The People's Will

Chapter III



‘SHALL WE CONDUCT this interview in english?’ Dmitry asked. There was little chance that anyone in the chamber beneath Geok Tepe would understand the subject matter of their conversation, whatever language they spoke, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep it from them.

‘I didn’t know you spoke English,’ replied Iuda.

‘I’ve travelled since we last met. One picks these things up.’

Dmitry wondered just how well he really spoke the language; how thick his accent was. Iuda would be the man to know. He was, when it came down to it, an Englishman – although that had been a long time ago.

‘I can imagine,’ said Iuda.

Dmitry did not want to waste time.

‘As you’ll have realized,’ he continued, ‘I need you alive. So tell me – what other traps are there?’

‘You’ve seen it,’ said Iuda. ‘There’s the sunlight,’ he attempted to jerk his head upwards, but the strap across his forehead still restrained him, ‘and the guillotine. The guards all used to carry wooden stakes, but one of them got the jitters – tried to kill me out of pure fear. He got close, but I managed to deal with him.’ He grinned and ran his tongue across his teeth to clarify the point.

‘So they gave that up?’

Iuda tried to nod. Dmitry suspected it was a pretence – after so long he should have been used to his immobility. What he thought to gain by it, Dmitry could not guess; anything to unnerve his opponent.

‘Yes,’ said Iuda as an alternative to the gesture. ‘They took all the stakes away. They want me alive. The only circumstances in which I should die are …’ he smiled, ‘those in which we now find ourselves. The shutter and the guillotine take more than one man to operate, you see, which makes them safe, but slow.’

‘Luckily for you.’

‘That, I think, remains to be seen.’ Iuda eyed Dmitry, trying to determine why he was here. Dmitry ensured that his face remained inscrutable. ‘They could have been a little quicker off the mark,’ Iuda continued, ‘but I suppose they saw this as a genuine Russian assault, not a feint to disguise your more personal business. You did well to arrange it.’

Dmitry gave a brief snort. Iuda was probing. Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to let him know a little of what was going on around him.

‘Oh, the attack was real enough. “Is”, I should say – it’s still going on, up there. All part of what you English call the Great Game. We call it the Turniry Tyenyey – the Tournament of Shadows.’ He added the English translation simply to annoy Iuda, whose Russian was perfect.

‘Next stop Afghanistan then?’

‘For them, perhaps,’ Dmitry nodded towards Osokin, Lukin and the others, ‘but I, and you, have a different path to take.’

‘You chose your path a long time ago.’

Dmitry narrowed his eyes. Was that a hint of reproach in Iuda’s voice? Had he really expected Dmitry to remain by his side once he’d become a vampire? Iuda had groomed him since he was a child, with a foresight that would startle even the most ancient voordalak. As Dmitry had grown into manhood, they had become friends – closer even than that. Dmitry had loved Iuda almost like a father, in some ways more than he loved his true father, Aleksei. Dmitry had found it hard to forgive his father’s infidelity to his mother. Iuda, on the other hand, had always carried an air of sainthood in Dmitry’s eyes. It was laughable, and Dmitry deserved to be laughed at for being taken in. He was different now, and thankful for it; in becoming a vampire he had become a cynic. He’d rarely been fooled since – except by himself.

But as far as Iuda’s interests had been concerned Dmitry was merely a stepping stone. The real enemy was Aleksei – always Aleksei. Dmitry could not be sure that Iuda had planned exactly the dénouement that had taken place beneath the Kremlin twenty-five years before, but it had been something along those lines. Iuda had wanted to take Dmitry and show him to Aleksei, to dangle the son before his father’s eyes and say, ‘I have taken him. For all you loved him he is mine now.’ It would have broken Aleksei’s heart.

And for his father’s heart, Dmitry did not care a jot. Since the moment he became a vampire, Dmitry had cared for no other creature but himself – and perhaps a little still for Raisa, his vampire ‘mother’. Down in that low, dank corridor, when Iuda had begun to reveal Dmitry’s fate to Aleksei, Dmitry had felt no pity for his father. Iuda’s words might break Aleksei’s heart, but it would mean nothing to Dmitry – a heart that has died cannot be broken.

