Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“Pull, Rex, pull!” shouted the Duke, but to his horror he found that Rex had let go one of his hands. He dangled by one arm, revolving slowly.

The Mongolian did not stop to find his pistol; he flung himself on the Duke. De Richleau found himself being dragged down, the bestial face was within an inch of his own.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and a terrific report within an inch of his ear that almost shattered the drum; the man sagged and slipped backwards with a horrible choking sound. Rex had shot him at close range through the upper mouth.

The next thing the Duke knew was that he was out in the cold air of the roof; Rex and Simon were on each side of him, dragging him from one level to another. There was the sound of running feet, and lanterns could be seen below. A sudden shout — a shot, a bullet whistled past his head, and then the shooting began in earnest.

A hail of bullets spattered the brickwork against which they had been standing a moment before.

“Don’t shoot,” whispered Rex hoarsely, as they moved crouching along the gutter under the protection of a low wall. “The flash will show them where we are.”

“I have nothing to shoot with,” said the Duke, bitterly. “I deserve to be shot myself, at my age, for leaving my weapon behind.”

“Good Lord, I forgot.” Rex thrust the other pistol into his hand. “I found it after you’d gone. Look out!”

They had come to the end of the low wall on the front of the house. A series of roofs at different levels lay before them. They were those of the outhouses that had survived the fire.

“What do we do now?” asked Simon in a whisper.

“Back the way we came,” Rex answered promptly. “More cover in the ruin, and they’ll be round here directly.”

Even as he spoke they could hear voices below them; quick jerky questions and answers. A light flashed on to the roof of one of the outhouses. They crept stealthily back to the far end of their cover, Simon leading.

As he rounded the corner he ran full tilt into a crouching form. Luckily the man had no time to use his gun. Simon felt a hand clutch at his throat; they crashed to the roof together.

Simon kicked and struggled; each moment he thought they would roll over the edge and break their necks in the garden, twenty feet below. Suddenly he realized that he was on top. He struck blindly at the man’s face, but the fellow dodged his blows. The grip on his throat tightened, the darkness seemed to grow blacker before his eyes, there was a buzzing in his ears. Through it Rex’s voice came faintly to him. “Stick it, Simon, good boy; give him top place, and I’ll crack his skull!”

With a last effort Simon flopped forward and rolled over; the Russian, thinking he had overcome his adversary, gave a guttural laugh and sprang on his chest — the laugh ended in a moan as Rex smashed his head in with a blow from the butt end of his pistol. The awful grip on Simon’s throat relaxed, and he crawled out from beneath the body.

The men below had lost no time in hurrying back when they heard the sounds of the struggle. De Richleau stood calmly above the prostrate Simon; he fired four times rapidly into their midst. There was a sharp cry; at least one of his shots had found a mark. The group scattered quickly; the Duke ducked down behind the wall as the return fire spattered about them.

“Give me a hand,” muttered Rex, and Simon helped to prop his late enemy in position against the wall. The appearance of the Russian’s head and shoulders drew a further volley from the bushes below; a bullet thudded into the man’s chest.

“Get his gun, Simon.” The Duke kicked the pistol that lay at the man’s feet. Simon picked it up quickly.

“See that window?” Rex whispered, pointing to the main block. “It’s level with these leads. Think we can make it?”

“Ner,” said Simon briefly, “it’s twenty yards away.”

“This cursed snow,” the Duke agreed; “they’ll see our every movement once we leave this wall.”

“Got to take a chance,” protested Rex. “If they storm the roof both ends of the wall we’re done. Once in that room we’ll hold ’em till daylight — or, better still, maybe we’ll be able to make a break from the window round the corner, across the garden.”

“Yes, I agree, we cannot stay here.” De Richleau peered round the wall. “I can see one fellow from here; I’ll kill him in a minute.”

Rex tapped him on the arm. “Wait — I’ll creep to the other end — see if I can spot another. When you hear me fire, give your bird the works and beat it. You, too, Simon, don’t wait for the Duke; go like smoke. Good luck, both of you!”

Before they could answer he had moved off down the gutter.

“No time to argue, Simon,” said the Duke, in a low tone, as he covered his man from where he crouched. “Don’t lose a second when I fire. If you’re not through that window when I get there, it may cost me my life.”

It seemed an eternity, waiting there in the intense cold; it numbed their fingers round the butts of the automatics. There was a sudden crash of shots from the garden, all directed to Rex’s end of the wall. Simon, whose nerves were at the highest pitch, leapt forward into the open. De Richleau’s pistol cracked behind him; in a second almost he was clambering through the empty window frame, the Duke hard behind him. A single bullet hissed through the snow on to the leads; another moment and De Richleau stood panting at his side.

“The fool!” he gasped; “did you see?”

“Ner — what happened?”

“He deliberately stood up to draw their fire.”

“Hope they didn’t get him.”

De Richleau put his head out of the window. A vicious “phut’ sounded in the woodwork near his head. He drew it in again sharply; Simon flashed his torch quickly round the empty room.

In addition to the window through which they had come there was another overlooking the terraces and gardens at the back of the house. “Lucky that wasn’t under the window.” As he spoke Simon shone his torch on a great jagged rent in the floor several feet in width.

“Put out that light!” whispered the Duke angrily.

Simon obeyed; carefully avoiding the hole, he made his way round to the doorway. There was no door, it had been wrenched off.

“Think they’ll come this way?” he asked.

“Too dangerous!” said the Duke, who was still peering out of the window as far as he dared. “They know we are armed — who would be brave enough to be first man round that doorway?”

A single shot rang out; a volley came from the bushes below in answer. De Richleau gave a sudden laugh. “Rex is all right,” he said; “at least, not dead; he may be wounded. How many shots have you in that pistol?”

Simon unclipped the magazine. “Five,” he said, after some hesitation.

“Good,” the Duke’s voice came back. “It is our turn to make a demonstration now. Stay where you are.”

Simon heard him shuffling round the room. Next moment De Richleau’s hand was on his arm.

“Is there a staircase leading below?” he asked. “One flash of your torch — no more; and hold it sideways, at arm’s length from your body.”

The little ray of light pierced the thick darkness, showing a landing outside the doorway and a narrow wooden staircase. Simon switched out the light and edged out of the room. For another brief moment he flashed it on; nothing was stirring.

“Let us go down,” said the Duke. “Keep as quiet as possible.”

Simon followed him; the wooden stairs creaked abominably. On the floor below the faint light from a broken window made the landing just perceptible.

“We are in luck,” De Richleau murmured. In the dark, Simon could sense from his tone that he was smiling. It came to him suddenly that the Duke was actually enjoying this nightmare. Once free, and with a weapon in his hands, it seemed that he had none of Simon’s desire to slip away, to run, to be safe again; to do anything, short of deserting his friends, in order to get out of range of these smashing, tearing bullets, that made men gulp, or scream with pain.