The Dreamthief's Daughter: A Tale of the Albino

  A typical sample of his droning, pseudophilosophical nonsense. It explained why the Nazi chiefs in their lunacy placed such value on the Grail and the Sword. These things represented a mystical authority. Only with them in harness with their political power were they confident they had secured their victories. Triumph over the admired British Empire would be a kind of epiphany. An armistice achieved, together they would restore the purity of blood and myth to its proper place in the order of things.

  “We only have to complete the destruction of their air force and they will call for a truce.”

  “I am impressed by your logic, sir.”

  “Logic has nothing to do with it, Colonel. Logic and the so-called Enlightenment are Judeo-Christian inventions, deeply suspect by all right-thinking Aryans. Those Nazis who cling to their pro-Christian beliefs are working for the Judaic-Bolshevik cultural conspiracy. The British understand this as well as we do. The best kind of Americans are also on our side . . .”

  I think that in all my adventures I have only shown real courage and self-discipline once: when I restrained myself from throwing the glamorous deputy Führer out of my car.

  “How,” I asked, “did old von Bek lose possession of the Grail?”

  “As you no doubt know, he was an amateur scientist. One of those prehistoric gentleman scholars. He knew of the family’s trust, to guard the Grail until we, its true inheritors, should come to claim it. But he was curious. He wanted to examine the Grail’s properties. Which meant that first he had to master the laws of magic. Of necromancy. His studies drove him mad, but he continued with his examination of the Grail, and in doing so, he summoned a certain renegade Captain of Hell . . .”

  “Klosterheim?”

  “Just so. Who in turn brought the help of another renegade. One of the company of Law. The immortal, extremely unstable Miggea. Duchess of the Higher Worlds.” Hess grinned. He was in the know. He swelled, full of his own secrets. He twitched with supernatural intelligence. “Alf—our Führer—told me to find Gaynor, who was already an adept, and offer to blend our strength with his. Gaynor agreed and, rather later than he’d promised, brought the object of power back to Bek. With it we shall control history—the war against Britain is already won.”

  In spite of my direct experience of realities he had only heard of, I still found him hard to follow, exhausting in the way mad people often are. Therefore I was deeply relieved when the car began its final drive towards the gates of Bek. Because the deputy Führer was with us, our papers were never inspected. All I had to hope was that Gaynor did not recognize me. My hair was hidden under my military cap and I wore the dark glasses, which were an unofficial part of the uniform, to disguise my albinism.

  Chatting easily with Hess I lifted the encased sword from the car. “For the ceremony,” I told him. Hess was by far my best cover and I was determined to stick with him as long as I could. As I moved through my old home, however, it was difficult to restrain myself from exclaiming at what had been done to it.

  I would rather Gaynor had destroyed it as he threatened. The house had been thoroughly violated. The place had been redecorated like a Fairbanks film set—all Nazi pomp and circumstance: gold-braided flags, Teutonic tapestries, Nordic plaques and heavy mirrors, freshly made stained glass in the old Gothic windows, one of which showed an idealized portrait of Hitler as a noble knight-errant and Göring as some sort of male Valkyrie. A Rheinejungen perhaps? Swastikas everywhere. It was as if Walt Disney, who so admired fascist discipline and had his own ideas for the ideal state, had been hired as Bek’s interior designer. The Hitler gang’s passion for the garish trappings of the operetta stage was demonstrated throughout. In so many ways Hitler was a typical Austrian.

  I, of course, said none of this to Hess, who seemed rather impressed by the house, enjoying his reflected glory as every SS officer stopped to click his heels and give him the Nazi salute. I luckily stood in Hess’s reflected glory and Oona in mine, and so we passed as if charmed through our enemy’s defenses while the deputy Führer spoke warmly of King Arthur, Parsifal, Charlemagne and all the other Teutonic heroes of legend who had borne magic swords.

  By the time we reached the armory, deep within the castle’s oldest keep, I was beginning to wish Hess would return to his earlier topic of Nordic veganism. All in the repressed fear of my own imminent discovery and destruction!

