“You should go to England,” Wiktor told the black wolf. “That’s right. England.” He nodded. “They’re civilized in England. They don’t kill their children.” He shivered; even on the warmest day, his flesh was as cold as parchment. “Do you hear me, Mikhail?” he asked, and the wolf lifted his head and stared at him but did not answer.
“Renati?” Wiktor spoke to the air. “I was wrong. We lived as wolves, but we’re not wolves. We were human beings, and we belonged to that world. I was wrong to keep us here. Wrong. And every time I look at him”—he motioned toward the black wolf—“I know I was wrong. It’s too late for me. But it isn’t for him. He could go, if he wanted to. He should go.” He worked his skinny fingers together, as if tying and then untangling a problem. “I was afraid of the human world. I was afraid of pain. You were, too, weren’t you, Renati? I think we all were. We could have gone, if we’d chosen. We could have learned to survive in that wilderness.” He lifted his hand toward the west, toward the unseen villages and towns and cities beyond the horizon. “Oh, that’s a terrible place,” he said softly. “But it’s where Mikhail belongs. Not here. Not anymore.” He looked at the black wolf. “Renati says you have to go.”
Mikhail didn’t budge; he dozed in the heat, but he could hear what Wiktor was saying. His tall twitched a fly away, an involuntary reaction.
“I don’t need you,” Wiktor said, irritation in his voice. “Do you think you’re keeping me alive? Ha! I can catch with my bare hands what your jaws would miss a hundred times over! You think this is loyalty? It’s stupidity! Change back. Son, do you hear me?”
The black wolf’s green eyes opened, then drifted shut again.
“You’re an idiot,” Wiktor decided. “I wasted my time on an idiot. Oh, Renati, why did you bring him into the fold? He has a life before him, and he wants to throw away the miracle. I was wrong… so very wrong.” He stood up, still muttering, and began to climb down to the cave again. At once Mikhail was up and following him, watching the old man’s footing. Wiktor railed at him, as he always did, but Mikhail went with him anyway.
The days passed. Summer was on the rise. Almost every day Wiktor went up to the rocks and talked to Renati, and Mikhail lay nearby, half listening, half dozing. On one of those days the sound of a distant train whistle drifted to them. Mikhail lifted his head and listened. The train’s engineer was trying to scare an animal off the tracks. It might be worth a trip there tonight, to see if the train had hit anything. He laid his head back down, the sun warm on his spine.
“I have another lesson for you, Mikhail,” Wiktor said softly, after the train’s whistle had faded. “Maybe the most important lesson. Live free. That’s all. Live free, even if your body is chained. Live free, here.” He touched his skull, with a palsied hand. “This is the place where no man can chain you. This is the place where there are no walls. And maybe that’s the hardest lesson to learn, Mikhail. All freedom has its price, but freedom of the mind is priceless.” He squinted up at the sun, and Mikhail lifted his head and watched him. There was something different in Wiktor’s voice. Something final. It frightened him, as he’d not been frightened since the soldiers had come. “You have to leave here,” Wiktor said. “You’re a human being, and you belong in that world. Renati agrees with me. You’re staying here because of an old man who talks to ghosts.” He turned his head toward the black wolf, and Wiktor’s amber eyes glinted. “I don’t want you to stay here, Mikhail. Your life is waiting for you, out there. Do you understand?”
Mikhail didn’t move.
“I want you to go,” Wiktor said. “Today. I want you to go into that world as a man. As a miracle.” He stood up, and immediately Mikhail did, too. “If you don’t go into that world… of what use were the things I taught you?” White hair rippled over his shoulders, over his chest, stomach, and arms. His beard twined around his throat, and his face began to change. “I was a good teacher, wasn’t I?” he asked, his voice deepening toward a growl. “I love you, son,” he said. “Don’t fail me.”
His spine contorted. He came down on all fours, the white hairs scurrying over his frail body, and he blinked at the sun. His hind legs tensed, and Mikhail realized what he was about to do.
Mikhail leaped forward.
And so did the white wolf.
Wiktor went into the air, still changing. He fell, his body slowly twisting, toward the rocks at the chasm’s bottom.
