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  The Golden Ghost stood his ground, hands on hips. The bolt struck him squarely, and light and darkness flashed for a moment. Then the light went out, and the figure fell quickly and soundlessly.

  A horrible, mocking laughter filled the room, and Saagael turned to his worshippers. “Thus perish those who would defy the dark power, those who would oppose the will of …” He stopped. There was a look of total, awesome fear on the faces of his disciples, as they stared at something behind him. The Demon Prince whirled.

  The golden figure was rising to his feet. The light blazed forth once more, and momentary fear smote the Lord of Corlos. But again he overcame his doubt, and again an awesome bolt of black power shot through the air, smashing into the advancing Doctor Weird. Again the Astral Avenger keeled over. An instant later, as Saagael watched in mounting horror, the figure rose once more. Silently, wordlessly, it strode toward him.

  Panicking, Saagael smashed down the figure a third time. A third time it rose. A gurgle of horror went up from the crowd. The Golden Ghost advanced again toward the Demon Prince. Raising a glowing arm, at last he spoke. “Too bad, Saagael. I have withstood the best you could throw at me, and I still live. But now, Dark One, you shall feel my power!”

  “N-NOOOOoooo,” a hideous shriek went through the hall. The figure of the Lord of Darkness shuddered, paled, and melted away into a great black cloud. The crack opened again above the ebony altar. Beyond it mists swirled, and things moved in an eternal night. The black cloud expanded, flowed to the crack, and was gone. An instant later the crack vanished.

  Doctor Weird turned to the mortals who filled the room, the shocked and broken servants of Saagael. A howl of fear went up and they fled screaming from the temple. Then the figure turned to the altar, shuddered, and fell. Something fluttered in the air above it, streaked across the room, and vanished into the shadows.

  An instant later, a second Astral Avenger strode from the dark recesses, walked to the altar, and bent over the first. A spectral hand wiped a layer of white makeup from the fallen figure’s face. An eerie voice broke the silence. “He called you a shell—an empty thing—and he was right. By reverting to my ectoplasmic form and hiding my physical self in the shadows, I was able to wear you like a suit of clothing. He could not affect your corporeal body, so I left you just before his bolts struck, and got back in afterward. And it worked. Even he could be fooled, and frightened.”

  Outside the sun was coming up in the east. In the interior of the grim sanctum, ebony benches and carved stairways rotted, decayed swiftly, and gave way to piles of dust. One thing, now, remained.

  Doctor Weird rose and approached the black altar. Mighty hands gripped the great legs of the statue of Saagael, and rippling muscles strained. The statue toppled, and shattered. It fell, broken and smashed, near the empty hulk of the thing called Jasper, clad in a green and gold costume.

  Doctor Weird surveyed the scene with an ironic smile flicking over his dead-white features. “Even after he had destroyed your mind and soul, it was a man who brought about the downfall of the Lord of Darkness.”

  He lifted his eyes to the girl on the altar, now beginning to stir from the terror that had taken her consciousness. He approached her and said, “Do not be afraid of me. I will take you home now.”

  It was day outside. The shadow had lifted. The eternal night was over.

  NEXT ISSUE: DR. WEIRD MEETS THE DEMON

  THE FORTRESS

  Have you beheld her gray form rise

  Superb o’er bay and sea

  With menace in her granite eyes:

  Come try your strength on me?

  My very look, so grim and dread,

  Can strike the impious foeman dead.

  Whatever course the war may take

  In forest or on plain,

  Rouse not the ocean’s queen to break

  The calm of her disdain.

  A thousand cannon, tongued with fire,

  Will whelm you with their savage ire!

  —The Tales of Ensign Stål, Johan Ludvig Runeberg

  Alone and silent in the night, Sveaborg waited.

  Dark shapes in a sea of ice, the six island citadels of the fortress threw shadows in the moonlight—waiting. Jagged granite walls rose from the islands, and bristled with row on row of silent cannon—waiting. And behind the walls, grim and determined men sat by the guns day and night—waiting.

