The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  He waited a few seconds before opening his eyes again. The air was still thick with dust, making it impossible to see more than a short distance. Even so, Osokin could just detect the presence of daylight – something of which he had known little in the past two weeks. As they’d planned, the tunnel roof had caved in ahead. Here it was still intact, but at the end of the passageway the crater would be so large that no amount of rubble could fill it and block out the midday winter sun.

  From behind him he heard a noise. It might have been a shout, but his ears still rang too much to make out what was said. A new sound assailed him, a rapid thump, thump, thump this time, again from behind. He turned, but the route back to the surface was veiled in dust, worse now in that direction than ahead. Shadows advanced, emerging from the thick smog. The shout he had heard was the command to attack. Whether the citadel would be taken by these men, streaming in through the tunnel, or by those on the surface charging across the detritus of the breached wall, no one could predict. So enormous a detonation could not be precisely calculated. It would come down to the relative sizes of the breach and the crater, and where the Turcomans chose to concentrate their defence.

  Colonel Otrepyev had vanished. It was easy to guess where to. If Osokin stayed here, he would get caught up in the onslaught; either trampled underfoot or carried along by the crowd and into the sights of the defensive guns. He desired neither fate, and was still keen to discover what it was that Otrepyev had expended so much effort to get hold of before the marauding Russian army could fall upon it. He pulled himself to his feet and darted across to the side tunnel, into which Otrepyev had so recently disappeared.

  Osokin had not ventured into this section of the mine before. Otrepyev said nothing explicit about its secrecy, but Osokin, like any Russian, understood without being told what was for him to know and what was not. Aside from the sappers doing the digging, only Otrepyev and Lukin had been down here – and Lukin pretty rarely. Even Otrepyev’s select squad of men were walking into the unknown. Osokin knew he was taking a risk. Whatever lay ahead was Otrepyev’s business. He might choose to have Osokin shot, but in the chaos that surrounded them it should be easy enough for Osokin to make an excuse for his presence.

  The tunnel, as could be guessed from the time spent on it, was not long. It ended in an underground wall, constructed of large, heavy sandstone blocks – or at least it had done until the explosion. Now there was simply a jagged hole. Beyond was a corridor, constructed of the same stone. A greater amount of explosive might have brought the whole thing down instead of just one wall. The precise result was testament to Lukin’s skill.

  Osokin stepped over the rubble and into the corridor. It was brighter here – lit by oil lamps rather than candles. The breach had been made just as the passageway turned a sharp corner. One path led, as far as Osokin could tell, to the north-east, the other north-west, though both twisted and he could not see far along either. The sound of feet marching away came from the latter route, and Osokin took it.

  He soon caught up with Otrepyev’s men. They were moving swiftly, and it was clear that the colonel knew where he was heading, though it was hard to imagine he had ever been here before. In recent evenings, Osokin had seen him poring over maps that the other officers were not allowed to inspect. The route would not have been difficult to memorize.

  From behind him, Osokin heard shouts. They were not Russian voices, but local Turcomans. Then footsteps – a single set – racing towards him. In a moment his pistol was drawn. He pressed himself into a corner of the wall and cocked the gun, raising it in front of him. He saw the shadow first, flickering against the stonework, and tried to guess where the figure would emerge. He squeezed the trigger.

  His guess was wrong, fortunately for Lukin. The bullet ricocheted off the wall as the lieutenant raced along the corridor. His pace slowed momentarily in reaction to the shot, but as his eyes fell upon Osokin he seemed to comprehend the major’s error. He flung himself against the hard stone wall just behind where his commanding officer was crouched and drew his own pistol.

  ‘How many?’ asked Osokin.

  ‘Five,’ replied Lukin. ‘Maybe six.’

