went into the New Testament were the pick of the bunch. The stories and legends were collected and the best four gospels were picked out to represent God’s word to humanity. The Council of Nicaea in 325 decided which stories would go into the New Testament and which wouldn’t. So what we think of as being the absolute word of God is actually the most sellable of a whole library of stories. So how do you know that some other Christian cult didn’t have a different symbol to characterize their belief? You don’t know, nobody does, and it is irrelevant at this time.”

"Ok, fine. Let’s continue.”

Michael composed himself and carried on. "The villagers planted a tree and their belief in its powers nurtured in it a latent force for good. There was no interaction between the people and the tree. They just simply believed in its power to protect them.”

Smith butted in again. "I still don’t see how they could simply take your man’s word for it that a tree would save them.”

Michael sighed, and taking off his cap to wipe his forehead, he theorized on what Smith had asked. "I suppose they were so desperate that they would turn to anything to help them.”

"Yes but a tree doesn’t grow overnight, it takes years. What kept them strong in their faith?”

"Well, Thomas was a very clever man. He knew that the villagers weren’t too sharp on the main players in the Bible. I mentioned Paul as one of those who had referred to the tree. Paul was a very important figure in the early church. It was Paul who opened up Christianity to the Gentiles. You see, Christianity was firstly seen as a Jewish religion. Jesus and all his disciples were Jewish. Paul managed to recast Christianity as a universal religion and suddenly it boomed as it became the official religion of the Roman Empire. What we know as Christianity should really be called Paulism or Paulianity. Paul brought Christianity to the world. Thomas played up how important Paul was, making him almost as holy as Jesus himself.”

"So?” Smith shrugged.

"The early European Christians were just as anti-Semitic as the Europeans of today. Nobody trusted the Jews then. They were foreigners in their own lands. When the villagers heard it was Paul who had blessed the idea with the tree, Paul the man who had taken Christianity away from the Jewish monopoly, as it were, they were happy to accept Thomas of Trent’s ideas.” Michael sighed again. "What can I say? That’s what our learned men in Marienberg say. Whatever the reason, they grew the bloody tree, ok?”

"Ok, ok, fine.”

"The tree gathered, as I said, a power about it that has no earthly explanation. But to Lilith it was all too real. The power in the tree was like a flame to a moth for Lilith. She recognised the potential of that power to bring about a reversal to the old days. If you remember, Lilith had also lived as a spirit in Inanna’s tree, the Tree of Life, before the war with the Gods. So the tree held magical connections for Lilith to her old life, to the times when she possessed her own powers.”

"So, you mean that if she were to be able to return to the tree somehow, she would regain her powers?”

"Yes and she would become stronger as the Book will have been proven to be correct. She would definitely be strong enough to take over for the Dracyl. Just think about it for a minute: a five thousand year-old demon, intent on power, with her own vampire army.”

"Hitler and Stalin would look positively angelic in comparison," muttered Heinz.

"So what do we do now? The tree is there. I’ve seen it, and I’ve felt its power.”

"You have? When?”

"When Maria—I mean Lilith—took me into the village. That’s the tree, isn’t it, the one in the middle of the houses?”

Michael nodded solemnly. "Yes, that’s the one. The ring of houses holds a shrine for each of the names in the Book of Blood. It was the Dracyl’s attempt to curb the tree’s power. There’s a shrine devoted to you in one of the buildings, too.”

Smith wasn’t surprised. Nothing could surprise him after all he’d been through.

"What happened to the villagers?” Heinz asked.

"Oh, they moved on. No more harm came to them and they gradually drifted off to the towns and the cities. There was a brief uprising against the Dracyl around the time of the First World War, but it floundered and the leaders were killed. That was really when they began to leave.”

Smith sat forward in his chair. "So what’s the plan? You’ve told me about the tree and Lilith, and I know about the vampires, so where do we go from here?”

"This is my plan. According to the Book of Blood, they will perform the ceremony to end Utu’s curse on the twenty-second of December, the Winter Solstice. Before that date we have to gather a small force of trustworthy men to travel down and disrupt the ceremony. I figure that because the Son of Utu is on our side, and because we have enough time to train our men in the use of the sword, we have a good chance.”

"Sword? Why don’t we just shoot them?”

"I really wish it was that easy. Bullets will wound them but only silver will kill them. I have some swords, silver ones, but not many. Their blades are hardened and just one nick and the vampire will die. I have twelve of them.”

”Just twelve? We’re going to need an army. Don’t you remember how fast they moved? We’ll never manage it with just twelve men!”

"English, at the moment we are only three. If we could get ten men together I would be happy. Ten is the number old Czerolka said we’d need. The Brothers in my Order will not help and I know for a fact that Himmler is not going to sign over an army to me to fight his secret weapon. So that leaves just us and whoever we can find. As for the vampires' speed, well the Book of Blood states that the shadow of the tree is the great leveller. Everybody is equal in power under the limbs of the tree.”

"So if we stick to being under the tree we have a fighting chance?" Heinz asked eagerly.

"That’s the way the librarian at Marienberg sees it. Of course he could be wrong, but I doubt it.”

Heinz smiled to himself. "Czerolka, the old goat, the only one of the Elders with any backbone.”

Smith broke the mood with a question. "What about the baby? What will become of him?”

"The baby is of no concern to us. It’s only mentioned briefly in the list of names. You were the catalyst for this chain of events. It all lay on whether you would sleep with Lilith. If you hadn’t, nothing would have come of it, but you did and now we have to fight for the right of our species to live in freedom. Believe me, if the vampires ever walk the day again, it will be the end for humanity as we know it.”

"What will happen to Maria after this?”

"English, I don’t know. All I can say is that if we don’t disrupt the ceremony on the Winter Solstice, we may have a vampire plague on our hands of pre-Biblical proportions.”

Heinz stood up and walked to one of the barred windows. "Who else can we approach? If the Order won’t support us and we know that Himmler won’t, then who? The Allies?”

"What do you think, English? If you could get a message across to England, would they help you?”

"You must be joking. What would I say? Hello, this is Smith here, could you send us a couple of chaps over to help fight a plague of vampires?”

"It was just an idea. I thought about going to my old unit but they’re in the East at the moment and I don’t know where. I don’t even know who the commanding officer is now.”

"Does that matter? I mean, you are a general now,” Heinz suggested.

"It’s too risky. What if he gets suspicious and asks headquarters what to do? Then it’ll all be over before it’s started.”

Smith was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He stood up and started to pace. "I’ve got an idea, but you’ll have to sort it out.”

"What is it?”

"I think I know where we can press-gang a couple of men for the mission,” he said, looking out to the troopers sprinting in the yard.

Chapter 40

SS-Sturmbannführer Martin Gottfried Weiß smiled as he stood up to greet Michael as he entered the room.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Herr Oberstgruppenführer,” he said, walking around his desk to shake Michael’s hand. "When did you get it?”

Michael knew the camp commandant of Dachau personally, and although he didn’t really like him, he was a useful person to know. He had learnt a long time ago that it was better to cultivate a connection with shallow charm than destroy one with inconsequential truths.

"Ach, these things are being given away as Christmas presents now that Ivan wants to come visit.” He smiled back and clasped the commandant's hand like an old friend. "Listen, Martin, we have to talk. You have some men in the SS compound and I want them set free under my charge.”

Bemused and guarded, he asked why.

"I’m on a mission that could change the whole course of the war, under Himmler’s direct supervision.”

Weiß had been in the concentration camp system since 1933 and he knew how it operated. He had started off as a watchman and worked himself up through the ranks. He was tall, dark, very jaded and used to the demands of the upper echelons. High-ranking party officials came to him all the time demanding prisoners for a pet project, or a cut-price workforce for a 'friend’s' factory. However, they always went away empty-handed if they didn’t have the right paperwork with them, or at the least a weighty bribe.

"Have you got the right papers for their release, Michael? I can’t let prisoners go without their papers being correct,” he emphasised.

Michael considered pulling rank but he knew that, as unlikable as the man was, he was a first rate organiser. This was his second tour as commandant at Dachau, having already served here as commandant in 1942 to 1943. He’d been recalled in March to reinstate order to the bedlam that Dachau had become.

He decided to bluff it out. "Have you got a phone so I can speak to Heinrich?”

Weiß was unperturbed by the use of Himmler’s first name. "I’ll try and get a line to Berlin, but unless I get the say-so from above I’m not letting any prisoners go.”

Michael shrugged and nodded to the phone. "Well then, let’s get this line to Berlin.”

It took a while but finally an irate Reichsführer SS answered the phone. "Yes! What is it, von der Heyde? I hope this is important.”

Michael decided to make it sketchy and keep it brief. "It’s about the prisoner—”

“In Dachau—yes, well, what is it? Speak up, man.”

Weiß couldn’t make out what was being said but he heard the short, staccato bursts coming from the earpiece and he knew that Himmler was in a bad mood. His unease grew as he listened to von der Heyde explaining, as best he could, the situation.

"Yes, Herr Reichsführer. Exactly. Well it seems that because I don’t have the necessary paperwork that I won’t be—”

"What paperwork? There is no paperwork for this sort of mission. Is there some imbecile holding things up? Is it Weiß? Right, put him on the line this instant.”

Michael held out the handset straight-faced. "He wants to talk to you.”

Weiß blanched and gulped audibly. With an unsteady hand he took the handset and held it to his ear. "Sturmbannführer Weiß here, Herr Reichsführer," was all he managed to say before Himmler ripped into him. He held the earpiece away from his ear as the high-pitched screaming crescendoed and began to diminish in volume again.

"Do I make myself clear, Weiß? He is to be helped in any way possible. Right, that’s enough on this matter. My stomach is upset and I need to lie down. Now stop bothering me.”

Weiß raised his dark bushy eyebrows and exhaled loudly. "Things seem to be in order, then. Shall we go and collect your men?”

Chapter 41

Michael walked into the canteen with Von Struck and his men in tow. Smith and Inselman said nothing as the men arranged their chairs in a half circle around them.

"Major Smith, let me introduce Standartenführer Von Struck and his men. They will be accompanying us back to Romania.”

Smith took them all in. He recognised the officer and the scarred NCO from the journey.

"Hello, Tommy.” Rohleder said and smiled. Nau and Gruhn snickered loudly.

Smith studied them openly but he didn’t sense any animosity so he ignored their curious stares and wondered how much Michael had told them.

"Gentlemen,” Michael said to start the proceedings. "I’ll make no bones about it. If we fail in our task in Romania, it could be the end of our species.”

Rohleder rolled his eyes at the dramatic statement but the rest took in what he said without blinking. They had all seen with their own eyes what was happening in Transylvania and not one of them, Rohleder included, thought otherwise.

"So what’s the plan, boss?" Rohleder was determined not to let the seriousness of the task get him down.

Michael leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms. "We will travel together to a castle in the west of Germany where we will train you all to fight the vampires. Then we’ll take a train down to Transylvania and defeat the Dracyl. Has anybody any questions?”

Nobody did. The speed of the recent turn of events had robbed them of any conscious direction.

"Right, then. I suggest we get somebody to look at your man’s leg, Standartenführer, and, in the meantime, I will be sorting out some form of transport to get us there.”

Chapter 42

Mordechai, Reuben and Stephanie sat in the canteen. It wasn’t really a canteen but that was what Mordechai and Reuben had come to call it after their first meal together and the name had stuck. It was in fact the kitchen. The castle was deserted and it seemed to the three of them that they had been forgotten. Even Rasch never came down to the laboratory anymore, preferring to spend his days mooning around Iullia.

"Well, that’s the last of the fresh rations," Stephanie said, ladling out a watery cabbage soup.

"What have we got left to eat at all?” Mordechai was very stomach-orientated and the recent improvement in the food had rejuvenated his appetite.

"More canned food than you can throw a stick at but no fresh vegetables,” she answered.

"I can’t say that I’ve ever thought of cabbage as being fresh. In fact, I hate cabbage. If I never see a bowl of cabbage again for the rest of my life it will be too soon,” Reuben put in before slurping down a spoonful of soup.

"Rasch loves it. It’s all he eats. That’s why we had so much of it in the first place," Stephanie said to nobody in particular.

"That figures. If I was in charge here I’d eat steak every day. What does he eat? Cabbage! What a putz!”

"Now, now, Reuben, he did save us and give us valuable work, and what a chance, a chance to work in a laboratory again," Mordechai lectured him.

"Ha, saved us? Saved us? We saved us, Mordi. We did—”

Stephanie left them to their quarrels to take Rasch his meal. Smiling as she listened to their petty arguing, over the past couple of weeks she had grown very fond of the two 'grumpy old men', as she called them. They had accepted her straightaway, had supported her and now she was glad of their companionship through these, the strangest of times.

They were also Jewish. It was odd being able to talk to Jews again and she had found a new strength in the awakening of her Jewish identity. For years she had buried her true name under a pile of forged documents. Her first boyfriend, and later her husband, Wolfgang, had spent a fortune acquiring them on the black market. Wolfgang, for all his cruel vices, was clever. He knew what would happen to the Jews when the war started because he had read 'Mein Kampf', Hitler’s autobiography and Party manifesto all in one. It was written clearly in black and white that the Jews would be exterminated and he was not going to sit back and let them take his wife away.

The documents were good because they were genuine, from a gassed inmate in a mental asylum. There would be no comeback because the family had been given the forged papers and who doubted the identity of the deceased?

So for years she had been Stephanie Raabe, wife of Wolfgang and mother to Paul. The hardship involved had been in breaking all contact with her family. To this day she didn’t know what had become of them. The last she’d heard was that they were on a train to Lodz, the huge ghetto in Poland. After that she knew no more, though of course she had a good idea about what might have happened to them.

When they entered the resettlement program in the Ukraine they went with a mixture of trepidation and hope. The Reich was desperate for people, and though the qualifications were strict—both racially and professionally—the actual control of the requirements was lax. The apprehension was natural for nobody knew what would happen, but for Stephanie there was hope, the hope of a new beginning. Their smallholding was outside of the Lemberg city limits but the address was still Lemberg.

The Ukrainians hated them and security had to be very tight, but their small set of German friends stuck together and they all made a go of it.

When the first crop only managed to produce half of what was expected, Wolfgang took to the bottle. The pressure of raising a family in the war-torn, hate-ridden Ukraine proved to be too much and gradually he sank into a trench of self-pity. After a while, as self-pity turned to despair, he started to pin their misfortune on her. It was her fault that they had to leave Germany. If they hadn’t left, they wouldn’t have been put in this God-forsaken backwater. After a while the beatings started and then, almost thankfully, the Russians came.

They shot Wolfgang, raped the women and moved on. She left Lemberg with the other women and the old man, and hadn’t looked back since. That whole period in her life, from the leave-taking of her family to the nightmare at the cave, had been mentally compartmentalized and locked away. For Stephanie there would be no going back to that sad box of unfortunate memories, well, maybe to visit Paul when she was strong enough but that would be all.

She took the pain and the ordeal of rape, using it to make herself stronger, and made two solid vows: the first vow, to take care of Paul regardless of what might befall her, had been cruelly bankrupted by the Dracyl’s vampires; the second vow was that she would never let a man take her by force again. She would rather suffer death than degradation.

The pledge was the only remnant of that distant life as a wife and mother, and she knew that if she was taken to task, she would stay true to that oath or die trying.

She knocked on Rasch’s door. As ever, she received no answer, so she lay the tray down outside his door and left.

Chapter 43

Back in the canteen they talked about how they would proceed.

"The only way forward, as I see it, is for us to go to the Russians,” Mordechai suggested for the thousandth time.

"Pah! The Russians, always the Russians with you. Are you a Communist now?” Reuben had no love for the Russians.

"No, but—”

"No buts. The Russians hate us just as much as the Germans do, and what of the child?” He indicated Stephanie. "What do you think they’ll do to her?”

Stephanie inwardly shuddered but kept listening. She knew she would go either with these two or with Rohleder if he came for her. It was a long shot but somewhere deep within her she knew he’d come. She was definitely not going to stay there and wait for the Russians.

"I say we move southwest towards Italy. We’re bound to meet the Americans somewhere along the line.”

"And the retreating German army,” Mordechai reminded him. "Not to mention the Hungarians and Romanians who are, in case you’ve forgotten, my dear Reuben, not on friendly terms with the Jews either.”

"Why don’t we wait to see what will happen?”

"What do you mean? We can’t wait here to be slaughtered by the vampires. We have to go, and soon,” Reuben explained patiently.

"The question is which way.”

It was Stephanie who shut them both up. Normally she said nothing while she listened to their plans and quarrels, so her delivery was doubly shocking. "Then let’s make a decision. Either we go or we stay here. Let’s decide now what we’re going to do and act on it. If we are leaving, we must pack clothing and rations, and steal horses. I don’t know but we’ve got to do something. Arguing about it won’t help.”

Mordechai sat back in his chair. "Then which way do you suggest?”

She looked at them both and laid out her plan. "We steal horses from the stables and head north, back into Germany. When we get far enough north, we head for the American lines.” She stood back from the table to cross her arms. "Well?”

"I can’t ride,” Mordechai objected. "And which horses do you want to steal exactly? If the count finds out we’ve stolen his horses, we’ll be dead within the first night.”

"I can’t ride, either." Reuben looked apologetic. He’d come to admire Stephanie over the last weeks and this had been her first real input into their discussions. "But it was a good idea with the horses.”

However, Stephanie wasn’t finished. "The count has no idea what horses he’s got. Rasch has been riding around on one of his best horses for months without his permission. Furthermore, I don’t even think he knows we exist. Have you ever seen him?” She stopped to look at them. Mordechai gawped while Reuben smiled.

"I haven’t. Not once, only that creepy Iullia," she continued, without waiting. "I can teach you to ride. We only have to get away, nothing fancy. Go forward and stop, what could be simpler? We’re not breaking horses in here. They’re used to being ridden.”

Reuben looked over to Mordechai, who seemed far from convinced. "What do you think, Mordi?”

"To be honest, I still say that we should go over to the Russians. They may not like us but they’re not going to feed us to the vampires, are they?”

"Well whatever you both decide, let’s decide soon,” she answered testily. "We’ve only got enough tinned food for the next three years. Do you think you’ll reach an agreement before then?”

Two pairs of startled eyes looked up from the table. Had she just scolded them? Reuben turned in his seat. "Mordi, I think we’ve been given an ultimatum.” His face cracked and he banged the table as he laughed. Mordechai smiled, rubbed his eyes and joined in.

It was sometime before Reuben realised they had laughed as hard and as loud as was humanly possible and not once had they tried to stifle their hilarity with bunched fists. Perhaps they were really free of the Third Reich.

Chapter 44

Wewelsburg Castle

Michael was a hard and exacting tutor. He accepted only one hundred percent effort; anything less meant extra hours after the normal lesson. Every night he lectured them on technique, theory and folklore. Every gruelling day he trained them in the use of the sword, perfected their riding skills and took them out on long runs.

He drilled them at sword practice with weighted wooden swords until they could no longer keep their arms aloft and then he mercilessly picked out the weak points in their guard.

Michael’s own sword was specially designed to fold in the middle and could be easily hidden in the creases of his clothing. At the flick of a catch he could produce its full length in a heartbeat. The workmanship was so fine the break in the blade was invisible to the eye and indiscernible to the user. It was extremely light but equally very robust, and his turn of speed on the parry was a source of constant after-practise bickering.

Though they had been given the silver swords that had once belonged to Himmler’s elite, they felt hard done by that only Michael owned a folding blade.

Their sword arms, he knew, would strengthen with practice and their riding skills were already at a good level. However, the months of bad food and inaction at the quarry had taken its toll on their endurance and Michael knew of only one way to remedy that—forced marches and runs. He ran them until they dropped and then he ran them some more.

"Stamina is one of the requisites for success in close combat," he had preached to them after their first run. "And, gentlemen, trust me when I say that stamina will be called for.”

Nobody was left in any doubt as to their obligation to their own physical fitness.

He had chosen Wewelsburg Castle to prepare as a sop to Himmler as it was the spiritual home for his vision of the Teutonic Knights.

Situated just outside of Paderborn and triangular in construction, the three high walls shot out of the surrounding woodland and could be seen for miles around. Its domination of the area was as imposing as its reason for being was ridiculous.

Himmler had bought the castle in 1934 as a ruin and thirteen million Reich marks later it stood as the main temple to his SS cult. The set up at Wewelsburg owed much to the legends surrounding King Arthur and the Round Table. In the main banqueting hall was an oak table which had places to sit Himmler and his twelve knights. Each of Himmler's chosen men had their coat of arms adorning the walls and when a knight died his crest would be burnt in the Realm of the Dead, a circular well under the main hall. It was rumoured that Himmler had attempted to use the severed heads of SS officers to communicate with the dead knights.

He had once shown Michael around the castle while it was being built in an effort to drum up support for his entrance into the Order of Dobrzyn. The ludicrously theatrical style of the castle convinced Michael that Himmler would only gain entrance into the Order over his dead body. He had stuck to his guns as the elders had begged him to rethink, but Himmler had been vetoed by two of the inner council, himself and the librarian Czerolka.

Michael explained all this as he took them on a tour of the castle on their first day. "He even presented me with this sword as a gift to try and buy his way into the Order.”

"Isn’t that called a bribe, Wolfgang?" Rohleder asked politely.

"Not if you’re the Reichsführer, Rottenführer.”

"Thirteen million marks.” Nau whistled. "that’s a lot of money. Think of how many whores you can have for that, Thorsten?”

"Not to mention tanks, artillery and planes,” Henning added.

"Who are these knights? What do they do?" Von Struck asked in the main banqueting hall.

"They are as misguided and as farcical as their leader. Do not read anything into our choice of location. I picked this place because I knew Himmler would think that I’m finally taking him seriously and would leave us alone.”

"Yes, but you say Himmler presented you with one of the twelve swords, so I take it that you are one of the twelve knights,” Rohleder clarified for all.

He looked at them as they waited for an answer and understood their disapproval. "I took the sword but I didn’t take the position. It was offered to me when Germany and the Reich looked to have the world in their grasp but I refused. Instead, I offered to bear the sword only if and when harm fell upon Germanic-Europa and that promise I have kept by riding to fight the Dracyl."

Nobody spoke but Michael knew he had explained himself satisfactorily so he decided to move on. "This medieval fantasy is a mockery, a joke. Himmler is a sick man who’s dabbling in the spiritual world. It’s as dangerous as it’s stupid." He looked at them all. "We have all seen the enemy that we are to face. They are real and deadly, so ignore the settings and concentrate on the preparation.”

Von Struck’s squad almost from the beginning accepted Inselman and Smith. They imitated Smith’s English accent and they called Inselman 'Boy', but it was all in good spirit. They knew they were there to help fight against the Dracyl so their induction into the ranks was swift and painless.

Smith himself had been among the Germans for so long that it didn’t seem strange to be training with them at all. In Dachau he’d clung onto his English identity as a subconscious means of denying his ties to the Dracyl. Now however, as he exercised to destroy his brother, he felt he had proven to himself that he was not of the same cast. They were ten against an army, but what they lacked in numbers they more than gained in motivation. Michael had welded them closer than brothers, each willing to give his life for the other. The schooling, devoid of the usual brutality they had endured during their training for the SS, focused on the job at hand and within weeks they were fit, proficient with a sword, and keen. They knew the entire legend of the Dracyl and were now convinced of the need to succeed.

But proficiency brings confidence and confidence incites questions.

"Why do we have to use swords to kill the vampires?" Rohleder asked after a few weeks. They were eating, having just completed the twenty-mile course in record time, and the mood around the table was good.

Michael paused for a moment to put together his answer. "Simply put, there are twelve silver swords here at Wewelsburg, one sword for each of Himmler’s knights. They’re strong, specially made to be used in battle if need be, and they’re silver, reinforced with some composite metal that is beyond my knowledge. I planned to steal them and take them with us to Transylvania. Silver is the only metal that will kill the vampires, hence the sword training.”

"Why don’t we just melt them down and make bullets out of them?" Rohleder openly puzzled to himself.

Michael put down his fork and looked around the table at the expectant expressions. "Ok," he started. "There are a number of good reasons, so I’ll go through them so there is no doubt." He stood up. "Firstly, who will make them for us? Every arms manufacturing plant in the Reich is run and owned by men who are true to the Party. If I send off for a couple of thousand silver bullets, somewhere along the line it will definitely reach Himmler’s ears, and that’s not good for our plans to kill his pet project. Secondly, the vampires themselves are not good swordsmen. They can chop and swing but their skill with a sword is miserable. The tree will negate any physical advantage they have over us and I hope our ability with the blade will carry the day. Thirdly, it’s a question of logistics. How do we carry so many rounds of ammunition? We have our horses but I want us to travel light and fast. Pack horses could slow us down, add to our rationing and we don’t know how they will react when they smell a vampire.”

The answer was long and comprehensive and Michael was satisfied that he’d put his point across until Rohleder put his hand up.

"Need the toilet, Rottenführer?" He smiled.

"Not yet, Herr Oberstgruppenführer,” he deadpanned. "But I do have something I need to get out.” He waited until they stopped laughing to ask his question. "Why don’t we melt down the two swords left over to make into rounds?”

Michael shook his head. "Because who will make them for us without telling tales on us?”

"Well, I have a friend in Prague. He owes me a lot of favours and he also owns an arms factory. I don’t know if he’s still there, we’ve been out of contact, but if he is, and Ivan hasn’t taken Prague yet, we’ll be in business.”

"And how many rounds do you think you’ll get out of two swords?”

Henning leaned forward and held up his fork. "Well, if we’re going to steal the swords, why not steal the rest of the family silverware?”

"I’m not sure the silver will withstand the heat involved. I think swords are our best bet.”

