They hurried through the corridors toward the stairway, with Cliff
holding the cutlas in readiness. As they passed the room in which lay
the _Ariel's_ passengers, he tried to divert Vilma's attention, but
she looked in as though hypnotized.
"I saw them before," she whispered. "It's awful."
As they started up the stairway to the great hall, Cliff took the
lead. He moved with utmost caution.
"It doesn't seem right," he said uneasily. "We should hear from
Corio."
At that moment they did hear from him--literally. From somewhere in
the maze of tunnels came the sound of his accursed horn--the note of
sleep! It swirled insidiously about their heads, numbing their senses.
Cliff felt his stride falter, saw Vilma stumble, and he hurled himself
forward furiously, gripping her arm.
"Hurry!" he shouted, striving to pierce the fog of sleep. "We've _got_
to get out! Damn him!"
Vilma rallied for an instant, and they reached the top of the stairs.
On--across that wide, wide room, each step a struggle.... On while the
droning sound floated languidly through every nerve cell.... On--till
their muscles could no longer move, and they sagged to the hard stone,
asleep.
* * * * *
Moments later Cliff opened his eyes to meet the hellish glare of Leon
Corio. Corio smiled thinly.
"So--you awaken. Good! I would have you know the fate I have planned
for you. You see this?" He held the cutlas high above Darrell's throat
like the blade of a guillotine. "With this I could end your life quite
painlessly and quickly. It really would prove entertaining for Miss
Bradley, I'm sure." He chuckled faintly behind bruised and swollen
lips.
Cliff squirmed, striving to rise, then subsided instantly. He was
bound hand and foot.
"I _could_ kill you," Corio repeated musingly, "but that would lack
finesse." His teeth bared in a feline smile. "And it would be such a
waste--of blood! Instead, I'll take you out to the galley and let you
lie there till her crew awakens tonight. They have tasted blood, and
after tonight will taste none again for another month. I imagine
they'll--drain you dry!" The last phrase was a vicious snarl.
Cliff heard Vilma utter a suppressed sob, and he turned his head. She
lay close by, bound like him with strips of leather. Furiously Cliff
strained at his fetters, but they held.
"And while you wait for those gentle Persians to awaken," Corio
continued in tones caressingly soft, "you can think of your sweetheart
in my arms! It may teach you not to strike your betters--though you
can never profit by your lesson."
Stooping, he raised Cliff's powerful form and managed to fling him
over one shoulder. Then he moved from the great hall, down the stone
steps, and across the dead plain with its sighing skeleton trees. He
was panting jerkily by the time he came to the fissure leading to the
cove, but he reached it, despite Cliff's two hundred pounds. Without
pausing, he went on into the cavern, along the rock ledge, to step at
last upon the deck of the black galley.
"Pleasant thoughts," he said gently as he dropped Cliff to the spongy
boards. "You have only to wait till dark!"
Cliff listened to his rapid footfalls till they died in distance; then
there was no sound save his own breathing.
Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the heavy gloom, and he saw
that Corio had dropped him just at the edge of the rowers' pit. There
were white things down there--bones, pale as marble, scattered about
aimlessly. Could--could those bones join to make the rowers who would
arise with the night? It seemed absurd--_was_ absurd--yet he knew it
was so! He had seen too much to doubt it.
He rolled over on his back and stared upward into the shadows. He must
lie here helpless while Corio returned to Vilma--did with her as he
pleased! Perhaps he might even transform her into a blood-tainted
monster like himself! He saw her again in that room of ancient
splendor, spread-eagled to the bed; and the muscles corded in his
arms, and his lips strained white in a futile effort to break free.
Interminably he lay there waiting. The galley was damp with the
chilling dampness of a sepulcher, and the dampness penetrated deeper
and deeper. Clamping his jaws together to prevent their quivering, he
struggled against a rising tide of madness which gnawed at his reason.
His mind began to crunch and jangle like a machine out of gear,
threatening to destroy itself.
On and on in plodding indifference the stolid moments passed, till at
last Cliff realized that it was growing darker. He rolled over on his
side and stared into the galley pit, eyes fixed on the inert masses of
white. Soon they would move! Soon the undead would rise! His thoughts,
touched by the whips of dread, sped about like slaves seeking escape
from a torture pit. And abruptly out of the welter of chaotic ideas
came one straw of sanity; he seized it, his heart hammering with hope.
Those Persian sailors were armed! Their swords and knives were real,
for they cut flesh! Somewhere among their bones must lie sharp-edged
blades!
He struggled to the edge of the pit, let his feet drop over. As they
touched, he balanced precariously for an instant, then fell to his
knees. He peered feverishly about among white bones, moldering
garments, and rusted armor--and saw a faint glimmer of light on
pointed steel. He sank forward on his face in the direction of the
gleam, turned over, squirmed and writhed till he felt the cold blade
against his hands. He caught it between his fingers and began sawing
back and forth.
