He released her and stepped up to the wall.
"I'm going to see what's going on in there," he said. "You wait here
till I come down."
In sudden dread Vilma seized his arm. "No, Cliff. I couldn't stand
waiting here alone. I'll go with you."
He nodded understandingly. And together they began climbing the
precipitous wall, fitting hands and feet in step-like crevices that
made progress fairly rapid. Soon they were crouching on a wide stone
ledge, clinging to thin, rusted bars, staring into the black castle.
_3. The Steps of Torture_
A gigantic hall lay before them, a single chamber whose walls were the
walls of the castle, whose arched ceiling rose far above them.
Directly below their window a stone platform jutted from the wall,
spreading entirely across the chamber. A stone altar squatted in the
center of the platform, a strangely phosphorescent fire smoldering on
its top. And from the altar descended a wide, wide stairway ending in
the middle of the hall. All this Cliff saw in a single sweeping
glance; afterward he had eyes for nothing save the lethal horror of a
mad, mad scene, revealed by the dim radiance of the altar fire.
Behind the altar stood five huge figures clad in long, hooded cloaks
of scarlet. The central figure had arms raised wide, his cloak spread
like the wings of some bloody bird of prey; and from his lips came a
guttural incantation, a blasphemous chant in archaic Latin, in time
with the wheeze of the buried organ. Now his arms dropped, and he was
silent.
From the room below came a concerted whine of ceremonial devotion, a
hollow, hungry wail. It rose from the bloodless lips of strangely
assorted human figures ranging down the center of the long stairway in
two facing columns. A hundred or more there must have been,
representing half as many periods and countries, according to their
strange and ancient costumes. Men in the armor of medieval Persia--the
crew of the black galley; yellow-haired Vikings; hawk-faced Egyptians
with leather-brown skins; half-naked islanders; red-sashed pirates
from the Spanish main; men of today! And about all, like the dampness
that clings to a tombstone, hovered a cloud of--death! The undead!
Cliff's gaze roved over the tensely waiting columns, then leaped to
the foot of the stairs. There, cowering dumbly like sheep in a
slaughter-pen, were his friends from the _Ariel_. All clothing had
been stripped from them, and they stood waiting in waxen, statuesque
stiffness. He saw then that three others lay prone before the stone
altar, naked and ominously still.
And far down at the very end of the hall stood Leon Corio, draped in a
hooded cape of unbroken black, a glint of silver in his hand--his horn
of drugging sounds.
Now, as though at a silent command, a girl left the group and began to
mount the stairs, as those motionless three must have mounted!
Vivacious Ann--she had been the life of Cliff's yacht party; but now
she was--changed. Her blanched face was rigid with inexpressible
terror despite the semi-stupor which numbed her senses. Her nude body
glowed like marble in the dim light. Horribly, her feet began their
climb with a little catch step suggested by the moaning chant of that
cracked organ note.
She reached the first of the undead, and Cliff saw light glint on a
knife-blade. A crimson gash appeared in the flesh of her thigh; and
dead lips touched that wound, drank thirstily. The girl strode on,
blood gleaming darkly on the white skin. A second drank of the crimson
flow--a third--and the blood ceased gushing forth.
Another knife flashed--and lips closed again and again on a redly
dripping wound. And the girl with the unchanging pace of a robot
climbed the stairway to its very top--climbed while fiendish corpses
drank her life's blood--climbed, to sink down on the altar.
One of the red-clad figures stooped over her, lifted her, buried long
teeth in her throat--and Cliff saw his face.... His own face paled,
and talons of fear raked his brain. Those others on the stairs--they
were abhorrent, zombies freed from the grave. But this monster! A
vampire vested with the lust and cruelty and power of hell!
He lowered her, finally, and she sank down, lay still, beside the
other three.
Another began the hellish climb, a giant of a man with a thickly
muscled torso. Cliff knew him instantly; and his heart seemed to stop.
Leslie Starke! They'd played football together. A brave man--a
fighter. He mounted the stairway with the same little catch step, the
same plodding stiffness. No resistance, no struggle--only a hell of
fear on his face.
The marrow melted from Cliff Darrell's bones. What--what could he do
against a power that did _that_ to Les Starke? He tried to swallow,
but the saliva had dried on his tongue. He wanted to turn to Vilma,
but he could not wrench his eyes from the frightful spectacle.
Up the stone steps Starke strode. And no blade leaped toward him; no
thirsty lips closed on his flesh! In an unwavering line he mounted
toward the cowled monster in the center of the dais, like a puppet on
the end of a string; mounted to pause before the stone altar, to lie
on it, head bent back, throat bared.... Mercifully Cliff regained
enough control to close his eyes.
He opened them at a gasp from Vilma; saw the vampire raise the flaccid
body of Les Starke and hurl it far from him, to crash to the stone
steps, to roll and thud and tumble, down and down, sickeningly, to lie
awkwardly twisted on the floor before his companions!
And another began to climb the long stone steps....
All through the interminable night Cliff and Vilma crouched on the
ledge, staring through the barred window. A hundred times they would
have fled to escape the maddening scene, but they could not move.