"Fine, we’ll keep with the swords. I just think it would be worth trying to find out what the form is. We can ask him if it is possible. Extra firepower is always a positive thing in war. I’ll feel naked without my Helga."

Michael weighed up the situation in his head. If they could make a round with a silver bullet, it could tip the scales to their advantage. However, it would require that they send Rohleder down to Prague and that along with the production of the cartridge could take weeks. He looked around at the expectant faces at the table. He saw they all wanted it so he nodded to Rohleder. "Right, get on it straightaway. There is a phone here but let me talk with the operator first because it will be tapped. However, I suspect the use of Heinrich’s name will soon sort that out.”

"He’s more of a business associate,” Rohleder explained to Michael as they waited for a clear line. "He likes cards and betting large sums. I like winning, so I let him bet his factory. And I cheated. Now he owes me.”

"You cheated?” Michael asked quizzically. "And what would have happened if he’d caught you?”

"The stakes were big but my balls are bigger. It was after the flame thrower attack; my wife had left me and I felt like I had nothing left to live for. The military wouldn’t take me back and I went on a self-destructive spree, whoring, gambling and drinking. I got caught up in all kinds of crazy stuff, stuff you would never believe. I sorted out women and booze for Party members, boys too, sometimes. It was at that time that I saw the true face of the Party. Then it hit me: all those young men dead, civilians murdered, women widowed and children orphaned for these sick degenerates, not to mention the Jews and what we did to them. We must have been really desperate to have believed them in the thirties. Anyway, he bet the factory, lost it and I gave it him back. He won’t say a word to anybody because I’ve got the deeds to the works and if the Party gets a whiff that he used the Reich’s factory to gamble with, he’ll be in deep shit.”

The call went as expected. Rohleder and Inselman left the next day for Prague. Inselman’s advanced ability with the sword made him the ideal and only candidate to partner Rohleder for the journey down. They set off armed with enough petrol to make it to Prague and back, as much silver as they could find and a forged letter from Himmler.

Chapter 45

Transylvania

Reuben checked through his things again. He knew everything was there but he couldn’t just sit around and wait, so he checked it all to kill time. They had decided to go east and try to meet the Red Army as it advanced.

The plan was to leave just before dawn which gave them a whole day to get away before the night came with its marauding vampires. They would steal the horses, provisions and tools that they might need along the way. Mordechai wasn’t happy about the stealing part but they had searched the entire area for money and valuables and had found nothing.

"Well, at least we can’t be robbed of anything important. That would just be our mazel.” Reuben had laughed.

"They could rob us of our food and then we’d be in trouble," Mordechai answered gravely.

"Nobody is going to rob anybody, Mordi.” He smiled. "The vampires have sucked dry everybody that lives for miles around. We’re probably the only humans here for the next fifty miles.”

"Us and the whole Russian army," he answered and Reuben laughed. It had been Mordechai who had pushed for the move towards the Russians and now he was the nervous one.

It was 0500 hours when they met at the foot of the stairs by the main door. The candles that lit the hall were quietly dying their private deaths and the dark was oppressive and sepulchral.

"Have we got everything?" Mordechai fussed.

"If we haven’t, it’s too late now.”

"We’ll be fine, Mordi. It’ll all be alright," Stephanie soothed. The door loomed before them and all three were aware of the change crossing its threshold would signify. Within the castle walls they were mere prisoners, but on the other side they would be renegades. They waited in the dimness of the wax-splattered hall while Mordechai made up his mind.

Reuben saw the worry that lined his friend’s brow. "Mordi, it’s now or never. Let’s make a move before the day runs out on us.”

Mordechai looked at them both and then, as if reaching an inner agreement, he nodded and set off for the door.

He hadn’t moved five paces when a low growl came from the shadows. The sound echoed around the hall but in the gloom there was nothing to see. They froze, not even blinking, as another growl rumbled through the hall.

"What the hell is that?" Reuben muttered to himself.

"Shtum!” Mordechai impulsively admonished, making more noise than Reuben’s exclamation. The silence ate the dark and the weak light from the waning candles gave no clue as to what had made the noise.

They felt rather than heard the movement. It started in the shadows to the right of the main door and circled behind them. As one they turned and followed its invisible progress. Reuben slowly pulled out a knife while Stephanie picked up an empty candle holder. They still couldn’t see anything but the threat was real and present.

"Who are you?” Reuben’s voice was steady but his knees trembled like a child’s bottom lip. "Is that you, Doctor Rasch?” Mordechai feebly ventured as Reuben shot him a questioning glance. Mordechai shrugged contritely.

The spectre carried on circling and they continued to follow the path they felt it was taking. Mordechai’s mouth was dry and the urge to run pounded through him, blocking out all thought. He took a step back behind Stephanie, who ignored him, and he began to edge towards the door. A movement stopped him in his tracks.

Like the prow of a ship cutting through a black ocean, the long, whiskered snout of a wolf poked out of the shadows. Two intense, glowing eyes followed and Marik stepped into view.

"Ay ay ay, " Reuben muttered.

Standing upright, Marik drooled like a rabid hound as he growled menacingly at them. His long, knife-like talons opened and closed as if grasping an unseen prey and he panted in between growls like an excited dog.

"Oh my God, a werewolf … " was all Stephanie could say.

Before Reuben could voice an idea, Mordechai gave a strangled cry and bolted for the door. Marik, seeing his prey running away, bounded after him, ignoring Reuben and Stephanie.

As they looked on in horror, the werewolf pounced and landed on Mordechai’s back. Without thinking, Reuben pulled his knife and ran towards the werewolf to jump on him.

The beast’s fur was matted and hard with dirt and Reuben could smell the rank gust of its breath as he put his arm around its neck to pull it off his friend. The monster’s muscles bunched like stones and Reuben immediately realised the futility of his attack.

The creature lost interest in Mordechai and rose effortlessly on its back legs to grasp at Reuben. Reuben made ready to stab but the impetus of the werewolf standing up nearly threw him off. He felt the claws closing on his arm and the power in that grip confirmed that his only chance was to get in a position to strike with his knife.

The wolf turned his head and Reuben, to his horror, saw that the beast was now looking him in the eye. Unadulterated rage daggered from its feral eyes and Reuben felt the cold hand of death pulling his arm away from the werewolf’s throat.

They wrestled, Reuben endeavouring to hold onto the wolf while the monster slowly prized his arm away, and he felt a tide of panic rise at the solidity of the beast’s power. Every vein popped in his arm as he fought to keep hold of the monster’s neck but slowly, inch by inch, he was forced to let go.

Then, just as he felt his strength slipping away, the wolf gave a startled yelp. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stephanie armed with a heavily waxed candleholder as she prepared to strike again. The wolf’s snout looked broken.

Reuben laboured back into position and struck with the knife, plunging it deep into the beast’s eye. There was an audible pop as the knife sank in and Reuben stood as fast as he could, looking on in disbelief as the monster, its muzzle bent from Stephanie’s assault, whimpered as it removed the knife slowly from its eye socket.

Blood poured out of the wound, splashing the floor crimson as the wolfman stood whining in pain. Mordechai, obeying a primeval instinct, fled out of the main door into the cold morning. Stephanie and Reuben, now also armed with a candleholder, stood watching the wolf, neither willing to move in case they incited it to attack.

It stood opposite them breathing heavily, its massive shoulders moving in time with each breath, and the raw malice it radiated cowed them both to raise their candleholders in wretched defiance.

Then as slowly as it had arrived, it edged out of the pool of light and stepped back into the darkness until only the tip of its bent snout was showing and, in an almost audible snap, it was gone.

They stood rooted for over a minute until Reuben whispered, "I think it’s gone. I can’t feel it.”

Stephanie knew what he meant. "I can’t either. Let’s go find Mordi.”

They backed towards the door, not taking their eyes off their surroundings until they were outside.

Mordechai was in the stables trembling and weeping in shock, blindly going through the motions of saddling his horse when they found him. Reuben and Stephanie soothed him but it was plain to them both that he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"We can’t go on with Mordi like this. It’s plain Goyisher Kop.”

"What do you want to do then, stay here and wait for another encounter with the wolfman?” Stephanie challenged him.

"No, yes.” He paused to gather his wits. His knees were weak and he wasn’t in control of his hands. He hauntedly raked his hand through his hair and used the moment to marvel at the composure and nerve of the woman before him. "You’re right. We’re ready to go now so let’s just do it and hope that Mordi gets better." Stephanie nodded and turned to help Mordechai.

They were so preoccupied with their preparations that neither of them noticed the small scratch on Mordechai’s neck.

*  *  *

In the library, the count wasn’t pleased. "You let the Israelites see you?” he roared. Marik was curled in a corner, halfway through his transition. He was naked and his nose, mouth and right eye were covered in dried blood. Nevertheless, the wounds were already healing. "What in the name of Insangerata made you do that?”

“Master," he whined. Iullia, who stood next to the count, sneered at his whimpering. "I was hungry and there are no prisoners now. I needed food.”

A whip lashed out from the count’s side and cracked against his naked ribs. Marik howled in pain and humiliation as once again the leather kissed and ripped his exposed skin.

"Now you will pay for your greed, beast,” the count snarled as lash after lash fell on his bloodied servant.

The Lilith in Iullia soon lost interest in the whipping and turned to look through a window. She had witnessed a million thrashings and the sight of a man screaming in pain like a woman no longer appealed to her. Only power appealed to her now.

The whip fell time and time again until she turned around and addressed the count. "Why is it so bad if the Jews see the wolf?”

He stopped in mid-stroke and turned to her. "The Jews are immaterial; it’s the greed that infuriates me. He must know his place.”

Lilith saw through the flimsy excuse. He needed to take his worries out on something. The mere ripping of nameless Russian soldiers didn’t sate his desire for power any more. He needed to apply it on something more personal and Marik fitted the bill perfectly.

Marik, pitiable and broken, crawled to the count's boots and curled up around them in unspoken supplication.

"Get out, worm," the count spat and kicked him in the ribs. Marik yelped and, hunched up double, he ran out. He turned to Iullia. "How long until the birth?” he demanded.

"Not long now, Master.” She stroked her stomach. "All is going as planned.”

"What is your other body doing now, demon? I haven’t seen her in a long time:”

Maria’s shell was laid out on her bed, wasted and husked like an ancient Egyptian queen. The book that had fed her for so long was gone and death lingered at her door like a covetous relation.

"When the time comes it will be there,” Lilith answered. "In the meantime I think it better that I concentrate on this vessel so the child will be strong when it’s born, don’t you?”

The count grunted and smiled. "The child is important but the woman’s body is not. Don’t forget that the girl dies after the birth or the prophesy will be blighted.”

"I know, Master. Before the cord is cut, the mother must die so that he truly will be the tenth in line. When that time comes, I will slip into Maria’s body so that the child can be blessed by its mother’s death.”

The count nodded. "Good. I prefer that body to this one. This one is too skinny." He looked Iullia's body up and down and wordlessly stalked out. "When the night comes, I will hunt the Israelites in case they decide to tell the Russians of our whereabouts.” His voice carried through the walls.

Lilith spat and smiled to herself. "Idiot!”

Chapter 46

Wewelsburg Castle

The old man hobbled up the hill towards the main gate. His journey had taken him from the east of the Reich to the west, and his worn-out frame was screaming for rest. Nevertheless, respite was the last thing he had in mind. The satchel he carried contained something that he had guarded with his life and now that the journey was close to its end, there was no way on God’s earth he would rest until he was finished.

His walking staff clicked out the pace and he let its steady beat carry him along. He knew that the weight of the world and the future of mankind were in question, and as he saw the looming citadel rise before him, his pace quickened a jot as the excitement of completion sparked him on.

*  *  *

They were at sword practise when Michael interrupted them. He waited for them to complete their moves before instructing them to follow him to the main hall.

"What’s going on, boss?” Matheus asked.

"I don’t know, Matze,” Von Struck shrugged. "We’ll find out in a minute, though.”

Michael led them into the main hall and bid them all to take a seat. Already seated at the round table was an old man in a monk’s habit. In front of him was a satchel which he was nervously fingering as if wishing to unload it.

“Gentlemen, it is my great honour to introduce to you one of the oldest, and certainly the most respected, members of the Order of Dobrzyn, Brother Raphael Czerolka.”

They all looked at the old man who scowled at the attention. "What are you all gawping at? Haven’t you seen an old man before?”

Michael smiled warmly behind the librarian’s back and carried on. "He’s travelled a long way and the news he’s brought is not good.”

"Not good? Pah! You worry too much, brother.” Czerolka banged the table in annoyance.

"I think it would be better if you told them, old man.” All eyes were on the librarian who in turn scrutinised them one at a time.

"And these are the ten, are they, Michael?”

"There’s another one and Inselman. They’re both on a mission. I will explain later.”

"Young Inselman." He turned to face Michael. "I always said he was a good one, that. Green but brave.”

"Tell us what you’ve got to say, old man," Gruhn butted in. "Save the scrutiny until after we’re gone.”

They all laughed but Michael scowled at the rudeness. The old man smiled to himself and nodded. "The news I bring is not exactly shocking, not when you take into consideration the grovellers that are in charge of the Order nowadays, but it might put a bit of pressure on your deadline.”

As he addressed the men, he started to undo the buckles on the satchel. "As you know, the Book of Blood has been stored in my library these past months now.”

"I didn’t know that,” puzzled Nau softly. Gruhn shrugged in answer.

"The problem started because the Book corrupts everything in its immediate vicinity. After a while I noticed that certain ancient scriptures, scrolls and other items in my library were falling into an advanced state of disrepair. I realised it was down to the corrosive influence of the Book, so I asked the Grand Master if we could store the book in a special room.” He spat on the floor to show his derision. “There is an incantation that renders the walls of a room impervious to the book’s influence but the room must be empty. Regrettably, the Grand Master decided to send the book to Berlin as a present to Himmler.”

"So where is it now? In Berlin?" Schneiderat broke in.

The old man smiled and tapped the unopened satchel. "No, I stole it and came here. You need the Book, not Himmler.” He produced the volume from his satchel and leant back with the satisfied air of a man who has just finished a significant task.

It lay on the table before him. Nobody moved to touch it but everyone stared at its ancient hide cover. Immediately, the varnish on the table around the book cracked and turned a sickly shade of grey.

"It doesn’t look much," Schneiderat said finally.

"Is that what all the girls say, Andreas?” Nau enquired.

"At least the girls get to see it, Matze.” He smiled back and a brittle, uneasy laugh channelled through them all.

Michael didn’t feel comfortable with the banter and he moved forward to study the book's cover. Czerolka picked up the Book. "Brother von der Heyde, I present you with the Cronica Insangerata, or as you know it, the Book of Blood. You should put it in an empty room so I can make the proper incantations. It really is as mordant as I said. If any of you have questions, I would be more than obliged to answer them for you.”

Michael nodded but didn’t move to take the Book from him. The last time he’d handled it had been at Marienberg and the sense of revulsion for the Book had still not left him.

"I’ve got a question." It was Grand. "Why did you steal the book? We know what we have to do so we don’t need it, and your boss could spoil everything by reporting its loss to Himmler.”

The librarian nodded and put the Book back down on the table.

"And how do you plan to tempt the demon Lilith to fight you, boy?” Czerolka admonished him caustically. "With marching songs and the promise of a quickie behind the stables? Ha! For that you’ll need the Book. She wants it back because her powers are in direct relation to the Book. She needs the Book just to survive.”

Berndt stoically took the rebuke with as much grace as he could. Clearing his throat he asked, "And the Grand Wizard, or Master, or whatever he’s called, won’t he inform Berlin that you’ve stolen the book and you’ve made your way here?”

"The Grand Master,” he spat again, "won’t say anything to Himmler. He’s too scared that Heini will be angry with him for its loss." He turned to look Bernd in the eye and his voice took on a conciliatory tone. "No, lad. There is no danger of Berlin hearing of its absence. The Order would sooner turn Jewish rather than admit a failing to Himmler. The only danger is if Himmler asks about the Book. He knows about it but he thinks it’s with the Order. If he starts getting greedy he might ask for it and then we are all in trouble.”

Grand nodded and Nau stepped forward. "Old man, I just wanted to say that that was the first time I’ve seen big Bernd Grand being called a boy. You’re the bravest librarian I’ve ever met.”

Czerolka’s face, which had been frozen in its customary scowl, suddenly cracked and he cackled like an old witch. The laugh was contagious and the sombre atmosphere was momentarily relieved.

Michael waited for the laughing to stop before putting his own question forward. "Brother Czerolka, before I addressed the Brothers at Marienberg, you told me of a few requisites for the mission, but you never explained the reasons for these conditions. The silver weapons I understood, the bringing of the Dracyl’s brother made sense too, but why must we only march with ten men against an army?”

"Isn’t it obvious, Michael?” he answered.

"Well, no, to be honest. It makes no sense to me at all. The whole plan makes sense up to a certain point. I just don’t understand why we can only march with ten men and not as many as we can find.”

Nodding his head, he answered. "Symbolism, Brother Michael. It’s all symbolism. How many names are there in the Book of Blood? Ten. There are ten names that signify the end of a curse and the renewal of the old ways. Have you explained this to them?" He nodded at the squad.

"Yes, the numerology was explained.”

"And promptly forgotten,” Nau muttered to Gruhn.

"Gentlemen, make no mistake, you are fighting evil in the truest sense of the word. Your only protection lies in magic and belief." He paused to look to see if they were listening. They were. "The magic is in the silver swords and the Book of Blood. The very fact that your enemy is a vampire dictates that you must turn to the supernatural to destroy him. You must be aware that normal rules do not apply. This Anti-Christ is not just Communism. This is the Beast and he was roaming the earth before the usurper cult called Christianity was even thought of.”

"So what has that got to do with the number of men called to kill the bloodsuckers?" Gruhn asked nobody in particular.

Czerolka ignored him. "Ten is the number of names in the Book of Blood. To mirror this list of ten names, we have in the Bible the ten generations. That is the ten patriarchs of the Antediluvian age. From Adam to Noah there are ten named patriarchs. These names are of the same period as the first names in the Book of Blood. They are Adam, Seth, Enos, Cainan, Mahaleel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech and Noah. You will represent these ten biblical patriarchs of the Antediluvian age.”

"Which one am I?” Wolfgang asked, triggering a ripple of laughter.

"It’s not the names that are important, it’s the numbers present. We want to mirror the Dracyl’s Book with numbers from the Bible.” He took in their blank faces and resignedly pressed on. "Also in the Bible, in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, we have the Ten Righteous.”

"I’ve heard about Sodom and Gomorrah.” Gruhn smirked.

"I’m sure you have, but the point is that God was willing to spare the judgement of Sodom and Gomorrah if ten righteous people could be found therein. You could compare the world under vampire rule with Sodom and Gomorrah and thus you would be the ten righteous people. God will come to your aid to save the world from the iniquity of a demon’s reign.”

Once again the blank faces stared him down, with only Michael showing any comprehension. He turned to Michael. "Finally, what is the tenth line of the Oratio Dominica?”

Michael thought for a moment. "Sed libera nos a malo.”

Smith asked what they were all thinking. "What on earth is the Oratio Dominica?”

Czerolka looked up from the Book to study Smith from his seat.

"So the Dracyl finally speaks," he slyly mocked. Smith fleetingly considered rising to the bait but let it slide. "Don’t you recognise the line, Englishman? Didn’t you ever go to church?"

"Old man, from the age of six onwards, every Sunday was Church Parade. But the service was conducted in English. Latin is only used by the Catholic denomination of which I am not.”

”Tell me, then, if you would be so kind, what the tenth line of the Lord’s Prayer is?" The old man studied him as Smith tried to remember the litany.

Unsure but goaded to answer by his pride, Smith stammered, "And deliver us from evil.”

"Correct. So you’re not the Anti-Christ I thought you were after all.” The sarcasm was beginning to tell on Smith but he doggedly held his tongue.

"So why do you think the number of soldiers needed to destroy the Dracyl, I mean your brother, is ten?” He sat back and muttered loudly for all to hear. "This should be very interesting, the opinion of a defector."

Smith pondered the question and threw a question back, "Why are you asking me, old man? Are you too senile to remember the answer yourself? Would I be right in assuming that ten is probably the highest number you can comprehend?”

A long silence drew out as the two eyed each other. Nobody spoke but all were conscious of the deep enmity that the librarian held for the Dracyl bloodline. Only Smith seemed unaware and held his gaze until Czerolka snorted and turned to the rest.

"The tenth line in the Oratio Dominica is Sed libera nos a malo. Deliver us from evil. This line is the amulet you will wear to brave the demon hordes. That is the true magic of this battle. Your belief will be your keenest weapon.”

Michael looked at the lost faces of the squad. Czerolka saw their doubt as well and decided to elaborate. "The Dracyl and Lilith were cursed by Gods who don’t exist anymore. They died with their religion. As the people stopped worshipping them their power faded to nothing. Lilith and the Dracyl are held to their curse only by their own belief in the authority of the old Gods. That is the power, or the problem, of faith.  We worship the one God. Our faith must be pure and unbridled if we are to destroy the Dracyl. Believe in God and he will deliver when the time is come. The line, Deliver us from evil, is written in your numbers and your belief." He looked around at the men and repeated again, "Deliver us from evil.”

Nau doubtfully put his hand up to speak. "I realise what you’re saying but I’ve never even been in a church. How can I believe in something that I don’t even know about?”

"You’ve never been in a church?" the librarian enquired, shocked.

"No, my parents were both Party members from the beginning and they saw no reason in going to church. They’re the reason I joined the SS.”

"And I thought it was to cuddle with Matze," Wolfgang said with a snigger. The old man held up his hand for silence. "Tell me one thing. Do you believe that there is a God?” He turned to them all. "Do you all believe in God, because if your faith is brittle, then your sword arm will be weak and you will fail. Without conviction the words will be lost in the wind.”

Nobody answered at first. It was Schneiderat who broke the silence. "I believe. I always have, and now in the face of what we’re going to do battle with, I believe more than ever.”

Wolfgang was next. "So do I.” One by one they confirmed to the librarian their belief. Only Smith and Nau remained silent.

"Englishman." Smith noted that he didn’t use the word Dracyl. "You haven’t answered. Do you believe?”

"I have seen the evil so you don’t need to ask me, old man. I believe because if there is no God, we are doomed in the truest form of the word." Nobody batted an eyelid at the theatrical nature of his answer and Czerolka nodded before turning to Nau.

"And you, young man. Can you believe?”

"I don’t know," was his answer to their insistent looks.

Czerolka nodded. "Very well. Your honesty in the matter is a good sign. We must be ready to face the Dracyl on the 22nd of December, the Winter Solstice. That’s the shortest day of the year and thus for the Dracyl the best time to take on the Sun God that cursed him. So we still have time to convince you, and if all else fails I’ll go in your place.”

The stunned hush that followed soon broke as Czerolka once again started to cackle his amusement. Von Struck distractedly surveyed their laughing faces and pondered on the debatable logic of the librarian’s symbolism and the potential evil of an ancient manuscript.

Chapter 47

Transylvania

The chase materialised from out of nowhere.

They had been making reasonable progress throughout the first day and had ridden until shortly before nightfall. They were tired and hungry but their mission consumed all other priorities and they decided their discomfort was secondary to the success of the plan, namely escaping to the East.

They decided to walk through the night, leading their mounts on foot to spare them. Their overriding fear spurred them on through the hunger and fatigue, and even the horses seemed to sense the necessity of their undertaking.

The wood was as black as pitch but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and they found they could make out the trail. Their progress was slow but steady.

Around four in the morning, Mordechai announced that he needed a rest. Reuben studied the watch Rasch had given him when events were looking up after the opening of the first camp, and decided they could all do with a break.

He turned to pull his water bottle from his bag and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement silhouetted against the nearly full moon. He turned to look square on and saw, to his horror, the count’s soldiers heading in their direction.

"Oy vey," he involuntarily muttered. "Quick, get on your horses and follow me!"

Mordechai and Stephanie turned in the direction he was looking and wordlessly sprang to action, exhaustion falling off them like an old coat as panic threatened to take over.

Though the vampires were still a long way off, they vectored in quickly and gained on the horses with alarming speed. Reuben stole a glance to see if he could spot them and gasped in terror when he saw how quickly they were gaining ground. He put his head down to drive his mount on but he knew it was a lost cause. Turning again to look, he was fascinated by the speed of their attack, and saw now they were only a hundred meters away.

Stephanie dug her feet into her horse, wordlessly urging him on, while silently praying for deliverance. The silence of the vampires made the scene all the more surreal and she half-hoped it was all a figment of her imagination.

Mordechai couldn’t keep himself from looking back. The vampires were now almost above them and seemed to be hovering in the treetops. He blindly let his horse run with the others, unable to keep his eyes off the airborne horde. Though they looked to be hovering, Mordi knew it was an illusion because they were holding a constant distance between themselves and the fugitives.

"Why don’t they attack? What are they doing?” he distantly wondered.

Then, as if rising from beneath a sea of green, Count Blestamatul emerged from treetop level to take the lead. The clouds parted, the moon shone through, and Mordechai clearly saw the count.

Swollen and hideous, his enlarged head cracked open and he grimaced to show his knife-like teeth. Mordechai put all his trust in his horse and watched, fascinated, as the bulging, powerfully-built vampire pulled forward to the front of his swarm.

Still the vampires did not attack and they seemed content just to follow from above the treetops.

"The path is too narrow for them to dive down on us,” Mordi told himself, but he didn’t really believe it.

Suddenly, from the tree line to their right, a shot rang out. For the briefest of moments a solitary figure was thrown in relief by the muzzle flash. It was followed by another and then another until the whole right side of the path they were on was lit up by the steady firing. Mordechai looked back to see the vampires flinching as the bullets hit them from their unseen assailants. He whooped inwardly, not seeing or caring who it was that had come to their aid.

