Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  The Ilya Muromets had arrived in free Vilnius.

  The sirens continued to howl. The signals of bright light released by the controller in the Navigators’ Tower in an attempt to draw The Ilya Muromets’ attention served no purpose as the menacing giant of the skies and pride and joy of the Russian Empire was totally oblivious to them.

  At that point the captain of the The Parsifal appeared on its bridge. Following his orders, the cannon-armed German flying fortress, which had hung suspended above Vilnius up until then, set course in the direction of The Muromets.

  At that hour The Star of St George was still at Viscigavas. The workers hurried to unwind the mooring lines for the airship to take to the air, and the dirigible’s Alchemist sitting in a chair turning handles, nimbly mixing promethelium and other important ingredients. Captain Mabrey was standing at the control stick, when adjutant O’Braitis approached him from behind and froze.

  Just like all the others in the city, they were stunned by the sight of the Russian giant emerging from the dark skies, but their stupefaction only lasted a few heartbeats. Putting the Finley story behind him, Mabrey went back to giving commands, while The Star’s men prepared for battle.

  “This is the captain speaking,” Mabrey said into the speaking tube. “Let’s take off and go, sirs. Let’s show them who’s in charge.”

  * * *

  The rumour that there could be combat over Vilnius spread like wildfire. Crowds flooded the streets, young and agile citizens climbing trees and clambering onto roof tops. Heads tilted backwards, people gazed at the sky where, in the middle of the pouring rain and slashing lightning, two air giants swung in a phantasmagorical dance.

  A ray of white light – the British dirigible The Star of St George – was moving in the direction of the city, having taken off from Viscigavas airship port.

  Chaos reigned at the Town Hall. The delegations of Russian and German diplomats were surrounded by people, shouting over the top of one another and flailing their arms in the air. While Prussian War Minister von Einem was clearly confused, the face of Russian Foreign Minister Lamsdorf was embellished with a self-satisfied smirk. Baron Rothschild and the city’s Money Councillor Gerhardt von Ott, their heads together, were deeply involved in a quiet private conversation. And although the Burgomaster of Vilnius felt he had to say or do something to stop this madness, he seemed to have lost control over his stiff and lifeless tongue and unresponsive arms and legs.

  Realising that the Burgomaster would be of little use, Steam Councillor Petras Vileisis and Direction Councillor Fiodor Scherbakov decided to take matters into their own hands.

  “Sirs, do you even understand the implications of your actions?” Flailing his metal arm in the air, Vileisis yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to rise above the clamour. “You decided to go to war against each other above the heads of a hundred thousand people? Do you have any idea what would happen if one of your metal monsters crashed to the ground? Wake up!”

  “They were the ones who started the warfare. Now there are piles of victims strewn around Novovileysk,” Lamsdorf bellowed, the second dispatch in his hand.

  “It’s you who is mad!” von Einem retorted, waving a different dispatch in his hand. “Here’s the latest news from The Parsifal. They didn’t drop the bombs!”

  “You are lying!” the Russian screeched.

  The captain of the German Parsifal felt bewildered. Three times he had asked for the Prussian War Minister von Einem’s instructions, but still there was no reply.

  While the Russian Ilya Muromets was ready for action.

  “Give them a warning shot!” Golytsin calmly told the captain of The Muromets.

  “Warning shot, square seven – four – four – one!” the captain yelled into the speaking tube.

  Within a second one of the Russian dirigible’s cannons moved before firing a flame-licked shell. It flew towards the German fortress of The Parsifal before exploding in mid air, spraying the sky with the firework of smoke.

  The coordinates square at which they had aimed at was at a considerable distance from The Parsifal, but the force of the impact still reached the German flying fortress, making it sway to the side. The airship pilots, who had not managed to grab the railings, tumbled down and skidded sideways. The airship’s navigator yelling the degrees of compensation for the angle of inclination, the helmsman zealously handled the control stick.

  The street crowd gasped in unison. The shrewd ones began to visualise a possible end to all of this, and set out in search of a safer place.

