by Alma Boykin
Peter looked to Catherine, who nodded. “The shed by the oven.” They diverted off the path and all five squeezed into the shed. They could hear the sound of hooves and a sickly green horse with an ancient man riding it appeared.
“Where did they go?” he boomed.
“Down the little crooked path, my master. If you hurry you can catch them,” the oven replied.
Koschai jerked the horse’s head around and raced off to the left, at right angles to the main trail. Peter beckoned and they all piled out of the shed and hurried away. Catherine stopped long enough to speak to the oven and add a little wood to its fire, then raced to catch up. Rose didn’t look so good and the extra weight was slowing Peter more than he liked, but he stayed quiet. They’d need Ivan soon, he suspected.
The storm roared behind them. “I think he’s a little peeved,” Catherine observed.
“Just a little. The pale horse is a nice touch,” Stavros bantered back.
Rose said, “What mean, pale horse nice touch?”
Peter replied. “Revelation. In Bible. ‘And behold, I saw a rider on a pale horse, and he bare a sword in his hand and his name was Death.’ Text not used by Orthodox.” We’ve got enough creepy stuff in some of the liturgies as it is, thank you. Although the Catholics got some great art out of that book.
“One, you think it is the Pale Horse?” Stavros didn’t sound happy with the thought.
Hey, we all die sometime, Peter thought. “Nope.” He saved his breath for walking. He was a fighter, not a sprinter. He could hear thunder and galloping from behind them, and started thinking about how he would try to delay Koschai so the others could get away.
A faint voice called under the din, “Mooo. Young master, young mistress, I owe you debt.”
“The dairy shed,” Peter ordered and they rushed past the hay stacks and scurried into the little cowshed. I really hope this doesn’t have as many bugs as that one in the Congo did. Please St. George may it not have as many, and no spiders. I really do not like spiders. Ivan sneezed. “Bless you,” three voices chorused in the darkness.
“Spazibo.” Sniff.
Peter rolled his eyes before crouching down to look out a gap in the chinking between the boards. “Where are they?” the booming voice demanded again.
“Great master, they took the path to the well of the water of death,” the cow replied.
Again Koschai hurried away and the escapees tumbled out of the cowshed, brushing thatch bits and straw off as they departed. Peter gave the cow some hay and topped off her water. “Thank you,” he told her before cutting across the pasture to meet the others.
Stavros looked depressed. “I screwed that up too, didn’t I?”
“A little,” Peter agreed. “You can’t half-ass stuff, Three, especially not here.”
When they reached the apple tree, Peter, Stavros, and Catherine all picked more apples, then hurried on. As the oven and cow had done before, the apple tree sent Koschai by a different path. “Do you think it will work again?” Stavros asked.
“Not after this. Three times is the limit for magic,” Catherine panted. She was not looking good, Peter noticed.
They found a few more trees with blaze marks, and ducked another too-perfect evil tree that had moved closer to the path. Ivan hissed and they could hear Koschai again.
“I help.” Rose pulled the braid out of her bag and disappeared off the trail. She returned empty handed. “Is in water, traveling away. Should help.”
“Thanks,” Stavros said, taking her hand and helping her to keep moving. Peter ignored them in favor of finding the next mark on the tree.
Rose yelped and Stavros stopped, almost causing a wreck as Catherine tried to avoid running into his back. “One, um, I think Junior called in Dad.”
Peter stopped as well, and Ivan began wriggling and struggling to get out of the bag. “Geez, Cat, easy. I’m not a climbing tree.” Peter crouched and Ivan got half-way out. Stavros and Rose pulled him the rest of the way, complaining the entire time. “Typical feline.”
“No sheet,” Catherine agreed. “And we’ve got a problem.” She pointed and Peter looked up. And up, and up as a black and green thing rose from the mist ahead of them. Black fire swirled around it, and almond-shaped eyes, slitted like a snake’s eyes, glowed the green-white of decay. It stood twice as tall as Peter at least.
“And now I have you all,” Chernobog said, his red-black fangs showing as he smiled. Rose sank to her knees and Stavros stepped in front of her. Ivan hissed, back arched, tail thrashing. “The third son failed. Now you are mine, blood of the Soldier’s Son.”