It was heart-breaking work. Age had dulled the weapon, and long
slivers of rust flaked off, but the leather which bound him was also
ancient. Though progress was slow, and the effort laborious, Cliff
knew his bonds were weakening.
But it was growing darker. Even now he could see only a suggestion of
gray among the shadows. If those undead things materialized while he
lay among them!... Sweat stood out on his forehead and he redoubled
his efforts, straining at the leather as he sawed.
With a snap the cords parted and his hands were free. A single slash
severed the thongs about his ankles, and he stood up, leaped to the
deck. Not an instant too soon! There was movement in the pit--a
hideous crawling of bones assembling themselves into skeletal form....
Cliff waited to see no more. There were limits to what one could see
and remain sane. With a bound he crossed the rotting deck, and sprang
ashore. Despite the dark, he almost ran from the madness of that cave,
ran till he passed through the wall of rock, till he saw the rim of
the moon gleaming behind the castle.
_5. The End of the Island_
Out on the plain he sprinted through the ghostly forest. He knew he
had no time to spare--knew that soon the march of torture would
begin--knew that if Vilma were within the castle, she must answer the
summons of Corio's horn. Even now light glowed faintly in the high,
square windows.
That horn! At the foot of the steps he stopped short. If _he_ heard
the horn, he too must answer! He dared not risk it. With impatient
fingers he tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, rolled it into a
cylinder, and thrust it into his ear. Another for the other ear--and
he darted up into the castle.
A sweeping glance revealed no one, only the murky glow of the altar
fire, and the wraiths of smoke pluming upward toward the shadowed
roof. Wishing now that he had brought a weapon from the galley, Cliff
crossed to the opening in the wall. He stood at the top of the steps,
listening, then cursed silently as he remembered that he could hear
none but very loud sounds. He saw nothing; so he hastened down into
the corridor. His steps were swiftly stealthy as he moved toward
Corio's room.
He was past the first branching passage, when a sixth sense warned him
of someone's approach. He ran swiftly to the next fork, then paused
within its shelter and glanced back, saw five red-cowled figures glide
along the tunnel and vanish up the stairway. Cliff frowned. With the
vampires in the great hall, Corio must soon follow, leading his
victims to the blood-feast. He drew back deeper into the shadows.
His groping hands touched something in the dark--round and hard--like
a keg. Curiously he investigated. It _was_ a keg, and there were
others. A sandy powder trailed to the floor from a crack in one of
them. Thoughtfully Cliff let it run through his fingers. Gunpowder! Of
course--he had heard Corio mention pirates and their treasure, and
this had been their cache of explosive. An idea was forming....
He looked up to see a shadow pass the mouth of the tunnel; he crept
forward and peered out. He saw the black-hooded figure of Leon Corio
striding along, saw him enter the room where the passengers of the
_Ariel_ lay. In a breath Cliff was down the corridor to Corio's room.
A tarnished silver candelabrum shed faint light through the chamber,
and by its flickering glow he searched for Vilma, thoroughly,
painstakingly--futilely.
He stood in the center of the room in indecision, his forehead creased
with anxiety. If only he could find her, he'd know how to plan! He ran
his hand through his hair helplessly, then heard very faintly the
luring note of Corio's horn. She must answer that summons, unless
Corio had her tied somewhere. His best chance of finding her lay in
the hall above.
On the wall still hung the mate of the cutlas he had used to free
Vilma; he wrenched it down and ran out into the corridor. The last of
the naked marchers was disappearing up the stairway. Now the
horn-note died, and he could feel more than hear the rumbling bass of
the dirge from the depths below him.
He ran the rest of the distance along the passageway and mounted the
steps two at a stride. He looked into the torture hall. As on the
previous night, Corio stood far back, close to the wall in which Cliff
crouched. The arms of the Master were raised high; raised, Cliff knew
though he could not hear it, in a blasphemous incantation. And then he
saw something that sent a crimson lance of fury crashing through his
brain.
Vilma, stripped like the rest, stood with the other victims at the
foot of the long steps! Her body gleamed pinkly, in contrast to the
pallid drabness of the half-dead automatons, and she held her head
proudly erect. But from where he stood Cliff could see the side of her
face, and it bore a look of terror.
He could see Corio's face, too, and he was looking at the girl,
baffled fury glaring from his eyes--as though she were there against
his will.
Cliff's first impulse was to fling himself out there with his cutlas
and hack a way to freedom for Vilma and himself, but cold reason
checked this folly. Such a course could end only in death. Motionless
he watched the scene before him, his brain frantically seeking a plan
with even a ghost of a chance of succeeding.
The gunpowder! There was enough of the stuff below to blast this
entire castle into the hell where it belonged! Hastily he retraced his
steps to the tunnel in which he had found the kegs, plucking the torch
from its niche in the wall as he passed it. He held it high above his
head as he examined the contents of the broken keg. Unmistakably
gunpowder!