  “Donnerwetter!”[41] swore the captain of the German Parsifal. “Damn! What happened to our instructions? Send another dispatch!” he ordered the signaller. “Do it now! If a minute later I still don’t have the reply, I will act at my own discretion. Artillerymen, prepare for battle!”

  “Excellent shot, well done!” the Russian Actual State Councillor Golytsin smacked his lips, patting The Muromets’ captain on the shoulder. “And now – over to the biplanes!”

  “Attention, Vitiazes! One, two, three, four get ready for take off!” the captain commanded.

  A soldier wearing a protective face mask, on duty in the tower situated at the very back of The Muromets, immediately waved two red flags. Acknowledging the command with their fists in the air, the Vitiaz pilots pushed their goggles down over their eyes and started the engines.

  “You are a war criminal!” Lamsdorf poked von Einem in the chest.

  “Strange to hear this from someone who’s a criminal himself!” the Prussian War Minister retorted.

  An adjutant who had swiftly emerged by his side extended the latest dispatch.

  “The Parsifal is eagerly awaiting your instructions,” he whispered in his ear.

  The German subconsciously reached for his moustache, nervously twirling its tips.

  “The Russians are ready to fly their biplanes!” yelled a panting messenger.

  It took a split second for von Einem to make up his mind. His eyes fixed on Lamsdorf, he began to dictate his order to the adjutant.

  Even though the Russian could not hear what the Prussian War Minister was dictating, he understood everything. He sneered at his opponent.

  The decisive factor in the finale of this intrigue was the move of the Prussian war hawk von Einem. “Fully utilise capacity. Render the enemy incapable of resisting and, if need arises, shoot it down,” he kept dictating to the adjutant.

  Then came a moment when Governor of the Alliance Baron Nathan Rothschild came back to his senses. He rushed to Lieutenant of Vilnius Legion Vielholskiy, who was pacing around the hall.

  “Arrest those two,” he pointed at Lamsdorf and von Einem. “Immediately.”

  The Legionnaire looked confused.

  “The Ministers? You want them arrested?”

  “Obey the order!!!” the Baron roared.

  Lt. Vielholskiy beckoned two of his Legionnaires, who had been standing by the door.

  Russian biplanes – the miniature Vitiazes – taxied along the runway of The Ilya Muromets before gracefully pulling off.

  The German Parsifal’s captain turned to his signaller.

  “Do we have the order?”

  The signaller shook his head.

  “The biplanes are in the air,” The Parsifal’s navigator reported in a steely voice. “They are flying in our direction.”

  The captain clenched his teeth.

  “They’ve asked for it,” he muttered. “Course two seven four,” with this command sent to the navigator, he clutched the speaking tube in his hands. “Engine department – full speed ahead. Cannon section – get ready for a coordinated volley. Listen for my commands.”

  The Russian biplane pilots caressed their machinegun triggers.

  In the Town Hall Lt. Vielholskiy’s Legionnaires elbowed their way towards Prussian War Minister von Einem and Russian Foreign Minister Lamsdorf.

  Thousands of curious residents held their breath in the streets.

  The flying fortress
The Parsifal started to turn, getting ready for the Russian Vitiazes, now drawing near at great speed.

  “Attention!” The Parsifal’s captain commanded. “Engine department...”

  “Fire!” calmly uttered captain of the British airship The Star of Sr George Milton Mabrey. “Attention all shooters: fire!”

  At that very moment both cannons of The Star fired volleys of signal shells loaded with alchemic mixture. The sky became brightly illuminated, the glare resembling a summer day. The British shooters poured with sweat, trying to ensure their cannons blasted the area between the Russian and German dirigibles without hitting them.

  One shell exploded in front of The Muromets’ captain’s bridge with a burst of dazzling flame, causing Golytsin and the dirigible captain to see multi-coloured lights inside their eyes.

  The Star of St George gracefully glided in between the tiny Vitiazes, which scattered in different directions like fretful sparrows at the appearance of a hawk. At the same time, next to the German flying fortress The Parsifal and the pride and joy of the Russian Empire The Ilya Muromets, the British star looked like no more than a little toy. Volleys blasted from German and Russian cannons would have easily turned it into a sieve.