  The deputy Führer asked me to hold his canisters of food while he took a large key from his jacket pocket. “The Führer gave me the honor of holding his key,” he said. “It is a privilege to be the first to enter and to greet him when he arrives!”

  He inserted the key in the lock and turned it with some difficulty. I thought it wise of Hitler to have his friend go ahead of him like that. After all, the Führer could never be sure it was not an elaborate plot to end his life.

  Thus, as members of Rudolf Hess’s entourage, we passed into the high-ceilinged armory which had been spared redecoration and was lit by a high, circular window. A sunbeam pierced the dust and fell directly upon a kind of altar, square granite carved with the Celtic sun cross, which had recently been placed there.

  Involuntarily, I moved towards this new object. How on earth had they carried such a weight of granite through our narrow corridors? I reached out to touch it. But Hess held me back. Clearly he thought I was eager for other reasons. “Not yet,” he said.

  As his eyes became used to the dim light, he looked around him in sudden puzzlement. “What’s this—what are you men doing here before I ever crossed the threshold? Do you not realize who I am and why I should be here first?”

  The shadowy group seemed unimpressed.

  “This is blasphemy,” said Hess. “Infamy. This is no place for ordinary soldiers. The magic is subtle. It requires subtle minds. Subtle hands.”

  Klosterheim, automatic in hand, came grinning into the sunlight. “I assure you, sir, we are nothing if not subtle. I will explain as soon as possible. But now, if you don’t mind, Deputy Führer, I will continue to save your life—”

  “Save my—?”

  Klosterheim pointed his pistol at me. “This time my bullets will work,” he said. “Good afternoon, Count Ulric. I had an idea you would be joining us here. You see! You’re fulfilling your destiny whether you wish to or not.”

  Hess remained outraged. “You are making many mistakes, Captain. The Führer himself is involved with this project and will be arriving shortly. What will he think of a subordinate pointing a gun at his deputy and one of his top officers?”

  “He will know what Prince Gaynor will tell him,” said Klosterheim. He was careless of Hess’s words. He hardly heard them. “Believe me, Deputy Führer Hess, we are acting entirely in the interests of the Third Reich. Ever since he was denounced as a traitor and his property confiscated, we have been expecting this madman to make an attempt on the Führer’s life—”

  “This is nonsense!” I began. “You know it is a lie!”

  “But is the rest a lie, Count?” His voice grew softer, more intimate. “Do you think we expected you to give up pursuit? Wasn’t it obvious that you would make some attempt to reach this place? All we had to do was wait for you to bring us the Black Sword. Which I note you have kindly done.”

  Hess was inclined to trust to rank. This was my only hope of buying time. As he looked to me for confirmation I shouted in my best Nazi-bark: “Captain Klosterheim, you are overstepping the mark. While we applaud your vigilance in protecting the Führer, we can assure you there is nothing in this room which offers him any danger.”

  “On the contrary,” agreed Hess uncertainly. His eyes, never steady at the best of times, flickered from me to Klosterheim. He was impressed by Klosterheim’s handpicked storm troopers. “But perhaps, given the circumstances, we should all step outside this room and settle any confusion?”

  “Very well,” said Klosterheim. “If you will lead the way, Count von Bek . . .” And he gestured with his Walther.

  “Von Bek?” Hess was startled. H
e looked hard at me and began to think.

  I had no more time. I pulled the protective fabric away from my sword. Ravenbrand was all that could save me now.

  Klosterheim’s gun cracked. Two distinct shots.

  He had the sense to know when to stop me.

  The sword was only half out of the case as I felt sharp pains in my left side and began to stumble backwards under the impact of the bullets. I struggled to stay on my feet. I wanted to vomit but could not. I fell heavily against the mysterious granite altar and slipped to the flagstones. I tried to get back to my feet. My dark glasses fell off. My cap was kicked away from my head revealing my white hair. I looked up. Klosterheim was standing with his legs straddled over my body, the smoking PPK .38 still in his right hand. I do not think I have ever seen such an expression of gloating satisfaction on a human face.

  “God in Heaven!” I could hear Hess gasping. He peered down at me, his eyes widening. “Impossible! It is the Bek monster! The bloodless creature they were said to keep in their tower. Is it dead?”