Thrusting the cutlas beneath his belt, he clutched a handful of the
black dust. Then, crouching close to the floor, he drew an irregular
thread through the passageway toward the stairs. Once he returned for
more powder, but in a few minutes the job was done. At the foot of the
steps where the trail ended, he touched his torch to the black line
and watched a hissing spark snake its white-smoked way back toward the
powder kegs. An instant he watched it, then sprang up the stairs. He'd
have to move fast!
With a hideous howl he darted into the hall, his cutlas above his
head. Corio spun about--and it was his last living act. A single sweep
of the great blade sheared his head from his neck, sent it rolling
grotesquely along the floor. For three heart-beats the body stood with
a fountain of blood spurting from severed arteries; then it crashed.
Coolly Cliff leaned over the twitching cadaver, ignoring the bedlam on
the stairs, the horde sweeping down toward him, hurling aside the
waiting humans. He pried open clutching fingers, seized a twisted
silver instrument, and raised it to his lips.
* * * * *
The mass of undead were almost upon him, the murky light glinting on
menacing blades, when Cliff blew the first note. The note of sleep! He
tried again, hastily. And it was the right one!
At the doleful, soothing sound the undead halted in their tracks;
halted--and melted into nothingness before his eyes!
But now those other five in their robes of bloody red--they were
charging, and even though they were unarmed, Cliff felt a stab of
fear. They possessed powers beyond the human, powers a mortal could
not combat. He braced himself and waited.
At the bottom of the steps they stopped, ranging in a wide
half-circle. The central monster--the Master--flung up his arms in a
strangely terrifying gesture, and Cliff saw his carmine lips move in
a chant which he could not hear. Something, a chilling Presence,
hovered about him, seemed to settle upon him, cloaking him with the
might of the devil himself. That unheard incantation continued, and
Cliff felt a cold rigidity creeping through every fiber, slowly
freezing his limbs into columns of ice.
With a mighty effort of will he flung himself toward that accursed
drinker of blood--and at that instant a terrific detonation rocked the
ancient building, and a cloud of smoke and flame burst from the
opening in the wall. Cliff was hurled from his feet, rolled over and
over, and crashed against the wall by the awful concussion, the cutlas
and silver horn sent whirling through the air.
Dizzily he staggered to his feet, crouching defensively. Sounds came
to him clearly now; the explosion must have jarred the plugs from his
ears. He scanned the room; saw the unclad humans scattered everywhere,
most of them lying still and unconscious. He saw Vilma rising slowly;
then he looked for the monsters in red. Startled, he saw them rushing
toward the opening in the wall, to vanish in its smoke-filled
interior. Why did they----? Then he knew. Down there somewhere were
their graves--graves rent and broken by the explosion--graves
threatened by the flames--and panic had seized the vampires, fear of
the death which would result with exile from their tombs!
Unsteadily Cliff crossed to Vilma. She saw him coming and flung
herself sobbing into his arms. He crushed her lithe form close--and
another explosion, more violent than the first, sent a section of the
stone floor leaping upward as though with life of its own. Clinging to
Vilma, Cliff managed to maintain his footing, though the floor bucked
and heaved. A snapping, booming roar--and a great chasm opened in the
floor. A breathless instant--and a segment of the stone stairs,
rumbling thunderously, dropped out of sight into a newly formed pit!
With it went the blasphemous altar and its phosphorescent fire.
Deafened, stunned, momentarily powerless to move, Cliff's mind groped
for an explanation. It seemed incredible that gunpowder could cause
such havoc. And the swaying of the floor continued; the thick stone
walls shook alarmingly. Suddenly he understood. An earthquake! The
explosions had jarred the none-too-stable understrata of rock into
spasmodic motion that must grind everything to bits! The island was
doomed! And Earth would be better without it.
If only they could reach the _Ariel_ first!
New strength flowed through him, and hugging Vilma close, he staggered
toward the spot where he knew the door must be. Somehow he reached it,
and reeled down the broken stone steps.
The plain of dead trees swayed like the deck of a ship in a storm as
Cliff started across it. A gale had arisen and swept in from the sea,
ripping dry branches from the skeleton growths and whirling them about
like straws. Yet somehow Cliff reached the crevice in the rock wall
with his burden, reached the deck of the galley, crossed it, and won
to the safety of the _Ariel_. Minutes later, with Diesel engines
purring, they crept out through the narrow channel into the open sea.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later the Isle of the Undead lay safely behind them. Vilma
had dressed; and now they sat together in the pilot house. Cliff had
one arm about her, and one hand on the wheel.
"And so," the girl was saying, "while Corio carried you to that
terrible old boat, I got loose. He hadn't tied me very tightly, and I
slipped my hands free. I had to hide, and I could think of only one
place that might be safe, where he wouldn't think to look for me. I
ran down to the room where those--those others lay; I undressed, and
buried myself among them. It was horrible--the way they sucked each
other's wounds...."
Cliff pressed a hand across her lips. "Forget that!" he said almost
fiercely. "Forget all of it--d'you hear?"