Mikhail tried to shout; it came out as a high, anguished yelp, but what he’d tried to shout was: “Father!”
Wiktor made no sound. Mikhail looked away, his eyes squeezed shut, and did not see the white wolf reach the rocks.
A full moon rose. Mikhail crouched above the chasm and stared fixedly at it. Every so often he shivered, though the air was sultry. He tried to sing, but nothing would come out. The forest was a silent place, and Mikhail was alone.
Hunger, a beast that knew no sorrow, gnawed at his belly. The train tracks, he thought; his brain was sluggish, unused to thinking. The train tracks. The train might have hit something today. There might be meat on the rails.
He went through the forest to the ravine, down through the weeds and dense vines to the tracks. Dazedly he began to search along them but there was no scent of blood. He would go back to the cave, he decided; that was his home now. Maybe he could find a mouse or a rabbit on the way.
He heard a distant thunder.
He lifted his paw, touched a rail, and felt the vibration. In a moment the train would burst out of the western tunnel, and it would roar along the ravine and into the eastern tunnel. The red lamp on the last car would swing back and forth, back and forth. Mikhail stared at the place where Nikita had died. There were ghosts in his mind, and he heard them speaking. One of them whispered, Don’t fail me.
It came to him, very suddenly. He might beat the train, this time. If he really wanted to. He might beat the train by beginning the race as a wolf, and ending as a man.
And if he wasn’t fast enough… well, did it matter? This was a forest of ghosts; why not join them, and sing new songs?
The train was coming. Mikhail walked to the entrance of the western tunnel and sat down beside the rails. Fireflies glowed in the warm air, insects chirred, a soft breeze blew, and Mikhail’s muscles moved under his black-haired flesh.
Your life is waiting for you, out there, he thought. Don’t fail me.
He smelled the acrid odor of steam. A light glinted in the tunnel. The thunder grew into the growl of a beast.
And then, in a glare of light and a rain of red cinders, the train exploded from the tunnel and raced toward the east.
Mikhail got up—too slow! too slow! he thought—and ran. Already the engine was outpacing him, its iron wheels grinding less than three feet beside him. Faster! he told himself, and both sets of legs obeyed. He slung his body low, the train’s turbulence whipping at him. His legs pumped against the earth, his heart pounding. Faster. Faster still. He was gaining on the engine… was level with it… was passing it. Cinders burned his back and spun past his face. He kept going, could smell his hair being scorched. And then he was past the engine by six feet… eight feet… ten feet. Faster! Faster! Freed of the train’s wind, he surged forward, a body designed for speed and endurance. He could see the dark hole of the western tunnel. Not going to make it, he thought, but he cast that thought quickly aside before it hobbled him. He was past the engine by twenty feet, and then he began to change.
His skull and face started first, his four legs still hurtling him forward. The black hair on his shoulders and back retreated into the smoothing flesh. He felt pain at his backbone, the spine beginning to lengthen. His body was enveloped in agony, but still he kept running. His pace was slowing, his legs changing, losing their hair, his backbone straightening. The engine was gaining on him, and the eastern tunnel was in front of him. He staggered, caught his balance. Cinders hissed on the white flesh of his shoulders. His paws were changing, losing their traction as fingers and toes emerged. It was now
or never.
Mikhail, half human and half wolf, lunged in front of the engine and leaped for the other side.
The headlamp’s glare caught him in midair, and seemed to freeze him there for a precious second. The eye of God, Mikhail thought. He felt the hot breath of the engine, heard its crushing wheels, the cowcatcher about to slam into him and rip him to shreds.
He ducked his head into his chest, his eyes closed and his body braced for impact. He hurtled head over heels through the headlamp’s glare, over the cowcatcher, and into the weeds. He landed on his back, the breath blasting from his lungs. The engine’s heat washed over him, a fierce wind ruffled his hair, and cinders bit his bare chest. He sat up in time to see the red lamp swinging back and forth as the last car went into the tunnel.
And the train was gone.