  “He’s not dead. Not yet, Your Excellency.” Klosterheim stepped back. “We’ll save him for later. We have an experiment to perform. A demonstration the Führer has requested.”

  “The Führer,” began Hess, “surely would have told me if . . .”

  The pointed toe of a boot kicked me efficiently in the side of my head and I lost consciousness.

  Dimly, as was constant with me now, I had been sensing what was happening to my alter ego. Suddenly my nostrils were filled with a pungent, reptilian stink and looking up I stared into the familiar eyes of a huge dragon. All the wisdom of the world flickered in those eyes.

  I spoke to the dragon in a low, affectionate voice that had no real words to it, that was more music than language, and the dragon responded in the same tones. A thrumming purr came out of its monstrous throat and from its nostrils a few wisps of steam. I knew the creature’s name and it remembered me. I had been a child and had changed a great deal. But the dragon remembered me, even though my body was covered in cuts and I was helplessly bound. I smiled. I began to speak a name. Then the pain in my side swept through me like a swift tide and I gasped, going down again into blackness that engulfed me like a blessing.

  Had Prince Lobkowitz set this trap for me? Was he now in league with Klosterheim, Gaynor and the Nazi hyena pack?

  And did Elric’s fate, in his world, mirror my own? Was he, too, dying in the ruins of his old home?

  I was aware of pain, rough hands, but could not bring myself out of sleep. I woke up to the smell of oily smoke. I opened my eyes, thinking at first that the armory was on fire. But the old flambeaux brackets had been utilized and a flaming brand guttered in every holder, casting huge shifting shadows.

  I felt the tight cloth of a gag in my mouth, my hands were bound in front of me and my feet were free. I was relieved that most of my Nazi uniform had been stripped off me. I wore only a shirt and trousers. My feet were bare. I had been prepared for some kind of special treatment. I moved and agony flooded through me. I felt the wadding of a crude dressing on my wounds. My captors were not famous for administering pain relief to their victims.

  At that moment they were not interested in me and I was able to watch what was happening. I saw Hitler, a rather short man in a heavy leather military coat, standing next to the plump, frowning Göring. Nearby, SS Commander Himmler, with the prissy severity of a depraved tax inspector, was talking to Klosterheim. The two men had a similar quality about them I couldn’t immediately identify. Members of Hitler’s crack SS guard stood at key points in the hall, their machine guns at the ready. They looked like robots from Metropolis.

  Gaynor was nowhere to be seen. Hess was talking intensely to a rather bored-looking SS general whose attention was everywhere but on him. Oona was not here. It could mean that she had become alerted to the danger in time. Were her weapons still in the car? Could she at least get the Grail out of Hitler’s clutches?

  I knew suddenly that I was dying. I had no hope of recovering unless Oona could save me. Even unbound I could not reach my sword, which now lay on the altar like some kind of trophy. While the Nazis were careful not to touch it, they peered at it as if it were a dangerous dormant snake, which might rear up to strike at any moment.

  I guessed the sword to be my only hope of life and that a slim one. I was not Elric of Melniboné, after all, but a mere human being caught up in natural and supernatural events far beyond his understanding. And about to die.

  From the dampness of the heavy dressing against my side I could tell that I was losing a great deal of blood. I could not tell if any vital organs were damaged, but it scarcely mattered. The Nazis were not about to send for a doctor. I could not imagine the nature of the “experiment” Klosterheim had in mind for me.

  The group had the air of men waiting for something. Hitler, who seemed almost as twitchy as Hess, gave the impression of an impatient street vendor, forever on the lookout for trouble. He spoke in that affected German one associates with the Austrian lower middle class and even though he was the most powerful man in the world at that moment, there was a sense of weakness about him. I wondered if this were the banality of evil which my friend Father Cornelius, the Jesuit priest, used to talk about before he went to Africa.

  I could hear very little of what was said and most of it sounded like nonsense. Hitler was laughing and slapping his leg with his gloves. The only thing I heard him say clearly was “The British will soon be begging for mercy. And we shall be generous, gentlemen. We will let them keep their institutions. They are ideal for our purposes. But first we must destroy London, eh?”

