The People's Will Page 5

  His contemplations were interrupted by a sudden sound; a heavy crash of wood against stone. He turned to see that the prisoner, and his chair, had fallen backwards. Both lay there, in much the same position as when Otrepyev had kicked them over. None of the soldiers was nearby. Osokin could only guess that it was the prisoner himself who had managed to rock the chair over as part of some failed attempt at escape. But there was no way he would be able to free himself of those bonds – whatever he might be.

  ‘Get him up!’ instructed Osokin.

  Two of the men rushed forward and pulled the chair back upright for a second time. Osokin supervised. He ran his eyes over the prisoner to check his condition.

  ‘You injured?’ he asked, forgetting for a moment his earlier failure to communicate.

  ‘No,’ replied the prisoner, and then, after a pause, ‘Thank you.’

  Osokin said nothing, merely nodding an acknowledgement. It was no real surprise to discover that the prisoner was well able to understand.

  ‘I wonder,’ the prisoner continued, his Russian still flawless, ‘if I might ask one favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you turn the chair a little? The light hurts my eyes.’

  In falling and being righted again, the chair had moved a little way across the chamber. It was now closer to the area of sunlight that shone in through the roof. It was bright, but not so bright as to be uncomfortable, not for Osokin at least. But it fitted into the picture that he was, against his better judgement, building of the situation. Or perhaps the prisoner was just toying with his suspicions. Osokin considered for a moment, and then nodded his assent at the soldiers. They began to rotate the chair.

  ‘That’s perfect. Thank you,’ said the prisoner meekly, after he had been turned through a right angle. He was now roughly side on to the line marking the boundary between sunlight and shadow and facing directly towards the mangled doorway. Was he planning something? Osokin could not imagine what. Anyway, Otrepyev would return soon, and then it would be his problem.

  At least Osokin hoped it would be soon.

  It was a tricky choice, after so little acquaintance: to appeal to the bad in him, or to the good? To say ‘Please don’t throw me into that briar patch,’ or just the reverse? For most Russian officers, and even more of the men, Iuda would have asked for what he didn’t want, and got what he did. But in this major – Osokin was what Dmitry had called him – he’d detected a little more sentimentality. He’d seen the look of disquiet on Osokin’s face as he’d returned to the prison chamber, having presumably surveyed the aftermath of the battle above. It would make him more sympathetic to the well-being of a prisoner of war. At least, so Iuda had hoped.

  Luck was on his side, and not just in Osokin’s agreeing to turn his chair. The first stroke of luck had been that Dmitry had departed. It was to be expected; his hunger was obvious, certainly to another vampire such as Iuda. His ageing skin would be noticeable even to a human. Dmitry must have been so dedicated to his pursuit of Iuda that he had neglected to sustain himself. Now his hunger would have become overwhelming. He’d been forced to leave and seek blood among the defeated Turcomans, even if it meant leaving his captive alone. It was understandable, but a mistake nonetheless.

  The very fact that the chair had fallen was not part of Iuda’s plan. He’d been moving himself oh so gradually, inch by inch, his only means of locomotion being his toes and heels. Until yesterday it would have been impossible, with the chair bolted to the floor, but now it could be done. It took every ounce of his inhuman strength, but it could be done. But then he had become stuck – the chair leg caught in a ridge in the flagstones, he guessed. He’d pushed hard, beginning to rock the chair to what extent he could, trying to free the leg, but had gone too far. He felt himself falling, then came to a halt with a crash.

  And then came more luck. In resurrecting him, the soldiers had moved him to almost precisely the spot where he desired to be. Once Osokin had had him turned it took only a few fine adjustments with his toes for him to be within inches of where he wanted.

  Now he waited, and allowed the Earth to continue its inexorable rotation. He remembered a room in an abandoned house in Moscow in 1812 and the sun’s slow progress across the floor, creating a tightening trap for any vampire. That was when he had first wondered whether Lyosha might prove a worthy opponent. Lyosha had proved more than worthy. Dmitry was a disappointment, as much to Iuda as an adversary as he would have been to Lyosha as a son, if only Lyosha had known the truth.