Senses reeled before the awful monotony of the ceaseless climbing,
their eyes smarted with fixed staring, their tongues and throats were
parched to desert dryness; yet only after hours of endless watching,
only after the last victim had climbed the steps, did the edge of
terror dull, and a modicum of control return to their bodies.
Stiffly Cliff looked over his shoulder. A faint tinge of gray rimmed
the sea on the eastern horizon.
"Almost daylight," he whispered hoarsely.
Vilma nodded, her gaze still held by that chamber of horror. Cliff
followed the direction of her eyes; and saw Corio standing like a
great bat in his hooded cape close to the far wall. He raised his
four-piped horn to his lips. And the instrument's fourth note crept
through the room.
* * * * *
It was a doleful sound, a cry like the cry Death itself might possess;
yet oddly--and horribly--it was soothing, promising the peace of
endless sleep. And touched by its power, the columns of undead
stiffened, thinned to wraiths, flowed as water flows down the stone
steps, vanished!
The dead-alive--those five vampires in crimson cowls--looked upward
uneasily. The shadows under the roof were graying with the light of
dawn. Cliff could sense their thought. Before sunrise they must be in
their tombs under the castle, to sleep until another night. With one
accord they strode down the stairs, past Corio who had prostrated
himself, and entered a black opening in the wall. With their departure
the altar fire dimmed to a sullen ember.
Corio arose. He was alone in the chamber save for that dead, broken
body lying in a twisted heap at the foot of the stairs, and those
other half-alive wretches stretched out before the altar. Now, Cliff
told himself, was the time for him to get in there at Corio; now was
the time to rescue his friends--but he continued to crouch, unmoving.
Again Corio blew on his silver horn, and a faint cry leaped from
Vilma's tensed lips. The luring note that had drawn her, Cliff thought
hazily; then he thought of nothing save the sound, the sound that
promised him all he could desire. Earth and its dominion, his for the
taking--if he answered that call!... Then even the sound eluded his
senses, and he heard only the promise.... He must answer, must claim
what was rightfully his!
But those half-dead creatures--sight of their stirring steadied his
staggering sanity. Here and there heads lifted and bloodless husks of
bodies tried to rise. In the pallid light they seemed like corpses,
freed from newly opened graves. Some could only reach their knees;
others rose to uncertain limbs. And all moved down the stairway toward
Corio, answering his summons; followed as he made his slow way toward
the opening in the wall, still blowing the single note--the note that
promised Earth and all it held....
Cliff glanced toward Vilma--and she was not there. He looked down, saw
her far below, dropping from crack to crevice with amazing speed and
daring, hastening toward--Corio!
The thought jarred any lingering taint of allurement from Cliff's
mind. He must stop her. He swung around, ignoring the cramped
stiffness of his legs, and started down the steep wall. Down, down,
recklessly, with Corio's horn-note only a faintly heard sound fading
behind him.
Now he saw Vilma reach the rocks below and dash around the corner of
the castle, and he cursed, redoubling his speed. Down--down--and
suddenly the ancient rock crumbled underfoot. For an instant he hung
from straining fingertips--then dropped.
A smashing impact--a stone that slid beneath him--and his head crashed
against the castle wall. Through a fiery mist of pain he pictured
Vilma in the grasp of Corio. The mist thickened--grew black--engulfed
him.
_4. In Corio's Hands_
Cliff awoke with the sun glaring down on his face. He opened his eyes,
and stabbing lances of light pierced his eyeballs. Momentarily
blinded, he pressed his hands across his face and struggled erect.
There was a sick feeling in his stomach, and the back of his head
throbbed incessantly. He touched the aching area, and winced. A lump
like an egg thrust out his scalp; it was sticky with blood. He stood
there, weaving from side to side, trying to recall something....
As memory came, he groaned. Vilma! He had last seen her racing madly
toward Corio, lured by his damned horn. It was daylight now; the sun
had risen at least an hour ago. An hour--with Vilma gone!
Shaking his head to clear it, and gritting his teeth at the pain, he
stalked along the wall. Turning the corner he strode on toward the
crooked steps. The lifeless terrain reeled dizzily, but he went on
resolutely. The pain in his head was fading to a dull ache; and as he
mounted the steps, strength seemed to flow back into his legs. With
every sense taut he passed into the gloom of the castle.
A quick glance he cast about--saw the body of Starke lying where it
had fallen. No use to examine it; there was no life there. His gaze
swept up the slope of the stairway to the altar at its head, lingered
on the phosphorescent eye of light still glowing there. Then he
shrugged grimly and moved on to the doorway in the wall. Warily he
peered in.
As his eyes adjusted themselves to the greater darkness, he saw a
narrow stairway leading downward into a shadowy corridor. Somewhere in
the tunnel's depths a faint light shone. He could see nothing more. He
moved stealthily down the damp, dank stairs.
At the bottom he paused, listening. He could hear nothing. A hundred
feet ahead, the corridor divided in two; a burning torch was thrust in
the wall at the junction. Cliff nodded with satisfaction. Corio _must_
be somewhere near by; for only a human needed light.
Silently Cliff strode along the corridor. At the fork he hesitated,
then chose the right branch, for light glowed faintly along that
passageway. The other led downward, black as the pits of hell.