  I was surprised that this was the object of their meeting. I had thought it to do with the “objects of power” Gaynor had brought with him from the Grey Fees.

  The door opened and Gaynor stood there. He was dressed all in black, with a great black cloak over his armored body. He had the look of a knight from one of those interminable historical films the Nazis loved to watch. A copper swastika was emblazoned on his breastplate and another on his helmet. He looked like a demonic Siegfried. His hands were clasped around the hilt of the great ivory runesword. He stepped aside with a dramatic gesture as two of his men bundled in a struggling woman.

  My heart sank. Our last hope gone. They had Oona.

  She was no longer dressed in the Nazi uniform but wore some kind of heavy, oat-colored dress that engulfed her from head to toe. It, too, had a vaguely medieval appearance. Its collar and cuffs were decorated with red and black swastikas. Her wonderful white hair was contained by a filet of silver and her eyes blazed like dark garnets from the pale beauty of her face. She was helpless, bound hand and foot. Her face was expressionless, her mouth set. When she saw me a look of horror came into her furious eyes. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Then closed more firmly than ever. Only her eyes moved.

  I wanted to comfort her, but there was no comfort.

  It was clear we were meant to die.

  After greeting the others, Gaynor announced with some triumph: “Thus the game I planned reaches its conclusion. Both of these treacherous creatures have been brought to book. Both are guilty of numerous crimes against the Reich. Their fate will be a noble one, however. Nobler than they deserve. The Grail and the Black Sword are now back in our keeping. And we have the sacrifice we need to begin the final sorcery.” With a flicker of mockery in his smile, he glanced at Oona. His disgusting appetite was about to be satisfied. “And strike our bargain with the Higher Worlds.”

  He intended to kill us both—and in pursuit of the Nazis’ obscene, half-crazed supernatural nonsense.

  The firelight reflected in the eager faces of Hitler and his comrades as they admired the struggling girl. Hitler turned to Göring and made some leering remark to which his lackey responded with a fat chuckle. Only Hess seemed ill at ease. I had the feeling he preferred fanciful daydreams to the actuality of what was evidently to be a bloody ritual.

  Goebbels and Himmler, on e
ither side of their Führer, both had tight, chilling smiles on their faces. Himmler’s little round eyeglasses positively glinted with hellish glee.

  With the sword in one hand, Gaynor reached down and grasped Oona by her moon-colored hair. He dragged her towards the altar. “The chemical and the spiritual marriage of opposites,” he announced, like a showman taking the stage. “My Führer, gentlemen, I promised you I would return with the Grail and the Swords. Here is the white sword of Charlemagne—and there, unwittingly returned to its proper place by this wretched half-corpse”—he indicated me—“is the black sword of Hildebrand, Theodoric’s henchman. The sword called Son Slayer, with which he killed Hadubrand, his eldest child. The sword of good”—he lifted the ivory sword and pointed towards the altar—“and the sword of evil. Brought together, they will baptize the Grail with blood. Good and evil will mingle and become one. The blood will bring the Grail to life again and bestow its power upon us. Death will be banished. Our great bargain with Lord Arioch will be struck. We shall be immortal amongst immortals. All this King Clovis the Goth predicted upon his deathbed as he gave the Grail into the keeping of his steward, Dietrich von Bern, who in turn entrusted it to his brother-in-law Ermanerik, my ancestor. When the Grail is washed at last with innocent blood, virgin blood, the Nordic peoples will be united in a common bond and come together as one folk, to take their rightful place as rulers of the world.”

  Insane nonsense, a farrago of myths and folktales typical of the Nazi rationalizers and with scarcely any historical basis. But Hitler and his gang were entranced by the story. Their existence, after all, depended on myths and folktales. Their political platform might have been written by the Brothers Grimm. It was quite possible Gaynor had made up much of this ritual to impress them, for he had told me that Hitler was merely his means to a greater goal. If so, his strategy was proving effective. He was using their power to summon Arioch. Even the most gullible Nazis would not be able to absorb the actuality. Little comfort to me. Whether they were delusory or not, these ideas would not help me accept my coming fate—or avert Oona’s bloody death!