  He also remembered an escape, by a voordalak named Ruslan, who’d later gone by the name of Kyesha – the very creature that had eventually turned Iuda into a vampire. He had been Iuda’s prisoner, the subject of his experiments. He had been manacled in a cave in Chufut Kalye and exposed daily to sunlight so that Iuda could measure his reactions. And then, one day, he had vanished. It had taken Iuda hours to imagine how he might have done it, but once understood it had been obvious. Today Ruslan’s method needed only a little modification.

  The line between light and shade moved closer. Iuda could not perceive its movement directly, but every time he glanced down it had taken a step towards him. He felt a cold, visceral fear of it and became filled with the urge to flee, but even had he yielded to it his bonds would have held him in place.

  For nearly three years he had not moved from that chair. How would it feel to be free? He knew that the muscles of a vampire did not atrophy to the same degree as those of a man, but he would still be below his peak. He was well fed, at least. The Turcomans had been told to keep him alive, and they were too afraid to disobey. It was always the same procedure. They would loosen the restraint to his head, allowing him some little movement, and then the victim would be held close and he would feed. It was, and was intended to be, a humiliation – being hand-fed like a baby rather than using his own arms to hold his prey close. But it kept him strong. He would need his strength for what was to come – regrowth demanded the greatest strength of all. Usually it had been some criminal that they gave him, who would have died anyway. The thought made it even less enjoyable. More recently they had brought him captured Russians. That had been enough for him to know that an attack was imminent. His last feed had been only the day before the assault.

  He felt a stinging pain in his ankle and tried to pull it away. The sunlight had reached him. If his foot were to burn, so be it, but it was not intended as his primary sacrifice to Apollo. The sunlight worked its way up the wooden chair leg, like a slow incoming tide, ready to engulf him as he sat, commanding the waves to go back. But he knew it would not engulf him, and he would not command it to stop. It would reach him, do its work and then recede. He had calculated its path, and seated himself accordingly.

  He felt a prickling in his leg as the sunlight squeezed through the weave of his trousers. He wondered how much damage would be caused. Would it be like sunburn? He wished he could look. Later he would experiment. Now the light had turned a corner. It crept stealthily along the top of the chair’s arms. Soon it would reach his hand.

  He braced himself and then watched, fascinated, as his fingers and then his hand and then his arm began to dissolve.

  Osokin sniffed and looked around. Whether it was the stench of the thousands of rotting corpses above or the few out in the corridor mattered little. He had smelt the aftermath of battle many times before, though this was a little different; not the usual miasma of putrefaction, but something more like mildew, mixed with burning – burning hair. He glanced around the room, but saw nothing. The soldiers were sitting or standing idly, awaiting the return of their commander. The prisoner remained in his chair. The light of the setting sun was close to him now. If Osokin’s preposterous imaginings had been true, then the prisoner would not have happily sat there. Unless it was that he sought death. If so, thought Osokin, let him die.

  ‘Everything in order, sir?’

  Lukin had returned. He too sniffed the air, and paled.

  ‘Don’t worry,
Lieutenant, you’ll get used to it.’

  Lukin looked at him, puzzled. ‘Has something happened with the prisoner?’

  ‘He managed to knock his chair over, that’s all.’ Osokin glanced over, but the figure sat immobile.

  ‘Best give him a quick inspection, don’t you think, sir?’

  Without even showing his superior the respect of waiting for a confirmation, the lieutenant flicked his fingers to attract the attention of one of the men. There was no response and so he repeated the gesture, at last gaining some reaction. He pointed to the prisoner and the soldier strode towards him, Lukin a few paces behind. Osokin felt the urge to reprimand him, but he was curious to see how the lieutenant would deal with the taciturn captive. He sauntered after them.

  ‘Shit!’