  “This is the Royal British Air Force corvette The Star of St George!” rumbled the voice of captain Milton Mabrey, amplified by a powerful loudspeaker. The wireless simultaneously delivered this message to both airships, as well as to ground posts. “This is a message to The Parsifal and The Ilya Muromets!” You have entered the air space of free Vilnius which, under the general agreement with the cities of the Alliance, is protected and defended by the British Empire. Your appearance and actions have not been coordinated and are unlawful. Any party’s aggression towards the other party or the city will be perceived as a direct assault on the British Empire.”

  “And what will happen next?” asked O’Braitis, standing next to his captain.

  “Have some patience, boy,” Mabrey muttered. “They will soon lay waste to us. You should now start praying, if you are religious, that is.”

  Having plucked up their courage again, the Russian Vitiazes, like baby sharks, encircled The Parsifal in a large moving ring.

  The Parsifal’s captain was rubbing his forehead. He never gave the command to fire.

  While on The Muromets Golytsin smiled smugly, as if pondering a hilarious story he had just heard.

  “Gentlemen, in the name of the Burgomaster of free Vilnius, you are under arrest,” Michal Vielholskiy announced to ministers von Einem and Lamsdorf, standing to attention.

  “What?” neither of the men could believe their ears.

  “What?” Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus gasped.

  Baron Nathan Rothschild appeared behind Lt. Vielholskiy’s back.

  “You must immediately order your military machines to cease this circus. Otherwise you will be arrested and tried in accordance with the laws of the Alliance.”

  “Have you lost your mind, Baron?” cried von Einem. “You can’t arrest us. What about our diplomatic immunity?!”

  “What about it?” Rotshchild waved his hand dismissively. “I am not going to let you start a war under the skies of Vilnius. Lieutenant, execute the order,” he addressed Vielholskiy.

  Vielholskiy’s heavy hand landing on von Einem’s shoulder, the other two Legionnaires flanked Lamsdorf.

  Von Einem turned to his entourage – three uniformed men. They, however, were also encircled by the Vilnius Legionnaires. A huge scandal was about to ensue. Von Einem snorted and, with gritted teeth, looked back at his adjutant, shuffling about nearby.

  “Urgent message to The Parsifal – it must leave the Vilnius air space immediately,” he said huskily, with a provocative glance at Lamsdorf.

  The latter addressed his own adjutant, with a graceful tilt of the head, “Would you be so kind and pass the message to The Muromets: all the biplanes must return to the deck and they must abandon Vilnius air space.”

  The adjutants charged out of the hall to carry out their orders.

  Shaking Lt. Vielholskiy’s hand from his shoulder, von Einem cast a slow glance over everyone present before fixing his eyes on Nathan Rothschild.

  “The Parsifal did not drop bombs on Novovileysk,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I have no doubt we will soon find out who is responsible. But you, Baron, have made a gross error of judgement by threatening me – the Prussian War Minister. Germany will never forget that. Just don’t pin your faith on some derelict British crate next time. I shall see you soon,” he turned on his heel and marched out of the hall.

  His entourage followed behind.

  Lamsdorf stuck a dramatic pose, stretching out his hand.

  “What?” he snapped. “And you, Baron Rothschild, will allow this person to depart just like that? But who will be held responsible for the Novovileysk explosions? For the blood and tears of innocent people? Besides, Your Excellency,” Lamsdorf lowered his voice. “You were planning on arresting me. Me! The Foreign Minister of the Russian Empire! Do you call such behaviour fair here in the Alliance? If that is the case, Russia refuses to play your games! We will identify and punish the culprits ourselves. Good bye!” The Russian envoy and his entourage departed from the hall.

  Soon after, The Muromets deck was filled with Vitiazes, landing on it one by one. Wrapped in clouds of fog, the Russian behemoth began to ascend, gradually becoming smaller and smaller, until it blended completely with the sky and disappeared altogether.

  With its cannon hatches closed, the flying German fortress The Parsifal began its slow descent, aiming for Viscigavas. The last dispatch that Karl von Einem had sent to the airship instructed them not to leave Vilnius without collecting him first. Both things were to be done promptly.