Volley after volley slammed into the swarm as the three of them rode deeper into the wood, and all the time Mordechai kept his eyes on the flying vampires, willing them to flee the barrage. However, although the rounds were clearly hitting them, they didn’t fall or falter in their pursuit.

As if on a given signal, they swooped down on the Russian line. The vampires flew past them, ignoring the fleeing civilians, intent only on their attackers.

The pack hit the tree line like a rain of boulders and the three of them heard the drawing of swords over the screams of the soldiers and the rattle of machine gun fire.

Mordechai chanced another look at the fight but now that the vampires were no longer silhouetted by the moon there was nothing to see. Only the noise of the struggle and the flash of cordite carried the battle to him as it raged to his immediate right.

The path was still clear ahead and none of their would-be rescuers had made any move to halt them, busy as they were with the vampires, so they galloped on, impervious to the killing and the darkness surrounding them.

The horses were blowing, and just as Reuben thought about slowing the pace, he heard the dry grate of a sword being drawn behind them. He turned to see, in the frenzied illumination of the fight, the grinning and bloated face of the count as he exploded through the trees after them. Reuben knew that no amount of whipping would incite his mount to sufficient speed to escape him and he inwardly resigned himself to die in that frozen wood.

Mordechai was the closest and Reuben watched in disbelieving terror as the count reached him and effortlessly pulled him back to bite his neck. It seemed like the count's face and hands engulfed his whole shoulder as he worried into the wound. Blood flooded down Mordechai’s chest and the gush was so rich it looked like a black cloak in the half-light of the battle.

Mordechai himself made no sound. His only appeal was an outstretched hand and a mouth held agape in the agony of death.

Suddenly the count bellowed at them, "You are mine, Israelites, mine to set free, mine to control and mine to kill." He let Mordechai’s body slump down into the saddle. "I never set you free, so now you will die!" he roared into the night.

The count let Mordechai’s body slide down from the horse and made to spring over to Stephanie who had also watched the scene in rapt horror.

Suddenly the horse under the count jinked up from behind and the tail-end explosively burst outwards. Limbs and flesh splayed out in the blast and it took Reuben only a split second to realise that the beast had been hit by an anti-tank rocket from behind.

The count was thrown against a tree, giving Reuben and Stephanie valuable seconds to get away. He stood up immediately and turned in the direction of the fleeing pair.

Reuben looked behind. The count was two hundred meters away, and if he wanted to, he could have caught up with them. Their eyes locked and in that brief moment Reuben realised that the count wasn’t going to give chase.

He could clearly see the count’s face, lit up not by the fires of war but by the inescapable rise of the early morning sun. He faced the horizon and grinned as the soft red strand of dawn kissed the twilight clouds.

“We’ve made it!" he shouted over his shoulder. "The sun, the sun has saved us!”

He stopped his horse and Stephanie’s automatically halted next to him. They turned in unison to see that the vampires were gone.

The soldiers who had shot at them lay sprawled on both sides of the track. They were Russian, not as many as he’d thought, and Reuben guessed they were the vanguard of the main advance.

"Shall we see if any survived?" Stephanie finally broke her shocked silence.

"No, let’s get out of here. The main force will come soon and I don’t want to have to answer for this.”

"But we can’t just leave them, that’s—”

Reuben butted in. "Listen, a lot of Russians died here tonight and there will be a scapegoat needed for the official report. We will be the scapegoats if we’re caught here. They’ll pin this on a partisan ambush and we’ll be labelled as partisans, and tried and summarily executed as such.”

”You don’t know that, though. How can you be so sure?" She started to move her horse towards the area where the massacre had taken place.

"You stay here, then. I’m going.” He turned his horse to ride away, stopped and said over his shoulder, "And I’ll tell you why I can be so sure. The Russian system is just as unfair and corrupt as the German one. It’s run on fear and distrust, and what starts at the top is magnified as it slides down through the classes. Dictators incite men to do terrible things to save their own skin.”

Then wordlessly he cantered off.

Stephanie surveyed the undergrowth in the fledgling light. Severed limbs, trees splattered with blood, the carnage assaulted her senses and she felt a tremor of insanity flit through her.

From out of the foliage, a vampire crawled out into the path. One arm had been hacked off at the elbow, both legs were blown off at the mid-thigh. He could no longer escape the sun’s merciless eye. As he slithered snakelike on the ground, he smouldered.

She lifted her hands to shield herself from the heat as it finally burst into flames in the middle of the path. The hissing of its flesh and the terrified mewling sickened her so that she rammed her fist to her mouth to silence her revulsion. As his eyes popped with the heat, she gave up the struggle and screamed her horror.

The scream lasted a lifetime but was over in a minute, and it left her empty and wretched, mutely staring at the fiery death.

She watched patiently as it burnt to ashes, her initial terror mutating into something far darker; a bitter hope that this was one of the monsters who had killed her boy. She felt neither hatred nor pity, only the hollow sadness of a grieving mother searching for a vague answer for the murder of her child.

When it was gone and the cinders were finally carried off into the wood, she looked around as if waking from a dream. The loneliness chilled her and she realised that Reuben had been right, that to stay here was madness. She could do nothing here—there weren’t any survivors.

A bird called harshly and the sudden break in the silence ended her trance. She knew she had to be away from this place and quickly. A gathering panic threatened to engulf her and, with a stifled sob, she dashed after Reuben to salvage her self-control and focus.

Reuben wasn’t very far away. He’d been dawdling in the hope that Stephanie would come to her senses. No words were spoken when she finally pulled up to his side. They were an age apart but her companionship would, he knew, keep him from dwelling on Mordechai’s death. They’d both gotten very accomplished at denying grief.

The trees opened before them as the path widened and Reuben broke their reverie when he saw a gap in the tree line ahead of them.

"I think that’s the end of the forest."

"What then? Shall we have a rest?" she asked absently.

Reuben was about to answer when a loud click cut through the wood. It was echoed by another as a soldier stood out in the middle of the path. Reuben held up his hands and went to slide down from his horse. The soldier approached them, all the while holding a rifle towards him.

Reuben cocked a leg over the pommel of the saddle and moved to unhinge his foot from the stirrup when the Russian pulled him down to the ground. Reuben hit the floor on his back and his eyes glazed over as the wind raced out of him.

Laughing, the Russian put his boot on Reuben’s chest as he called to his comrades.

"Tell me what you do to Russian spies and I’ll tell you what we do to German spies.”

The wood around them erupted with Red Army uniforms and Stephanie fell from her saddle in a dead faint.

Chapter 48

Transylvania

September

She screamed against the gag with all her strength, pulling at the cords that bound her to the vampire’s sarcophagus. Naked, sweat-drenched in fear, with her legs splayed to help the delivery, Iullia was being attended to by Maria while the count looked on. Marik held guard at the arch that served as a doorway into the room, barring the vampire entourage that followed the Dracyl wherever he went.

The count found Iullia's panic stimulating and could hardly contain his pleasure at her degradation and dread.

"Scream, girl, scream and beg me for your life!" he snarled excitedly as the vampires hissed their pleasure.

Maria ignored him and moved to sooth Iullia. The struggling would be bad for the child. She was now fully restored to her early beauty thanks to the fact that Lilith's essence had left Iullia the moment the bindings had been tied tight.

There had been a moment of confusion for Iullia as the demon had left her to return to Maria’s withered coil. However, it had soon passed as she understood her predicament and had reacted by feverishly reciting the Lord’s Prayer repeatedly.

"Gag her!” the Dracyl commanded.

Maria was prepared as this wasn’t her first birthing and bound her mouth accordingly. That was when the screaming started.

They were ready, the crypt lit with just enough candles to see by, Marik on guard and the blade and blankets on hand. All that was missing was the Book of Blood but Maria wasn’t too concerned about that for she wanted the birthing ceremony to go awry.

The Dracyl held the sword, the fatal cut to be dealt as Maria slashed the umbilical cord. The timing was as important as the tradition itself.

He was as nervous as he was excited and he went over the details with Maria over and over again. It was getting tiresome but she didn’t want him to think that she had other plans for how the black nativity would be carried out.

Maria was crouched and busy between Iullia's open thighs, a spasm gripped Iullia and she involuntarily pushed.

"I see it," Maria cried over the girl’s gagged wails. "I see a head, the top of his head.”

Once again the vampire’s hissing crescendoed in anticipation.

The Dracyl gripped the sword, his exhilaration almost a tangible force that electrified the crypt.

"It’s coming, his hair is black; black like yours, Master.”

Marik shuffled forward to look, shadowed by the inquisitive vampires, but the count glared them back to the doorway.

"Tell me what’s happening,” he demanded.

"All will be well, Master. The end is in sight. Now push, girl, push.”

*  *  *

Rasch awoke and sat bolt upright in one movement. He’d heard his name being called. Iullia had called him, he was sure. He turned to get out of bed but froze as he heard his name being called again. Putting on his glasses, he stood, trying to discern where the sound was coming from. It took a moment to realise that the voice was in his head. What was more disturbing, though, was the tone of panic in Iullia's appeal.

Hurriedly pulling on his uniform, he looked around for a weapon of sorts. There was nothing and he dashed out into the corridor to find Iullia. He flew down the stairs, ever more panicked by the note of urgency that was intensifying steadily in her pleadings.

"I’m coming, I’m coming, Schatzi," he muttered to himself in answer.

"Ernst, help me. I’m in the crypt," the voice dictated. "In the crypt, I need your help. Oh Ernst, I need you now, hurry—”

Rasch knew where the crypt entrance was but he had never had any wish to go down there. This time it was different. He wrenched the door open and sprinted into the black void below, blundering through the pitch blackness, seeing nothing and hearing only Iullia's summons.

*  *  *

Another spasm shuddered though her as she wept for God’s mercy to bring an end to her pain and misery. The realisation that she was the vessel for something as unholy as the Dracyl’s offspring pained her as much as her physical torment. She hoped that God could forgive her weakness when His judgement was upon her.

She had been cognisant of what Lilith had done with her body the whole time. She also knew the fate that awaited her when the time came to cut the umbilical cord.

In her mind she recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over as the only means she had of striking back against all that had been done against her. Another contraction scored through her as her body betrayed her to the Dracyl. She could feel the head pushing out of her, stretching her flesh until she felt it would rip and tear. She panicked at the strain and she vaguely wondered who was screaming in the background. It came as a shock when she realised it was her.

Her screaming climaxed and stopped as her flesh finally gave way and tore. The pain was momentarily blinding but the relief at the widening of her entrance helped focus her mind. She knew that these were her final moments on God’s earth and her dread faded as she saw the count lift the sword above his head. She knew the end was nigh and her heart swelled as she recited her mantra into death’s cold embrace:

"Pater Noster, qui es in caelis …”

*  *  *

Maria slipped a finger in to ease the shoulders into position. The head, bloodied and creased, was out but the shoulders were stuck. The small body turned easily and Maria let her curiosity overtake her, peeking over her shoulder to the doorway. "Where is he?" she wondered absentmindedly.

She looked up to the count who stood ready to plunge the sword down on the girl’s neck.

"Where is he?" she thought again, with more force this time. She knew he was near. She had been calling him to come and he had answered, but she didn’t want to let it show that she was waiting for him.

"What’s the problem, Demon?” the count demanded. "Why do you peer over your shoulder so?”

"Nothing! Your vampires irritate me with their chatter and the shoulders are in the wrong position. He won’t come out.”

"Then cut her so he does!"

She nodded wordlessly and pulled out a small knife. She pretended to make an incision; playing for time.

"Cut her now!” the Dracyl roared, his vampires echoing his rage. The force of their anger shuddered Iullia into another contraction and the child slipped out into Maria’s waiting hands.

She held him and smiled at the count. "Your son, Master.”

"Cut the cord,” he snarled, hefting the weighty sword.

She hesitated at the command. Where was Rasch? He should be here by now.

"Cut the cord."

She lifted the knife up to the connecting thread of tissue and looked to Iullia. Their eyes met and a moment of comprehension, of misery, of victory passed between them. Then Iullia closed her lids and looked away to bare her neck. The crypt was silent. Nothing moved or breathed as they waited for the fateful cut.

Knife in hand, Maria turned to the count to synchronise the cutting. She nodded to him and was about to give the go-ahead when Rasch burst out from behind her.

Like an express train through a curtain of black, he erupted through the onlooking vampires. Marik was on him in a flash but the frantic doctor evaded him and ran straight for the astonished count.

"No, no, no!" he screamed as he reached for the sword. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stood in front of the count, looking down at his midriff, looking down at the sword protruding from his gut.

In the blink of a mortal eye, the count had turned the blade onto Rasch’s charging form and the edge had slid into him hungrily. Blood gushed out from the wound and he turned to look down at the shocked Iullia.

"My love—” was all he managed to say before falling to the ground in the pool of his own murder.

The count bent down to pull the sword and Maria took her chance. She slit the umbilical cord and held the two pieces up so the count would see it as he straightened up.

"What have you done?" he bellowed when he saw her with the cut thread. "What have you done?" he roared even louder. His body started to swell in his anger and the fine lines of his face distorted as they grew. Maria stood mute and trembling in front of him. She had foreseen this but her fear was genuine as she witnessed his rapidly swelling body.

"At the same time," he screamed in his fury. "They must be cut at the same time. The bond to the mother is cut as the mother’s bond to this world is cut, as it’s written in the Book." He was breathing heavily as his rage rapidly overtook him. Behind him the vampires howled their outrage. "It’s in the Book, Demon," he thundered again, drowning out their discord.

"I thought we were ready," she stammered. "I cut it as he came in. You saw what happened. Why didn’t Marik stop him?” She looked accusingly at the wolfman.

He paused for a minute and turned to the already cowering werewolf. In his dread he was already half-changed into a wolf and was openly salivating as he whined. He slammed the sword down on the ground and snarled at Marik, "Come here, dog!”

Marik whimpered as he drew nearer to the count, who grabbed him and threw him against the wall like a toy. The soldiers watched in gloating silence, sniggering at the beast’s terror. Marik scrambled to his feet and ran through their ranks, howling into the darkness, naked fear overriding any thought of obeying the count.

The count looked at the arch that led into the black passageway beyond. Maria saw that he was starting to shrink back to normal and inwardly sighed in relief. She had some of her power back but if the Dracyl had killed her, she would have become a wandering spirit again for the next couple of millennia.

"And now, Demon, will this affect the ceremony in December?” He was calm, his anger spent on the rock of his own ignorance. "Will we save the ritual if we kill her now?”

Maria looked to Iullia, her mind racing. This was too good to be true; keep the girl alive and the rite must surely be blighted.

"Answer me, Demon, I need to know.”

"The ceremony will not be unbalanced. Your heir and the tenth name in the Book is born. I see no reason to kill the girl. She could be useful in rearing him.” She waited on his decision with bated breath.

"Then so be it,” he said and left the crypt.

Iullia screamed her comprehension and anguish from behind her gag and the vampires whispered their glee.

Chapter 49

Wewelsburg Castle

They sat alone at the huge banqueting table with empty glasses and a haze of resentment above them.

"You never questioned my judgement at Marienberg, so why now Michael?” Czerolka snapped. "If I hadn’t believed in what I deduced from the Book, do you think I would have made my way here on my own?”

“I don’t doubt your conviction in your conclusions but I don’t understand the reasoning behind the number ten. Your reasons for picking just ten men seem doubtful, to say the least.”

"My reasons were not deduced in five minutes. I spent a long time deciphering the script and working out the best way of destroying the Dracyl. My reasoning was and is solid enough. What are you worrying about? Do you think I want the Dracyl to win, is that it?" He frowned and tapped the table with his knuckles in vexation.

"No, of course not, but why only the ten men? You could have easily have said twelve for the twelve apostles, or five thousand for the feeding of the five thousand because that bears about as much parallel to the Book of Blood as the ten good men of Sodom and Gomorrah!”

"Pah, you’re wasting my time with these stupid, infantile questions!” Czerolka stood up to leave but Michael grasped his arm. "Tell me, old man.” He stared him in the eye. "Tell me you have no doubt that ten men will beat the Dracyl. If you tell me that you are one hundred percent sure of this, I will gladly follow your instructions to the letter." Czerolka made to jerk his arm away but Michael gripped tighter. "But you look me in the eye when you say it, Librarian, because I sense fear behind your anger.”

The old man’s eyes flared in aggravation and he unthinkingly raised his free arm to strike down, but the fight left his eye and he fell back on his chair with a sigh. "What do you want to hear from me, Michael?” he asked after a short while. "Do you wish to hear how many hours I pored over its ancient texts until my sight was dimmed with fatigue? Do you want to hear how I turned our library upside down in my quest to find a key to fight this unholy abomination? Or do you want to hear how I was nearly cast out from the Order of Dobrzyn, from the order that I have faithfully served all my life, because my answers were not the answers our superiors wanted to hear?” Czerolka’s voice caught in his throat and Michael looked down at the table. "Michael, the Order is dead. The Order that once fought all manner of anti-Christ is now a sorry pack of sycophants and functionaries. That is why I came here, to find the only man I know in the Order who was ready to do battle to save humankind.” He shook his head slowly and cackled softly to himself. Michael waited for him to continue. "The irony is that the only man I felt I could trust with the Book of Blood sits before me and questions my judgement on the biggest spiritual upheaval since Calvary.” He carried on softly laughing to himself and stopped gradually to look Michael in the eye. "You want me to guarantee victory and yet I cannot find it in me to lie to you, Michael, because I do have my doubts. Ten men seems an absurd number to send against an army, I know. Why not a hundred, a thousand even?" He raised his eyes to the ceiling and back again. "All I can give you is that in my heart of hearts I am sure it is right that we should mirror the Book of Blood with our own numbers. We need to be able to match the names in the Book with souls of our own. They may have a vampire army but the bloodsuckers are not the threat. The Dracyl is already finished anyway. He needs the ten names in the Book to complete his cycle and you already have one of his, the Englishman. The tree will negate the vampire’s speed and strength, and your faith and skills with the swords will carry the day against them. It is Lilith who’s the real threat. She wants to enter the tree and thus break the curse and return to the old ways. If one man falls and you are only nine, she will succeed in her quest. She will then be the ruler of a vampire epidemic of pre-biblical proportions because the Dracyl will be a spent force. Hold out until daybreak and the battle is won. Fail and hell will let slip its bloody hounds. That is all I can give you.”

"And the other reasons for the number ten?”

Czerolka smiled reflectively. "The Ten Patriarchs is what we’re setting our hopes on. The Sodom and Gomorrah bit was a spur of the moment thing. Soldiers all know and laugh about that story and I thought it may make it more accessible to them. The main thing is that they believe that sordid tale and they unquestionably accept it as true. However, the tenth line of the Oratio Dominica was a stroke of genius, don’t you think? They will go to battle with that written on their hearts in fire.”

"I put more trust in them smirking over the sodomite cities than remembering the Lord’s Prayer.”

"So do I, actually, but we should pretend that they’re adults, you know." He smiled.

Michael was pouring out two pots of beer when Smith strolled in.

"Ah, the Dracyl,” Czerolka observed unpleasantly. Smith gave him a wry smile and turned to Michael. "Rohleder is back. You should see what he’s brought.”

They followed him into the yard where Rohleder stood in the centre of the squad.

"Nice to see you back, Herr Rottenführer. Did all go to plan?”

Inselman answered for him. "Take a look, brother.” And with a flourish he whipped off the tarpaulin that covered the back of the lorry.      Inside was crate after crate, stacked one on top of the other.

"Is that all ammunition, Inselman?" he gasped.

"Allow me, Heinz.” Rohleder stepped forward offering his MP38 to Michael. "Herr Oberstgruppenführer, this is Helga, my faithful lover and companion since the early days of this God-forsaken war. You can have her. I don’t need her anymore for I have found another.”

Michael took the weapon and, looking puzzled, he slung it over his shoulder. Rohleder walked to the driver’s cab and pulled something long out of it. "Herr von der Heyde, if I may introduce you to my newest flame, meet Gertrude," he said, holding a brand-new rifle like a baby. "Isn’t she a beauty?" He beamed.

Michael took the weapon in. It was longer than a machine pistol but shorter than a rifle. It had the same lines as a rifle but a large, curved magazine hung below. The barrel ended in an iron sight and the butt was wooden. "I give up—what is it?" He smiled.

"This, comrades," Rohleder theatrically turned to the squad, "this is the StG44, the new Sturmgewehr that seems to be all the rage along the Eastern front.” He pulled it to his shoulder and pretended to fire a shot off. "7.92 calibre, 500 rounds a minute and effective up to 300 meters.” The squad whistled in appreciation but Rohleder recited his tutorial as if they were not there. "Not as far as a rifle but further than a machine gun, and it’s the same rate of fire as a machine gun. So it’s a veritable assault rifle in the truest form of the word. It has a gas- operated firing mechanism, so there's loads of cleaning after an automatic blast, I’m afraid. It has a wooden butt like a rifle, and because our weapons don’t have the folding stock, we get bayonet attachments on it, too. The magazine holds thirty rounds and, at the front, it has a fitting for a small periscope sighting device for shooting around corners. I’ve also got a camera to get it all down on film for posterity.”

"Now the pederast wants to turn us into photo models," Henning groaned loudly.

"When do we get to test fire it, Herr Oberstgruppenführer?” Nau asked excitedly.

Rohleder butted in. "When I’ve finished the lesson, SS Oberschütze Nau, so pay attention. I’ve got a great story about this gun.” Michael winked good-naturedly at Nau who smiled ruefully back at him.     "Apparently, so I’ve been reliably informed, Old Adolph didn’t want to adopt this weapon at all and called for the project to be stopped. He didn’t like the idea of a new sort of weapon with new ammunition being introduced to the field. Luckily for us, a couple of the bigwigs with a bit of backbone realised what potential this design had and secretly gave the go-ahead for its production and distribution. This only came to light when Adolph was holding a meeting with his top generals and he asked them what they needed to win in the East. One of them said straight away that he wanted more of these new weapons, and that let the cat out of the bag.”

"So what happened to the bosses who secretly gave the go-ahead?" Smith asked.

"They were chopped up into firewood and used to cook Old Adolph’s milk soup.”

Smith looked aghast.

"How should I know, Tommy? Was I there? I don’t even know if the story is true. It’s probably all lies but who cares. It’s a good story, isn’t it?”

"Not with an ending like that, it isn’t." Smith laughed.

"Rottenführer Rohleder?”

"Yes, Brother Michael,” he shot back farcically.

A hint of a smile flitted across his face before he spoke. "The ammunition—was your contact able to adapt the silver to make the bullets we require?”

Inselman jumped down holding a cartridge for all to see. The casing was brass as normal but the bullet itself, the part that would leave the barrel, was silver.

"As you can see, he managed the order to our requirements. I personally have tested a couple of magazines on their firing range and there is no difference to a normal round, and why should there be? It’s only the head itself that is different.”

"Right, Herr Rottenführer." Michael nodded. "If you would issue the weapons, we can clean them ready for firing and go down to the range. Do we have normal rounds to practice with? It seems such a shame to use all our silverware up.”

"Yes, we have normal rounds to practice with.”

"Right, well dish them out and show us how to strip and assemble them for cleaning.”

They broke the crates and sorted the weapons out from the ammunition. Rohleder took the class on stripping and assembling and preparing their weapons for firing. It took a long time until all were satisfied with their preparations but finally they were ready.

"Standartenführer, would you accompany the men to the range?” Michael asked. "I have to arrange that our horses will be delivered to us.”

Von Struck nodded and they shambled out of the yard towards the range.

Chapter 50

A Forest Somewhere in Romania

Junior lieutenant Olaf Borkin strode past the gathered troops. "Make way there, make way. What are you all looking at? It’s only a woman.”

Senior Sergeant Leon Saprinskii called the men to attention to give his report. "Comrade Lieutenant, we have successfully apprehended two German spies. The woman is unconscious, but the man,” he said, indicating Reuben with his head, "will now go through a thorough interrogation, with your permission, comrade.”

Borkin took in the eager faces of his troop. He had only been a troop leader for two weeks and he knew his authority over the men lay with the tolerance of the senior sergeant in front of him.

"How do you know they’re spies, Senior Sergeant?" he asked as impartially as he could. If it was perceived that he was questioning Saprinskii’s rationalization he would be seen in a bad light with the men. The senior sergeant held an almost cult-like position within the regiment due to his prolonged survival at the front. He had served in the Red Army in 1939 and had taken part in the first advance into Poland, the siege of Leningrad and now the big push through the Balkans. If there was one thing Borkin didn’t need it was to be the target of Saprinskii’s disapproval.

Saprinskii smiled knowingly, a smile that Borkin had come to hate over the past two weeks, and playing to the troops he answered, "Well, Comrade Lieutenant, that’s why we’re going to interrogate them, to see if they really are spies.”

"And how do you wish to do that, Senior Sergeant Saprinskii? Do you speak German?” He knew Saprinskii did not. He also knew that nobody else in the platoon did except for him.

Saprinskii shrugged. "No, so we’ll torture them until they speak Russian to us." He smiled at Borkin and turned to the men. "Start up the fires. A good fire always makes them talk.”

Borkin was too shocked to react as the men all turned away and started to gather wood. Borkin felt miserable. How could he show his leadership over men who treated him like a joke? It was a Herculean task that he suspected would only be lightened by the chance of combat with the enemy. If he could somehow show his mettle against the Fascists, they would listen to him, he was sure. Unfortunately, up to now, all they'd seen of the enemy were cold campfires and the dismembered bodies of their comrades.

"Does anybody speak German here?"

It was Reuben, and Borkin’s ears pricked up.

"Yes, I do. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

"My name is Reuben Stein and the girl on the floor is Stephanie Stern. We’ve escaped from a German camp and we were looking for you, for the Red Army.”

