by Chris Paton
Nikolas tripped as the air above his head was split with a lead bullet. He sprawled on the street, only to feel small hands pull him to his feet and she was there, again, Emilia, picking him up and pulling him behind the emissaries as they neared the soldiers.
“Stop,” bellowed a man and Nikolas paled as he saw Venzke draw the pistol from his belt and hold it against his father's head.
“Molotok, stop,” Nikolas cried and waited as the emissaries slowed and stopped as if appraising the situation, smoke licked from the smokestacks on either side of their metal heads, and their bodies rocked in anticipation. Nikolas and Emilia walked to stand between the emissaries as Venzke pulled back the hammer on his pistol with the loudest click Nikolas had ever heard.
“Nikolas Skuratov,” he said and laughed. “And this is Papa Skuratov?”
“Kapitan Skuratov,” Stepan said and spat on the ground. Venzke hit him once on the back of the head with the pistol and Nikolas cried out as his father reeled under the blow.
“When I want you to speak,” he said, “I will tell you. Until then, Russian dog, be silent.” Venzke turned his attention back to Nikolas. “Speaking of dogs, I want you to call yours off, or I will kill your father.”
“Don't listen to him, Nikolas,” Stepan said. He lurched onto the floor as Venzke raised the pistol. “Run, Nikolas. Your mother is waiting for you beyond the gates. Go now,” he said as Venzke ordered two of his men to pull Stepan onto his knees. Vladimir and Lena bristled behind him only to be dropped onto the ground with a series of sharp blows from the soldiers.
Nikolas placed his palm on Molotok's thigh and looked up at the emissary. “Go,” he whispered. The emissary shook its head, the gears in its neck grinding. “You have to go.”
“That's right, Nikolas,” said Venzke. “Call off your dog and come and join your father.”
A burst of steam piffed out of a small rupture in Molotok's armour. Nikolas could feel the energy building inside the emissary's globus tank as it prepared for action.
“No, Molotok,” he said. “You have to leave me now. Take the girl and her emissary. Run away, and, when Venzke has taken me prisoner,” Nikolas paused to stare deep into the emissary's eye, “you can come back and kill him for me.” The lodestone flashed within Molotok's head. With a grinding of gears it nodded, turned and walked away. “Go,” said Nikolas to Emilia. “Follow Molotok. He knows what to do.”
Nikolas watched as the emissaries clanked back up the street, a reluctant Emilia trailing in their wake. He wiped the last trace of tears from his face, turned towards Venzke and smiled. As he walked towards them, Nikolas whistled his father's favourite song, The March of the Common People. His heart raced at the thought of being close to him again. And if it is to be our last time together, he thought, then I will make sure it is our most memorable. Papa will be proud of me. But as he looked at his father, Nikolas knew he already was.
Chapter 34
Arkhangelsk Administrator's Building
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
“Take your hands off my son,” said Stepan as Venzke ordered two of his soldiers to cuff Nikolas with iron shackles. He lunged forwards only to be beaten back by the soldiers on each side.
“Wait, Kapitan,” Vladimir said from where he lay on the ground. “Save your energy. Nikolas is unhurt. There will be time to fight later.”
“Oh, you think so?” said Venzke as he pushed his way through his soldiers and pressed the sole of his boot onto Vladimir's hand, grinding his fingers into the street with a twist of his heel. The Poruchik grimaced but said nothing. “I think, Oberleutnant, we will take this discussion to the roof.”
“Ja, Herr Venzke,” said the Oberleutnant. He nodded at the men and urged them inside the building with swift gestures of his hands, encouraged by the sound of horses trampling into the street from the direction of the gates.
“Damn those Cossacks,” Venzke said and glared at Lena. She blew him a kiss as two soldiers dragged her to her feet and led her into the building. The two soldiers guarding Nikolas took him next while their comrades groaned with the effort of lifting Vladimir.
“Why don't you just give up, Venzke?” said Stepan as he was lifted from the ground. “You have lost your grip on the city. The Cossacks are inside the gates. It is over.”