  The one, explosive word came from the lips of the soldier an instant before he was hurled across the room, slamming into the sloping wall opposite. Lukin took a step back and Osokin broke into a run. Even as he approached, he could see what had happened. Somehow the prisoner had freed his right arm. Osokin drew his revolver and stood at a safe distance, holding it out in front of him in both hands. Even so he could see it shaking, his right arm still too weak and painful to keep it steady. The prisoner’s arm threshed from side to side, almost wildly, but the look of calm concentration on his face told Osokin that the action was quite deliberate.

  ‘Keep back,’ he instructed Lukin. He would have told the others too, but having seen the fate of their comrade, none of the remaining soldiers dared approach. It was as if they knew what was happening.

  Osokin assessed the scene. He could see nothing amiss with the bindings that should have been holding the prisoner’s right arm. The leather and chains appeared intact – and yet they were too tight for the prisoner to have slipped his hand out. But, looking at the hand, maybe that wasn’t so certain. It was more of a stump. There was the hint of a thumb, but the whole thing was smeared with blood and pus. The prisoner reached over with it, as if trying to undo the bonds that held his other wrist, but without fingers there was nothing he could do.

  And yet now there were fingers – not complete fingers but three short sticks of bone that protruded from the prisoner’s bloody, shapeless fist. He began to flex them, just like he might have done if they had been cold, or if he had slept on his arm. As he did so, they grew and were joined by a fourth.

  Osokin stood in frozen inaction, unable to determine what he could or should do. If he went close, then that arm might deliver a heavy blow, but apart from that was there any danger? The prisoner still had no chance of escape. A shout broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Get over here! If we can hold him now we may have a chance!’ It was Lukin, shouting to the other men, but without effect. For all his technical abilities, the lieutenant had no great air of authority about him – not enough to overcome the men’s fear. But to Osokin, his and their concern seemed misplaced. There was no serious threat.

  The prisoner reached over again, his nailless fingers outstretched, scrabbling for where his bonds were fastened. His hand was almost complete. The skin had returned – smooth and shiny, as though scalded, but even as Osokin watched it became firmer and more textured, matching the complexion of the rest of the prisoner’s body. The prisoner grunted and strained with his left hand, and with a splintering of wood it was free. He stood, his lower legs still fastened tight to the chair legs, and looked around him, breathing heavily. Then he bent forward.

  ‘Sit back down!’ Osokin’s words sounded calm, at least to himself. They had no effect on the prisoner, other than causing him momentarily to look up from his work on the straps that held his legs. ‘Sit, or I fire.’

  Still there was no response. Osokin let loose three shots. In his bent position, the only target the prisoner offered was his head and shoulders. Osokin was sure that at least one bullet entered the brain. The prisoner stood and Osokin fired again, noting the slight recoil as the bullet hit his chest.

  Now there was no doubt in Osokin’s mind. He was facing a creature of his nightmares – a voordalak or something very like it; names did not matter at this moment. His gun was useless. He looked around him, trying to think what he might use as a weapon, but time was short. The prisoner had bent down again and had already begun to free one leg. Perhaps a sword or a bayonet would help, although legend said that the blade used against a vampire must be wooden. The room itself had two weapons – sunlight and the guillotine – though how either could be put to use, he could not guess. There was only a small patch of daylight left now, but at least it might provide protection. Osokin backed towards it.

  At the same moment, he witnessed an act of preposterous bravery. With the prisoner still bending down, Lukin ran forward and leapt towards him. It was no direct attack. Lukin’s booted foot landed square in the middle of the prisoner’s bent back and then the other launched him from the back of the chair, sending him flying through the air to where he managed to grab the end of the dangling rope.

  The canopy above shifted, and the line of daylight moved a little closer to the prisoner, but now it was no longer so much of a threat; the prisoner was free. With a shake of his leg the last strands of leather dropped to the floor. The last chain fell and coiled itself on the ground like a snake, clinking instead of hissing. The prisoner looked around.