Borkin stayed impassive but he was excited. Soviet soldiers had already liberated a major camp in July at a place called Majdanek. The discovery of another German atrocity camp would surely make his career. "What sort of camp was it?”

"If only you knew. It was hell, a hell on earth. I lost my friend and—” He broke off as the telling of the loss of Mordechai faltered in his throat.

Borkin felt his excitement fall as his pity rose. He turned to see if anybody was listening and was surprised to find the whole squad was looking at them.

"What does he say, Comrade Lieutenant?" one of the privates asked.

"He say’s they’ve escaped from one of the atrocity camps the Germans use.”

The change in attitude was instantaneous and the whole group dropped what they were doing and gathered in to hear. Saprinskii pushed to the front and stood to the side of Borkin and Reuben to get a ring side view. "Ask him where it is,” he demanded.

"Untie him and get this ridiculous noose off his neck," Borkin ordered. Then, to Reuben, "Tell us everything. We need to know everything.”

Two hours later they were on their way to the headquarters. Stephanie had come out of her faint and, much to Saprinskii’s anger, had been told to get in the lorry with them.

"But, Comrade Lieutenant, why can’t you just take the Jew and leave the girl with us, if only to safeguard against a trick? They might well be German spies, Comrade.”

"I’ll take that chance, Senior Sergeant. Tell the men to make camp here for the time being. Set a guard rota, and no fires or vodka. I don’t know how long I’ll be, so I leave them in your capable hands.”

"Yes, Comrade," Saprinskii said as he bristled.

Borkin hadn’t really believed everything about the vampires and the count. However, any special unit that was operating in their area, or along their axis of advance, was important intelligence and he thought it better to let the higher-ups decide what to do. Also he needed to report this camp before anybody else did.

He commandeered a lorry and a driver and it felt good to be away from the troop for a while, to be away from the constant struggle for control of the men’s loyalties.

Headquarters was a farm, or the remains of a farm, on the outskirts of the wood. They were told to wait until the general had time, and after a dreadfully torpid hour-long delay, they were finally ushered in.

The general sat behind what was once a kitchen table, immersed in paperwork. He was a large man, head shaved, with large bushy eyebrows. He briefly looked up when they entered, and after eyeing Stephanie up and down, he grunted something that was unintelligible to Reuben. A large map hung on the wall behind him and a framed picture of Stalin hung next to it.

Behind the general was a small, immaculately-dressed man of indeterminate age. His uniform was pressed to perfection but bulging at the buttons, and his peaked cap sat above a large flabby face. He wore small round glasses that pressed into the side of his head and his pointy chin jutted out from his jowls like a knife pushed through butter. His eyes never left the three of them.

"So, what’s the problem, Lieutenant?" the general finally addressed Borkin.

The small man behind the general coughed and the general heaved a sigh irritably. "Comrade Lieutenant,” he added.

Borkin, who was glad to note that the general was not a politically-orientated officer, told him most of what he knew. He had wanted to leave out the vampires but his conscience had pricked him hard and he had added it at the end as a bizarre after-note.

"Right, Comrade, you did well to bring this to my attention. I don’t know if you’ve heard but our men in Poland have discovered another such camp in a place called Majadank, I believe—”

The small officer behind him spoke for the first time. "Majdanek, I believe, Comrade General.” He took a step forward and leaned back to sit on the table. In German he spoke to Reuben. "Tell me about the vampires, Jew.”

Reuben was momentarily taken aback but swung into the same description he had given Borkin and his men. All the while the little man sat like a patient bullfrog and listened. The general soon lost interest and after a while went back to his paperwork.

"So the Fascists have left the camp, you say?” he asked when Reuben had finished.

"I, well we, thought so at the time. We didn’t see any when we left.”

"Do you think this bourgeois count is annoyed at the Fascists?”

Reuben looked puzzled.

"What I am trying to ask here is would the count be agreeable to a change of sides. Would he fight with us against the Fascists?”

"I don’t know. I think the count has his own goals. I don’t think he has been working for the Germans to please the Third Reich. It was more of a quid pro quo situation.”

The little man nodded for him to elaborate.

"Well, we were working on a serum so that the vampires could survive during the day and I think that’s the only reason the count was fighting on the German, I mean Fascist side—”

Suddenly the little man became animated. "I see, I see. So he has no ideological affiliation to the Fascists. This is good, this is very good.”

The general looked up briefly from his paperwork and asked what he had in mind.

"Well, as I see it, the count has no real loyalty to the Third Reich. I think that if we send a delegation to negotiate a deal with the count and his vampires, perhaps they’ll come and fight for us. Think of the terror that will cause if the Fascists find out we have their vampires fighting on our side.”

"And who are we going to send to formulate this delicate piece of negotiation? I can’t spare any senior staff at the moment owing to the next phase of our push.”

The little man whirled around and banged his fist on the table. "I will go. I’ll negotiate with the count and bring him onto the side of the Motherland." He looked at Reuben, Borkin and Stephanie. "Show me on the map where it is.”

The general theatrically sighed again and decided to ignore them.

Reuben went over to look, but after much searching, he couldn’t find it.

"Could you find it if you were given horses or a lorry?”

"I don’t know. It was a long way away and we didn’t really follow any set route—”

But the small man had made up his mind. "You three will come with me. We’ll go by day with a small force and we’ll promise them what they need.”

Reuben opened his mouth to protest but Stephanie beat him to it. "No. I will not go back to those monsters. You cannot make me and I will not go. I’d sooner be shot, right here and now, than go back.”

The small man’s face took a distinctly dangerous twist and he leaned forward to speak to Stephanie "That could so easily be arranged, German. I could have had you shot as a spy when you first came here but I chose to listen to your side of the story before I made any decisions. You both say you are willing to help our struggle against the Fascists, so here is your chance to prove it." He looked at his watch. It was early evening. "We leave at 0600 hours. Hopefully we’ll be in their area before nightfall, then we have the whole of the next day to find them and to strike a deal." He looked up at Borkin. "Comrade Lieutenant, they are in your custody until this mission is at an end. If they escape, you will pay with your head, literally.”

They set off belatedly just before eight the next day, seven men and one woman all packed in one truck. The wagon was American, a part of the Lend Lease agreement. Reuben sat in the back with four soldiers on escort duty. Borkin sat in the front with Stephanie and the driver.

"No, I don’t think the commissar will be coming with us in the wagon. He has his own driver and vehicle," Borkin was explaining.

"He has his own car?” Stephanie asked, shocked.

"Yes, a Jeep. It’s American, like this truck. When the war is over we will pay back America in full what we owe but first we must smash the Fascists," he recited dutifully.

"Is that normal for every officer to have his own vehicle?”

"Not really but he does seem to wield an awful lot of power for a political officer. Normally they just organise lectures and the like for the troops, like a sort of political teacher. But that one really was running the show. I reckon the general wasn’t thought of as being politically reliable enough by Moscow and the commissar was there to keep an eye on things. Between you and me, I think the decision makers up top have realised that killing the good generals because they didn’t support the Communists was a bad idea, especially in times of war.”

"That’s not a good way to run an army." Stephanie smiled.

She liked Borkin. He was pleasant and relaxed with her; a bit like Michael but without the baggage. She’d thought long and hard about where he might be by now. He was probably dead, which was a shame because he was the first man she had met who was genuinely through and through good.

Michael wasn’t polite, he wasn’t refined. He had told her of his past in the red-light scene and all the dubious transactions he had made at the time. However his likeability and uprightness came from somewhere within. He possessed an unadulterated integrity that Stephanie admired and found attractive.

They drove through the day and into the unchartered territory between the fronts. The truck found it hard going on the closely wooded track but their progress was steady and they covered a good distance before Borkin decided they should set up camp. They didn’t make it as far as they had hoped but Borkin seemed used to disappointment and he shrugged philosophically when Reuben pointed it out to him.

The commissar had finally caught up with them, and his driver set up his tent. He held himself aloof from the others, as did his driver, and it didn’t escape Reuben’s notice that the other soldiers all stopped talking when he looked in their direction.

Reuben hadn’t been able to communicate with any of the guards, and their glowering silence only helped to unnerve him even more.

"I don’t like this. Going back there, I mean,” he whispered to Stephanie.

"Neither do I but what do you want to do?" she whispered back.

"Escape, of course," he breathlessly exclaimed.

"Where to? There’s nowhere to go to. The Russians on one side, the Germans on the other, we’ve got to stick it out with the Russians until we know what to do. To blindly run away now would only make things harder for us.”

Reuben nodded resignedly. "Let’s get some sleep. I’m freezing.”

Borkin had ordered that no fires be made but the commissar had overruled him and a small fire was lit. They sat around its spluttering flame, silent in thoughtful reflection. The guards were sharing a bottle of vodka on the other side of the fire and periodically they would laugh coarsely at some joke or other. Reuben and Stephanie concerned themselves with how much vodka they were drinking and its possible effect on their guardians if any German or, God forbid, vampire soldiers attacked, but they were soon to realise that that wasn’t their real problem.

As the evening blurred into night, Reuben noticed from time to time the way one of the guards would slip a scheming glance at Stephanie. Reuben was no fool and he knew what was going through his mind. He also knew he wouldn’t stand a chance if the four of them decided to make a move on her. He looked desperately around for Borkin but he couldn’t see him despite the full moon illuminating the encampment.

The hours passed by and the fire was now blazing. The commissar was, at this point, singing loudly in his tent after drinking a bottle of vodka, and his driver, who was meant to be on guard, was slumped on the floor in an alcohol-induced coma.

Any form of soldierly bearing was thrown to the wind as the men gave vent to their need for clear spirits. It seemed to Reuben that the victories the Red Army had achieved in the last couple of months had visited on them an undeniably hazardous form of audacity.

After scanning the immediate area for Borkin he turned to Stephanie to tell her he was going to try to find the lieutenant. To his horror he saw that all four of the guards were looking at her with open interest.

Stephanie stared back at them in unspoken defiance. "Typical,” he muttered to himself. "Where are the good guys when you need them?" He shook her shoulder to attract her attention. "Don’t look at them. Ignore them. Perhaps they’ll lose interest." But as he said it he knew the suggestion was wasted.

They smiled at her, holding the vodka aloft and beckoning to her to come join them. Stephanie wordlessly stared back at them, challenging them to come nearer with the set of her expression. Reuben thought fast and had an idea. Sighing, he said in a weary voice, "Let me go and talk to them. They won’t hurt an old man.”

Stephanie turned to him in alarm. "Why? I can handle myself. I’ve fought off far bigger than those four imbeciles, I can tell you.” Reuben smiled inwardly at the bravado; his plan had worked. Now she was interested in talking him out of a confrontation with the four Russians whereas before she had been looking for the fight.

However, events overtook them as the four guards suddenly stood and advanced on the pair. Stephanie leapt to action but instead of backing away she bent down and plucked a burning branch from the fire to use as a weapon.

One of them said something and they laughed loudly. Reuben stepped forward as they approached, more as a reflex action than as a deliberate movement, to try and talk to them. He smiled through his fear, opening his arms in appeal, palms outstretched. They were mere yards away and Reuben put his hands together as if in prayer, wordlessly begging them not to follow through on their intent. It was all to no avail; the Russians ignored him and made to push past.

Reuben felt Stephanie move up behind him and a new resolve coursed through him. He stubbornly moved into their path again and the nearest guard deftly swung his rifle butt up into Reuben’s face. He fell back and into Stephanie, momentarily putting her off guard. The men seized on the opportunity and rushed forward to grab her. She swung the stick around to jab at the first’s eyes with the flaming bough but they were too fast and they easily swamped her, pulling her to the floor.

Reuben sprang to the attack, wordlessly pulling one guard off her and setting about the next. The second was not so easily moved and he turned to fight properly. Then the first joined in with the heavy end of his rifle, clubbing Reuben again to the ground.

The butt smashed down over and over, mostly on Reuben’s arms as he tried to protect himself, but every third or fourth strike found his head and Reuben felt unconsciousness violently gripping him with every bone-jarring hit.

Stephanie fought her attackers with a strength born of rage. After the death of her husband, she had sworn to herself that no man would use her again. For her it was death or submission and she fought with that in mind. She scratched the eyes of the attacker that lay on top of her, biting, kicking and struggling with all her might. However, the men were so heavy and she could feel her strength ebbing away. She screamed in impotent fury at her physical weakness and the attacker laughed horribly into her face.

Despite her struggling, she felt a snakelike hand slide up her inner thigh, another closed on her knee and started to prise her legs apart. She groped wildly for a weapon, her vehemence now finding new strength. Her hand clasped on a bayonet scabbard, and then the bayonet itself. In one swift but unpractised movement she seized the handle and pulled, but nothing happened. The blade, held in its casing by a clasp, stayed firmly in its sheath. She pulled harder, jerking it with all her might but again nothing happened.

Her attacker had stopped in his endeavours as he felt her hand trying to jerk the blade out but bellowed his amusement into her face when he realised what had happened.

Stephanie knew she was going to die, and just when all seemed lost, as her mind finally accepted the inevitable and she began to mechanically chant to herself, she sensed more than heard the click from behind the laughing Russian, then the heavy clunk of a bolt action being worked.

Her attacker froze and wordlessly jumped up, his hands moving to his unbuttoned fly. She briefly closed her eyes and looked up to see a grim-faced Lieutenant Borkin and the truck driver holding rifles at the four guards.

"Are you hurt?" he asked without taking his eyes from the four.

"No, I’m—” then she remembered Reuben. She sat up straight and found Reuben on his back, unconscious. Scrabbling up, she half-ran, half-crawled over to where he lay.

He was out cold, or so it seemed, until she pulled one of his eyelids up. Then, letting out a long moan of pain, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

"Did I win?” He closed his eyes again. "I don’t feel like I did. What does the other guy look like?”

She stroked his head. "You’ll be fine. Just sleep a while.”

He smiled back and closed his eyes. A tear of thanks for his survival welled up in her eye and she swept it quickly away. It could have all gone so horribly wrong had Borkin not come in time.

They had been so close to death that, with a start, she realised she had mentally begun to chant the Shema Yisrael, the Hebrew prayer recited at a birth or when confronted with imminent death. Did her true spiritual roots sit so deep that they would only appear when all seemed lost?

She looked up to where Borkin stood and saw, instead, a pair of glowing eyes. Her scream was the catalyst for the attack. All she caught were the teeth and claws before, for the second time in two days, unconsciousness overwhelmed her.

Chapter 51

The Forest in Romania

Reuben came around as they loaded his makeshift stretcher onto the lorry. He opened his eyes and was startled to see Mordechai looking down at him. Reuben did a quick double take at how well Mordechai looked. He seemed unaffected by the count's attack, and in fact looked like a more dynamic, robust caricature of the Mordechai he knew at the castle. Muscles, which he had never seen on him before, bulged under his tunic and Reuben convinced himself he was dreaming—the Russian uniform and the flat stomach also seeming to prove the dream theory.

"Mordi? I don’t understand ... " he trailed off.

"I’ll tell you everything another time,” Mordechai answered gravely. The tarpaulin at the back of the truck dropped, and as soon as they drove off, Reuben fell back into a deep, deep sleep.

Borkin had woken Stephanie earlier with a drop of cold water on her lips.

"Wake up—it’s all over now," he told her as she opened her eyes.

"What happened?" was all she could muster.

He looked into her eyes as if making a decision, but just nodded that all was good. She sat up to take another sip of water and was shocked to see Mordechai, muscular and lithe, sitting on a tree stump crying into his hands. She shook her head in disbelief. Was she seeing things? Was it a trick of the moonlight?

"Mordechai, is that you?” Curious, she stood up and walked over to him. Then she saw the carnage that lay around her.

Thankfully the light of the moon did not show the blood but she could easily make out the severed limbs and heads strewn around their camp. With a clinical detachment, she surveyed the area and noted how many heads she saw. It seemed to her that only Borkin and his driver had survived the attack, and with that thought came another. Who or what had caused this bloodbath? Had she seen a vampire before she fainted?

All these thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant as she crossed over to the weeping Mordechai. She was shocked to note that he was naked but she dismissed his state of undress and crouched down to the side of him.

"Mordechai, is it really you? What happened to you? You’ve changed so—" she wondered aloud. He didn’t answer but briefly looked up from his hands. Tears glazed his eyes and he managed a brief smile before plunging his face back into his hands. She wanted to cradle his head in her arms but the eeriness of his return to the living, and the change in him, held her back.

Borkin came over, still visibly shocked, and said, "He saved us, he saved you, me and Pavel here." He indicated his driver. "But I don’t know about your friend the doctor. He’s badly concussed and I can’t wake him up. I think we should make a stretcher and take him back to headquarters. I can speak with the general and we’ll see what we can do for him.”

"Yes, but what happened here? I saw—" She stopped to turn away from Mordechai. "I saw him die! The count that you were meant to meet killed him in front of us.”

From behind them she heard a resolute sigh. "He didn’t kill me. He can’t.”

She turned back. "I see that, Mordi. What happened? I’m glad you’re back but how did you survive? I don’t understand.”

"Get me some clothes and I’ll tell you.” He sniffed and laughed sadly. "I feel such a nebbish here.”

Borkin had already sorted out a pair of trousers and a bloodstained tunic, so Stephanie turned her back to let him dress.

"Back at the castle, you remember the werewolf attacked us?" Stephanie nodded, then her eyes widened as slow realisation crystallised into solid comprehension.

"You mean he bit you? You’re a werewolf, is that what you want to say?” Mordechai didn’t answer but she knew it was true by the misery he broadcast. She looked to Borkin who wordlessly confirmed her fears.

"After the wolf attacked us, I felt a small itch at the back of my neck where the beast had nicked me. It healed inside of an hour and I gave it no more thought until the first night out in the open.”

"Why, what happened?" Stephanie asked. She sat close to him now to warm herself in the cold of the dawn and she studied his face in rapt attention as he related the story.

"I’m not really sure. I woke up. It was still dark and I could hear everything around me. I mean everything. Birds rustling in the trees, animals breathing in the undergrowth, insects killing and eating each other. The noise was unbelievable but gradually it grew less as I was able to discern the individual sounds from their direction. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I could even hear your heartbeat, Reuben’s too.” He paused in contemplation. "And my eyes—the dark was changed to day and I could see everything like a sunny afternoon. But the biggest change came in the sense of smell. I could make out everything. I didn’t need to see things or hear them because I could almost visualise the birds or animals, even the insects, just by their smell. I decided to keep it quiet and I fell back to sleep. The next day it was gone and I put it down to it all being a dream. I knew I was changing into something but I didn’t know what. Or perhaps I didn’t want to know. Finally, when the count caught me, I knew what it was that was changing me. As he landed on the back of my horse, he said he could smell the wolf in me and I knew I was damned for all time." He stopped and put his face back down to his hands.

"What happened then?" she coaxed.

He shook his head. "You saw, didn’t you? He bit me, let me fall and I ran off into the woods. In my fear I realised I could change into a werewolf at will." He looked back up at her. "This whole myth about a full moon is meshugaas. I change whenever I want and most of the time I know exactly what I’m doing.”

”Most of the time?”

"When I’m hungry or angry, I lose it, I mean I really lose all control. I know what I’m doing but the rage in me is almost unstoppable. I’m just glad I didn’t kill you or Reuben." He looked to Borkin. "Or you, my friend. Thank you for helping them.”

Borkin nodded. "No, no, I thank you. I don’t know what would have happened after we had them under control, and they were desperate, bad men.” He turned to Stephanie. "He took them out so quickly, it was amazing. I don’t think … sorry, but I have no words, it was all so quick.”

Mordechai concurred. "I know, friend, and it amazes me too. I wonder how we survived the attack in the castle. I can only imagine that his heart wasn’t in it.”

Borkin shook his head again to Stephanie. "The power was, unimaginable. The speed …” he trailed off.

Stephanie broke his deliberations. "So what do we do now, go back or go to the castle? I’m for going back.”

Mordechai nodded. "Yes, you must go back and get help for Reuben but I must go on.”

"To the castle? You’ll be killed," Stephanie breathed.

"I have no choice. Every cell in my body is crying for me to go back. I’ve fought it since the attack, but now I know you’re both safe I have to follow my gut feeling. I have no choice.”

Borkin broke in. "We’ll go back and try to fix the doctor up. He can’t go on.”

"But the count will kill him." Then to Mordechai, he said, "Don’t you see that?”

"Do you think I like this, being a werewolf, a farzeenish, a monster? I must go and undo this and I can only do that there.”

"Then wait for us—we’ll go together. You can’t go on your own!” She fell down onto his shoulders and cried. "Please, Mordi, I’m begging you to wait for us to come with you.”

He patted her back and nodded silently, pondering his next move as he waited for her to stop crying. After a while she stopped and Mordechai told her of his decision. "I will come with you but I will not live in the company of other men. I am no longer human, I am a beast, a monster, and I don’t want to be chained up when the Rusish Armey start getting nervous. I will wait in the wood for you. I can hunt and it appeals to me more than eating borscht for the next couple of weeks. When you are ready, I will join you.”

"But how will you know?”

"I just will, believe me. I’ll be there when you set off.” He stood back and thumbed a tear away from her cheek. "Just one thing, though—" His face took a serious turn.

"Yes?”

"Whatever you do, don’t forget to bring some clothes with you. They don’t seem to manage the change too well and I don’t want to have to walk to the castle in the nude.”

She laughed and the melancholy lifted. "Of course. Any particular colour or fashion?”

Borkin, who had silently watched from the side added, "I think that Comrade Stalin does a very nice line in tunics."

The driver broke their smiling circle with a whispered report to Borkin. "We must leave and get the doctor to a field hospital, if we can find one.”

They packed up as much as they could and left the corpses to the forest to dispose of.

Chapter 52

Transylvania

She hated it. She knew she was doing the Devil’s bidding by breast- feeding him but she didn’t have it in her to let him starve.

"He’s only a baby,” she chided herself and buried her conscience in a landslide of denial. However, every night the Dracyl came to visit the child and check on its health, and every night his presence drove home her profanity against her God.

The child was asleep now and she lay on her bed waiting for the count to come. The lock clunked and the door swung open. Like a violent storm he strode in, arrogant and expecting. The train of vampire soldiers that followed him everywhere stood outside the door like timid in-laws waiting to see the child.

She shot off the bed and backed against the wall. It was a purely unconscious act that stemmed from her deep-seated fear, but the count grinned like a gloating tiger when it happened.

Maria followed him in. They ignored Iullia and both stopped in front of the crib. The count looked down straight-backed whereas Maria bent over the baby.

"How does he look?”

"He looks good. All will be well. The plans for the rite are falling into place as predicted. Soon you will be the master of the world and I will sit beside you.”

The Dracyl’s eyes flashed in triumph as he envisaged the fulfilling of the prophesies and the subjugation of the human race. "It’s got to be perfect, Demon. Nothing can be allowed to go wrong.”

Maria looked up from the crib. "It won’t be perfect because your brother is gone, the Book as well.”

She stopped as she saw irritation darken his features and decided on a different tact. "But I think destiny will throw its hand in and deliver them both to us. Your brother needs only be here in body but the Book must get here whole and intact.”

"I’ll send my men out to find it—”

"No." Maria stopped him, and the count looked annoyed. "Fate will deliver it to us, I’m sure of it. Trust in your destiny and the Book will obey.”

Maria didn’t know if that was the truth but it sounded convincing and the Dracyl looked mollified.

"Good," was all he answered. He turned to Iullia. "Look after him, woman, and I might let you live." He stamped his foot and, with a flourish of his cloak, was gone, leaving the two women alone.

Maria approached Iullia and stopped just before her. Stroking her hair like a mother to a child, she whispered in her ear, "He won’t let you live, girl. He’ll kill you with his own hands. Kill the child and have done with it.”

Iullia closed her eyes in despair and fear. It went against every grain in her body to even contemplate killing a baby but she knew that Maria spoke the truth. Yet somewhere deep inside, a spark of anger flickered and the flames of virtuous resentment swept through her.

Maria kept up her relentless monotone. "Kill the child and end this heresy. You know what will happen if you don’t?”

Iullia leaned vehemently into Maria’s face. "You only want me to kill the child to weaken the Dracyl. You’re just as evil as he is."

Maria acted like she’d been slapped and almost asked how she knew. Iullia saw the moment and pressed home her attack, her voice growing stronger with each word. "I know everything, Lilith, everything. I won’t kill this child for you. I won’t do your bidding so you can take over the Dracyl’s army. I will look after this child until the day of the ceremony comes.”

"For what? So a vampire can rule the earth?”

”He won’t rule anything because my God will stop him. I place my faith and trust into his hands and he will deny you. He will deny you both.”

The demon took a step back. "Ha! Your God is dead, girl. He’s given up on humanity.”

”Never!”

"Mankind, his favourite monkey, has annoyed him too much with its doubt and sinfulness.”

"No!" she said, her voice rising.

"You and your kind turned your back on him, not the other way around, girl. You have forsaken your only redemption and now all that awaits you is your devil’s hole.”

"Never!” Iullia screamed.

"Yes, and on the night of the ceremony, I will see you beg for your life and laugh when they kill you,” Maria spat back, her face just inches away.

A moment of silence spanned between them until Iullia broke the pause. "Never! You fear him. You fear the Lord God Almighty, I know it. And he will deny you the power you crave.”

"Maybe once I was afraid, but now I’m whole again and I know no fear. I fear no one. No God can stand in my way because I have outlived them all.”

They shouted over each other, each one unwilling to give way until Maria gave Iullia a resounding slap. "You will be sorry you spurned me, girl, and I will laugh when they drag you down to be bled like a lamb on the altar.” She spun around and stalked out.