A doorway appeared in the wall ahead, and he moved warily, with fists
clenched. Flickering torchlight filtered into the corridor. There was
no audible sound. Now Cliff peered into a small chamber, and gasped in
sudden horror, his eyes staring unwinkingly at a spectacle incredibly
pitiful.
Here were the passengers of the _Ariel_, whitely naked, and lying in
little groups on the cold stone floor, huddled together for warmth.
Their faces turned toward Darrell as he stood in the doorway, but
there was no recognition in the vacuous eyes, no thought, no
intelligence, and little life in the wide-mouthed stares. It seemed as
though their souls had been drained from their bodies with their
blood.
Sickened, Cliff turned away, cursing his own helplessness to aid them,
cursing Leon Corio who was responsible for their plight. Black wrath
gripped him as he moved on.
Again the corridor branched, and again he kept to the right. Suddenly
he halted, ears straining. He heard the sound of a voice--the hollow
voice of Corio! It came faintly but clearly from a room at the end of
the passageway. Cliff went forward slowly.
"And so, my dear," Corio was saying, "we entered into a pact with
the--Master, a pact sealed with blood. In exchange for our lives we
three were to bring other humans to this island for the feasting of
the dead-alive. Every third month each of us must return with our
cargo when the moon is full; and since we come back on alternating
months, they have a constant supply of fresh blood. Usually some of
our captives live from full moon to full moon before they become like
those of the galley--the undead. Some of these we waken when it suits
our fancy; they are not like the Masters; they awaken only when we
call them--we three or the Masters.
"More than life they give us for what we do. Centuries ago pirates
used this island for refuge. They--died--and they left their treasure
in this castle. It lies in the room where the Masters lie; and we
three receive payment in gold and gems. Tonight I receive my pay, and
tomorrow I leave on the _Ariel_--and you go with me!"
Cliff heard Vilma answer, and even while his heart leaped with relief,
he marveled at the cool scorn in her voice.
"So I go with you, do I? I'd rather climb the stairs with the rest of
your victims than have anything to do with you--you monster! When
Cliff Darrell finds you----"
"Darrell!" Corio's voice was a frozen sneer. "He'll do nothing! I'll
find _him_--and he'll wish he could climb the stairs of blood! As for
you, you'll go with me, and like it! A drop of my blood in your veins,
and you will belong to the Master, as I do. We shall attend to that;
but first there is something else--more pleasant." His words fell to
an indistinguishable purr.
Still moving stealthily, Cliff hastened forward. Suddenly Vilma
screamed; and he launched himself madly across the remaining distance,
stood crouching at the threshold.
Vilma lay on an ancient bed, her wrists and ankles bound with leather
thongs drawn about the four tall bed-posts. Only the torn remnants of
her under-garments covered the rounded contours of her body, and Corio
crouched over her, caressing the pink flesh. Vilma writhed beneath his
touch.
* * * * *
Cliff growled deep in his throat as he sprang. Corio spun around and
leaped aside, but he was too slow to escape Cliff's powerful lunge.
One hand closed on his thin neck, and the other, a rock-like fist,
made a bloody ruin of his mouth. Howling with pain, Corio tried to
sink his teeth in Cliff's arm.
Cliff flung him aside, following with the easy glide of a boxer. Corio
crawled to his feet, cringing, dodging before the nemesis that stalked
him. Again Cliff leaped, and Corio, yellow with fear, darted around
the bed and ran wildly into the hallway. At the door Cliff checked
himself, reason holding him. Corio could elude him with ease in this
labyrinth of passages; and his first concern was Vilma's safety.
He returned to the bed. Vilma looked up at him with such relief and
thankfulness on her face that Cliff, with a little choked cry, flung
himself to his knees beside the bed and kissed her hungrily. For
moments their lips clung; then Cliff straightened shakily, trying to
laugh.
"We've got to get out of here, sweetheart," he said. "I'm not afraid
of Corio, but he knows things about this place that we don't know.
After you're safe on the yacht, I'll come back and get him."
He looked around for something with which to cut her bonds. On the
wall above the bed were crossed a pair of murderous-looking cutlasses.
Seizing one of these, Cliff wrenched it from its fastenings and drew
it through the cords.... She stood beside him, free.
"Your clothing----" Cliff began, his eyes on her almost-nude body.
She blushed and pointed mutely to a heap of rags on the floor. Her
eyes flamed wrathfully. "He--he ripped them from me!"
The muscles of Cliff's jaws knotted, and he scowled as he surveyed the
room for a drape or hanging to cover her. For the first time he really
saw the place. All the lavish splendor of royalty had been expended
on this chamber. It might have been the bedroom of a king, except that
the ancient furnishings belonged to no particular period; were, in
fact, the loot of raids extended over centuries. Yet despite its
splendor, everything was repulsive, cloaked with the same air of
unearthly gloom that hovered about the galley.
He moved toward an intricately woven tapestry; but Vilma checked him,
shuddering with revulsion.
"No, Cliff--it's too much like grave clothes. Everything about this
place makes my flesh crawl. I'd rather stay as I am than touch any of
it!"