  Even as he spoke, the first two appeared. Osokin had seen Turcomans from a distance, manning the city walls, but never this close. Their uniforms seemed almost medieval. They were dressed in some kind of mail, and carried small shields. They had rifles – supplied by the British, at a guess – but these were clumsy weapons to aim in an enclosed space. Osokin and Lukin’s revolvers spoke moments apart, and the two men fell – their chainmail no protection against a modern bullet. But behind them, two of their comrades had managed to take aim.

  Osokin felt a burning pain in his right arm. His hand fell to his side and he tried to reach over to take hold of the gun with his left. At the same time he felt Lukin grab his collar and drag him round the corner to temporary safety. But it would not take long for the Turcomans to advance, and Lukin alone would not be able to hold them off. Osokin tried to raise his pistol, but his arm would not obey. A body threw itself forward, lying stretched out on the ground in front of them, rifle aimed. Lukin fired, but the Turcoman’s tactic had been clever – the shot went above his head. The man on the ground returned fire, but missed, and then two more figures appeared behind him, standing, the barrels of their guns raised.

  Osokin heard a volley of gunshots – perhaps four detonations timed to the precise same moment. In the enclosed space, it was impossible to tell the direction that the sound came from, but the two standing Turcomans crumpled; the one already on the ground twitched and lay still, with nowhere further to fall.

  Osokin turned to see four of Otrepyev’s squad standing, rifles raised, wisps of smoke idling from the muzzles and twisting around the bayonets. Two of the men charged forward round the bend in the passageway. Osokin heard a scream, quickly strangled to nothing. He watched the soldiers’ shadows as they thrust their bayonets forward. Then they reappeared, rushing past Osokin and Lukin as if they were not there.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Lukin asked.

  Osokin glanced at his arm and put his hand across to feel the wound. It had numbed him, but the bullet had gone through and not broken the bone. He nodded and got to his feet. The two of them ran on in the direction the soldiers had gone.

  Soon they reached the end of the corridor – or at least as close to it as they could. Otrepyev’s elite squad blocked the way, and their way was in turn blocked by a heavy wooden door, with iron bands across it. One of the soldiers was bending down close to the lock, while Otrepyev leaned over him intently.

  Lukin pushed forward through the men. ‘Let me!’ he shouted.

  Otrepyev looked up, and then beckoned to Lukin. ‘Move!’ he snapped at the man beside him. The others parted to allow Lukin through, and Osokin took the opportunity to follow in his wake.

  ‘This has to be quick,’ growled Otrepyev.

  Lukin nodded. ‘Get them back,’ he said.

  Otrepyev ordered his men away and soon they were hidden behind a bend. Otrepyev stayed to watch Lukin, and Osokin did likewise. The lieutenant took the short stick of dynamite that his predecessor had been attempting to attach to the lock, and moved it to the other side of the door.

  ‘The hinges will be weaker,’ he explained. ‘At least you’ve brought the right kit.’

  He delved into the bag that the soldier had been using and brought out a handful of wet clay, with which he easily fixed the explosive where he wanted it. He struck a match and the fuse was alight.

  ‘We’ve got about eight seconds,’ he said, already on the move.

  Soon they were with the others. Osokin held his breath. Otrepyev glanced at him and then at Lukin. The words ‘Stay back and let us deal with this’ emerged from his lips an instant before the blast. Even as sound came, Otrepyev’s troops ran forward, and Osokin and Lukin had no choice, for the moment, but to obey.

  It was Lukin who moved first, his curiosity evidently as great as Osokin’s. Withi
n seconds they were back at what remained of the door, the top hinge blasted by dynamite, the bottom smashed by a soldier’s boot. The two officers gazed at what lay within.

  It was like the inside of one of the cone-shaped chimneys used to manufacture glass; easily fifty paces across and twice as tall, with the curved walls converging almost to a point where one might expect to see a circle of daylight, though none was visible. By Osokin’s estimation, they were still below ground level, but the peak of this strange cellar was surely above it.