Alone again with just the baby, Iullia looked at the open doorway. "Never,” she whispered to herself. "Never.”

Chapter 53

Wewelsburg

December

It had taken over a month to restore the horses back to health after their journey from Romania. Of the original eight, they lost just the one, Tiger. Grand’s massive gelding had died not long after their arrival at the castle. Bernd took it as stoically as ever but they all knew the loss of his trusted mount had taken its toll on him.

"It’s a tragedy,” Henning explained to Smith. "In Dachau he was beaten nearly every day we were there and he took it like a rock. But this has affected him, this has really affected him.”

Smith could only raise his eyebrows and nod in phoney understanding. It seemed strange to him to be attached so closely to a horse. He couldn’t even remember being that attached to a person. "He’ll get a new one though," he lamely offered.

Henning shrugged. "It doesn’t work like that, though, does it? If only it really was that easy, eh?"

Smith wanted to ask why it doesn’t work but he held his tongue. The whole concept was perfectly alien to him and he guessed it would remain so until he died.

It occurred to him that here, among the enemy as it were, was the first time that he had actually experienced true camaraderie, not the hollow camaraderie of the mess, riddled with politics and hierarchy, but the simple comradeship of the normal soldier. They all got on with each other and were relying on each other to get the job done. He actively liked them and they liked him back. It felt good.

Had he really been so insular for all those years? As a child and adolescent, he had relied on his sport to make people like him but he had never had any friends. In the mess he hadn’t wanted any contact with his contemporaries because he thought them ridiculous and foppish. All the time he’d been laughing about the other members of the mess; had they been laughing at him? he wondered.

He mulled over the situation as he brushed his horse down and decided it was probably just as bad in the German army. Just as rigid, just as disciplined and just as hierarchical as the British army, only with different uniforms and goals.

He concluded that the distinction was that here there were no careers to be made, no lives of his men to gamble. It was a straight fight with all hands on deck. The chiefs fought alongside the Indians and every man held the same worth.

He stopped brushing and moved to look his horse in the face. "Never look a gift horse in the face,” he whispered to her. "But you look alright to me.”

She was a brown mare and that’s all he knew about her. She had a name but he had decided to christen her something that appealed to him. "You look after me and I’ll look after you. Is that a deal, Chels?”

He called her Chelsea after probably the only intimacy he had ever really experienced in his life, with his first girlfriend. He looked into her large, pretty eyes and decided that they would be friends. He wanted to like her because he knew it would be reciprocated and he’d found that he really liked being liked.

The next day they gathered in the yard by the main gates. Czerolka watched wordlessly as they made their last adjustments. The horses were fully loaded for the first time but the weight didn’t seem to bother them too much. The pack horses took the bulk of the ammunition, spare weapons parts and food. They kept these to a bare minimum on their personal mounts, limiting their supplies to personal kit, weapons and ammo.

"I think we’re ready, old man," Rohleder called over to Czerolka.

"I doubt any of you are really ready, Rottenführer.”

"We’ll ride to Paderborn and walk them in through the town to cool them off. The trains are on the sidings ready,” Michael announced.

A solemn mood descended around them as the moment hit them all. This was it. Czerolka recognised the feeling and nodded at the recollection. They had new-found uniforms, their weapons were modern and their faces were young. However, the emotions they were experiencing were as ancient as man himself.

Fear thrives on the contemplation of the unknown and he knew that each man must now face his fear and beat it. He hadn’t wanted to say anything at all but to wish them all the best; nevertheless he realised that if they left without him addressing them, he would regret it.

"Brother von der Heyde, I would like to speak to the men if that is alright with you.” Michael looked surprised but quickly gave his assent.

The old librarian hobbled silently up the stairs to be at head height to the mounted troops, who looked at him in silence.

"Men, when I took my oath as a brother in the Order, I was convinced I was joining an honourable and righteous movement,” he started. "Now, sadly, all that remains of that spirit are the two comrades who ride with you. I would give my all to do battle one last time with the forces of evil but I know that would be unreasonable and vain. So I stand before you, a man who would gladly die for the cause but who is not allowed to do so, a man who envies your mission but knows he can think of nobody better to finish the job started all those millennia ago.     You have all been given the best we could give by way of training and equipment. Now you must go and use all that you’ve learnt to break the evil that threatens to engulf the world. You are the last bastions of humankind and I beg you to bear that in mind when you ride to destroy the Dracyl. Scorch the words 'Deliver us from evil' on your hearts and destroy this atrocity in the name of mankind.”

A moment of silence passed and Rohleder, the cynical and jaded Rottenführer from the red light district in Hanover, rode forward and turned his horse to face the troops. Wordlessly he pulled his sword and held it aloft, looking each one in the eye. With his new uniform, his polished sword and the steel of resolve in his heart, he looked the ideal of Nazi propaganda, only now he fought for his species and not for an immoral political ideal.

"Deliver us from evil!" he shouted, brandishing the silver blade. "Deliverance!” And the cry was taken up by the rest.

Their eyes alight with the fire of belief, they shouted their battle cry over and over again, ever louder, ever more ecstatic, and loudest among them was Matheus Nau. "Deliverance!”

Czerolka smiled, for he saw no trepidation there now. They had grasped their calling and he knew they could now only fail by misfortune and not by fear.

Chapter 54

Romanian Forest

They were ready to go back. Reuben had suffered a bad concussion but was better after having spent three weeks in recuperation. They had much to thank Borkin for as he had arranged their accommodation and rations.

As promised, he had spoken with the general who had not been too grief-stricken about the loss of his political officer.

"So the bastard’s dead, eh?”

”Yes, Comrade General, killed by the werewolf.”

"Right, well let’s forget the comrade bit then, shall we, Lieutenant? A werewolf, you say? Vampires, werewolves—it’ll be zombies and witches next." He shook his head in disdain.

"Er, General, about the Jews ... what do we do with them?”

General Yakov Kurakin pondered a moment. "Can’t say I like Jews much, Borkin. I don’t really care what they do. Let them go." He dismissed Borkin and looked back down at his paperwork. Borkin stood his ground and waited.

"Is there something else, Lieutenant?”

"Sir, the older Jew is ill. He may not regain consciousness if he doesn’t receive medical attention.”

"So? I have thousands of men under my command. Why should I be bothered about one sick Jew?”

"Sir, he was the one that alerted us to the whereabouts of the Fascist atrocity camp. If he dies, we may have no other witness for the trial of the perpetrators.”

The general nodded in understanding. "Good point, Borkin. See to it that he receives the proper medical attention. I can’t have my star witness kicking the bucket before the trial. Are you sure he knows where it is?”

”Sir, we plan to go there as soon as he is fit.”

"Where is it on the map? Show me and I’ll send someone there myself.”

"He didn’t say, sir. If you remember, the commissar wanted to go there but he was killed.”

Kurakin smiled knowingly. "Yes. I thought you’d want to keep that to yourself." He looked Borkin up and down as if making a decision. "He was an arrogant bastard, that damned Commie. You’re not a Bolshevik, are you, Borkin?”

Borkin paused before choosing his reply. "I am a patriot, General.”

"I thought as much.” He smiled. "Don’t trust the Communists unless you have to. They’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you. They’re all bastards to a man. Vodka?” He produced a bottle from under his desk and poured out two very large measures. The general drank it down in one and Borkin, instinctively realising that he was sealing a pact, followed his example. Then the general told him what was to happen. "See to it, Borkin. Get him fixed up and find me that camp. I’m not in the Party's good books at the moment but if I get an atrocity camp under my belt, I’ll see to it that we both do well out of it. I’ll make sure the area around it is left alone until you’re ready. That’ll be all for now, Lieutenant. The next time I see you will be the night before you leave. Don’t say a word to anybody and don’t trust anybody. These walls have ears. Good day.”

Three weeks later they were ready. In those three weeks, Reuben had been nursed back to health and Stephanie had grown closer to Borkin. He was kind, reliable and trustworthy, qualities that had always attracted her, not to mention good-looking. She had contemplated starting a relationship with him until a chance meeting with Reuben’s doctor had changed her circumstances.

"Isn’t it obvious, girl?" he’d asked after she had told him about her fainting spells and sickness. His German was good but she could tell he didn’t like speaking it. He felt her stomach and shook his head.

"Am I undernourished, Doctor?”

"Undernourished and pregnant. Eat as much as you can and look after yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have soldiers with real problems to attend to.”

Stephanie was too dazed by the news to say anything. Her mind raced with the weight of the development—pregnancy, motherhood, a child and a second chance. She hadn’t even contemplated being pregnant, but now it was out she knew he was right. There could only have been one father—Rohleder. She knew now that she had to find him. He had to be alive and she had to find him.

Borkin, who had patiently waited for her to make a decision on them both, took it in his stride. "He must be some man, this Fascist," he said when she spoke with him.

"Olaf, he isn’t a Nazi, as you are not a Communist. Please understand, perhaps I was unfair to you for letting us get so close, but it would be more than unfair to hide his child from him. You are good but so is he. It’s just that this is his child, and for all the bad luck he’s been dealt with in life, he deserves this.”

"I don’t lose easily but I see that you have thought this out, and because of what I feel for you, I’ll respect your decision.”

She felt the tears welling up at his unhappiness but she wiped them away and took him in her arms.

"You are a good man, Olaf Borkin. I have only ever said that to one other and he’s the father of my baby. I hope that means something to you.”

He smiled sadly down at her, knowing it would never be. "It does, Stephanie Stern, it does.”

The next day they left the headquarters. Because of General Kurakin’s political unreliability, the division had no orders to advance until a new political officer was detailed to his staff, so consequently they were still at the same location they had returned to three weeks earlier.

They were three, a disillusioned Communist, an elderly Professor and a pregnant woman, mounted on the oldest nags in the division. They owned one knife and one rifle between them.

On the edge of the forest they heard a slight growl that set the horses on edge. There was nothing to see but they knew what it meant.

"Where is he?" Borkin asked, not without a tinge of concern.

"He’s near. He’ll come when he wants to,” Stephanie answered.

Reuben nodded. "Or when we need him.”

The first flakes of a snowfall fell lightly around them, mirroring the mood of their departure. They rode on in silence, oblivious to the weather, each with their own thoughts and each with their own agendas.

Chapter 55

Transylvania

Maria’s eyes ripped open as the revelation concluded with its final image. She sat bolt upright on her bed. The stress of the birth and the constant charade had taken its toll on her strength, but now she had just received a vision that would change all that.

"It’s coming," she breathed. "It’s coming and it’s bringing him with it.”

Now she knew she could not fail. The Book was coming back.

*  *  *

The Dracyl surveyed his troops from the roof of one of the barrack blocks. They were now numbered in their hundreds, up to nearly a thousand, but it still wasn’t enough. He reviewed their ranks in the half-light, consoling himself with the knowledge that this was just the beginning. Their time would soon come, he knew.

Russian, German, Ukrainian, Jew, all wearing their original uniforms, or rags in the case of the Jews. Himmler had stopped the delivery of SS uniforms after the first two hundred and now his warriors looked more like a gang of partisans than a regiment of soldiers. The first troops were also issued swords but that had also stopped. Now they had to rely on their talons and teeth, which was enough when the quarry was only man.

To the count, though, the uniforms were irrelevant. All that mattered was that they belonged to the Dracyl. They spoke in the Dracyl tongue and were subject to the myths, laws and traditions of the race of the haemovore.

"Tonight, my children," he said, for they were his brood, "we hunt to quench our thirst but we also hunt to swell our numbers.”

The vampires bristled in their bloodlust to be away. They longed for the hunt and he felt it.

"Yes, you want the chase and you need to feed, but hear me now, my children of the night, you must do more than feed. Our numbers are too small. We need fresh blood to harvest our quarry." He lifted his arms and the mob was silenced. "Bring me warriors, bring me souls so that we can extend our dominance over man to the entire world.”

As one the vampire horde howled and hissed their accord and took off into the night. Only the Dracyl remained with his generals.

They were five: Arak, the most senior, stood to the side; the other four lined up in front of him. Although the Dracyl had picked them as his generals, they were still dressed in the clothing they wore when they were turned. A German Jew, a Ukrainian and two Russians, all had survived the camps and were chosen for their size. They listened intently to what the Dracyl said to them, massive, dog-loyal and eager to get away to feed.

He looked them over and realised that picking his generals for their bulk over their intelligence had not been such a good idea, but at least he had Arak to keep them in line.

"Make no mistake, we need numbers. The time is nigh and we must take what we can. Every Russian soldier can be drained to an inch of his life but I want his soul. Don’t let your men’s greed get the better of them. Numbers are everything now.”

They grunted their understanding in unison.

He nodded and they flew off, leaving the Dracyl alone with his plans.

Chapter 56

Three weeks later

The journey south, though arduous, was blessed with good fortune throughout. Their train was strafed twice but they suffered no casualties and it took them all the way to the Hungarian border. They crossed easily into Hungary despite the Feldjäger roadblocks and the deluge of refugees that clogged the roads, their SS uniforms and another forged letter from Himmler clearing the way before them. Even breaching the Red Army lines had been accomplished without seeing a Russian, and all wondered how long their luck would hold.

They stuck to the tactics that had served them so well during their time in the quarry, riding only by night and then full pelt, relying on the dark and their speed to cloak their identity. It was problematical now, due to the extra packhorses, but their fortuity held out.

They bypassed Budapest to the north of the city and marched directly east. The Romanian border marked the end of their rations and they were driven to stealing from the local populace, a fact that didn’t sit well with Von Struck.

"Boss, if we turned back and forgot about the whole thing, do you think we’d be doing the locals any favours?" Rohleder pointed out.

"Let’s keep it to a minimum. We only take what we need.”

"The boss is right; we don’t want to starve the commissars when they come to confiscate the food for the glorious Red Army, do we now?” Henning piped up.

The Romanians had changed sides under King Michael 1st in August and yet, despite this, the first Romanian farmer they happened upon seemed overjoyed at the sight of German soldiers.

"Are you coming back to kill these damn Communists?" He laughed harshly. "They took everything, including my sons, for their bloody war.”

"No old man, we’re not coming back." Von Struck smiled.

"Now that is a damn shame,” he responded in heavily accented but fluent German. His shoulders sagged in resignation but he perked up again when Rohleder asked if he had any food for them.

"Yes, yes, come in, come in. I hid some from the Ruskies when they came looking for rations.”

They settled in his barn for the night, and as they ate their fill of salted pork, the farmer told them of the situation. "Four weeks ago Russian soldiers, our new allies, came and confiscated everything they could find to help feed their troops. They took everything that was edible and left us with nothing. For all they cared, we could starve to death. I’m German and that damn King Michael has made some deal that anything owned by a German must go to the Russians as a part of the reparations to Russia.”

"So why are we eating so well, old man?” Nau asked between mouthfuls of meat.

"Because I’m clever, my boy, that’s why. The week before that, they visited my friend in the next valley and cleared him out. He came to me and told me what had happened. He had nothing left, nothing.” He paused and looked around for effect. "So we did a deal. I brought everything to his farm for him to look after until the Russians were gone. They came to my house, took what they saw and left. I gave my friend half of what I had and I kept the rest. Do you see what I did there? Clever, eh?”

They nodded in agreement.

"And your sons?" Inselman asked delicately. Nodding sadly he answered, "Yes, they were taken too, not by the Russians, though. They were here right up until last week and the authorities came and said that since I didn’t have a farm, now that the Russians had cleared me out, I didn’t need my sons, so they must now fight for Romania.”

"Are there many German farmers still here?" Von Struck asked, a ghost of a plan stalking the back of his mind.

"Not many, no. The majority of them left before the Russians came. But there are a few and I know them all.”

"Do you think they would help us get to Klausenburg?”

"Of course they would!” He was shocked at the idea that they wouldn’t help.

"Even with an Englishman in tow?” Smith put in. The farmer nodded stiffly.

Michael needed to confirm this. "Are you sure of this? We’re on a mission that was ordered by Himmler himself. It’s very important.”

"Don’t talk to me about that idiot. I’ll help you because you’re German and that’s all. If you don’t like it then you don’t have to accept my help, but I won’t do anything for that stupid arse, Heini.”

Rohleder snickered from the back of the barn. "You know what? I think I like this man.”

Von Struck pressed the issue. "Think about what we’re asking you to do, old man. This could endanger your whole family and friends. Everybody that comes into contact with us could end up in Siberia if the Russians find out.”

The farmer paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and to weigh his doubts. "I’ll show you the way. We’ll go at night and we’ll stay in the buildings left by the German families who left before the Russians came. They’re all burnt out so there shouldn’t be any problem with unwanted visitors.”

Michael nodded. "Sounds like a good plan to me so far. What about food?”

The farmer shrugged and held his arms out wide. "Take what you need. There won’t be anything left when I get back anyway, so at least this way I’ll be making sure the damn Communists don’t get hold of it."

Henning walked up to the farmer, holding out his hand. "You’re a brave man, Farmer. What’s your name?”

He smiled. "I’m not brave, it’s just that I’ve finally realised that there’s nothing left here for me. I’ll come with you and try to find my sons. They should come with me to Germany when this is all over. My name is Daniel, Daniel Rensing.”

Michael held his hand out too. "Herr Rensing, when you’re in Germany, please look me up and, if I can help you in any way, I will.”

He nodded and they set about emptying sacks to put their food in.

Two days later the vampires attacked them in the woods. Schneiderat and the farmer Rensing rode at the front of the squad to clear the way. Their eyes were fixed on the way ahead, looking for Russians, when suddenly two indistinct shadows swooped down on them from the trees. Like silent meteors, they landed heavily on the two and only the sickening thud of the collision gave any clue as to what had happened.

Although the moon was only a quarter full, their eyes, sensitised by the dark off the forest, picked out the attack before them. Combat instinct took over as they pulled their rifles to fight off the assault. Von Struck pushed the satchel with the Book of Blood around to his back and started to scan the night. In the clear winter sky above them he made out the vampires’ silhouettes through the branches as they dived for the attack. He subconsciously estimated their numbers and reckoned it was an advance reconnaissance party numbering about twenty.

With no time to dismount and pick targets, they fired intuitively into the falling shadows, keeping one eye closed against the muzzle flashes to retain their night vision.

Rohleder hit his first target despite his horse’s panicked movement and quickly moved onto the second. In controlled bursts of two to three rounds, he hit one after the other, fully concentrating on killing everything that presented itself.

This, their first combat encounter with the vampires, was the acid test of the silver bullets. Each hit physically jarred the creature and, in the blink of an eye, the beast would burn from the inside out, crumbling to a fine ash that fell around them.

A vampire dropped down on Von Struck from behind and wrestled to bite him. He felt the creature’s festering, hot breath against the back of his neck as it pulled his head in position and he gagged in spite of his rising panic. Rohleder, riding next to him, smoothly put his rifle to the beast’s head and pulled the trigger but the gun misfired.

"Fuck! Bad girl. Helga never did that to me."  Without missing a beat, he rammed the muzzle into the creature’s eye socket with all his strength. The barrel bored into its eyeball, popping it with a loud squish, and the beast screamed loud enough to puncture Von Struck’s ear drum. With a wrench it let go and flew off into the cold, starlit heavens.

As swiftly as it had come, the attack stopped and the battle-dazed troop looked around them to get their bearings.

Von Struck, who had said nothing throughout the skirmish, made a quick headcount. "Gruhn, Inselman, in fact all of you, keep an eye out in case a second wave comes at us. Rohleder, thanks. Henning, how’s Andreas looking?”

Wolfgang stood over the prone body of Schneiderat, shaking his head. "He’s not dead." A silent pulse of relief rushed through them all, only to be dashed by Henning’s next words. "But he’s been bitten.”

Nobody said a word. Von Struck moved to stand next to Wolfgang.

"You know what that means, boss,” Wolfgang whispered. Von Struck nodded. The farmer was also bitten and the pair lay side-by-side, groaning softly as their bodies prepared for the change.

Michael broke their reverie. "Let’s go. It’s not far now.”

"Andreas has been bitten. That means we’re a man down,” Von Struck quietly informed him.

"What would you rather do then, turn back and come with reinforcements after the war?” Michael challenged.

"I thought we needed ten men to be successful in this mission.”

"And now Andreas is out of the picture, we’re down to nine,” Henning reminded him.

Michael looked from one to the other, then said, "Look. Let’s get out of here. They may come back. I’ll tell you later how I think we should proceed.”

They wordlessly nodded and the squad remounted to ride off.

Von Struck waited until they were gone before putting two bullets in Schneiderat and Rensing. He strapped the rifle and sword to his horse and mounted up. He suddenly had a thought and felt for the satchel on his back and, groaning, he rode after them.

At dawn Michael put his thoughts to the men. "I know Czerolka said we need ten men for this, but he hadn’t gambled on the silver bullets. We all saw how well they worked last night, and I for one feel a lot more confident with this extra fire-power that we have.”

They nodded among themselves as he spoke. They had been more than pleasantly surprised with the effects the silver had had on the vampires and the feeling of convinced excitement had spurred them on through the night.

Michael knew this and had earlier decided to strike while the iron was hot. "I say we ride there—it’s not far now—take our positions under the tree and let them come to us for their Book. When they attack, we’ll take them out in waves. It’ll be a turkey shoot with the vampires wearing the feathers."

Nobody said anything aloud but Michael knew they were for the idea. Von Struck spoke up. "There is only one problem. The vampires have the Book.”

All eyes turned to him, so he continued. "A vampire attacked me from behind last night. I thought he wanted to bite me but he must have been after the Book.”

"It’s gone?" Michael asked incredulously.

"There wasn’t a lot I could do about it.”

Again, nobody spoke for there was nothing to say.

Michael broke the reverie. "The Book was important but there is still a chance that we will meet them for battle at the tree.”

"How? As I see it we’ve lost our bait,” Rohleder said, rubbing his eyes. They were all tired and, as the thrill of the combat was wearing off, it was beginning to show. The moment was broken and Michael knew it would be an uphill struggle to convince them again.

"Didn’t Czerolka explain to you all about the Winter Solstice?" He didn’t wait for the answer. "Tomorrow is the 22nd of December, the first day of winter. This is known as the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year and the date that the Sun God would be at his weakest.”

"I’m lost again. I thought we’d moved on from the Sun God thing to the Bible thing," remarked Rohleder, puzzled.

Michael knew they were all tired and losing interest but he had to convince them to go on. "We have, but Lilith and the Dracyl are still slaves to their original beliefs, the belief that Utu the Sun God has cursed them. Now that they’ve got the ten names in the Book of Blood they’ll want to end the curse.”

Von Struck nodded in comprehension but stayed silent. It was up to Michael to animate the men.

"I’m sorry, General," Nau put in. "But why will they come to the tree? I forgot the hocus pocus stuff when I was trying to learn how to fight with a sword.”

"Which we now find out we didn’t need to learn because we can shoot them with our guns,” Gruhn sarcastically added.

"Yes, you’re right, we didn’t need to learn how to fight with swords. But imagine this, imagine that we came here and found that the silver bullets didn’t work? The fact is that we didn’t know then that they would work." He looked at their upturned faces. "And they will come to the tree because we have one of the names in the Book of Blood among us, the Englishman." All eyes turned to Smith.

"We are down to nine men but so are they and our trump is that one of our nine is in their list."

"But what if he goes over to their side to make up their ten?” Gruhn butted in.

Smith, who had made no real contribution, stepped forward. "No, I’m in our list and that’s how it stands.”

Michael nodded. "Like I said, one of our names is in their list and he’s on our side. With the silver bullets, the tree and the belief in our hearts, we can do this, we can beat these fucking bloodsuckers.”

A spark of interest lit their eyes and Michael pressed on. "We arrive there before dusk—”

"In the day?” Nau exclaimed.

"There are no Russians here now. The vampires will have taken them. We ride there and set up position in an all round defence. We don’t need cover because they have no weapons that shoot, so we can simply choose our arcs and take them as they come. We need to hold out until dawn. After that, I think their chance of breaking the curse is shot.”

"How far away is it?" Henning asked.

"Thirty kilometres maximum.”

The silence hung in the air like dust particles caught in the sun. The decision to follow seemed as hard as asking for a first date and nobody was willing to make that move. Von Struck read the situation and decided for them. "Right, we’ll sort the horses out, get our heads down and move out at 1400 hours. Rohleder, sort out a stag list and I don’t want the graveyard shift again. Is there any of that salted pork left? I’m starving.”

Chapter 57

The Dracyl smiled to himself as he watched Maria dancing around the library. She held the Book aloft, laughing with unbridled joy, twirling around and around.

"Are you happy now, Demon? Will we beat the curse now that you have your Book?”

"Oh yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Tomorrow the world will be ours for the taking and no amount of mortal interfering will stop us.”

The vampire who brought it back was the only one of the pack to survive and the story he told about the bullets that killed his squad was very disturbing indeed. "Tell me again what happened, dog. What do you mean they were shot?" he roared at the quivering beast that lay face down in front of him. "Nothing can kill us, nothing they shoot at us can kill us!”

"Except silver … " Maria let it hang in the air.

"Silver!" He turned on Maria. "Since when have the Germans used silver bullets?”

Maria clutched the Book to her bosom and lent forward as if to impart a great secret. "Since they decided to fight against you, Master,” she whispered.

As the words sunk in, his anger boiled and he struggled to contain it. He watched her a while as she cooed at the Book as if it were a baby, his mind in overdrive.

"They’ll be at the tree tomorrow." She smiled slyly at him. "They think they can kill you at the ceremony.”

"How do you know that?" he challenged.

"Why do you think they’re here, Master?" she said, smiling sweetly. "They’re here with silver bullets and the Cronica Insangerata, on the eve of the ceremony. They want to stop you and I wager they’ve brought your brother with them.”