  From the northwest, a bitter wind brought the sounds and smells of the city in the distance to Sveaborg as it shrieked about the fortress walls. And high on the parapets of Vargön, largest of the six islands, Colonel Bengt Anttonen shivered with the cold as he stared morosely into the distance. His uniform hanging loosely from his hard, lean frame, Anttonen’s gray eyes were cloudy and troubled.

  “Colonel?” The voice came from just behind the brooding officer. Anttonen half turned, and grinned. Captain Carl Bannersson saluted briskly and stepped up to the battlements beside the colonel. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he asked.

  Anttonen snorted. “Not at all, Carl. Just thinking.”

  There was a moment of silence. “The Russian barrage was fairly heavy today,” began Bannersson. “Several men were wounded out on the ice, and we had to put out two fires.”

  Anttonen’s eyes roamed over the ice beyond the walls. He seemed almost unmindful of the tall, youthful Swedish captain, and lost in thought. “The men should never have been out on the ice,” he said, absently.

  Bannersson’s blue eyes probed the colonel’s face questioningly. He hesitated. “Why do you say that?” he asked. There was no answer from the older officer. Anttonen stared into the night, and was silent.

  After a long minute, Anttonen stirred, and turned to face the captain. His face was tense and worried. “There’s something wrong, Carl. Something very wrong.”

  Bannersson looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Admiral Cronstedt,” replied the colonel. “I don’t like the way he’s been acting lately. He worries me.”

  “In what way?”

  Anttonen shook his head. “His orders. The way he talks.” The tall, lean Finn gestured towards the city in the distance. “Remember when the Russian siege began in early March? Their first battery was dragged to Sveaborg on a sledge and mounted on a rock in Helsinki harbor. When we replied to their shelling, every shot told on the city.”

  “True. What of it?”

  “So the Russians ran up a truce flag, and negotiated, and Admiral Cronstedt agreed that Helsinki should be neutral ground, and neither side should build fortifications near it.” Anttonen pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and waved it at Bannersson. “General Suchtelen allows officers’ wives from the city to visit us at times, and through them I got this report. It seems the Russians have moved their guns all right, but have established barracks, hospitals, and magazines in Helsinki. And we can’t touch them!”

  Bannersson frowned. “I see what you mean. Does the admiral know of this report?”

  “Of course,” said Anttonen impatiently. “But he will not act. Jägerhorn and the others have persuaded him that the report is unreliable. So the Russians hide in the city, in perfect safety.” He crumpled the report savagely, and jammed it into his pocket in disgust.

  Bannersson did not reply, and the colonel turned to stare out over the walls again, mumbling under his breath.

  There were several moments of strained silence. Captain Bannersson shifted his weight uneasily, and coughed. “Sir?” he said at last. “You don’t think we’re in any real danger, do you?”

  Anttonen looked at him blankly. “Danger?” he said, “No, not really. The fortress is too strong, and the Russians too weak. They need much more artillery and many more men before they would dare an assault. And we have enough food to outlast their siege. Once the ice melts Sweden can easily reinforce by sea.”

  He paused a moment, then continued. “Still, I’m worried. Admiral Cronstedt finds new vulnerable spots every day, and every day more men
die trying to break up the ice in front of them. Cronstedt’s family is trapped here with all the other refugees, and he worries about them to excess. He sees weakness everywhere. The men are loyal and ready to die in defense of Sveaborg, but the officers—”

  Anttonen sighed and shook his head. After a moment of silence he straightened and turned from the ramparts. “It’s damn cold out here,” he said. “We had better be getting inside.”

  Bannersson smiled. “True. Perhaps Suchtelen will attack tomorrow, and solve all of our problems.”

  The colonel laughed, and clapped him on the back. Together they left the battlements.

  And at midnight, March became April. And still Sveaborg waited.

  “If the admiral pleases, I would like to disagree. I see no reason to negotiate at this time. Sveaborg is secure against assault, and our supplies are adequate. General Suchtelen can offer us nothing.”

  Colonel Anttonen’s face was stiff and formal as he spoke, but his knuckles were white where his hand curled around his sword hilt.