  The squad had scattered across the room, brutally dealing with the Turcoman warriors they discovered inside. The defenders outnumbered the Russians by at least two to one but seemed no match for Otrepyev’s men, who happily slaughtered them with sword, bayonet and pistol. If the place had merely been some kind of barracks, then the effort of blasting their way in here would have been superfluous. But Osokin could see that the Turcomans were not here for their own comfort. They were here to guard something.

  And what they were guarding stood at the very centre of the room.

  It was a chair; a wooden chair – sturdy but surely not comfortable. The word ‘throne’ might have been more apposite, given its slightly raised, central position and the evident fact that this room – this throne room – existed solely to house it. But the man sitting in it was no king, those surrounding him no loyal courtiers. He did not move. At first Osokin suspected he might be dead, but looking closer he saw the man’s eyes constantly flickering, taking in what was happening around him.

  Osokin walked forward, oblivious of the melee that was taking place. With his injured arm, there was little he would have been able to do to defend himself, but he found he was strangely removed from what was going on all around. The Turcomans’ objective did not seem to be the repulsion of the invading soldiers, but was more like a retreat; a retreat which the Russians were intent on hindering. But how they might escape was unclear. There was only one door to the chamber – the one which Lukin had so effectively blown from its hinges – but the Turcomans did not head for it. Instead they were making for two muster points, towards the back of the room on either side of the chair, marked by pieces of machinery whose detail Osokin could not make out. None tried to defend the chair itself, though no one save Osokin was attempting to approach.

  As he got closer, he could see more clearly why the occupant did not move: he was bound where he sat. On his forearms and shins, thick leather straps fastened him to its arms and legs and, as if this might not be enough to fetter him, chains added a further layer of constraint. A strap stretched across his shoulders, and his head was kept still by yet another across his forehead, pressing his unkempt blond hair tight against his skull and binding him to some extension of the chairback that Osokin could not see. The prisoner – there could be no doubt as to what he was – strained every sinew against his bonds, but could do nothing to free himself, or even to move.

  It had become lighter. Osokin looked around, realizing that it had been no gradual process but a sudden increase in illumination beyond what was provided by the oil lamps. He looked up and saw that the dark circle at the apex of the chamber’s coned ceiling was now partially lit, almost like a waxing moon. Sunlight was spilling through and illuminating the wall, the line between dark and shadow gradually moving, soon to reach the floor as the gap above opened further.

  A shot rang out. Osokin looked and saw Otrepyev holding his pistol, his arm outstretched. Following its line, he saw a Turcoman slump to the ground. Beside him was one of the machines that Osokin had observed. It was fastened to the wall; a large wheel with a crank handle, which two of the dead man’s comrades continued to operate.

  Otrepyev did not expend any more bullets, but strode over towards them, sabre in hand – the height that had so restricted him in the tunnels now giving him impressive speed without his having to break into a run. One of the men let go of the wheel and drew his sword in an attempt to defend his post, but Otrepyev quickly dispatched him with a backhand blow to the neck. The remaining guard desperately tried to turn the handle more quickly. Osokin could see now that from the wheel a long rope ran up the wall to a pulley, after which its path could not be seen, but it was clear enough that it was this which was gradually drawing aside the shutter that had been blocking out the sun, and allowing its light to spill into the room.

  Why this action should be of such vital importance to the Turcoman was unclear, but it most certainly cost him his life. Otrepyev brought his sword down on the man’s hands. The Turcoman snatched them away from the wheel and held them up in front of him, as if hiding his face in fear. But one hand, lolling from his wrist by the fragment of skin and sinew that had been left by Otrepyev’s blow, provided no cover. Otrepyev quickly put him out of his misery, his pistol firing at close range into the middle of the face the Turcoman had seemed so eager to protect.