The last was too much for him. He sprang from the chair in a blinding rage and kicked at the head of the prone vampire. With a sickening crack, his head exploded and it sprang up clutching its broken skull.

The count's body started to swell as he transformed into his bestial alter ego. "Get out!” he bellowed at the wounded beast as it ran out, howling in pain. He followed it outside and flew up to the roof of one of the barrack blocks, screaming his rage at the perceived treachery of his twin. Bulging and wild, like a wounded lion, he roared into the night and his animal cry echoed from out of the darkness a thousand times over.

From all corners of the wood his soldiers answered his call. He looked down at them, a multitude of slavering ogres, all baying for their master. They numbered in their thousands and the cacophony was tremendous.

He held his hands aloft and the noise increased tenfold. "Dogs!" He thought to himself. "Children!" he called to them and they silenced immediately. "Tomorrow we hunt a new prey. Tomorrow, before the ceremony that marks the new dawn, we will kill my brother and all who ride with him.” They screamed in their bliss and eagerness. His eyes blazed in raw hatred as he preached his word. "And I will lead you to battle the heretics who dare to oppose us.”

Maria sat in the library, clutching the Book to her breast, silently laughing to herself as she listened to the Dracyl and his minions.

"You fool," she spoke to nobody. "Tomorrow you will die in Utu’s wrath and I will control your vampires. I will control the next plague!”

Chapter 58

Borkin was fast losing his composure. He was tired and hungry too but it seemed the Professor needed another rest and at this rate they’d never find the Atrocity Camp.

"Just a couple of hours more, please,” he pleaded.

"I can’t, I can’t go on anymore. I need a rest. My eyes are closing as we speak.”

Stephanie was sure that the concussion still wasn’t healed.

”He had a nasty knock. We should rest a while. We can go on a little later.”

Borkin knew it would be no good arguing. Besides, he’d come to like the old man. However, time was pressing and he had to deliver results, and soon. "Is it far? Perhaps I could go on alone.”

Reuben didn’t answer and all but tumbled from his mount. He staggered to a tree, sat down and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Stephanie looked to Borkin. "He can’t go on. We should take him back to the hospital.”

He steeled himself to tell Stephanie the reason why he had been given a bed in the hospital in the first place. "The fact is that if he goes back he’ll more than probably get a bullet in the head, not a bed.”

She opened her mouth in shock and frowned in annoyance. "What did you promise them? What have you said that put us in danger?”

He stepped forward and put his hands lightly on her arms. "I told the general that only he knew where this camp is, which is why he was nursed back to health. The general needs this camp to put him back in the Party's good books. He and his whole family will suffer if he doesn’t find something to prove his loyalty, so the finding of the camp would save him. The whole area has been left out of the battle plan so we can move here without bumping into other Red Army units; it’s that important to him. If we go back now, I don’t know what the general might do. He is a good sort but there’s a lot of pressure on him at the moment.”

"Well, we’ll go back, get Reuben fit and—”

"No, don’t you see? The general doesn’t like Jews and especially not German Jews. We’ve got to move on. Going back is not an option.”

Stephanie could feel tears threatening behind her eyes. She blinked them away in a silent reproof to herself. "But he can’t go on," she shouted. "Can’t you see how ill he is?”

Borkin looked at Reuben and his shoulders slumped in weary resignation. He knew it was useless to deny Reuben’s condition but he didn’t know what to do. They stood facing each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity until something rustled in the foliage behind Borkin.

He turned and whipped his rifle up, pushing Stephanie behind him.

"Who’s there? Come out!" Borkin called into the trees. Despite his rifle he felt dreadfully exposed and he realised that, though they were in enemy territory, they had let any pretence of field craft fall by the wayside.

Mordechai emerged from out of the bushes in front of them. They had heard him over the last couple of days but he hadn’t made himself visible to them until now, and the sight of him made Borkin involuntarily step back.

Tall and muscular, his powerful body was covered in a light brown fur that shimmered when it caught the sun’s rays. All trace of the short, timid Jewish professor were gone and replaced by a regal beast of the wild.

His large wolf-like head radiated intelligence and the eyes that had seemed so alien the first time Stephanie had seen him were filled with a compassion that broke through their fear. Though his presence was fearsome, they both instinctively knew that he was a friend.

"I can look after him. He’ll be alright with me, I promise,” he rumbled in a dark, fractured bass.

A confused silence held the air before Borkin spoke. "And the camp? Who can take us to the camp?”

Before she even spoke, Borkin knew the answer. "I was there too, remember?” she said. “We can go together. You mark it on your map and we’ll come back for Reuben.”

The werewolf nodded and turned to Reuben. "How long has he been like this?" he said kneeling down in front of him. The deep, predatory sound of his voice sounded at odds with the attentive nature of the question.

Stephanie answered him. "Only today. We’ve been running on empty for the last couple of days and I think the concussion hasn’t properly healed. His body is probably shutting down to heal itself.”

Mordechai nodded and Borkin could only stare at the surreal scene before him.

"Shall we make camp here?" Stephanie asked nobody in particular.

"I thought we could move on and make some time up,” Borkin cautiously suggested.

Mordechai turned from his ministrations to Reuben and nodded. "You go. There’s nothing for you to do here. I’ll wait with him until he wakes up and I’ll see about sorting out some kind of shelter somewhere. We’ll follow on in a couple of days' time, or if he’s too ill I’ll come on my own.”

”You can’t leave him. Just stay with him until we get back. It’s snowing. He’ll freeze.”

He walked up to her and put one massive paw on her shoulder; the other he put on Borkin.

"You forget I have business there, too. I’ll make sure he’s fine and then I’ll come. You’ve only got to find the camp. I’ve got to find my old self. I can’t go on like this. Every day the wild in me gathers more strength. I can feel it. I’ve got to try and find out how I can change back to being human again or I’ll lose my humanity forever.”

"But you can’t leave him on his own in this state—”

"Child, do you think I would leave him in any danger? I will build a shelter and make sure he has enough food. He’s not an infant, he just needs rest. Believe me, he’ll be fine after a few days of good eating and lots of rest.”

Borkin guided her by the shoulders to her horse. "He’s right, you’ll see. He’ll get better and we can come back and collect him when the time is right.”

Stephanie mounted and turned back to Mordechai who was so tall that he could look her in the eye. "Look after him, Mordi, please. I know its right to leave him with you but I have this—”

She broke off as the werewolf put his massive paw on her lap. "He’ll be ok, I promise. If you need me, just shout and I’ll be there for you. Go now and I will see you there, at the castle." He turned to Borkin. "Good luck, soldier. You’re a good man. I feel these things, so look after her and I will be there for you too.”

With a last forlorn look at Reuben, she turned her horse and rode off, Borkin riding after her.

Chapter 59

The Tree

They rode hard throughout the day and, despite the snow, they reached the tree in the late afternoon. The horses were unloaded and all of them set free. There was no room for them under the tree’s branches so they were rubbed down and let loose with as little fuss as they could muster; this they all found extremely hard.

They picked their arcs and distributed the ammunition, collected wood and made fires in a circle to mark out the area under the tree’s boughs. Michael didn’t think the flames would do much good but they did have a reassuring effect that was undoubtedly important for morale. Von Struck, Michael, Henning and Rohleder took the four points of the compass with Nau, Gruhn, Inselman, Grand and Smith in the spaces between.

Von Struck put Schneiderat’s sword and rifle at the base of the tree behind him. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought them but he had a notion that they might come in handy as spares.

Smith was placed between Von Struck and Michael. He was nervous but not overly so, and he knew that when the time came to do battle he’d be ready. He had faith in the silver bullets and they had more than enough ammunition to hold out through the night.

He wondered what would happen after tonight. Would the Dracyl die and with him all his vampires? Would he somehow be caught up in this and also die? Would the vampires simply wait another year for the next Winter Solstice?

Looking at the ring of cottages that surrounded the tree, he was contemplating the situation when Michael broke his reverie.

"What’s the matter, English, worried?” He smiled amenably.

"No, I was just wondering what happens after tonight. Will they simply have to wait another year for the Winter Solstice to break the curse or will they all die at sun up? It’s all so complicated that I’ve forgotten it all.” He laughed but it sounded forced.

"James, think back to the list. This is the first Winter Solstice where the list of names in the Book of Blood is complete. That’s why we’re here tonight.” He paused and walked over to him. "Also, it has to be tonight because they’re calling on Utu to come and do battle with them, like in the second battle. They attacked at night and Utu lit the night sky like the day, and destroyed all Szaran’s and Lilith’s army, remember? This time they hope to break him because they have the Book of Blood with the ten names and all the power that brings. Lilith has also got a tree which she has to enter to start the cycle from the beginning.” He looked at Smith in a false earnest manner. "Because she started as a demon in the tree that belonged to Utu’s sister. I’m only complicating things, aren’t I?” He smiled encouragingly.

"Will they succeed?” The words were out before he could stop them.

"James, they never had silver bullets in the old days and they didn’t succeed then. All we have to do is battle the vampires until dawn, keep the Dracyl busy so he can’t concentrate on whatever ceremony he needs to perform against Utu, and keep Lilith from trying to enter the tree. Have faith, James. Our silver bullets will carry the day and tomorrow our only problem will be finding the horses to go home.”

Suddenly Inselman pointed in the direction of the castle and shouted to them, "Stand to, they’re coming.”

They all turned to the direction he was pointing in and gasped as one. Above the castle, a swarm like a black cloud was gathering in the cold winter dusk. It grew with every second until it seemed that the whole sky above the building would soon be black with vampires. As the sun let slip its grasp on the heavens, the cloud grew ever larger, ever more threatening.

Von Struck automatically took control. "Positions. Face them until they’re upon us but don’t forget your arcs. Wait for my word to fire.”

As disciplined as a flock of starlings, the cloud moved up to a pinnacle and then the tip curved down and they dived to attack.

The men moved to meet the onslaught, their weapons raised to fire, fingers on the trigger.

"Wait, wait … " Von Struck said.

The only noise was the wind in the branches and the creak of snow underfoot. The vampires drew ever closer at breakneck speed. Von Struck reminded them to be on automatic when they fired.

Smith subconsciously searched for his brother but he couldn’t see him. Suddenly Von Struck was by him. "Are you ready for this?" he asked quietly.

Smith could only nod mutely.

Von Struck turned to look him in the eye. "Good luck, and stay strong." He walked forward and shouted, "Fire!”

As one they fired the first volley into the attacking mass. The battle for mankind had begun.

*  *  *

The Dracyl stormed into the room with Lilith after him. This time the vampire entourage that followed the Dracyl didn’t wait outside; they poured into the room seeking Lilith, filing up along the walls as if to keep a respectful distance. Iullia stood up but he pushed her aside and made straight for the cot.

She looked on in stunned silence as he reached into the crib and pulled the now screaming child out. A spark of alarm flared inside and she moved towards the count as he held the child aloft.

"You’re hurting him," she pleaded.

"Stay out of this, woman, and I’ll let you live to see him grow into a man, into the Dracyl.”

Something in her snapped. The constant threat of death, the loneliness, the fact that she felt she was helping the Devil himself all came together and she rushed at the vampire.

Arms outstretched like talons, her teeth bared in a primeval rage, she screamed her attack as she dashed across the room.

Quicker than the vampires, Lilith held out a hand and shot an invisible force to block her. Iullia ran into the force field and bounced back onto the floor.

Without even looking at Iullia, the Dracyl acknowledged Lilith’s action. "Your powers are returning, Demon,” he observed dryly. "But soon we will both be more powerful than even the Gods who shunned us.”

Lilith smiled and nodded. "The Book has rejuvenated me. For the first time in a thousand years I feel strong again.”

He pulled the child back into him and turned to his vampires. "They’ll only have so much silver in their arsenal. Throw the newest at them to waste their bullets and we’ll take them when they’re spent and desperate. Fear always makes the blood sweeter.”

His generals ran out to give orders, the count following with Lilith in tow.

Dazed and concussed, Iullia could only watch from the floor as they left the room with the screaming child. She remained on the floor until the last vampire had scuttled out.

She could feel herself starting to weaken and the tears that pricked behind her eyes threatened to leak out. Then she noticed the door. It was open.

She stood up and padded over to it. She looked around the corner but there was no one there. Steeling herself, she stepped out into the corridor.

*  *  *

Borkin heard the volley but he doubted it was Russian soldiers doing the shooting. "Kurakin assured me there’d be no Red Army around here, so unless he’s been removed from command, I can only guess that it’s German or Romanian soldiers shooting up the night.”

The thought of German soldiers made Stephanie think of Rohleder, and her hands involuntarily moved to her stomach. "Shall we wait here? Perhaps they’ll go away.”

Borkin looked worried. "I’d prefer to but we’re limited by time.”

"What do you mean? Why are you in such a hurry?”

"Kurakin can only keep this place free of soldiers for so long. The last thing we need is some Party busybody to decide this area must be cleared before we find the atrocity camp. Then we’ll both be in trouble.”

Stephanie thought long and hard before she answered Borkin. Sooner or later the truth would have to come out and it was best to tell him now, rather than to let him rush in headlong on a wild goose chase.

"Olaf, about this camp, what exactly are you expecting to find there?”

He looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?”

"Well, the camp, the atrocity camp, what do you expect to find there? Germans, guard towers?”

He snorted doubtfully. "Well, the one they found a couple of months ago had—”

"Olaf, there is no camp,” she broke in.

He reacted as if she had slapped him in the face. His mouth shut tight and he blinked rapidly a few times as if to gather his senses. "The doctor said that you’d all come from a camp, a German camp. Hell on earth, I think he called it.”

Stephanie nodded vehemently. "Yes, yes, we did, but the camp no longer exists as it did when we were there. Only the castle, the stables and the barracks remain. The camp itself, I don’t know, but there are no inmates there to liberate. They’ve all gone or are long since dead.”

"So why are we going back there?" Borkin shouted, flapping his arms in exasperation. "Why didn’t you say something earlier? The general is going to ask about a camp and all I can give him is an old castle and some stables? He gave me a camera, for pity’s sake. Do you have any idea how rare these things are? He wants proof, pictures, evidence." He shook his head in disbelief. "We’ll all be shot,” he said to himself, and then spoke loudly to the trees. "We’ll all be shot, the werewolf too!”

"You were all so focused on the idea of liberating a camp, Reuben was sick and I didn’t know how to break it to you."

Borkin covered his face with his hands. "This cannot be true. And now? What do you want to do now?”

"I need to go on. I have to find Michael.”

Borkin laughed imperceptibly and wearily nodded his head. "Now I understand. Borkin the fool is led a merry dance to help the girl he loves find her boyfriend. What exactly have I done to you that makes you hate me so much?”

Stephanie opened her mouth to answer but Borkin held up his hand to stop her. "No, don’t say a word. You don’t even know what you’ve done. Just so you know what will happen when I return, alone, with no camp liberated—I’ll be shot. My family, that is my parents and sister, will be sent to a work camp without even being told why, and all because you want to find your Fascist.”

"Olaf, it’s not like that. Listen to me. We can go there, we’ll take some pictures with your camera and you can say that there was a camp but it’s been destroyed to hide the evidence.”

He looked down in contemplation. She had known all along that there wasn’t a camp. She, they, had lied to save themselves from being tortured and killed, and then lied to get the medical attention that the doctor needed. Who could blame them, really?

The last couple of years must have been hell for the Jews, so it was only really to be expected that they would use everything at their disposal to stay alive. He looked into himself and was shocked to find that he wasn’t angry—disappointed, but not angry. He knew he could never really be angry with her.

Stephanie said nothing. She knew he was coming to a decision and she felt that if she said just one word, the decision would go against her.

"Show me where this camp is and I’ll try and take some pictures. The general is a good sort. I just hope his good nature can swallow this.”

She closed her eyes in silent thanksgiving and they wordlessly rode in the direction of the firing.

Chapter 60

They destroyed the initial wave of vampires so comprehensively it looked like a canister round at a pheasant shoot. The first hail of silver disintegrated the leading three ranks almost immediately. Their burning bodies fell to the ground and were ash before impact. The remaining pack peeled off and circled overhead.

The squad reformed to take up all-round defence positions. While the vampires circled harmlessly above, they reloaded their magazines and checked their mechanisms.

"Don’t forget, we stay under the branches. Don’t leave the circle regardless of what happens," Michael reminded them all.

"The war in the east would have been over a lot quicker if the Russians had used these tactics." Rohleder laughed, albeit somewhat unconvincingly

Henning picked up on the banter. "Yeah, but Ivan didn’t suck all your blood if he took you prisoner.”

"No, Ivan just cut your balls off and sent you to a collective farm to be a practice fuck for the prize bullock!”

"Oh my God!” Inselman exclaimed.

"Right, lads, concentrate. Here they come again," Von Struck butted in.

The circle of vampires dropped ever lower as if to land on or around the cottages that surrounded the tree. Von Struck waited until they were settled before he gave the order and in an instant they were decimated in a storm of automatic fire.

They flew back to the Castle in a flurry of snow and ash.

"They’ll be back," Michael announced. "They’ve only got tonight to get this right, so make sure your mags are loaded and give your guns a going over. We’ve got a busy night ahead of us.”

Two hours later they came at them again. This time they attacked in a column on foot, carrying tables from the castle as make-do shields before them. The tables, though heavy and awkward, were thick enough to protect them from the soft silver bullets and they made good progress. They advanced in a concentrated silence that seemed more unnerving than an all-out screaming attack.

"Move to meet them but stay under the tree and get your swords ready. This could get close," Von Struck ordered.

They formed two lines to meet the vampires head on. Inselman stood at the back to guard against any flanking or encircling manoeuvres but the rest faced the front.

Nobody fired until the ponderous advance reached the open area between the cottages and the tree.

"Fire! Take their legs out from under them," Von Struck shouted and they shot at the exposed limbs. The mere touch of silver seemed enough to ignite the vampires and the front line behind the tables disappeared in a flash of fire. However, the luxury of numbers kept the tables held high, and though the advance faltered at the first volley, it continued as they dropped the shield lower to hide their legs.

Inselman cried the alarm as, from the sky to their right, another wave of airborne vampires swooped down to attack. Von Struck calmly directed the back line to meet them and the assault failed, like the first, in a climax of burning corpses and falling ash.

In the meantime, the advancing ground assault had made it to the fires.

"Swords!" Michael shouted as his blade clicked and thudded out to its full extension. Von Struck frowned at him to show his annoyance. Michael caught his eye and understood immediately. Regardless of any rank they once held in another army, there can only be one commander in the field and that was Von Struck.

He nodded his understanding and acceptance of the situation.

Von Struck took control. "Inselman, stay alert to any flanking manoeuvres. The rest of you get ready to use your swords. Drop your rifles when I give the word. Let’s take a step backwards and get them under the tree’s branches to see if it does affect them like the old man said.”

They shuffled back towards the trunk of the tree, keeping a constant rate of fire directed at the advancing enemy.

Up to now, the enemy had been kept at bay in textbook fashion, by conserving their ammo and manoeuvring with machine-like precision. However, the rifles were running hot and there seemed to be no end to their assailants.

The vampires reached the fires that marked the tree’s outer limits. The line faltered, as if crossing an invisible threshold, and moved on between the flames.

"Stop firing. We’ll let the weapons cool down. Form two lines and we’ll try it with the swords for a while. If it doesn’t go as planned, the second rank can pick up their rifles and we’ll use them again.”

Wordlessly they moved back into two ranks, five in the first row and four at the back. Henning, Grand, Nau, Von Struck and Michael stood to the fore, their rifles shouldered and their swords out, with Inselman, Rohleder, Smith and Gruhn taking the rear.

"Markus, let me go in the front line,” suggested Smith. “If the vampires see me fighting them, it may cause a bit of a stir in their ranks.”

Von Struck looked back at him but before he could say anything Smith carried on. "And it means that you lot can keep an eye on me in case I go over to the other side.”

It was said without humour and all that heard it took it as such. Von Struck nodded. "Ok, shoulder your rifle.”

Smith took Grand’s place and they waited for the vampires to close.

*  *  *

The Dracyl received the news from Arak calmly. They were in the library. "They’re using swords? Have they run out of bullets for their guns already?”

"It looks that way, Master. They’re pressed in tight under the tree, fighting hand-to-hand with our men. Soon they will tire and the night will be ours.”

"I don’t believe they’ve run out of bullets already. Let them fight a while until they’re tired and we’ll see if they resort to their guns again.”

Arak made a short bow and turned to leave.

"Arak, is my brother among them? Is he fighting for them?”

"Yes, he is.”

The Dracyl nodded his dismissal and Arak left him to his rage.

*  *  *

They were surrounded and fighting on all sides, and the tables were all that distanced them from the bloodsucking horde. The work was hard and bloody; all finesse and balance was lost to the blood lust as they hacked and chopped at the slavering foe.

The silence of the vampires' advance under fire had now given way to a frenzied and rabid scrambling to climb over the wooden tables they had carried as cover. Each man took care to keep the killing arc of the next man’s sword arm free so as not to hinder his movement while killing anything that attempted to climb over.

The silver blades had the same killing properties as the bullets, and as soon as the silver made a forceful impact on the skin of the vampire, the creature burned to a crisp right in front of their eyes.

The shadow of the tree also affected the vampires' speed and strength, sapping them of their will to fight so much that they seemed sluggish and hesitant.

That, together with the instantaneous combustion the silver produced, helped even the field against the inestimable enemy numbers.

The vampires came at them with only their talons and teeth as weapons. The wild staring eyes, drooling fangs and insane screaming made for a daunting enemy to stand against but each held to the line. Nobody wavered in their task for they all knew that it would only take one to falter and they would all be lost.

All communication was forgotten as each man relied on instinct to read the battle and hold his position in relation to the next. Chaos was only staved off by their small number and their intimate understanding of each other’s strengths and habits.

Von Struck knew they couldn’t keep the same pace for long, so he took a step back and unslung his rifle. Immediately one of the creatures sprung over the table and into their line. In the blink of an eye, Von Struck had cocked his weapon and fired into the vampire at point blank range.

Stepping through the already flaked cinders of his assailant, he sprayed his rounds into the other vampires from over the table edge. The squad took his lead, unslung their personal rifles and poured fire into the now retreating mob.

The creatures disintegrated into flame and ash as they fled in disarray and panic. They reached the tree line and took off into the black of the night-time forest.

"Look, there they are," Inselman pointed. Silhouetted by the light of the moon, the vampires could be seen flying in line up to the castle.

"Let’s build the fires up again. They didn’t like those. Rohleder, issue new ammunition, please.”

"Right, boss.”

"Henning, sort the wood out. I think we can venture out into the fringes of the forest for the next few minutes. Take Inselman and Nau with you.”

Henning nodded and the three of them moved out into the forest.

*  *  *

The vampire’s headless corpse lay at his feet as the count slowly receded back to normal size. The other generals had watched impassively as he’d bitten the head off of the vampire who had called the retreat. He smoothed himself out and turned to address them.

"Let that be an example to you all. I say when we retreat, and not before. Do you all now understand?”

They hissed their understanding and he carried on.

"It is close to midnight. We will attack en masse. Lilith." He turned to Maria. "You will summon the names from their shrines. Bring the child with you. The hour draws near. Utu will be called to battle and this time we will win.”

His soldiers howled their pleasure and filed out to gather their troops for the final assault.

The count turned to Maria. "Demon, you’re sure nothing can go wrong? We need my brother on our side and at the moment he stands with the enemy.”

"He will come over. I will see to it. He has no choice. Once a man has lain with me, he is a slave to my will.”

"And the named ones, you are certain that it is the list that will destroy Utu?”

"Master, you concentrate on the humans and I will see to it that all ten names are in position at midnight. Then we need only to await Utu. If he doesn’t come before dawn, the day will no longer be your enemy.”

"And if he comes?”

"Then he will see that he now faces the full power of our alliance. With the Book of Blood, the named ones and the fulfilling of the prophesies, he will be forced to turn away and the curse will fall. Then, Master, you will rule the day and thereafter the world.”

The Dracyl smiled slyly and nodded to himself. "And you, Demon? How will you reclaim your powers?”

"I only have to wait until the Utu comes to us. Then I will enter the tree and will be more powerful than ever before. The Book, the prophesies that it holds, and the circle of ten will also ensure my rebirth at the tree.”

Chapter 61

Borkin slid forward on his stomach. The fires around the tree were bright and the Germans had collected a lot of wood in reserve.

"SS," he breathed to himself. "There must still be a camp here." Suddenly he heard a rustling in the snow behind him.

"What’s going on?" It was Stephanie.

"I asked you to wait for me. Can’t you do anything I say?” He sighed.

"It was cold and dark, and besides, I was curious.”

She turned to look at the fires. "Michael!” she exclaimed, and then she was up and running towards the Germans. Borkin watched in disbelief as she dashed through the line of fires and into the arms of one of the shocked soldiers. Confusion gave way to understanding as he realised who they were. He wretchedly looked on as she covered his face with kisses, laughing in effortless joy.

He decided to stay a while to make sure all was well until another noise from above him attracted his attention.

The Dracyl was on the attack again and this time in force.

*  *  *

The whole squad couldn't believe their eyes as Stephanie sprinted out of the tree line towards them and almost knocked Rohleder over as she sprang on him.

"What are you doing here?" he gasped in between kisses.

"I’ve come for you. I had to find you, it was important.” She beamed, delirious in her joy. "Michael, you’re going to be a father. I’m carrying your child.”

His jaw dropped. "A father?”

Von Struck came up behind them. "Michael, they’re coming back. Get your woman behind us and get ready.”

"Who’s coming back?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"The vampires," Rohleder stone-facedly answered. "We’re here to fight the Dracyl. You couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

"Oh no. "She turned to the wood. "Olaf—”

*  *  *

Borkin froze briefly as he saw the gathering cloud above the castle. They numbered more than the stars and he realized that now he knew where all the Red Army’s losses from the last couple of months had gone.