Instead Dmitry had thought of himself. He had been Iuda’s pawn, and he did not like it. He could look back on himself and be amused by his own credulity, but it stung his pride to have been a bit player in the story of his own life. And he was still a mere supernumerary. Iuda, Tamara, Aleksei – they all had their roles to play, but for Dmitry there had been nothing to do but stand there, and let Iuda complete the plan that he had formed as long ago as 1812 when he first set eyes on that five-year-old boy. Dmitry did not care whether the plan succeeded or failed, but this time success or failure would be down to him.

The thoughts had crossed his mind in an instant, and he’d known that he must act. He would not let Iuda make the final move; would not let him reveal the truth to Aleksei. Dmitry kicked out and, for the first time ever, acted on his own volition. The expression on Iuda’s face as he fell back among his prisoners would have been satisfaction enough, but the knowledge that Dmitry had taken control was what mattered. As he walked away, with the key to Iuda’s dungeon in his pocket, he had been in charge. Later, he might return to release his former mentor, or he might leave him there to rot. In the end he left him, but the decision had been his.

It was only hours afterwards, when it was too late, that he realized what he should have done. He pictured it in his mind. He would still have kicked Iuda into the cell, still locked the door and taken the key, but he would not have left, not right away. He would have bent down to his dying father, so that Aleksei could see him with his failing eyes, and would have whispered the words, ‘Papa, it’s me, Dmitry. And I have become a vampire.’

It would have been the best of all: to take control and then to instigate the climax of Iuda’s plan for himself – and it was a wonderful plan, there was no doubt about it. He would even have told Aleksei how he’d left Marfa, his own mother, locked in there with Iuda, just to extinguish any hope for his humanity that might linger in his father’s mind. But he would not cry over a missed opportunity. He had had many opportunities to live his own life since then, and had rarely declined to take them.

‘What matters is to have a choice,’ he said, staring down at Iuda, flicking his eyes across the bonds that held his arms and legs and head.

‘And you chose to come here?’ replied Iuda. ‘To rescue me?’ Dmitry remained silent, but Iuda did not need to be told that this was no rescue. ‘To fetch me?’

Dmitry was tempted to turn away, but he knew Iuda was just guessing. Any reaction might tell more than was necessary. He’d find out soon enough, anyway.

Iuda continued to goad, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Now who on earth would send his minion to fetch me?’

The answer was obvious, but Iuda was still guessing.

‘Where is it?’ Dmitry asked, tired of wasting time.

‘Where is what?’

‘Ascalon.’ Dmitry whispered the word, afraid to say it in front of so many, even though they would little understand its meaning.

‘And what would you want with that?’

‘That’s no concern of yours.’

‘Nor, I would suspect, of yours. Something else you’ve been sent to fetch?’

‘I know you’ve been searching for it. All that time you spent at Chufut Kalye, and you never spoke to the Karaites about it?’

‘And you think that since I’ve been searching for it, I must have found it? That’s a very flattering estimation of my abilities.’

‘You must know something,’ said Dmitry.

‘I might.’

‘And you’ll tell me.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you want your freedom.’ Dmitry was not sure that it was an offer he was empowered to make, but that did not matter; Iuda was unimpressed.

‘Such an exchange would require trust between the participants. You lost my trust years ago, Mitka.’

‘So who would you trust?’

Iuda spoke slowly. ‘I’ve lived a very long time. That’s not achieved by trusting.’

Dmitry paused. He was getting nowhere, just as he’d expected. ‘Perhaps not for much longer,’ he said. It was meant to be a parting shot, but Iuda continued.

‘Your father understood trust, of course,’ he said. ‘Faith, if you like. That’s why I could never quite handle him. But it was his faith that allowed him to choose Dominique over your mother. Perhaps it was only one side of his family that inherited it.’

Such insults meant nothing to Dmitry any more – though they would have cut him deeply when he had been human. But the mention of that side of the family gave Dmitry an opportunity to play one of his few trump cards.

‘You’d trust Luka Miroslavich then?’

‘Who?’ Iuda’s voice was casual, but he kept his face a little too still in repressing his surprise. Or perhaps that was deliberate. It was Iuda who’d brought the conversation to that point. Had he finessed Luka’s name out of Dmitry? It was too late now to go back.