Chapter 8: The Red and the Black
“Go,” Peter ordered.
Catherine and Stavros both balked. “Three is the number,” she reminded him.
“And I can’t run fast enough,” Stavros said.
“Hsssss.” Ivan stood on his hind legs and pawed frantically at Peter’s backpack, trying to open it.
Chernobog came closer and grabbed for Peter. He ducked, trying to gauge the deity’s reach and any weak points. The shifting black and green fire confused Peter’s eyes, made it hard to focus. Chernobog laughed and raised his left hand, creating a ball of poison green light. Peter drew his silver knife out of his pocket and started to untie the big hunting knife on his belt.
“Bro, catch!” Peter turned just enough to see Stavros tossing something red to him. Peter reached and caught it, twisting and ducking as the ball of green hissed past his head. Bang-crack it hit a tree and shattered it, sending splinters and twigs and bark flying. Rose yelped. Peter looked at the red thing in his right hand and realized that the Red Mare’s flame was growing, turning into a Mameluke sword. Peter straightened up and bared his teeth at Chernobog. The spirit tossed another fireball and Peter smashed it with the flat of the sword, shattering the green fire. The shock hurt his arm and shoulder and he felt tired for an instant. The red flame faded then grew stronger.
Chernobog reached up with his right hand and a heavy barbed weapon appeared, black and green and nasty looking. He took a step toward the siblings and Ivan, then another. Peter moved to intercept him and the fight began. Peter didn’t try for finesse. He wasn’t a swordfighter, he was a Marine. Hack and slash, blocking the monster, trying to buy time for the others to sort out what to do. He heard Catherine saying something, Rose answering, and Ivan adding his own commentary. The stench of swamp and decay, of corruption and the power of death and darkness choked him, making it hard to breathe. Each blow that he stopped, he weakened. The Red Mare’s sword pulled energy from him. That fit—she gave the tools but he had to use them. The green-black blade swept down and he blocked, staggering back from the hard blow. Chernobog laughed, making Peter’s hair stand on end. Something dark swirled around them.
Dear holy God, St. Michael, St. George and all the warrior saints, help me! Peter still had the silver knife, and he dug it back out of his pocket, opened it one handed, and as the dark form swung, he slammed the blade and as much of the hilt as he could into the darkness that seemed to be an arm. It lodged and Peter’s left arm went numb, then burned. Chernobog cried out, jerking backwards. Peter couldn’t let go! His fingers wouldn’t unlock! He took a deep breath, pulled the sword back as far as he could to get room, and lurched forward, stabbing into the darkness as he did.
Something exploded and slammed him backwards, ripping him free of the knife and sword. He hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. His left hand didn’t move; he couldn’t feel anything. “Now! Do it now!” Catherine screamed.
“St. George!” Steve yelled. He could hardly see for the pain blazing from his chest but he moved as fast as he could. He had the Sweeper’s skull-light under his arm like a football and ran toward the green and black. I started this mess and I’m gonna end it, one way or another. Chernobog had reeled back after Peter’s attack and now he raised both hands, forming a giant green and black fireball. Steve gulped, paused, set his back leg, and dropped the skull straight down, then kicke
d it as hard and straight as he could. The instant Chernobog threw the fireball, the skull smashed into it. They both exploded.
As they did, a black shape galloped up to Steve, carrying two silver things like lightning in its mouth. “Help Ivan!” he heard Catherine yell. Steve reached down, grabbed the giant cat, and in a smooth motion swung around and hurled Ivan into Chernobog’s chest.
Silver lanced into black, crimson flared against green, and a shockwave exploded out from the shape. Steve fell backwards, ears and sinuses popping, then clamped his hands over his ears as a silent roar shook him to the bones. Peter yelled. A girl screamed and Steve thought he heard Catherine but the world was black and red and green and loud and dark and light and nothing fit and he was going to die and so were the others and it was all his fault. He hurt, stung by bits of falling fire. His mind and body reeled, and everything went black again.