  Now the troops that Otrepyev had left on guard were stung into action. Some rushed to surround the prisoner, sabres drawn or rifles raised, bayonets pointing upwards. Most, though, went over to Lukin. After his initial success, his efforts on the rope had made no further progress. One of the soldiers jumped up, reaching up for his ankle, but missed. A second attempt found its grip and the soldier dangled from Lukin’s leg. The lieutenant managed to keep hold of the rope and the shutter moved again. The soldier began climbing up Lukin’s trouser leg, and calling on his comrades to add their own weight.

  The prisoner was well aware of events. He had seen the shade recede and turned to take in the cause. He reached forward and grabbed at the rifle of one of those surrounding him. The soldier fired, but it mattered little whether the bullet found its target or not. The prisoner wrenched the gun from his hands and then rammed it forward. The butt hit the soldier in the face, splitting his cheek and lip and dropping him to the floor. Another man struck with his sword. If the blow had kept true it would have split the prisoner’s skull, but at the last moment he jerked his head to one side and the blade caught his right ear. It was impossible to see what damage had been done for the flow of blood, but the prisoner was unperturbed. He swung the rifle again, knocking the swordsman to the ground, then he plucked the bayonet from the muzzle and cast the gun aside. He turned and flung the blade at the dangling figure of Lieutenant Lukin, from whose legs three other bodies now hung, with at last some significant effect on the speed at which the roof was opening.

  Osokin did not see where the bayonet hit, but Lukin’s grip slackened immediately and all four men tumbled to the floor. The three ryadovye quickly pulled themselves to their feet, but the officer remained motionless on the ground.

  The prisoner – though it was now far from appropriate to consider him a captive – strode towards the doorway. Although it was still daylight outside, there was a maze of tunnels out there – both those that were a part of the city and those that the Russians had dug for themselves – and he would easily find a safe place to hide until it was night. One of the soldiers threw himself on to the creature. It was brave, but it was no real attack. The prisoner caught him with one hand and drew him closer, so that they were almost face to face. There was a scream and Osokin saw a spurt of blood spray across the ground, quickly ebbing to nothing. The prisoner did not pause to drink, but hurled the corpse away. It landed against the wooden wheel that had once operated the canopy, shattering it. The prisoner turned and looked back at the room, stains of the soldier’s blood on his chin and neck. No one else moved to intercept him.

  But Osokin did move, neither towards nor away from the prisoner,
but laterally, in the direction of the wheel he had just destroyed. Osokin looked down, kicking the shards of broken wood with his toe until he saw what he wanted. It was one of the spokes of the wheel, still in one piece and sharpened at one end where it had been driven into the hub when the thing was constructed. He raised it in his right hand, and turned towards the prisoner.

  The expression on the creature’s face was a fitting reflection of the futility of Osokin’s action. He did not know why he couldn’t simply let the vampire leave. He did not know whether such an implement really would be effective, or whether it would be as useless as the bullets that had already been tried. He did not even know if he would have the skill and the strength to drive it home. And yet some force deep in his gut told him that he must fight this thing – must destroy it.

  The prisoner grinned and took a step away from the doorway, as if to prove that he was able to leave and that he chose not to. He and Osokin began to circle one another. He did not cut an impressive figure. He was of about the same height as Osokin, but carried no great bulk. And yet Osokin knew how futile it was to assess his appearance as if he were a human. Everyone in the room – everyone still alive – had seen what the prisoner could do.

  Osokin now had his back to the door. He took a step forward, but the prisoner made no move. Osokin jerked the stake out in front of him and the prisoner raised his hands a little in mock surrender, taking a step back. Osokin moved forward again and the prisoner echoed his movements, keeping a constant distance between them. Osokin prayed that his adversary had not noticed what he could plainly see. While most of the men watched in numbed silence, one of them had begun to move, crawling on all fours and positioning himself behind the prisoner. It was the sort of trick that belonged to the schoolyard, but it might just work.