"Vampires," he whispered to himself.

Deciding that to hide was the best course of action, he covered his jacket in snow and branches, and waited to see what would happen.

*  *  *

"Get behind me, Stephanie. If anything attacks you, use the sword if you can," Rohleder ordered her, gently shoving her behind him.

"Face the front. They’re coming from the sky again,” Von Struck shouted as they switched off the safety catches in readiness.

As the first faces became recognisable, Von Struck gave the order to fire. Like the assaults before, this one dissolved into an inferno of death as the silver bullets winged through their ranks. The effect was total devastation as the missiles that hadn’t hit the front echelon shot through the flames of the dead vampires to kill the ones behind.

As the first ranks disintegrated into ash and smoke, the next swooped through, only to be met by more high-speed silver. The rifles thudded their lethal mantra into the diving horde with venomous efficiency. Each new rank that presented itself was blasted into oblivion by the continuous volley coming from under the tree. The ecstasy of imminent success burned through them all as they discharged their rounds in death crazed abandon.

Then disaster struck. As one, they stopped firing to change magazines. It was as unforeseen as it was unprofessional and the vampires made good ground, landing in front of the table barricade.

"Swords! Swords!" Von Struck screamed desperately, rushing to meet the onslaught.

He swung wildly in near panic, the arc of his sword edge igniting vampire flesh as it carved through the flames. Each new target that presented itself was met by biting silver as he chopped with almost boundless energy. The rage of battle was upon him and he knew no fear and no mercy.

Rohleder dropped his rifle to stand in front of Stephanie, reluctant to leave her side in the hand-to-hand fighting. In one hand he held his blade, with the other he felt behind him to make sure she was there. His hand fell on cold metal and he turned in shock to see that Stephanie held a sword and was mentally gearing herself up for the fight.

His words were just forming in his mind as she raised her blade and ran screaming at the vampires on the other side of the tables.

"Bloody woman," he thought as he ran after her.

She reached the edge of the table and swung the sword around over the top and into one of the count’s soldiers. In an instant it exploded and she ignored it as it crumbled to ash before her and she moved to the next. Michael saw Stephanie in action and shouted to all, "Now we are ten! Now we are complete!”

An ecstatic cheer spontaneously erupted from the men, and at the back of his mind Von Struck registered that they were all feeling what he felt, the power of the tree coursing through their mortal frames.

Grand dropped his sword and quickly slapped a magazine in. Cocking the weapon as he stood up he fired into the mass before him. He marched forward, keeping up a steady rate of fire and stood in front of the barrier to shoot.

The space cleared by Grand’s fire was used by the rest to reload their rifles and to take up the fight with firearms. Soon the area in front of them was clear but for a fine layer of ash and dust on the snow.

The vampires finally retreated to circle overhead and the respite was used to discuss what had happened.

"From now on we fire in ranks. I don’t want to get caught like that again. That was too close,” Von Struck ordered.

"Keep to the same line-up as the first time?" Smith asked.

"Yes, as soon as one rank comes to the end of their ammunition, the next takes over to let the first load up. Let’s use this time to load some more mags and check the weapons.”

Rohleder knelt down to quickly oil and clean his weapon. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked Stephanie over his shoulder.

"I didn’t. It just felt like I knew what to do,” she answered. "It felt good killing those monsters. I felt like—”

”Like you were reaping your revenge?”

She looked him in the eye. "Yes, revenge, that’s what it was.”

He studied her face. She seemed stronger now, more resilient. He pondered briefly on all that had happened since he had seen her last, and wondered what she had been doing these past months.

"Your scars don’t look so bad now. Have you done anything to them?" she asked unexpectedly.

He was taken aback. He never considered his scars anymore. He was aware of them and their effect on people but he hadn’t had the time recently to think about them.

"Do they really? They normally look worse in the cold." He smiled. "I guess it’s all this fresh air and exercise I’m getting, not to mention the good food." They laughed together, openly and without reserve, and the months of separation fell away. "So, I’m going to be a father. What are we going to call him?” he said after a while.

"Him?” She smiled. "What if it’s a girl?”

"That’s easy. Stephanie, after the only woman I have ever loved.”

"You fool." She giggled, and then said seriously, "We’d have a better chance of getting out of here if I knew how to fire one of those.”

Closing up the last parts of the weapon, he hefted it and handed it over to her. "Try it for weight. It is heavy, mind.”

She felt its weight and tucked it under her arm.

"It’s not that heavy. Show me what you do.”

"I’ll show you some of the basics. Give it here.”

*  *  *

The vampires flew overhead for over two hours, neither attacking nor retreating. They blotted the moon, their shadows dancing over the ground around the tree.

"What time is it?" Michael asked.

"A quarter to twelve or thereabouts," Henning offered.

"Why don’t they attack? I don’t understand—" Michael’s words stopped dead in his mouth as the vampires adjusted their path and moved to attack once more.

"Get ready!” Von Struck needlessly shouted. "To your ranks! Here they come!”

Chapter 62

"The humans are still firing their silver bullets. How are we meant to assemble around the tree if we’re going to be shot at by flying silver?”

Lilith, sitting comfortably in a chair holding her beloved book, answered him with unusual calm. "We will assemble the names in a circle behind the ten shrines.” She looked up to him and clarified her plan. "The buildings will shield us from their bullets, but we will all be present and waiting for Utu to arrive.”

The Dracyl roared in expectation, raising his arms in victory. "Yes, they will waste their ammunition on the bricks of my shrines and we will wait for Utu to come and release us from our chains!" Then with tiger-like energy, he turned and pounced on Maria. "And my brother, Demon? You promised me my brother. We must all be there.” He grabbed her shoulders and pushed down with all his weight in an attempt to scare her. "You promised me, Demon. Don’t forget what happens to failure—”

Her eyes shot fire as she turned her head towards him. She sat back up and pushed herself against his weight. "I know what I promised, Dracyl. I know what you want and only I can deliver it."

Shocked by her show of defiance, he took the weight off her and she stood abruptly to face him. "Know this, Vampire, I was once weak but now, as the hour of my rebirth draws near, I am strong again. Strong again and getting stronger." She took a step forward and he backed off. “Only I can deliver you from Utu’s curse, so don’t try to scare me with your petty tantrums." She clutched the book to her chest. "Do you understand me?”

He glared at her in anger and broke the silence by kicking the table. "Assemble the names, Demon. We have work to do."

*  *  *

Borkin had to get up off of the floor. The pain of the cold was too much for him. He had to move around to get some blood circulation going. Much as he disliked the idea of going over to the SS soldiers, he could see no alternative.

Alone in the wood, the vampires would surely find him. At least with the Germans he had a chance. He’d watched the battle and the new machine guns with great interest. The Germans were impressive in their teamwork. They knew each other and reacted as one to the differing situations. Borkin had always wanted to belong to such a team, and he was sure the Germans would only be too happy to add another man to their ranks. All the same, he decided to wait a while before showing himself to them.

He stood up slowly and backed into the trees to move his limbs and hopefully warm up a little.

*  *  *

The next wave was different. Instead of diving as one for the attack, they peeled off and landed around the perimeter of the tree, causing a scramble by the squad to get to their all-round defence positions.

Bernd Grand had the farthest to go to get to his position, and as he ran around the circumference of the Tree, the vampires were already climbing over the barricade.

He charged, firing into them, with Henning close behind him.

Instantly the attacking beasts disintegrated into flame and ashes.

"Nearly empty, Henning,” he called. "Get ready.”

Henning nodded and waited for Grand to kneel down to change mags. Grand was near the barrier when he went down on one knee. Henning took his cue and started to fire over his head. He pulled the trigger and his rifle spat death at the supernatural horde. Then it stopped. "Stoppage!" he screamed over the howl of the vampires. "Bernd, my gun’s jammed. Get away from the barrier.”

But it was too late. A split second after he called over to Grand, a vampire pounced on him. Letting the rifle fall, Henning drew his sword and sprinted the couple of yards to the vampire who now held Grand above his head like a trophy. Henning sliced the creature in half and turned to face the next who had scrambled over. Grand lay moaning on the floor and he realised that he was on his own.

The vampires sensed the subtle shift in Henning’s demeanour and, smelling the faint stirrings of fear, they pushed into him. He slashed and hacked but ever more vampires came through the flames of their slain comrades and he was forced to take a step back.

"Bernd, get up!" he screamed as he hacked, but it only moved to excite the vampires who mistook his shouting for panic.

Finally, from his left came the solid thud of bullets hitting flesh. Nau had turned from his arc to give a helping hand, and Henning’s attackers were blasted into nothingness before him.

He renewed the attack with vigour as he realised that the vampires had pushed him away from Grand’s prone body, but it was to no avail— the body was gone.

They had suffered their first casualty on the field of battle.

*  *  *

Five minutes later all was quiet again. The vampires had lifted into the air as one and Von Struck immediately counted heads.

"Where’s—”

"Where’s Bernd?” Henning finished for him. "They got him. Now we’re only nine again.”

Von Struck stopped as if hit in the face. "Grand is dead?”

Henning nodded morosely. "I had a stoppage. My gun was too hot and I just wasn’t quick enough with drawing my sword. I’m sorry, I—”

"It’s not your fault, Henning.” He patted him on the shoulder. "That could have been any one of us." He looked around at their faces. "Where’s Smith? Where’s the Englander?”

Nobody knew. Smith was also gone.

*  *  *

Maria had called to him as he dashed to his all-round defence position.

"James, what are you doing? Leave there now immediately.” Her soft tones rang through his head.

He stopped and looked around. Michael ran into him from behind. "Come on, English. Get out of the way, man.”

He made way, cocked his weapon and waited for Michael to tell him when he needed covering to reload. The voice came again, insistent and demanding. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "What the devil is going on?”

"James, come to me, come to me now.”

"English, shoot, for God’s sake!" Michael pulled him back to the now, and he raised his rifle and started shooting. The voice came again when he went down to reload. "James, come to me now. Do you hear me? Now!”

He had no choice. He knew he had to obey. Every fibre in his body demanded he go to Maria. Dropping his weapons, he stood up, jumped the barrier and walked into the throng of vampires who made way and closed around him. No move was made to harm him.

The voice spoke to him, telling him where to go, directing him in the silken tones of a lover. "There, my love, come to me, come to me as you did on our first night ...” On and on the voice crooned until he found himself standing at the back of one of the buildings that surrounded the tree.

"Stay there now, my love. I will come for you when you are needed.”
So Smith stayed where he was and waited.

*  *  *

Borkin watched Smith in amazement. He saw him drop his rifle and sword and skip the barrier. He could hardly look, expecting that at any moment the vampires would pounce and rip him to shreds, but it never happened and they meekly made way for him.

He saw the body of one of the Germans being lifted by a vampire. The creature was killed immediately but the swell of movement in that area told him that all was not well on that front.

He observed the whole scene as it played out before him and watched in awe as he saw Stephanie handling her machine gun like a seasoned veteran. He bit himself in excitement and fear, and decided he had to help. This was a fight for humanity and he would do his part.

As the vampires left, he crept forward from of his hiding place.

"Don’t shoot," he yelled in their direction. "Don’t shoot, I want to help.”

"Who the hell is that?" Nau said pointing at Borkin as he left the cover of the foliage.

"A Russian! What’s Ivan doing here?" Henning challenged.

Stephanie had heard Olaf and ran around to explain his presence. "He’s Russian. He’s a good man and he can help us.”

Michael cut any conversation on his future short. "If he can fight, he can help us. Do you know him?”

She nodded. "He was our escort back here. It’s a long story but we were meant to be looking for the concentration camp here when we were attacked.”

"You know this man?” It was Rohleder, sounding slightly betrayed.

"Michael, if he can fight, we’ll have him. You can sort this all out with your woman after the fighting, ok?" Von Struck broke in.

"If he makes it here. Look," Inselman said, pointing to the sky above the Russian. "They’ve seen him too.”

A group of vampires were screaming down at full pelt. The speed of their descent was terrifying and it took a second for Von Struck to galvanise the troops to action. The burst of fire destroyed all but one of the creatures who landed heavily on Borkin.

*  *  *

Borkin saw them raise their weapons and feared for the worst. He wanted to help them, didn’t they understand that? He lifted his arms to shout that they shouldn’t shoot just as they started to blaze away at the sky above him. He looked up just in time to catch the last vampire as it landed on him.

He fell on his back and kicked up against the chest of his assailant but the vampire came back at him with a frightening speed. Borkin could only hold it off with his boots while his mind grasped for a way to kill it. Inside the space of a heartbeat, a thousand ideas flitted through his head and all of them useless. All he could hope for was that he somehow managed to kick the vampire upwards so that the SS could shoot it dead.

He drew his knees in again to push upwards. The creature hissed in anticipation and a sliver of drool fell on Borkin’s chin. The vampire flayed his claws at him and pushed downwards.

Suddenly Borkin couldn’t move. The weight of the creature was too much and he felt it pushing down to reach him. It grasped his head with both hands and slowly pulled his head towards the its gnashing fangs. A fetid blast of the vampire’s exhaled breath hit him full in the face and he gagged, momentarily loosing the strength in his legs. That was enough, and with a snarl of triumph the creature pulled him up to his mouth.

Then, from behind, a shadow fell over them and suddenly the vampire’s head was no more. The body stopped all motion and he managed to kick it off him, still spurting its black blood.

There, silhouetted in the moonlight, stood Mordechai the Werewolf. He reached down a massive paw to help him up. "Come, Russian, I’ll explain you to the Germans.”

”Who’s going to explain you, though?" Borkin smiled. "My head hurts. He really landed hard on me.”

"I know. We’ll look at it later when we’ve introduced ourselves to our new allies. I never thought I’d see the day that I was glad to see the SS.”

They turned and ran to the edge of the ring of fires.

*  *  *

“Well, it doesn’t matter now—” Von Struck started to say but his words were broken off as, from out of the wood, a werewolf sprinted out and leapt onto the back of the vampire. With one bite, it took the head clean off the bloodsucker.

"What the—" Rohleder said for them all.

Borkin stood up, rubbing his head, and they both ran towards the Tree. The squad raised its weapons as one but Stephanie yelled at them, "No, don’t shoot; he‘s another friend. He can help, too.”

"You know him as well, the werewolf?" Henning asked her as they reached the barricade.

Stephanie nodded and walked forward to hug both Borkin and Mordechai.

"You really know how to pick them, Mike, you know that?" Henning whispered to Rohleder.

Rohleder nodded. "I know, Wolfgang, I know.”

A while later, their story told and the situation resolved, they sat together and cleaned their weapons. Mordechai prowled around the line of fires and Henning showed Borkin the workings of the Assault Rifle. Though he knew he wouldn’t need them, Borkin laid his rifle and camera at the base of the tree. He didn’t mind lying about the camp but losing the camera really would have meant Siberia.

"Who’d have thought it would come to this?" Michael asked nobody in particular.

"What?" Rohleder asked without looking up from scrubbing his barrel. "That the final fight for mankind would be fought by a couple of modern-day knights, German SS, an Englishman, a Communist, a Jewish woman and a Jewish werewolf?"

Rohleder shook his head solemnly. "You’re right. Nobody would have thought that.”

Stephanie smiled and started to giggle. The sound was infectious, and though nobody stopped with their field stripping and cleaning, it soon caught on.

As the forces of the Dracyl and Lilith gathered to fight for supremacy over the human race, the defenders of the species laughed quietly into their weapons.

Chapter 63

Smith came to his senses to find somebody stroking his cheek.

"James, wake up, we need you.”

His eyes flickered open and he found himself behind one of the cottages and standing opposite him was Maria.

"Maria," he breathed. "What’s happening?”

"Shush, my love. Just wait for me and I will come back for you. You need only to wait here and all will be well …”

Maria drifted in and out of focus. One minute she was in front of him and the next she was gone. He blinked rapidly to regain his wits but he was too muzzy for clear thought.

He shook his head and something inside clicked. Suddenly he knew where he was. Looking down he saw he was shackled at the ankles to a long chain that ran to a metal ring in the middle of the back wall of the building. His arms were tied behind his back and the knots were fast.

Turning to his right he saw the next building in line, and stood behind it was one of the vampires. He stood motionless, facing the back of the building as if looking through the wall. He was dressed in a long black cloak and held a sword in front of him.

The realisation that he was now in the middle of the ceremony hit him like a lightning bolt. How in hell did he get here? What in hell’s name had happened?

Panic overwhelmed him and he fell to the floor, struggling against his bonds helplessly. He lay panting on his back, broken in futile disappointment. The old man had been right not to trust him. In the back of his mind he heard Czerolka’s challenge and the anger at his failure to deny Lilith bit deep into his pride. The ceremony would go ahead as planned and he was an unwilling collaborator in its accomplishment.

He lay on his back and looked up to the threatening skies. A crack of light opened briefly though the clouds and he idly wondered if that was the beginning. Was that the Sun God’s arrival?

*  *  *

"All is set, Dracyl. The named ones await Utu. I have the Book and soon we will rule the day. Humanity will be reduced to cattle and the new epoch of the vampire will come to pass."

They were outside the main building. The Dracyl had decided it was time for him to take proper control of his soldiers.

"Good, and my brother?”

"Shackled behind the building with his shrine. He came to me like a lamb and awaits our presence.”

"He came like a dog with his prick hanging out further than his tongue,” he sneered.

"That too.” Lilith smiled. "I think I will keep him as a slave when this is finished."

The Dracyl roared his delight. "Come, Lilith, we will go and watch the human’s last stand and then we will face Utu together.”

Lilith followed him to the circle.

*  *  *

The mass of vampires swarmed above them. The heavens seemed black with the enemy and Von Struck hoped it had more to do with the sinister background of the night than with their actual numbers.

They stood in a circle, armed with their rifles and swords. Mordechai had only his teeth and claws, so he roamed the areas around the tree.

There had been flashes of light in the sky that had not gone unnoticed.

"I thought the Sun God would come at dawn," Von Struck asked Michael.

"That’s what Czerolka said, wasn’t it?" He was also taken aback by the turn of events. "We’ll just have to be ready for when it goes off.”

Von Struck turned to them all. "Listen, whatever happens now, hold the circle. Watch your backs and cover your neighbour. They only have this night and then they’re done.”

Rohleder turned to Stephanie. He wanted to tell her he loved her, to stay by him during the fighting; but he knew she would think him weak if he said that.

"Stephi, watch my back. I need someone I can trust behind me.”

She smiled hesitantly and nodded. "Michael, before this starts, I …”

He looked at her quizzically and it dawned on him that she was just as scared to show her emotions as he was.

"I love you," she said.

He held out a hand and she took it. "I love you, too. Stick by me and we’ll see this through together.”

The smile faded and he let her hand drop. They were coming.

The multitude landed simultaneously on all sides and attacked straightaway. This time there was a conviction in their assault that even the tree could not tame. They swarmed over the barriers and the weight of the automatic fire only just managed to keep them at bay.

Mordechai charged into their ranks, tearing and biting at everything that moved, repeatedly smothered by rapacious vampires and repeatedly re-emerging from the tumult, fighting and roaring like the maddened beast he was. The black blood of the vampires covered his coat and his eyes rolled in frenzy as each new victim fell to his terrible bite.

Nau and Gruhn held their front like clockwork, each one shooting his magazine and kneeling to reload so that the other could take up the fight. With a calculated efficiency, they sprayed their front repeatedly, never allowing the enemy to pass a certain point.

"They make it all look so easy,” Inselman thought to himself while waiting for Henning to signal he needed to reload. Henning knelt down, and Heinz took his cue and started firing. On the ranges, in single shot mode, he had been one of the best shots.

Unfortunately single shot was useless when faced with screaming hordes and his problem was controlling the weapon in long bursts of fire. Nevertheless, they held their front, not as well as the two next to them, but they held.

Borkin and Michael held the last quarter. They too managed to hold the enemy off despite a few stoppages from Michael’s weapon. Nevertheless, Borkin was ready every time and they never faltered on their part of the line.

Von Struck stood between Borkin and Stephanie, as he envisaged them to be the weak links. He fired into their assailants as he saw fit, and on more than one occasion he had saved the line. He scanned the sky for the Dracyl but he was not to be seen. Nevertheless he presumed that he was near, and that was the reason why the vampires were so unyielding in their attack.

*  *  *

"So, brother, you decided to help after all?" The Dracyl laughed.

Smith tried to get up but he fell back twice and only managed to make himself feel foolish.

"Help him to his feet,” the count ordered two of his entourage.

Smith faced his brother. "This won’t work and surely I’m meant to say something to get this thing rolling.”

Maria walked from behind the count. "You’ll say what I tell you to say, James, and when this is all over, you will live with me as my slave, and the funny thing about it is you will be grateful.” She laughed.

Smith swallowed hard but said nothing. He felt stupid attempting to defy them trussed up like a turkey, so he decided on silence.

The Dracyl eyed him silently and turned to leave, followed by his seconds. Maria and Smith stood alone, facing each other.

"James, all will be well. You will be with me, and your irksome brother won’t be able to touch us.”

He looked down at her. Her beauty was breathtaking and, even now, despite his situation, he could feel a stirring in his loins. But he knew she was the Devil, evil incarnate, and he could never find happiness with her.

He closed his eyes and turned his head away from her. "Never," he whispered to her. He didn’t need to look to know she had left him.

*  *  *

The attack appeared ever more frenzied and no amount of death seemed stop them. The assault rifles were hot to the point of failure but Von Struck knew they would never be able to hold them off with the swords.

Suddenly the sky splintered open and a bolt of lightning struck the tree above them. The crack was almost visible in its force and the shockwave rippled over the heads of the attackers. Their ears were ringing from the rifle fire but they were still momentarily stunned by the explosion.

"It’s starting! Hold on, it’s starting," Von Struck shouted over the clamour, but nobody could hear him. The battle raged all around him, the rattle of firearms being swallowed by the manic howling of the Dracyl’s soldiers, such was the volume of their noise.

Suddenly, the vampire deluge backed off. As if a huge plug had been pulled, they drained away and left the defenders battle-dazed and concussed.

The attacking horde now retreated to the forest tree line, the area between the cottages and the tree now left clear except for the broken decapitated bodies of the creatures Mordechai had destroyed.

The sudden quiet was infringed on only by the werewolf’s laboured breathing. He padded back under the tree, seemingly fit despite his bloody and wild appearance.

"What’s happening? Where have they all gone to?" Nau asked.

"And more importantly, why have they all gone?" Rohleder added.

"I don’t know. I don’t know … " Michael answered, visibly worried. "This isn’t how Czerolka saw it. Didn’t he say that Utu will come at dawn? He did, didn’t he?" He turned to Von Struck who stood facing the building where the Dracyl had called down the lightening. All eyes were on Von Struck, who knew he had to act calm even if he wasn't feeling it.

"The way I see it is that we only have to wait until dawn and the sun will burn them up,” he declared. "We’ve got a bit of time. Give the barrels a quick pull through and the parts a going over, and do it in partners. Rohleder, I’ll partner you and Stephanie. You two clean first.”

The routine of field maintenance took the edge off the bewilderment but they were all aware of the panic attack Michael had briefly suffered. If Michael, who had been trained since birth for this day, was scared, how bad was the situation, really?

Mordechai prowled the line of fires, all now burnt down low. Von Struck moved to talk to him, but before he could say something the werewolf spoke. "There is another out there, another wolf like me. I can almost taste his scent.”

"He’s unimportant right now. Concentrate on the vampires and you can deal with him when he comes.”

Mordechai turned his head and wordlessly nodded his accord.

"The vampires are hiding behind the buildings, I can smell them. They’re plotting but I can’t understand what they’re saying. They speak in their vampire tongue.”

Von Struck nodded. "And the Englander, Smith?”

"He is tied up.” He turned back towards the tree line. "And out of our reach. Forget him. He is unwilling but he’s on their side. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Von Struck nodded and went back to give his weapon a going over.

Chapter 64

Lilith grasped the Book to her breast in rapture. "He is coming. He has heard us and he comes to face us." Her eyes widened in delight as she pointed to the sky

The heavens were glowing red, as if lit from within the cloud cover. The sky rumbled and the power it held charged the air around them.

"Are we ready, Demon? Are we all in place?” the Dracyl asked for what seemed like the thousandth time. Lilith laughed in answer, a laugh that sent chills down the Dracyl’s spine. For the first time he saw that Lilith’s power was growing far beyond his expectations. The sky cracked again as lightning forked down into the tree and Lilith laughed even louder.

"He comes, Vampire, he comes to set me free. Watch, watch and see if he doesn’t.”

”And me?" he bawled at her. "What of me?”

She screamed her laughter at him. "Yes, he’s coming for you. He’ll come for you, too.”

The count could only stare at her, mystified and anxious.

*  *  *

"There! Movement!" Inselman pointed to one of the houses. As he spoke the horde charged again from all sides. Once more the desperate battle ensued to keep the perimeter and hold the position.

This time Mordechai stayed within the circle and helped where he was needed. The ferocity of the attack eclipsed even the last as vampire after vampire charged into the circle to meet the hail of silver.

The firearms, as new as they were, could not take the sustained automatic fire and Michael’s was the first to jam. Borkin took the lead straightaway but his also jammed immediately, and Von Struck and Mordechai ran to their assistance. The front was cleared but the call went up from Nau and Gruhn as both their weapons failed.

"Swords!" shouted Gruhn as he waded into the attacking throng.

Von Struck ran over to lend assistance but he knew that eventually all their weapons would seize. One after another the cry of, "Stoppage!" went up as weapons jammed and the men took to the blade to deal their death.