When he came to, he still hurt. And something wiggled inside his coat. His brain didn’t want to function. Neither did the rest of him. Go away. I’ll call back. The buzzing continued. I said go away. Except that was how this whole unholy mess had started. Steve rolled onto his back, undid his coat and pulled out the phone, toggling it on, and skimming to the latest message. It was from Ivan. Ivan wanted tuna. Lots and lots of tuna. Yeah, I owe you, I know. You find the tuna tree and I’ll pick it. Just not right now.
“Um, Steve?” a quiet little voice asked.
“Leave a number.”
“What ‘leave number’ mean?”
Catherine’s voice said, “It means he does not want to talk. That’s fine, but I’m not carrying him. You grab one leg, I’ll grab the other, and we’ll drag him. His head’s hard enough that the stone stairs won’t dent it.”
“Not funny Sis.”
A very large and rough tongue began washing his nose. The owner of the tongue had a serious case of cat breath. “Ew, OK, OK, I’ll get up.”
Ivan moved and Steve sat up. He kept his eyes closed until he was pretty certain his head had stopped spinning. He opened them and saw Rose kneeling and looking at him, and the knees of Catherine’s heavy work pants. A second pair of legs in sturdy trousers, these dotted with burns and ash, came into view. “You all right?”
“Think so. Talk later.” Peter extended a paw-like bandaged hand.
Steve took it, got to his knees, then let go and staggered to his feet. Catherine caught him and held him until he confirmed that up really was up. “That way,” she pointed to the left. “Follow the chalk marks.”
He managed until they got to the cliff. It went up forever. “That’s out?”
“Sunlight! I see sunlight!” Rose rushed ahead, almost dragging Peter with her. The other three heaved a unison sigh and began the long climb. Rose led, then Peter, Steve, Ivan, and Catherine brought up the end.
“Are we there yet?” Steve asked at one point.
“No.” Catherine sounded as if she were choking, and if the trail had been any wider, Steve would have turned to look at her. As it was he didn’t have the energy and did not want to loose his footing.
His quads ached, his head pounded, and the lump on his skull seemed to have returned and brought friends. The spot on his chest throbbed in time with his heart beat, and he wondered if he was going to end up with a glowing spot, sort of the mini version of that comic-book guy with the nuclear reactor on his chest. Maybe he could get a flower tattooed around it and no one would notice. Nah, and Mom would kill me if she found out that I’d gotten ink done. So would Father Calistos. I really need to go to liturgy this week. Then he concentrated on climbing and on not counting the endless stone steps. I’m dead and this is the stairway that leads to St. Peter. Which should be an escalator. Why should I have to work this hard if I’m dead?
They reached the top of the stairs and continued out of the cave. Steve did not look back. He wanted it to all go away, to never have happened, for his mind and body to forget everything. The blood trickling down his chest wouldn’t permit that. Ahead of him, Peter stumbled and the girls helped him, moving so he could lean on them. Ivan looked terrible and Steve smothered a groan, bent low and picked the cat up, putting him over one shoulder. The now almost cat-sized Ivan purred a little, then just breathed, his hind feet braced on Steve’s belt.
“Ow. That’s bright.” Steve stopped, found a rock to land on and sat, letting Ivan flow down. The girls helped Peter sit on a stump just outside the cave. Steve and Catherine both checked their phones.
“Six hours? That only took six hours?” Steve didn’t want to believe it.
Catherine shook her head and wagged one finger toward him. “You want it to go the other way? Go into the cave and come out a few years later, or centuries?” She stowed the phone and ran a hand through her chin-length hair. “I think it was at least a week for us, in there.”
“Oh?”
“My perm’s falling out.”
Peter, well, Steve would have said his big brother snickered. Rose looked confused. Ivan had wandered off. Peter stretched a little and asked, “So, what now?”
“I think that we rest for a while longer, then start down the mountain. Assuming we came out where we went in and these are not the Ural Mountains. Can I see your field glasses?” Catherine asked as Steve frantically checked the GPS on his cellphone. She and Rose helped Peter shed his bag, then she looked out across the land below them. “Yeah. We’re back in Colorado. I can see the ridge behind the house, so, ten miles as the crow flies?”