“We'll see, Kapitan,” Venzke said. He paused for a moment and ran a hand across his chin. “Oberleutnant,” he said, “Are those Wallendorf uniforms?”
“Where?”
“On the men walking behind the front row of emissaries... Oberleutnant, those emissaries are bronze.”
Stepan looked to where Venzke was pointing. Marching behind a party of mounted Cossacks was a line of bronze-finished emissaries. The emissaries in Arkhangelsk, he remembered, were painted in a dark blue, similar to that of the Imperial Navy. Wallendorf? The name was unfamiliar to him, but he liked the fact that it put Venzke on edge.
“Not what you expected, eh, Venzke?”
“Shut your mouth, Skuratov,” Venzke said and strode to the doorway of the building. Stepan watched as the two soldiers saluted when he was finished talking to them. Venzke waited by the door and Stepan let his toes drag on the ground for one last look at the approaching party of Cossacks, emissaries and men. There were women among them, most wearing the familiar riding gear of the Cossacks, but one woman, sitting behind and holding onto Ivan Timofeyevich as he rode down the street, wore the travelling clothes of a European, the black fabric accentuating her blonde hair.
“Hannah von Ense,” Venzke said and spat on the ground. “Herr Bremen's personal assistant.”
“Your own government playing against you, Venzke? That's just one more reason to give up.”
“My orders are from the President of the German Confederation, signed and sealed on behalf of Imperial Russia by Emperor Alexander III. You want to see the documentation?” Venzke laughed and waved a dismissive hand towards the Cossacks. “Wallendorf's puppet does not frighten me.”
“No? Then why are your men preparing to bar the door?” Stepan said and nodded at the soldiers Venzke had last spoken to. They stood by the door with a heavy wooden timber resting in the crooks of their arms. Venzke sneered and flicked his hand against the shoulder of one of Stepan's guards.
“Get him inside. I am tired of talking to him. We will settle this on the roof.”
Stepan decided to walk up the stairs. Whatever it was that Venzke was planning, he realised that if time was running out, he wanted to get to Nikolas as quickly as possible. The guards relaxed their grip as they climbed the stairs, spiralling around the building as they ascended from the first to the third floor, and from there up a narrow staircase and onto the roof. Stepan took a breath of fresh air and paused, his eyes adjusting to the light as he scanned the roof for Nikolas. He found him, on his knees, between Vladimir and Lena. Nikolas’ shackles had been removed and all three were bound with thick ropes that covered their wrists and snaked around their forearms. The Oberleutnant had positioned them less than two feet from the edge of the roof. A single kick to the chest, Stepan realised, would send them plummeting to the street below – even Vladimir.
“I can't let that happen,” he said as the soldiers dragged him past his son and made him kneel beside Lena.
“Kapitan,” she said as the Germans bound him in the same manner as the others. “This is not a glorious death. It is not worthy of a Cossack.”
“Shh,” Stepan said and leaned forwards to see Nikolas. “My son does not need to hear this. Nikolas,” he said in a louder voice. “There is so much you have to tell me. I want to hear it all.” Stepan worried that the Germans had made it very clear what was going to happen. From the look on Nikolas' face he had understood everything and was preparing to die. And yet, thought Stepan as Nikolas turned his face to look at him, there is some defiance in his eyes, and hope.
“Do not worry, Papa,” Nikolas said and put on a brave smile. “Molotok will save us.”
“Molotok?”
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“My emissary. The one Venzke made me send away.”
“Yes?”
“That was stupid of him.”
Stepan frowned as Nikolas' smile developed into a chuckle. It stopped as Venzke stepped out of the doorway and onto the roof, but the glimmer of hope Stepan had seen in his eyes, shone still, and Stepan felt a wave of pride swell in his chest.
My son has lived and survived as a rebel in the city for almost three whole months. I should trust him. “Nikolas,” he whispered as the guards finished binding his arms and stepped back. “What do you need us to do?”
“He is a child,” Kapitan,” Lena said and jerked her head towards Venzke as he drew his pistol. “There is nothing he can do.”