  Next Otrepyev grabbed the rope that stretched out above him with one hand and hacked at it with his sword. It was soon cut through and the colonel let it swing freely across the chamber. Almost instantly another Turcoman broke free of the swordfight that had been engaging him and leapt high into the air, grabbing the dangling rope and pulling it down so that the panel above opened a little further and the line of sunlight progressed another step across the room. The Turcoman tugged and jiggled on the end of the rope, swinging back and forth as he did so, but his weight was insufficient to encourage any additional movement. As this human pendulum came past him, Otrepyev took a short run and flung himself into the air – an impressive feat for a man of his years. At the apex of his flight he hacked at the rope again with his sword, cutting it in a single stroke. The Turcoman fell to the ground, still clutching his end of the rope like a valued treasure. Otrepyev landed comfortably on his feet and turned, but he had no need to deal with his adversary. A swarm of Russian soldiers rallied to the prone figure and finished him with their bayonets.

  That so many of them were free to do so showed that the fight had turned in the Russians’ favour. There now remained only a small group huddled against the wall, furiously working on the other device that Osokin still could not see. Otrepyev shouted an order and pointed towards the Turcomans. A number of his men moved towards them. At the same moment one of the Turcomans gave a cry which Osokin guessed to be an exhortation to his god. There was a sudden movement among the group, two of them falling to the ground, and Osokin could at last see what they were working on: a great iron lever set into the wall which they had finally managed to pull down from the vertical to the horizontal.

  Osokin heard a sound above him, as did Otrepyev, who looked to its source and then broke into a run towards the chair at the centre of the chamber. He quite deliberately barged one of his own troops out of the way, pushing him across the room so that he blocked Osokin’s view of the chair and the prisoner. As the soldier’s head turned towards Osokin, a look of horror appeared on the man’s face and he attempted to throw himself backwards. But he was already off balance and could do nothing. Behind him Otrepyev could be seen, still dashing towards the chair.

  Osokin felt a whoosh of air above his head and a dark shape appeared in front of his eyes, as though some great black raven had swooped down from its nesting place high in the wall. But as it moved away Osokin saw that it was no bird. Two long, straight poles stretched up from it to a pivot in the ceiling by which it swung, released by the lever he had watched the Turcomans operate. At the end of the poles was a thin horizontal sheet of metal, which was travelling at huge speed now that it approached the bottom of its arc.

  The Russian soldier in front of him had had no time to move. The horizontal blade hit him with gruesome precision just a little way above the middle of his Adam’s apple. The man’s body fell to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut; as though the head had been holding up the body instead of the other way round. The head itself remained momentarily in situ, given a slight upward momentum by the impact and spinning frantically in the air, repeatedly showing and
hiding the gaping red cross-section of its hewn neck. Osokin felt a splatter of blood across his face, and then another.

  But the impact had done little to slow the blade’s progress. As the soldier’s head continued to turn in the air, behind it Otrepyev had launched himself off the ground, his feet out in front of him, as if aiming a drop kick at the prisoner. But instead the impact was just to one side of the captive’s head, to the wood of the chair itself.

  The blade was level with Otrepyev’s own head as his feet made contact with the wood. It was a race between the two of them. If the blade were to be the victor it would fulfil its design – there could be no doubt that all of this was planned – and sever the prisoner’s head. The chair back received the full force of Otrepyev’s lunge. The room was filled with a screeching, tearing sound as the chair’s legs ripped away from the nails and bolts that fixed it to the platform beneath.

  The prisoner gazed at the blade, now only inches from him, and then seemed to look upwards as the chair finally began to tip back under the force of Otrepyev’s assault. For a few moments, the blade continued to make ground, closing faster on the prisoner’s neck than the falling chair could move him away. But then he began to fall quicker, down as well as back, and the blade finally skimmed over him, just missing, or perhaps just catching, the ball of his chin.

  The chair and the prisoner and Otrepyev and the spinning, severed head all continued to fall, each matching the others’ speed in response to the same gravitational force. There was a loud crash – nothing compared with the blasts that Osokin had heard earlier in the day – as the two men and the chair hit the ground. At the same instant the head landed and, still revolving, began to roll eagerly towards Osokin’s feet, coming finally to rest just in front of them, its dead eyes gazing upwards. It had been only seconds since the blade’s release.