  A quarter of an hour later the only airship still suspended above Vilnius was the British Star of St George. People started to clear the streets, and began animated discussions on the incredible show that they had just witnessed as they walked.

  With the rain subsiding, the retreating thunder rumbled its farewell.

  Baron Nathan Rothschild gave a deep sigh. The Summit had never made any sense to him.

  “Well, at least we’ve managed to prevent a war,” he muttered.

  “Today – yes,” Lord Petty-Fitzmaurice, Foreign Minister of the British Empire, remarked dryly.

  “In which case could we continue with our discussion on the railway?” Izzet Pasha El-’Abed, Secretary to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, suggested, rubbing his hands.

  Chapter XL

  Vilnius, sunset

  26 04 1905

  The sun always comes out after a storm. Taking the thunder and lightning with it, the rain retreated to the South, leaving fresh air and puddles behind. A wind ripped in and tore up the sheet of cloud, granting the setting sun a last chance to bathe the bustling streets in its rays. The wet city roofs and church spires looked as if they had been inundated with liquid gold, while a dash of fake blood splashed the eyes of the University Dominium goblins and the Guild of Mechanics dome dazzled with a blinding light.

  This change of weather was a gift to the Alchemists who, amidst heated exchanges of their impressions on the recently witnessed battle over Vilnius, started bustling about on the Hill of Bekesas, unloading boxes with fireworks and getting ready for the parade of midnight lights – a traditional ending to Summits. This brief interval revealed the city in a slightly different light – making its image clearer, brighter and cleaner. But it did not last, and the sun, unable to resist the laws of nature, soon sprayed a final fan of rays before vanishing beyond the horizon. As if announcing the end of a performance, the curtain of clouds was drawn and the city welcomed dusk, descending on it from above.

  Vilnius, however, had not the slightest intention of drowning in darkness. Gas lights were swiftly lit by the lantern men, who spilled into the streets in dozens, and a brand new tobacco advertisement produced by the University Dominium Alchemists – a dancing flame in the shape of a writ
hing beauty with a cigar in her mouth – attracted a crowd of gawpers. Drivers of steam carriages, stagecoaches and street trolleys also took their lanterns out. The inns, pubs and restaurants exuded their own soft light, which served as bait for their potential clients; and so did the joy houses, with their dimmed, intimate, flickering illuminations squeezing through the chinks in heavy velvet curtains. St George’s Avenue’s hundred-year-old linden trees were adorned with artificial fireflies (another gift to the city from University Dominium’s Alchemists). The Navigators’ Tower emitted a broad fan of yellow rays, announcing its readiness to accept the passenger airships from Prague and Reval that had been delayed by the storm.

  Tonight was the last night of the Truzzi Theatre Company’s tour in the Cathedral Square, and people were scurrying back and forth along softly lit Pilies and Didzioji Streets.

  Lights also streamed out of all the Town Hall windows, where another meeting was being held at the end of the hard and exhausting day, following the ‚Battle Over Vilnius’ – which is how the confrontation between The Parsifal and The Ilya Muromets had already been dubbed. This meeting was more sedate. With absolutely no progress made in the negotiations, and no decisions reached even on the subject of Pasha El-’Abed’s dream railway of Hejaz, the guests eventually found some common ground at the tables laid with an impressive feast. Neither Prussian War Minister von Einem, nor Russian Foreign Minister Lamsdorf took part in the banquet.

  Von Einem sulked in the flying fortress of The Parsifal, now heading out over the outskirts of Vilnius, staring out of the porthole, brow furrowed. No one knew where Lamsdorf was at that time. Some said he was assessing the damage on Novovileysk, others thought he was taking the train to St Petersburg.

  The further from the main roads you went, the darker it became – narrow streets lit by no more than an occasional gas lantern and faint streams of light coming through the fly-stained inn windows.

  Behind Mirth City, in the area nearest to Paplauja, it was pitch dark. This was home to a number of abandoned warehouses and long-forsaken derelict slums, with alleyways ending in a dead end. In its possession the neighbourhood had one single gas lantern, the light of which illuminated a swarm of tiny insects and part of a nameless square, encircled by abandoned buildings on all sides.