“He is my child. That is correct. But don't underestimate him,” Stepan said and stiffened as Venzke approached. “The German doesn't.”
Venzke stopped in front of Vladimir and pressed the barrel of the pistol into his forehead. Vladimir raised his eyes and stared at him.
“You are the last of the Russian soldiers we failed to catch.”
“Yes.”
“Your comrades went to the mines, and suffered alongside their wives, while you skulked in the city and made a nuisance of yourself.”
“Guilty,” said Vladimir and shrugged.
“Weak, more like.” Venzke jabbed the barrel into the bridge of Vladimir's nose. Vladimir grunted as blood trickled out of the cut and dripped along his cheeks and onto the tiles of the roof. “And you,” Venzke said as he took a step away from Vladimir to stop in front of Nikolas. “You and your emissary have caused more damage and setbacks to this operation than I wish to think about.”
“Thank you.”
“Careful, Nikolas,” said Stepan. He leaned forwards and tried to make eye contact, but Nikolas' gaze was fixed on Venzke.
“Your thanks is misplaced. Your disruptive strategies only forced me to make the people of Arkhangelsk work harder to mine more minerals for export as fast as humanly possible. Of course, being humans, it wasn't always possible.” Venzke smirked as he bent down and pressed his face close to Nikolas'. “Do you want to know how many died, or should I let the people of Arkhangelsk tell you when, or if, they leave the mines?”
Stepan watched as his son's body twitched, the hope and defiance he had seen earlier was in danger of turning to guilt. He needs me.
“Nikolas, look at me.”
“Oh,” said Venzke, “touching words from the father? Something to assuage your son's guilt? This should be interesting.”
“You gave people hope, Nikolas. Something to fight for. As long as they knew you were free, they could last one more day, and the next, and another after that.”
“But what if they couldn't, papa?” Nikolas trembled as fresh tears welled beneath his eyes. Venzke stepped back to gloat, slipping the pistol into his belt and crossing his arms over his chest. He nodded at the soldiers and beckoned for them to come closer.
“He has caused us nothing but trouble,” he reminded them. “This is his last confession.”
The soldiers laughed and shouted insults at Nikolas as they crowded around him and formed a semicircle, their backs to the door leading to the staircase, and their ears deaf to the first crash of timbers from the street below.
“Don't listen to them,” Stepan said and shuffled closer, his knees rasping across the roof as he pushed past Lena and rested his head upon his son's. “You are a survivor, Nikolas.”
“I am a coward, I hid.”
“You are a fighter – you fought back.”
“I am just a boy. I didn't want to fight.”
“You are a Skuratov. You fought for the people.” Stepan shuffled to press his forehead to Nikolas'. “I am proud of you, son. Your mother is too. And she is waiting for you. Don't give in now. Don't let this man break you after all you have done...” Stepan paused at a slight tremble that rippled through the surface of the roof beneath his knees.
“As touching as it is,” Venzke said and clicked his fingers. “You are now my bargaining chips. As soon as the Wallendorf woman arrives, I begin...” Venzke's words died on his lips at the sound of splintering timbers and crumbling masonry coming from the floor below. He turned to look at the doorway only to see the centre of the roof ripple like whirlpool as the wooden tiles burst upwards and a pair of bruised and bent hands erupted from the floor below, gripped the roof and tensed. The German soldiers tugged their rifles from their shoulders as a battered blue metal head rose out of the hole in the roof. Molotok hammered its fingers like pitons into the roof and clawed its way into a standing position. The emissary rose to its full height as the Germans fired their muskets, aiming for the grille plate protecting the lodestone inside.
If that's the sensitive part of the emissary, Stepan thought as he lifted his head to watch, then at this range, they might just bring it down. Molotok raised a hand to cover the grille as the Oberleutnant ordered his troops into a more disciplined attack – the front row firing and then keeling to reload as the second row fired.
“Molotok,” shouted Nikolas. “Why are you just standing there? Attack.”
Molotok turned its head towards Nikolas' voice, the lodestone flashing briefly between its fingers.