‘My nephew, if you like to call him that,’ Dmitry explained, ‘on the more faithful side of the family. Tamara Valentinovna’s child. She gave him away.’

Iuda stared at him blankly.

‘We know you’ve befriended him … much as you befriended me,’ Dmitry continued.

But Iuda’s focus was not on his relationship with Luka. A gentle smile played across his lips, smug and victorious. He allowed Dmitry a moment to observe it before offering by way of explanation a single, simple word.

‘“We”?’ he asked.

Dmitry felt his jaw tighten. An anger grew within him that was not entirely his own. He turned away, suspecting that Iuda had learned far more from the conversation than he had. He rubbed his chin angrily. Suspected it? He knew it for a fact.

It was early in the afternoon, only a day since Geok Tepe had fallen and since they had come into this underground chamber with its strange, solitary prisoner. Colonel Otrepyev had departed soon after his initial discussion with his captive and not returned. He left orders with Major Osokin, but Osokin knew that it was merely out of form, a sop to his status as senior officer. The men that Otrepyev had brought with him seemed well capable of carrying out their duties alone.

‘And see if you can find a way to get that roof closed’ had been the colonel’s final instruction. It was an odd preoccupation, but Osokin had noticed the colonel eyeing the clear patch of sky above them for a while. He seemed older now than when he had first arrived.

‘I’ll see what can be done, sir,’ he’d replied. ‘Should we allow the prisoner to stretch his legs?’

Otrepyev laughed heartily, but briefly. He was eager to get away. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t recommend that. I’ll be taking him away before long.’

‘I assume we should feed him?’

‘Don’t even go near him.’ And with that Otrepyev departed.

Attempts to converse with the prisoner, even to discover his name, proved unsuccessful. Osokin tried Russian and French, but with no response. He was pretty sure that Otrepyev and the prisoner had been using English when they spoke, but he knew nothing of the language.

‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’ had been his last attempt, as he bent forward, peering closely at the man, trying to judge whether he was even aware of his surroundings. No reply was forthcoming. Osokin stood upright and took a step back, still in close examination of the figure in front of him. There was no point in asking the men; perhaps the lieutenant.

‘Lukin!’ he called.

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t suppose you speak English, do you?’

‘Afraid not, sir.’

And that was the end of it, but in that brief exchange Osokin had at last noticed some slight reaction from the prisoner, though to which precise words he could not tell. Perhaps he was just reacting to the word ‘English’, presuming it was similar in both languages.

‘Any idea how to get through to him?’ Osokin asked the lieutenant.

‘Best leave him be, I’d have thought. The colonel seems to know what he’s doing.’

It was sound if unimaginative advice. Osokin left the chamber. The bullet wound to his arm had been crudely bandaged by one of the men, but it still throbbed uncomfortably. It would be worth getting a field surgeon to have a look at it. And he was eager to see how the battle in the rest of the city had played out.

It had not been his nation’s finest hour. Granted, they had achieved victory, but many of the men – the commander-in-chief, General Skobyelev, for one – had desired more than that. They had been seeking revenge – revenge for the humiliation of a little over a year before when Russia had first attempted to take the city of Geok Tepe, under the command of General Lomakin. Then there had been no undermining, and the assault had come after too short a period of bombardment. The attackers had been thrown back, and then Turcoman defenders – Teke tribesmen, most of them – had poured out of the city to counterattack. Seven hundred Russians were killed; as many captured. Back home some people had compared it with Khiva in 1717. In Europe the papers called it the Lomakin Massacre.

But today, for seven hundred, revenge had been taken on seven thousand – perhaps more. Hundreds had died in the initial explosion, for which Osokin felt no guilt. It had achieved its goal and allowed the Russian cavalry and infantry to swarm in. As they had arrived, the Turcomans had fled out into the desert to the north. Some Russians had pursued. Those they caught they killed, but they didn’t catch many. Perhaps that was why they dealt so brutally with those who hadn’t escaped.