Every bone in his body felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket. His back and ribs were bruised. His legs were sore, and his feet were cut. But he was in one piece, and he had crossed the tracks.
He sat there for a while, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his body. He didn’t know if he could stand up or not; he couldn’t remember what walking on two legs felt like.
His throat moved. He tried to make words. They emerged, with an effort. “I’m alive,” he said, and the sound of his own voice—deeper than he remembered—was a shock.
Mikhail had never felt so naked. His first impulse was to change back, but he stopped himself. Maybe later, he thought. Not just yet. He lay in the weeds, gathering his strength and letting his mind wander. What lay beyond the forest? he wondered. What was out there, in that world that Wiktor said he belonged to? It must be a monstrous place, full of danger. It must be a wilderness where savagery knew no bounds. He was afraid of that world, afraid of what he would find in it… and afraid, as well, of what he might find in himself.
Your life is waiting for you, out there.
Mikhail sat up, and stared along the tracks that led west.
Don’t fail me.
England—Shakespeare’s land—lay in that direction. A civilized land, Wiktor had said.
Mikhail stood up. His knees buckled, and he went down again.
The second try was better. The third one got him up. He had forgotten he was so tall. He looked up at the full moon. It was the same moon, but not nearly so beautiful as in the wolf’s sight. Moonlight glinted on the rails, and if there were ghosts here, they were singing.
Mikhail took the first, tentative step. His legs were clumsy things. How had he ever walked on them before?
He would learn again. Wiktor had been right; there was no life for him here. But he loved this place, and leaving it would be hard. It was the world of his youth; another, more brutal world awaited.
Don’t fail me, he thought.
He took the second step. Then the third. He still had difficulty, but he was walking.
Mikhail Gallatinov went on, a naked, pale figure in the summer moonlight, and he entered the western tunnel on two legs, as a man.
NINE
The Devil’s Kingdom
1
Michael heard the train whistle. Was it retreating on the tracks, coming back at him for another race? If so, he knew it would beat him this time. His bones ached, and his head felt like a blister on the edge of bursting. The train’s whistle faded. He tried to look back over his shoulder, through the darkness, but could see nothing. Where was the moon? It had been there a moment before, hadn’t it?
There was a soft tapping sound. Then again. “Baron? Are you awake, sir?”
A man’s voice, speaking in German. Michael’s eyes opened. He was staring up at a ceiling of dark, varnished wood.
“Baron? May I come in, please?” The tapping was insistent this time. A doorknob turned, and a narrow door opened. Michael lifted his head, his temples throbbing. “Ah! You’re awake!” the man said with a pleasant smile. He was thin and bald, with a neatly trimmed blond mustache. He wore a pin-striped suit and a red velvet vest. Scarlet light glowed around him, as if he were standing on the rim of a blast furnace. “Herr Sandler wishes you to join him for breakfast.”
Michael sat up slowly. His head pounded like hell’s anvil, and what was that clacking racket? He remembered the blackjack; its blows must’ve unhinged his sense of balance as well as his hearing, because the entire room seemed to be gently rocking back and forth.
“Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes,” the man said, a cheerful announcement. “Would you prefer apple or grapefruit juice?”
“What is this place?” He realized he was on a bed. His shirt collar was open, his white bow tie unknotted, his shoes unlaced and on the floor. They looked as if they’d been freshly polished. The room—a cramped little chamber—held a brown leather chair and a table on which rested a white bowlful of water. Where the window should have been was a square of metal bolted down. He heard the train’s whistle again: a high, piercing note from somewhere far ahead. Well, he knew where he was now, and why the room was rocking, but where was the train headed?
“Herr Sandler’s waiting,” the man said. Michael saw movement behind him. In the corridor, where a curtained window let in a little crack of scarlet light, stood a Nazi soldier with a pistol.
What the hell was going on? Michael wondered. He decided it was prudent to play along. “I’ll have apple juice,” he said, and put his feet on the floor. He stood up carefully, testing his balance. His legs held him.
“Very good, sir.” The man—obviously a butler—started to leave.
“One moment,” Michael said. “I also want a pot of coffee. Black, no sugar. And three eggs; do you have those?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want three eggs, still in their shells.”