“I don't understand. Why won't he do something? He always does something.”
“It looks to me, Kapitan,” said Vladimir, “as if it is waiting for something.” He winked at Lena as he shuffled closer.
“I think you're right. But what?”
“Another emissary?” Lena said. She grinned and dipped her head in the direction of the corner of the roof. With the same methodic piton-jab, Kettlepot punched its fingers into the building and climbed over the edge of the roof behind the soldiers firing at Molotok. The second row turned to fire only to be harvested with a single swipe of the emissary's arm, sweeping the men off their feet and sending two of them tumbling off the roof. The men screamed as they plummeted to the street. The sound of their bodies hitting the street turned Stepan's stomach.
“That's it,” he said and pushed himself to his feet. “We have to go. Now.”
“No one leaves,” Venzke shouted and pointed his pistol at Nikolas. “Call them off,” he said and pulled back the flintlock hammer.
“No,” said Nikolas.
“Very well,” said Venzke and squeezed the trigger.
Stepan threw himself in front of the bullet as Venzke fired, dropping to the floor as Molotok leaped across the roof, crunching the tiles into dust and tangling its cloven feet in the timbers. As Nikolas screamed Molotok grasped Venzke within its arms and kept going, twisting as it neared the edge of the roof, the lodestone blazing.
“Molotok,” Nikolas cried as he turned from his father to his emissary. As the emissary began to topple over the edge, Lena dived over Stepan's body and crashed into Nikolas, knocking him to the roof as a musket fired. The bullet split the air above Nikolas' head and he followed its path with his eyes as it shot through the grille of Molotok's faceplate and extinguished the emissary's light. The lodestone cracked and the emissary slipped out of sight.
Chapter 35
Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
“I'm finished,” Luise said and turned the copper plate towards Abraxas. “Will it do?”
“The sequence is what is important,” he said. “Your khronoglyphs are legible. Khronos will have difficulty resisting them.”
“Then what do we do now?”
“Ah,” said Abraxas as he attempted to sit up straight. He gave up and slumped against the wall. “That is the difficult part. This plate has to be pressed upon his skin. Direct contact.” Abraxas lifted his head and turned to look out of the door and onto the street. “Of course, if anyone can do it, your djinni friend can.”
“I'll get it to him,” said Hari. He reached forwards and took the plate from Luise's hand.
“Be careful,” she said as her fingers brushed his.
“Truly,” he said, “am I n
ot always careful?”
“To be honest, Hari. No, you are not.”
“I fear you are correct, again, Miss Luise.” Hari dipped his head and when he lifted it again his eyes sparkled. “Now,” he said. “I must make a deal with a djinni to banish a demon. Since meeting you, there has never been a dull moment.”
“No,” said Luise. “There really hasn't. But please remember, that djinni is my brother.”
“I could never forget,” said Hari. He picked up and sheathed his kukri and then stepped out of the building and into the street.
Clouds of dust blew in confused circles down the street as the djinni and the demon crashed into building after building. Hari winced at the devastation and searched for the safest place to call the djinni's attention. The centre of the street seemed to be furthest from the battle and Hari strode towards it, the copper plate tucked under one arm.
The battle bounced from the rooftops through the buildings and, from Hari's perspective, neither combatant seemed to have the upper hand. When in one moment Khronos' demonlight gave him the edge, in the next the djinni's brute strength overcame it. The djinni was faster, but the demon more stubborn. They were locked in an exchange of attacks and counter attacks where boredom rather than injury was more likely to end their conflict. And if they don't stop soon, Hari mused as he surveyed the ruined blackwood buildings lining both sides of the street, there will be nothing left of Arkhangelsk.
Hari raised his arm and called to the djinni in a sudden lull between bouts. Khronos picked himself up from the gutter outside a shattered window, fingers blistering with fresh charges of demonlight. He paused to watch as the djinni spiralled down to Hari, the smoke beneath his abdomen coiling into legs.
“What is it, little man? Can't you see I am busy?”
“Yes, but without this,” Hari said and pulled the plate from beneath his arm, “you will never win this fight.”