Finally, Von Struck’s weapon fired and clicked its last bullet. He pulled his blade and charged, swinging in every direction. The order and discipline with which they had been able to face the first of the vampire charges was lost to the sheer weight of enemy numbers.

Swiftly the vampires were among them. All pretence of a fighting perimeter was lost as each man fought for his life. Every ashed vampire was immediately replaced by another but the men fought tirelessly on. Overwhelmed by the rage of battle and the power of the tree, both man and beast succumbed to the lust for death.

*  *  *

Above them, the sky split open and the heavens crashed their symphony as Utu, the ancient God of the sun, pushed forward to meet the Dracyl.

"There, Vampire, if you doubted me, see now who comes to answer our call," Lilith spat at the count. They stood behind the building that held the shrine for the count himself.

He looked to the splintering, booming sky, and for the first time in his life, Count Vlad Dracyl Blestamatul recognised the emotion of fear.

"It’s now or never, Vampire. Your fate awaits you. Face the Gods or return to your night.”

He shouldered the responsibility of his destiny and stepped forward out of the cover of the building that housed his shrine, and into the circle.

Raising his arms to the radiant clouds, he shouted the Sun God’s name, demanding his presence. "Utu!” he roared and once again the vampires miraculously melted away from the fight under the tree.      "Utu, come and face the power of the Dracyl and the ten named ones in the Book of Blood!” He stood in front of one of the buildings with his arms held high, as if inviting the lightning that reached out and stroked his outstretched arms. The current passed through him but he remained untroubled and unhurt.

Instinct told the other vampires to run, to leave the circle, and in their place stepped forth the vampires named in the Book, as one by one they moved from behind the buildings.

Von Struck’s men watched in mute surprise as the ceremony played out before them.

"What’s he saying?" Inselman asked nobody in particular.

"It’s the vampire tongue he speaks," Mordechai answered. "I don’t know what’s being said, though.”

Lilith appeared, carrying the armour of her long dead king, Szaran.

"Maria," Von Struck whispered to himself in remembrance. Then he switched back on. "Quick, clear the weapons. We may need them soon."

The squad feverishly searched for their firearms that they’d let fall as they’d taken to the sword, but it was too late. The retreating horde had taken them with them.

"Then we’ll just do this the old-fashioned way." Von Struck smiled mirthlessly as he took the news.

Once again the cry went up from the Dracyl. "Utu, hear us, hear our demand to end this curse.”

Von Struck saw that there were more vampires coming forward and he knew that time was running out.

*  *  *

Smith came back to his senses to find somebody cutting his bonds.

"Shush, be quiet. The vampires are all around us."

It was a woman—no, a girl, he decided. He turned to see who it was and gasped when he recognised the face.

"Iullia, what are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer immediately but explained as she cut. "I saw you talking to Lilith and the Dracyl. I thought you were one of them until I heard Lilith talking, and then I knew. So I waited until they were gone. Then Lilith came to me and told me I could set you free now.”

"Lilith told you to set me free?”

"Yes.” She stopped cutting to speak over his shoulder. "I don’t know how she knew where I was but suddenly she was standing in front of me. She’s got something up her sleeve.”

She cut the bonds and they scrambled over to the ring on the wall to which he was chained.

"The clay is old. I couldn’t pull it out but perhaps you can," she explained.

He pulled at the ring and it fell into his hand. "I can’t run, though. How can we get away if I can’t run?”

They looked around for something to prise the chains off with when suddenly they heard the cry go up. "Utu!”

"Oh my God, it’s happening," she said and feverishly searched for a lever. He found an old wheel spoke and wedged his legs so that she could force the chain link with it. It broke easily and Smith stood up and took her hand.

"Where are you going?” she asked in consternation. "We’ve got to get away into the woods.”

”No, we have to help my friends. If we go into the woods, the vampires will hunt after us.”

She shook her head. "No, they only hunt if they’ve been told to hunt and they know you’re there. That’s why I could elude them. They were too stupid to understand who I was.”

"It doesn’t matter, I’ve got to help them. Come with me. You’ll be safer than out here on your own.”

She nodded and they set quietly off.

Chapter 65

Vlad stepped forward another pace and pointed to the armour that lay on the floor in front of the next building. "Utu, I call upon Szaran, the second name in the Book of Blood. Utu, I call upon Pfahl, the third name in the Book of Blood.” And so it went on as Vlad Dracyl named the vampires one by one—Thrace, Baloch, Daziel, and Szoltan.

Next he named himself and pointed to where Smith should have stood.

There was nobody there.

"Where is he?" he screamed. "Give me my brother to show.”

Nothing happened, then out of the far side of the building he saw two people running towards the circle of fires around the tree. He reacted immediately. "Marik, take him!”

From out of the tree line, the werewolf Marik bounded towards them, snarling as he ran, making his intent plain.

"Oh my God!” Stephanie exclaimed, holding onto Rohleder’s arm. Rohleder hefted his sword but he knew he could do nothing.

Suddenly, from their left, a blackened figure streaked out to intercept their attacker.

Mordechai sprinted on all fours at the other werewolf who changed direction to meet the threat. They collided head-on in mid-flight.

The clash seemed to be played in slow motion as Marik opened his jaws to bite into Mordechai’s neck. Mordechai snarled and jinked in mid-air as Marik’s fangs bit into his front right leg.

Mordechai gave a yelp but his feint had worked and he dipped his head to bite into Marik’s throat from the side. The blood spurted out in a wash and Marik gave a last, gargled yap as he landed hard at Mordechai’s feet. Mordechai bit deeper into the neck until the head came off and then, standing back on two legs again, he held the head up to the Dracyl.

The Dracyl screamed his rage. "Werewolf, you belong to me. You will come here and obey me as it is written in the Werewolf Commandments.”

Mordechai held the head aloft and threw it at the vampires. "I belong to nobody, Vampire. Your Werewolf Commandments are only for those beholden to your kind and now, with your werewolf’s death, I am beholden to nobody," his deep bass rumbled, and he turned around to stalk back to the tree.

Smith ran, pulling Iullia with him. As they reached the circle, Michael met them and wordlessly embraced Iullia. "I thought you had gone over to the other side."

"Never, brother.” Their reunion was quick and emotionless.

Von Struck listened as Smith and Iullia filled them in as to what was happening.

"Put your faith in the Lord. Only he can help us now," Iullia finished.

“I’ll put my faith in my sword because up to now he’s the only thing that has helped without breaking down on me,” Henning uncharacteristically huffed.

*  *  *

As if Utu had been waiting for the right moment to proceed, the sky cracked again and suddenly a beam of light hit the ground before the Dracyl, who involuntarily took a step back.

Though shaken by the loss of his brother and the werewolf’s defiance, he knew he had to bring the ceremony to its conclusion, so he cried out the last names on the list. "Utu, I call upon Dragan, the tenth name in the Book of Blood and now I call upon Lilith, the first name in the Book of Blood and architect of your demise.”

Lilith walked forward, holding the Book of Blood aloft. The beam of light widened into a circle and she stepped into it, shouting, "Utu, I demand the return of all my powers. With this Book I contest your authority over me. With the birth of your son Dragan, fathered by the Son of Utu and carried by me, I contest your authority over me." And then, shrieking with resentment, "I deny you, O ancient one, in the name of the prophesies and of the names written herein.”

The circle of light grew and Lilith turned to face the vampires. She singled Vlad Dracyl out and triumphantly decreed, "Now Dracyl, now you will die. All your faith in me will be repaid by Utu’s vengeance against you.”

”What do you mean, Demon? Speak the truth to me or feel my wrath.” His body started to swell in rage and suddenly it burst into his angry alter ego. He circled the light like a tiger prowling around a caged prey, his entire body filled out like a bull elephant.

"Demon, as Utu is my witness, I will destroy you and eat your haggard body whole. What do you mean? I want the truth! I want the truth!” He screamed the last and the blast of air he exhaled moved Lilith’s hair.

"Dracyl, you and your whole bloodline are victims to your own vanity and slothfulness. You flaunted the rules and folklore laid down in the Book, you fumbled the rituals and you believed that I would do all your running for you. I am not your slave, Vampire. I was never your slave.” This time she screamed at him and the vampires in the woods surrounding them began to howl and hiss their anger. "Did you think just because your brother was born to the bloodline that he would be able to sire a vampire? He was and still is human. You should have changed him, you fool. You let the Son of Utu sow his seed as a human and you let his mother live. The last name in the Book, Dragan, was born to mortal parents. In name only is he one of the ten but he is not a vampire. Dracyl, you have only eight vampires here and that is not enough to end Utu’s curse, you pathetic fool." She laughed callously at him, loudly and without shame.

The count made to step forward into the light again but stopped himself and roared his frustration at the humiliation. Lilith laughed ever louder and suddenly stopped. She pointed at him. "Now you will see what your ignorance has brought you. Tell your vampires to flee, for Utu comes and with him he brings death to all night stalkers.”

"Never!” he screamed and took a step forward into the light but in an instant his leg caught flame and he sprang back like a scorched cat.

"Utu,” he beseeched the sky. "Utu, kill this demon, take her for me and leave me only the gift of the day.”

He fell to his knees and clasped his hands in worship. "I want nothing more than to hunt the day and to serve you, O great and powerful Utu.”

Lilith spat at him from inside the circle. "You worm, Utu won’t listen to dung-eating cowards like you. He respects only power and now you will burn for your failure to take him seriously.”

Slowly the circle around Lilith started to grow. It touched the Count’s boot and it caught fire immediately, but he stayed in the position of supplication, crying over and over again, "Utu, I beseech thee, take me into your bosom, I am your humble slave. Utu, I beg of you, I implore you.”

However, as the circle grew it took his whole body and he burnt as bright as the sun. Lilith screamed her triumph over the Dracyl and his line as Vlad Dracyl Blestamatul burnt to a cinder.

"Can you believe this?" Rohleder whispered to Stephanie. She shook her head slowly in mute disbelief.

Michael turned to the squad. "Listen, this is where we enter the realm of the unknown. Lilith will come for the tree but we have to stop her. Get your swords ready.”

An unspoken current of preparation rolled through them all as weapons were raised and positions found.

All the while, the circle of light had developed until it reached the buildings surrounding the tree. The bloodline of the Dracyl was engulfed by the fiery tide and they each burnt where they stood. Only the baby Dragan was spared, laid out on a blanket with the Dracyl banner embroidered on it.

Lilith turned to the woods to address the unseen vampires. "Vampires, you now belong to me. I will regain my power at the Tree of Life and we will rule the world. Through me you will once again hunt the day!”

She turned to the tree and boldly stepped forward.

"She’s coming. Swords, men!" Von Struck commanded and, as one, they lifted their blades to face the demon.

Mordechai ran at her from the side. With breathtaking speed he sprinted on all fours and sprang to attack her left side.

Lilith calmly raised her hand as if to stop something and the werewolf hit an invisible wall. He fell to the floor and lay still.

"Stay under the tree, men," Michael muttered. "It’s here where we’ll kill her.”

She calmly walked into the perimeter of fires and they wordlessly spread out to encircle her. Henning, Rohleder, Michael and Borkin moved to the left, Von Struck, Nau, Gruhn, Inselman to the right.

Lilith didn’t waver in her pace and marched up through the middle.

"Now!” Von Struck shouted and they attacked as one from six feet away. Again, she raised her left hand and all were instantly bowled over by an unseen wave.

Before any of them could regain their wits, she was past them and only Stephanie and Iullia were left standing in her way.

Stephanie hesitated and swung the blade above her head to charge. Lilith swept her away before she’d taken one step and impassively walked by.

Iullia stood alone. Lilith was a mere ten feet away. She stopped. Iullia blinked as Lilith began to chant in a foreign language, holding the Book up to the tree.

Suddenly a cracking sound from behind made Iullia turn her head. The tree was opening up and from inside the ever-increasing gash came a white light. It grew in intensity until she was forced to avert her gaze to avoid being blinded by the glare, and then her eyes fell on the sword that Stephanie had dropped.

Von Struck was the first to regain his senses and stand up. He looked around and saw that the vampires were now out of the woods and hovering on the outside of the circle of light. Their numbers astounded him and he fleetingly wondered at their audacity to take on such a vast army.

He turned to see Iullia pick up the sword that Stephanie had dropped. He looked for his own, saw it and ducked down to retrieve it.

Lilith, for the first time, noticed Iullia. The tree slowly opened up and now, with Utu beaten and too weak to oppose her, nothing stood in her way. All that Lilith needed to do was enter the tree again and her powers would change the world.

From behind she heard Von Struck running up for another attack. She turned to meet him and held her hand up. One second he was running, the next he lay on his back, his chest heaving to suck in air. This time he found himself held to the floor by an invisible pressure. He turned his head to look at the squad and saw they too were all pinned down.

"It’s over,” he thought. "We’ve lost." He struggled to sit up but the weight and pain were too much and he listened in despair as the tree cracked open another notch and watched as the beam of light passed over him.

Lilith turned back to the tree. Iullia had picked up the sword and stood before her, the last barrier between herself and untold power.

"Out of the way, child. I will let you live when it’s over, so don’t make me kill you now.”

Iullia, stone-faced and intense, uttered one word: "Never!”

She reversed the sword so it resembled a cross and, holding it in front of her, she knelt to pray. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis …”

The demon frowned as the sky rumbled and suddenly, as the hole in the tree started to close, Lilith realised what was happening.

"Sanctificetur nomen tuum …”

A bolt of lightning crashed on the horizon, followed by another and then another. Lilith followed the sound in panicked jerky movements.

"Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua …”

The hole finally closed and the creaking of moving wood silenced. Lilith’s face contorted in rage as she screamed her hatred at Iullia who blithely continued praying,

"Sicut in caelo et in terra Panem nostrum quotiddianum da nobis hodie …”

She moved towards Iullia but was suddenly blinded by the sword which now radiated a brilliant white light that pushed her back with its intensity. Von Struck found the pressure on him gone and, keeping his eye on Lilith, stood slowly.

"Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.”

The whole squad was on its feet. They looked in awe at the vampires surrounding them. The army of the Dracyl was turning in on itself in fear. Knowing that the end was nigh, their gut instinct to being threatened was to attack and so, with nobody else within reach, they attacked their own.

"Somewhere in there is Jurgen,” Henning quietly muttered as he surveyed the mass of blood-crazed monsters setting about each other.

"And Bernd,” Rohleder added. "God help them.”

The heavens once again rumbled and the light from the circle blinded them all. The vampires fell to the ground, wailing and howling in fear.

Lilith said nothing. She knew it was over. She held the Book up to the skies and turned to face the soldiers as Iullia intoned reverentially to herself.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.”

James Smith looked at the face of the girl once known as Maria. He knew who she was but his heart tugged forlornly at her memory and he longed to protect and hold her. He hesitantly took a step forward but was stopped by a restraining hand on his forearm. Looking around he saw Von Struck wordlessly shaking his head.

Henning came up to the pair of them, his sword in hand. "Deliver us from evil.” He nodded as if approving of the idea and shouted to the men, "Deliverance!”

His call was once again taken up by the rest. "Deliverance!” they shouted, lifting their swords to the writhing vampire horde. "Deliverance!” they roared at the mute and broken Lilith. "Deliverance!” they screamed as Iullia spoke the last words of the Oratio Dominica to banish Lilith and the vampire plague to oblivion.

"Sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

The sky ripped open and the world turned a gleaming white. At first they closed their eyes to its brightness but slowly, one by one, they opened them again. The circle, the forest, everywhere was bathed in a radiant, cleansing light.

Smith looked again at Lilith who had now returned to her original body. Her bald, withered skull screamed in agony as the purging, heavenly fire gradually engulfed her. In one last beseeching gesture she reached a hand out to Smith and finally fell to lie in the inferno of her own damnation.

All around, the vampires burned where they lay. Only the humans were spared the terrible fiery end and they watched in awestruck silence as the scene played out before them.

The vampire army burst into flames but didn’t burn to ash, to be blown away by the wind, as had happened when they had been struck by the silver. Instead they lay where they fell like charred logs.

The light slowly dimmed and, with a rushing vent of air, it turned dark.

Chapter 66

Nobody moved or said a word. The shock of the vampire apocalypse had pushed them to the edge of insanity and back. Mere words could not help them articulate what they had witnessed.

Rohleder blinked and purposely strode up to Stephanie. They held each other in a silent embrace as one by one the squad got to grips with the situation.

Borkin caught Rohleder’s eye and smiled as he nodded. If he ever doubted that Stephanie loved only the German, he was now certain. Rohleder closed his eyes gratefully and silently nodded back to him.

Iullia ran to the baby to make sure he was well. Scooping him up into her arms, she crushed him to her until he cried in shock and indignation. The baby’s bright blue, glass-clear eyes looked up quizzically at her and she smiled to see that he was fit. She laughed as she turned to the squad.

"He’s fine," she called, thinking that they were interested.

Smith stood over the last remains of Maria. Was that really the end of it? Her charcoaled corpse held her arms to her chest and a small breeze stirred a piece of the hide that had bound the Book of Blood.

He bent down to pick it up, pausing before he touched it, expecting an electric shock or something of that nature. There was nothing, only the small burnt triangle of human hide from one of the corners. It fitted in the palm of his hand and was all that had survived the inferno of Maria’s death.

"Are you alright, Englishman?" It was Rohleder and Stephanie.

He stood up and nodded, wordlessly pushing the leathery scrap into Rohleder’s hand. "A souvenir, the last fragment of the Book of Blood.”

"What do I want with it?" he started, but Stephanie closed her hand around his and he put it in his pocket.

Smith looked back down at Maria and sighed. "Michael, life just isn’t fair.”

"I know, James.” Stephanie answered instead. "We all know.”

Von Struck broke their languor. "Right, let’s get out of here before Ivan comes. We haven’t got ten million vampires to protect us anymore. Stephanie, would you go and see to Mordechai? He likes you so I don’t think he’ll bite your head off when you try to wake him.”

They picked up their weapons and started in the direction of the castle.

Von Struck hovered over the scorched residue of what was once the beautiful woman Maria. He thought back to the first time he’d met her all those months ago. He remembered her exquisiteness and a flicker of sorrow momentarily caught up with him.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, thinking he was alone.

"Talking to yourself is one of the first signs of cracking up, old man.” It was Smith.

"Would you blame me?" He half-smiled.

Pausing a minute before answering, Smith said, "No, I wouldn’t blame anybody for cracking after what we endured, and we’ve still got to get back to Germany.”

"Are you coming with us to Germany?”

Smith hesitated before answering. "I don’t really see any alternative at the moment. Iullia wants to look after the child so I suppose I may tag along to make sure all is running smoothly.”

"Good, I’m glad there’ll be a good man going with the women. I’ll take my SS men straight up north; you head west. That way there’ll be no danger of Ivan thinking you’re with the SS if we’re caught. Keep the women out of Ivan’s path, James. Try to reach the Americans. Michael and Inselman will probably have to go with you, too.”

Smith raised his eyebrows but said nothing. There didn’t seem to be anything to add. He nodded and wordlessly turned to walk back to the rest of the squad.

Von Struck looked back down to Maria’s remains as a sudden gust caught the flaked ashes under her ribcage and revealed a sliver of hard, brown leather. He knew instinctively what it was and bent down to scoop it up.

"The Book of Blood,” he whispered as he fingered its course texture. It was a splinter of the hide that made the spine of the cover, and a giddy surge of taboo rocked him. Brushing the ash off, he put it in the inside pocket of his tunic and buttoning it up before turning to follow the others.

Borkin went to retrieve his rifle from the tree and his eyes fell on the camera. An idea hit him and he picked it up to take some photos of the charred corpses. He could easily sell a picture of burnt bodies and SS soldiers as the last action of one of the atrocity camps, or just tell the general he witnessed a mass execution of a village.

"Please, everybody, look at me,” he called to the troops’ backs.

They had just reached the sea of corpses as he shouted to them and he caught the moment perfectly as they turned—SS soldiers, exhausted and shocked, standing in a field of burnt corpses. Everybody would believe him now.

Michael’s eyes screwed up in shrewd deliberation. "I need a copy of that picture. Can you get one to me?”

"I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, you are the enemy. How would I explain that I’m sending a picture to an officer in the SS?”

Michael inclined his head in concurrence. "What if you just take some more pictures, remove the film and give it to me? Then you could take some more.”

"I could. I’ve got more film with me. What do you want to do, take souvenir pictures?”

"No, I just need to send a few snaps to somebody.”

Borkin was intrigued, "Who?” he asked.

"Don’t ask." Michael smiled tiredly.

Von Struck surveyed the field of blackened carcasses and inwardly sighed. Nobody would ever hear of this battle. It would remain an unwritten chapter in the annals of history, forgotten and lost for all eternity.

He looked at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief at what had happened and at what they had achieved. They had won the last battle in a thousand-year war. They had triumphed against evil and saved mankind, so why did he feel so cheap?

Iullia, with all her blind faith and innocence, had won it for them. They hadn’t won by tactics or bravery, they had been lucky and that seemed a dishonest and hollow type of victory. He felt almost fraudulent. "But aren’t nearly all victories subject to the will of the Gods?" he reasoned to himself and laughed softly as he realised he was, as ever, questioning his own merits and failings. Had he always disliked himself or only since he’d taken on the black uniform of the SS? He’d never know.

Shaking his head, he blinked his suspicions away. He lifted his vision to the dawn-cracked heavens and whispered to the only person he felt he had to answer to. "We beat them, Father, we did it. We kept to the code and we beat them.”

Chapter 67

Lübeck

March, 1945

Heinrich Himmler sat at his desk, broken by the weight of the events of the last four years. All their plans and dreams for the Reich had crashed on the rocks of the Allied Resistance.

They had faced the world alone, fighting for an Aryan utopia fit for every Germanic man to be proud of. Did Europe not realise that only together could they face the Bolshevik menace from the east? Only a Reich made up of the combined powers of Western Europe would be powerful enough to oppose the powers of World Jewry?

However, all was lost. Destiny had turned her back on the German people and thrown her naked to the wolves. If only Britain and America had listened to him last year, perhaps all would have been different. "If only, if only," he mused to himself.

He looked down at the pile of mail the secretary had laid on his desk. The majority was internal memos and situation updates on the Allied advance. He placed them to one side, not wanting to think about what was actually happening on the front. He’d lost all interest in military matters when he resigned his command of Army Group Vistula. He’d look at them later, he decided.

One of the letters caught his eye. It was marked private and the envelope was handwritten. He picked it up and read the name of the sender, 'von der Heyde'. He breathed. He’d almost forgotten about his mission to Romania.

He paused momentarily before opening it, aware that perhaps this could bring the news he had hoped for. Did this letter hold the key to the Aryan counterattack? Would the count side with him to destroy the Bolsheviks in the east and the Capitalists from the west?

He feverishly ripped at the envelope and looked inside. There was no letter, so he frantically upended the sachet and shook it to make sure.

A single photo fluttered down onto his desk and landed face down in front of him. He snatched at it but his moist fingertips could get no grip on the card, and he was forced to slow down to hook it over with his fingernails.

The scene portrayed on the shiny black and white surface told him everything he needed to know.

Heinrich Himmler looked impassively down at the carnage of burnt carcasses and broken souls and closed his eyes in a silent curse. His hopes of an alliance with the Dracyl were now as dead as his dreams for the Third Reich.

All was lost. He knew now that his only chance lay in turning his back on the Führer to make last ditch negotiations with the Allies.

Epilogue

The Harz Mountains, Germany

Present Day

The priest looked down at the dead man one last time before moving to close the lid of the coffin. The mourning widow standing behind him saw that he was about to do.

"Wait please, Father, I have something I need to do.”

"Of course. Please, I’ll leave you to say goodbye.” He solemnly left the room. He had performed countless burials in his life but this was the first time he had buried a fellow priest. It brought the whole weight of his own mortality down on him and he realised that one day he too would be put in the last resting place by another member of his vocation.

Alone at last, she looked down at her deceased husband. She traced a finger along the fine scars on his face and a last tear squeezed out of one of her eyes.

"Oh Michael" she fondly whispered.

She rummaged quickly in her handbag and pulled out the leathery scrap they had looked after all these years. He had used it as a bookmark for the Bible on the lectern since he took over the small congregation all those years ago. At first she’d thought it blasphemous to even consider having it in the church. However, gradually she realised that such an abomination could only safely be kept confined within the pages of the Bible and that’s where it stayed until his passing. Now Stephanie thought it would be better if it went with him.

"God bless you, Michael Rohleder. Wait for me. It won’t be long until I’m with you,” she said and she bent down to kiss him on the lips.

Just as she closed the coffin lid, a small voice broke the silence. "Grandma, are you ready yet? Can I say goodbye to Grandpa, too?”

She turned to see a little girl standing by the door.

"Grandpa is already gone, baby, but he told me to tell you he loves you very much and he’s waiting for us all in heaven."

The End

Dedications

No man is an island and this book has shown me that I'm as landlocked as Lichtenstein.

So I'd like to dedicate it firstly to my family who didn't bat an eyelid when I told them I was going to write a book; and instead boasted to their friends of all my minor achievements. Steph, Dan, Chels, and both sides of the family in Wales and Germany, I love you all.

Also to all who helped me along the way: Tee, Richard, Chee, George, Adam, Vanessa, Dixie, Bob, Chris, Andy, Joey, Gar, Ange and last but not least Tim of Night Publishing. When I needed you, you were there for me and I thank you for it.

Also to all my newfound friends at Night.

And finally to the brave lads and lasses of 1st the Queen's Dragoon Guards, both serving and veterans. Pro rege et patria.

Table of Contents

- Copyright
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Part 2
- Epigraphs
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Part 3
- Epigraphs
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Chapter 60
- Chapter 61
- Chapter 62
- Chapter 63
- Chapter 64
- Chapter 66
- Chapter 67
- Epilogue
- Dedications