  “Absurd!” Colonel F. A. Jägerhorn twisted his aristocratic features into a sneer of contempt. “Our situation is highly dangerous. As the admiral well knows, our defenses are flawed, and are made even more imperfect by the ice that makes them accessible from all sides. Our powder is running low. The Russians ring us with guns, and their numbers swell daily.”

  Behind the commandant’s desk, Vice-Admiral Carl Olof Cronstedt nodded gravely. “Colonel Jägerhorn is right, Bengt. We have many reasons to meet with General Suchtelen. Sveaborg is far from secure.”

  “But, Admiral.” Anttonen waved the sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. “My reports indicate no such thing. The Russians have only about forty guns, and we still outnumber them. They cannot attack.”

  Jägerhorn laughed. “If your reports say that, Colonel Anttonen, they are in error. Lieutenant Klick is in Helsinki, and he informs me that the enemy greatly outnumber us. And they have well over forty guns!”

  Anttonen whirled towards his fellow officer furiously. “Klick! You listen to Klick! Klick is a fool and a damned Anjala traitor; if he is in Helsinki it is because he is working for the Russians!”

  The two officers eyed each other angrily, Jägerhorn cold and haughty, Anttonen flushed and impassioned. “I had relatives in the Anjala League,” began the young aristocrat. “They were not traitors, nor is Klick. They are loyal Finns.”

  Anttonen snarled something unintelligible, and turned back to Cronstedt. “Admiral, I swear to you, my reports are accurate. We have nothing to fear if we can hold out until the ice melts, and we can easily do that. Once the sea is open, Sweden will send help.”

  Cronstedt rose slowly from his chair, his face drawn and tired, “No, Bengt. We cannot refuse to negotiate.” He shook his head, and smiled. “You are too eager for a fight. We cannot be rash.”

  “Sir,” said Anttonen. “If you must, then, negotiate. But give up nothing. Sweden and Finland depend on us. In the spring, General Klingspor and the Swedish fleet will launch their counteroffensive to drive the Russians from Finland; but control of Sveaborg is vital to the plan. The army’s morale would be smashed if we should fall. A few months, sir—hold out a few months and Sweden can win the war.”

  Cronstedt’s face was a mask of despair. “Colonel, you have not been reading the news. Everywhere Sweden is being routed; her armies are defeated on all fronts. We cannot hope to triumph.”

  “But, sir. That news is from the papers that General Suchtelen sends you; they are largely Russian papers. Don’t you see, sir, that news is slanted. We cannot rely on it.” Anttonen’s eyes were wide with horror; he spoke like a desperate man.

  Jägerhorn laughed, coldly and cynically. “What matters it if the news is true or false? Do you really think Sweden will win, Anttonen? A small, poor state in the far north hold off Russia? Russia, which extends from the Baltic to the Pacific, from the Black Sea to the Arctic Ocean? Russia, the ally of Napoleon, who has trod upon the crowned heads of Europe?” He laughed again. “We are beaten, Bengt, beaten. It only remains to see what terms we can get.”

  Anttonen stared at Jägerhorn in silence for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was harsh and strained. “Jägerhorn, you are a defeatist, a coward, and a traitor. You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear.”

  The aristocrat’s eyes blazed, and his hand sped to his sword hilt. He stepped forward aggressively.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Cronstedt was suddenly between the two officers, holding Jägerhorn at bay. “We are besieged by the enemy, our country is in flames, and our armies are being routed. This is no time to fight among ourselves.” His face grew stern and hard. “Colonel Jägerhorn, return to your quarters at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jägerhorn saluted, whirled, and left the room. Admiral Cronstedt turned back to Anttonen.

  He shook his head sadly. “Bengt, Bengt. Why can’t you understand? Jägerhorn is right, Bengt; the other officers agree with him to a man. If we negotiate now we can save the fleet, and much Finnish blood.”

  Colonel Anttonen stood stiffly at attention. His eyes were cold, and looked past his admiral as if he were not there. “Admiral,” he said sternly. “What if you had felt this way before Ruotsinsalmi? What would have become of your victory then, sir? Defeatism wins no battles.”