On the other hand, drunkenness was as likely a cause. Osokin had seen enough of it in Bulgaria against the Turks. It was the men, not the officers, but the officers did little to discourage it. Some thought it inspired a foot soldier to be braver, but in truth it just served to quieten their consciences. There was nothing brave about many of the killings that had taken place during the battle. It was not just enemy soldiers; the old, the young, women too – there was no sector of the population that did not have its losses. Some of the women had been raped first – even some of the children.

And there had been looting, of course. Osokin couldn’t object to that, up to a point. It wasn’t like the old days, when an army had to finance itself as it marched, but any little extra picked up along the way could help. But you couldn’t leave the enemy destitute, otherwise they’d turn to crime and half your troops would be busy just keeping the peace, instead of marching on to greater victories.

General Skobyelev – the White Pasha, as the Turks called him, thanks to the colour of his charger and matching uniform – decided to take things a step further. On the day after the battle he commanded the women of the city – the surviving women – to hand over all their gold and silver jewellery by way of a war contribution. There was a tradition among the locals that at a woman’s wedding she should be decked with so much jewellery that she could not stand unaided under its weight, so there was plenty to be taken, even from the poor. At first the women resisted, but then they looked at the bodies of their mothers, sisters and daughters.

Osokin saw the loot for himself. Two large carpets had been laid out to receive the offerings, but had disappeared from sight, obscured by piles of jewellery that stood taller than a man’s height – and still the women came to pay their tributes.

Some brave staff officer, lower in rank but higher in nobility than Skobyelev, asked what it was all supposed to achieve. Wasn’t victory enough? But for Skobyelev, this was not about war; it was about the permanence of the ensuing peace.

‘The harder you hit them,’ he explained, ‘the longer they stay quiet.’

Osokin had the dressing on his arm changed and then returned to the tunnels and to the strange conical chamber with its solitary captive. At least now the bodies of the dead had been cleared away – particularly the awful headless torso that had lain in the middle of the place. But bloodstains still marked the point at which each man had fallen, and one didn’t need to venture too far along the corridor outside to discover them all, stacked up, awaiting a mass burial.

‘Take an hour or so,’ he said to Lieutenant Lukin. ‘You might as well see what we’ve conquered.’

‘I’ll be all right, sir,’ Lukin replied.

‘Just do as you’re told!’ The boy – that’s all he really was – didn’t deserve to escape the consequences of what they had done. However brilliant he might be at digging tunnels and laying explosives, he needed to learn that it was about more than just making precise mathematical calculations. He needed to see the result.

Lukin reluctantly obeyed.

Otrepyev’s men had achieved little success in drawing the shutter back into place above them. They’d managed to reach the dangling rope, but in pulling it they had only opened the gap a little further. There was no obvious mechanism to reverse the process. The whole contraption had been devised to be used just once – to open the roof, which would never then need closing.

One of the soldiers had managed to shin his way up the support for the swinging blade that had so efficiently beheaded his comrade the previous day. But its pivot was not close enough to the skylight. He reached out as if expecting his arm to suddenly grow in length and bridge the gap, but it was hopeless. His fingers lost their grip and he fell with a cry, landing at the feet of the prisoner, still in his chair, who glanced down with an expression of contempt. Even if he’d escaped breaking any bones, the fallen man must have been horribly bruised, but he looked up into the eyes that stared down upon him from the chair and in an instant was scrambling away like a startled crab. He huddled against the wall, nursing his aching limbs.

It was all very peculiar: the prisoner himself, the two strange contrivances – one to open up the roof, the other to behead the prisoner. It was clear that the man was not meant to be captured alive. What reason could there be for that? And if he needed to be killed, why not a simple bullet or a blade? There was one answer that crept into Osokin’s mind, but it came from the past – from childishness and superstition. The Turcomans though were a backward people; a hundred or more years behind Russia. At the time of Empress Yekaterina, might not many of even her most rational subjects have taken such myths for truth? There were tales from as recently as the Patriotic War, of monsters preying on Russians and French alike. It would be the same for the Turcomans today. But if it was just these primitives who believed it, why had Colonel Otrepyev been so keen to cut that rope?

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.