Peter muttered something in Marine that Steve agreed with. “Yeah, we rest.”
The girls were better off, relatively speaking. Catherine and Rose took Peter’s bag and Catherine’s own, then disappeared up a trail. They returned some time later with water. “It’s OK, I had a filter bottle and bug pills with me,” Catherine explained. Steve drank. It was not as good as the spring with the silver fish, but not bad, and it was wet and cold. The sun felt good, and he slithered down from his rock and napped, sunburn be damned.
They waited three hours before starting down the trail from the cave mouth. Rose’s feet quickly began to hurt. Her fancy shoes were not made for long hikes on rocky trails. Steve hurt all over, Peter probably did too but tried to hide it, and Catherine and Ivan were just exhausted. Shortly before sundown they stopped. It was growing cold and Rose shivered hard. Steve and Catherine’s phones buzzed.
“You want the good news or bad news?” he asked Peter.
“Bad news.”
“Ivan texted Dad.”
“Oh fu— crap.”
“Dad’s waiting a couple of kilometers down the trail. With the car. Babushka’s car.” Peter groaned and closed his eyes. “What’s the matter? Major outranks Sergeant Major, right?”
“SG, only God outranks a Sergeant Major. Especially if that Sar Major is the officer’s dad.” Peter staggered to his feet and Steve helped him a little. “Thanks. Well at least we won’t have to walk the rest of the way.”
“It depends on how mad he is at us,” Catherine reminded them. “And if he brought . . . Mom.”
The siblings and Ivan all groaned. Rose looked confused.
#
“ . . . stayed in Kansas because of the probate hearing. So did Gatta. Ivan said that you had a spare so I got Babushka’s car. You need to run it more often, Little Catherine.”
“Yes, sir.”
Steve noticed that his father did not ask any questions. He’d just bundled them into the big sedan, putting Ivan into his carrier in the front seat between the driver and shotgun. Ludmilla got to ride shotgun. “Morena will be coming in a week or so, in case Ludmilla needs to talk to someone while you are getting your car, Catherine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your gear is secure, Peter. I told your command that I’d called you home for the probate on no notice. Your master sergeant seemed quite willing to get rid of you for an extra week or two.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Stavros, you forgot to turn off your head lights. Did you know you
r alternator’s shot? We can go by the parts place and get a new one day after tomorrow, before I go back to Kansas.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The debriefing can wait,” Alexi informed them as he keyed the gate open at the house. “There’s food, after you boys get cleaned up.”
Peter leaned forward around Catherine, caught Steve’s eye, and mouthed, “Doomed.”
Hoh yeah. Totally.
“Guests first,” Alexi let Rose into Babushka’s house, then closed the door and turned to the three strays. He held his arms open and they rushed to him, hugging him and each other. “Dear God, you have no idea how scared your mother and I have been. No idea,” he muttered.
Steve noticed that his Dad’s eyes were wet. Damn dust, he thought, ignoring the tears running down his own face. “Dad. I’m sorry,” he began.
“Not now. You’re alive, son. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters.”
Chapter 9: Ivan and the Princess
Steve pulled into the driveway at the little house outside of Golden, waiting until the gate closed behind him before pulling up to the garage. The new alternator helped, the repaired heater helped even more, and he didn’t mind waiting a bit.
Ludmilla, once known as Rose, opened the door. “Sister here. Got back hour ago.”
Steve wanted to growl, but shrugged instead. She had not been certain if she’d get back that fast, so she’d asked him to check on Ivan and Ludmilla again. They’d found an el-cheapo flight from Denver to Chicago so she could get her car. Peter had also gone to fetch his stuff and to officially start leave, so he’d return to Golden in a few more days. To the siblings’ surprise, their Dad couldn’t pull off quite as many miracles as he used to. He blamed it on being Army negotiating with Navy.
“Oh good, you’re here. I’m on the ‘net with Peter,” Catherine called. Steve hurried in and waved from over her shoulder, then gave her moose antlers. Peter rolled his eyes and smiled.