  Cronstedt’s face became harsh, and there was anger in his voice. “That is enough, Colonel. I will not tolerate insubordination. I am compelled by circumstance to negotiate for the surrender of Sveaborg. The meeting between Suchtelen and myself has been arranged for April sixth; I will be there. And in the future, you will not question this decision. That is an order!”

  Anttonen was silent.

  Admiral Cronstedt stared at the colonel for a brief moment, his eyes still mirroring anger. Then he turned with a snort, and gestured impatiently towards the door. “You are dismissed, Colonel. Return to quarters at once.”

  Captain Bannersson’s face masked his shock and disbelief. “It can’t be true, sir. Surrendering? But why would the admiral do such a thing? The men, at least, are ready and willing to fight.”

  Anttonen laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter laugh, totally without humor. His eyes held a wild despair, and his hands flexed the blade of his rapier nervously. He was leaning against an elaborately carved tomb, in the shadow of two trees within one of the central courtyards of the Vargön citadel. Bannersson stood a few feet away in the darkness, on the steps that led up to the memorial.

  “All the men are willing to fight,” said Anttonen. “Only the officers are not.” He laughed again. “Admiral Cronstedt—the hero of our victory at Ruotsinsalmi—reduced to a doubting, fear-wracked old man. General Suchtelen has played upon him well; the newspapers from France and Russia he sent him, the rumors from Helsinki carried here by the officers’ wives, all served to plant the seed of defeatism. And then Colonel Jägerhorn helped it to grow.”

  Bannersson was still stunned, and puzzled. “But—but what does the admiral fear?”

  “Everything. He sees weak points in our defenses no one else can see. He fears for his family. He fears for the fleet he once led to victory. He claims Sveaborg is helpless in the winter. He is weak and apprehensive, and every time he doubts, Jägerhorn and his cronies are there to tell him he is right.”

  Anttonen’s face was distorted with rage. He was nearly shouting now. “The cowards! The traitors! Admiral Cronstedt wavers and trembles, but if they would only be resolute, he would find his courage and his mind also.”

  “Sir, please, not so loudly,” cautioned Bannersson. “If what you said is true, what can we do about it?”

  Anttonen’s eyes lifted, and focused on the Swedish captain below. He considered him coldly. “The parley is set for tomorrow. Cronstedt may not yield, but if he does, we must be prepared. Get all the loyal men you can, and tell them to be ready. Call it mutiny if you will, but Sveaborg will not capitulate without a fight so long as there is a single man of honor to fire her guns.” The Fi
nnish officer straightened and sheathed his sword. “Meanwhile, I will speak with Colonel Jägerhorn. Perhaps I can stop this madness yet.”

  Bannersson, his face dead white, nodded slowly and turned to leave. Anttonen strode down the steps, then halted. “Carl?” he called. The departing Swedish officer turned. “You understand that my life, and perhaps the future of Finland, are in your hands, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bannersson. “You can trust us.” He turned again, and a few seconds later was gone.

  Anttonen stood alone in the dark, staring absently at his hand. It was bleeding from where it had gripped the sword blade. Laughing, the officer looked up at the tomb. “You designed your fortress well, Ehrensvard,” he said, his voice a soft whisper in the night. “Let’s hope the men who guard her are equal to her strength.”

  Jägerhorn scowled when he saw who was at the door. “You, Anttonen? After this afternoon? You have courage. What do you want?”

  Anttonen stepped inside the room, and closed the door. “I want to talk to you. I want to change your mind. Cronstedt listens to you; if you advise against it, he will not capitulate. Sveaborg will not fall.”

  Jägerhorn grinned and sank back into a chair. “Perhaps. I am a relative. The admiral respects my opinion. But it is only a matter of time. Sweden cannot win this war, and the more we prolong it, the more Finns will die in battle.”

  The aristocrat stared at his fellow officer calmly. “Sweden is lost,” he continued, “but Finland need not be. We have assurances from Czar Alexander that Finland will be an autonomous state under his protection. We will have more freedom than we ever had under Sweden.”