Osokin gave a roar and began to run, hoping to see the prisoner react and tumble over the obstruction behind him. The creature did move, but far more swiftly than Osokin could have imagined. He turned and picked up the soldier from the floor behind him, holding him by his belt and collar, then he straightened and hurled the helpless man into Osokin’s oncoming charge. There was nothing Osokin could do. He heard an obscene noise and felt the stake press against his hands as it entered the man’s body. His nostrils caught the scent of human ordure. He fell backwards under the impact, letting go of the stake. The soldier rolled aside, groaning in agony.

Osokin tried to sit up, but he had no time. The next moment, the prisoner was upon him, his eyes blazing, his mouth open to reveal his fangs. Osokin fell back once again and felt the prisoner’s hand on his chin, pushing his head upwards to reveal the pale white flesh of his throat. He began to pray, not that he would live but that he would truly die. He braced himself against the pain.

But no pain came. Instead, he heard a strangled, gurgling cry and felt the prisoner’s weight lifted from him. He opened his eyes and raised his head to see what had happened.

Colonel Otrepyev had returned, and had come prepared.

Around the prisoner’s neck was a loop of wire rope, which was tightened like a dog’s leash. Otrepyev held the other end and now that he had pulled his captive away from Osokin, he had his foot in the small of his back, so that he could further tighten the noose. The prisoner’s hands were at his throat, scratching in search of some way to relieve the tension, but they could find nothing.

‘Bind him.’ Otrepyev’s command was to the two men who had returned with him. They had brought a wooden trunk which they emptied on to the floor. A pile of metalwork lay before them, chains, manacles and other devices. Otrepyev maintained his grip on the wire rope, while the soldiers moved in. First they placed a helmet over the prisoner’s head. It was not solid but made of strips of metal so that his eyes, ears and nose were not covered. His mouth received no such favour. A steel tongue forced its way between his lips as the device was fastened. Osokin had seen such a thing before, in a museum in Leipzig. It was called a Schandmaske – a scold’s bridle.

Next they manacled him – both his hands and his feet. The wire rope was looped through the bindings at his wrists and tied off on those at his ankles. Now Otrepyev released his grip, confident that there was no chance of escape. Finally the prisoner was bound with chains, across his arms and torso, at about the level of his elbows, and around his knees.

Under Otrepyev’s direction, the two men lifted the prisoner and began to carry him across the room. Osokin was on his feet now and could see more clearly the box they had brought in. It was no simple crate. The sides, top and bottom were constructed of thick, solid oak, and additionally there were bands of iron, hinged so that the lid could open, and fitted with hasps so that they could be locked. From its shape anyone would guess that the box was intended for use as a coffin – only those who had witnessed the inhuman powers that had just been displayed would understand the need for it to be so strong.

The prisoner offered no struggle as he was lowered inside. Otrepyev lifted the lid and took one last, long look at the creature within before allowing it to drop with a slam that echoed around the inside of the conical chamber. Padlocks were quickly applied as a final security measure.

The two men picked up the coffin – whose weight must have been doubled by all the additional metalwork – and carried it from the room. Colonel Otrepyev took a final glance around the chamber, as if checking he had not forgotten anything.

He pointed to a couple of his men. ‘You two, come with me. I’ll need you to load the crates. The rest of you can return to your regiment.’ Then he turned to Osokin, offering a salute. ‘Thank you very much, Major,’ he said. With that, he was gone.

Osokin felt the urge to laugh. He’d always despised men like Otrepyev – men who worked for the Third Section, or now the Ohrana. Was this really what they spent their days doing? If so, it was now clear that Colonel Otrepyev was a brave man. A hero. And yet still the question niggled at the back of Osokin’s mind; why couldn’t they have just left that creature to perish in the sunlight?

He looked around him, at the bodies of the injured, dying and dead. He knew he must act. They needed a doctor. He was about to leave when he saw something on the floor – bloody and gnarled, but still recognizable. It was a human ear. At least it appeared human, but Osokin knew where it had come from. He had seen it being cut from the prisoner’s head during the struggle.

And that was enough to expel any doubt there might have been in Osokin’s mind. The creature – the prisoner – was irrefutably a voordalak. Osokin had observed him closely as they had clamped the Schandmaske over his head and seen for himself with absolute clarity. The ear, whose twin now lay in the dirt of the cell floor, was perfectly intact on the prisoner’s head. There was only one explanation: it had grown back.