The man’s expression indicated he didn’t register the request. “I beg your pardon?”
“Three eggs. Raw. In their shells. Is that clear?”
“Uh… yes, sir. Very clear.” He backed out the door, and closed it firmly.
Michael went to the square of metal and tried to hook his fingers underneath it. The thing wouldn’t budge, its bolts driven deep. He found a pull cord and yanked it, turning on a small light globe at the ceiling. A closet held his gray coat with the black velvet lapels, but no other clothes. He looked around. It was a Spartan room, a moving prison cell. Certainly the soldier outside the door was guarding him; were there more soldiers aboard? How far from Berlin were they? Where were Chesna and Mouse? He didn’t even know how much time had elapsed since the ambush, but he doubted that he’d been unconscious for more than a few hours. So if the sun was coming up, the Brimstone Club gathering had been last night. Had Sandler found what was left of his hawk? And if Michael was on his way to a Gestapo interrogation as a spy, then why had the butler still referred to him as “Baron”?
Questions, questions. None of them answerable yet. Michael walked two paces to the table, cupped water in his hands, and put it to his face. A clean white towel was folded next to the bowl, and he used it to dry his face. Then he cupped more water in his hands and lapped up a few swallows. A mirror hung on the wall nearby. Michael looked at his reflection. The whites of his eyes were a little bloodshot, but he bore no marks of the blackjack blows. With careful fingers he found the lumps on his skull, one just above his left temple and the other on the back of his head. The blows, either one of which could have killed him, had been delivered with restraint. Which meant Sandler—or someone else—wanted him alive.
His vision was still hazy. He would have to shake off the grogginess and do it fast because he had no idea what lay ahead of him. Back in the Reichkronen’s courtyard he’d made the error of letting his instincts falter. He should’ve picked up the fact that Sandler’s drunkenness was a sham, and he should have heard the man coming up behind him long before he did. Well, the lesson was learned. He would not underestimate Harry Sandler again.
He buttoned his collar and tied his white bow tie. No use going to breakfast looking unpresentable. He thought of the photo
graphs he’d found in Colonel Jerek Blok’s suite, the ravaged faces of victims of some horrible testing program on Skarpa Island. How much did Sandler know about Dr. Hildebrand’s new project? Or about Iron Fist, and Frankewitz’s labors to paint bullet holes on green metal. It was time to find out.
Michael took the coat from the closet, put it on, checked his tie again in the mirror, and then took a deep, head-clearing breath and opened the door.
The soldier who’d been waiting outside instantly drew his Luger from its holster. He aimed it at Michael’s face.
Michael smiled tightly and lifted his hands. He waggled his fingers. “Nothing up my sleeves,” he said.
“Move.” The soldier motioned to his left with the gun, and Michael went along the swaying corridor with the soldier a few paces behind. The car held several other rooms that looked to be about the size of the one Michael had occupied. It wasn’t a prison train, Michael realized; it was too clean, the wooden walls polished and brass fixtures gleaming. Still, there was a musty scent in the air: the lingering aromas of sweat and fear. Whatever went on in this train, it wasn’t healthy.
A second soldier, also armed with a Luger, was waiting at the entrance to the next car. Michael was motioned to keep going, and he pushed through a doorway and found himself in luxury’s lap.
It was a beautiful dining car, with walls and ceiling of dark rosewood and a red and gold Persian carpet on the floor. A brass chandelier hung from above, and along the walls were brass carriage lamps. Beneath the chandelier was a table covered with white linen, where Michael’s host sat.
“Ah! Good morning, Baron!” Harry Sandler stood up, smiling broadly. He appeared well rested and wore a red silk robe with his initials in Gothic script over his heart. “Please, join me!”
Michael glanced back over his shoulder. One of the soldiers had entered, and stood beside the door, Luger in hand. Michael walked to the breakfast table and sat down across from Sandler, where a place setting of dark blue china was arranged for him. Sandler returned to his seat. “I hope you slept well. Some people have difficulty sleeping on trains.”
Robert R. McCammon Page 42