Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  For riot instigator Misha Suslov, however, this place was a real find. Sitting on the grass under the street light in one of the corners of the square, he was distractedly spitting out the shells of sunflower seeds. Two personal guards of Herculean build, both highly reliable men who had chaperoned Suslov through more than one riot, had made themselves comfortable behind him.

  Following today’s failed opportunities, Suslov was very cross. He was like a bear with a sore head. All his hard work had been in vain – instead of fighting for a copy of The Truth of Vilnius, people had wrestled for The Vilnius News; the strikes hadn’t taken place, even though they had been planned brilliantly; and last but not least, three activists, who had cost him dearly, had been taken to Sluskai. As if that were not enough, the better part of the new newspaper’s front page was taken up by Suslov’s mug. And Misha was a true hater of publicity. The Mothers’ March had suffered defeat as well. “Damn those white crosses,” Suslov fumed. “Scaring those sheep to death cost them little effort.” Next time he should put religion to use himself, but this engagement had already been lost. The battle over Vilnius was the only moment which he could have possibly called a success, but it wasn’t his victory. So he was ready to begin night-time carousing of the sort that Vilnius hadn’t encountered for a long time. His clients were unlikely to forgive him his failures, but at least he could take heart from his next trick.

  This was the reason why he had come to the nameless square and was now sitting under the lonely street light. He had obviously surveyed the surrounding area first and gathered his men, and was now waiting for his “partner”, whose experience he thought might come handy, to turn up.

  “He is coming,” one of the guards muttered in a low voice before waving his hand.

  Even in the dark Suslov immediately recognised the man sauntering towards them. It was the king of Vilnius criminals, Motiejus Kairys.

  Suslov got up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible that the entire city was bowing and scraping to this man – short, fat, with thinning hair, and a cripple. “A village gets the criminals it deserves,” the Russian thought to himself but out loud said, “It’s nice to see you.”

  “A promise is dearer than money,” Motiejus Kairys shrugged. “I’ve told you we’d come, and so here we are.”

  Six more men emerged from the same street that had brought Kairys here. They showed respect to their commander by stopping a dozen feet away from him. Knives shoved in belts and steel-capped clubs glistened in the dim light, while their fists boasted knuckledusters.

  “I see you are taking the fight seriously,” Suslov chuckled, slowly surveying the small group, before giving a long two-fingered whistle.

  Something moved around the edges of the square, and the silhouettes of men emerged in the empty eye sockets of the surrounding buildings. They waved their guns in the air, before disappearing from sight again.

  “Twelve of mine, and six of yours,” the rioter confirmed. “Just like we agreed.”

  “Like we agreed,” nodded Motiejus Kairys, and then scratched his chin with his hand-hook. In the light of the derelict lantern even this simple gesture looked like a threat.

  “Let’s not waste our time,” Suslov rubbed his hands. “There are many of those deserving a flaming furnace tonight, while there aren’t too many hours in the night. Your men,” Suslov tilted his head towards Kairys’ men, “should aim at the idiots in the Blots who are worthy of a sizzle, and the ones who should also receive a thrashing or a scratch across their throats.”

  Motiejus Kairys sighed heavily but kept quiet.

  The prolonged silence became awkward. Suslov thought he sensed something not quite right and was about to open his mouth but the king of criminals finally spoke himself, “So these are your disciplinary measures? Bold and imperative – I think, that’s how you described them?” Kairys looked down at his shoes. “It’s a good time to teach the foreigners a lesson. To give them a sizzling? Isn’t that right?”

  “Exactly,” Suslov nodded and beamed a smile. “One or two fires will teach them more than all the sermons of the Cathedral’s white crosses.”

  “That is fine, then,” Motiejus finally looked up and raised his metal hand.

  Suddenly something beside the derelict houses thumped, banged and wheezed and bodies of Suslov’s men, like potato sacks, came flying out of the windows before hitting the dirt. Then followed a few shots, then dead silence again.

  Standing under the lantern, Misha Suslov was struck dumb.

  When his senses had finally recovered, his eyes moved over to where Kairys’ men had been standing before, but they were no longer there. A brick flew above his head, and with the glass shards cascading, the single lantern breathed its last. Suslov groped hopelessly in the dark. He heard one of the guards gasp and the other rasp and choke. Then the grass rustled behind his back and a damp bag reeking of engine oil was pushed down over his head. A match was struck and the bag set ablaze. Suslov screamed in terror for his life, before tearing the bag off, falling down on all fours and thrashing his head against the ground. Luckily for him, the grass was wet after the rain. His face remained unscathed but his eyebrows and hair had not escaped the sizzling.

  When he had finally mustered up his courage to raise his head, looming over him he saw several men with torches, as well as the grinning Motiejus Kairys. In his good hand he held a thick envelope.

  “So,” Kairys said, “a bit of a sizzling for you. More, or will that do?” he said, flinging the envelope down at Suslov. “Here’s your masters’ money. Take it back together with a message: while in Vilnius, you must observe our rules. It’s awfully bad manners to force your own upon us. And now get out of here before I change my mind. Regards to your masters.”

  Without a word, Suslov got up, sneered at the envelope before picking it up and limping off into the darkness. When there was no glimpse of light around him anymore, he began to run.

  With a chin thrust Motiejus Kairys pointed at Suslov’s two guards, sprawled out on the grass with no signs of life.

  “Deal with them, and leave no trace behind,” he instructed his men. “There is no need for the Legionnaires to find out about this minor misunderstanding.”

  Suslov ran until he was completely out of breath. When he finally stopped, he bent over and rested, leaning his palms on his knees, cleared his throat and spat. He then felt his burnt hair, took a deep breath and waited for his heart to stop pounding out of his chest, thanking his lucky stars. He had already thought all hope was lost.

  “A tough nut,” he mumbled under his breath. “I had no idea. Just you wait, I will make you pay,” he said through clenched teeth.

  His priority now, however, was getting out of Vilnius and out of everyone’s sight – away from the Legionnaires and the criminals, and really far away from that bitch Emilia. If only he could lay low somewhere for a while until everything calmed down, he would surely come up with something.

  Suslov looked around. He had made a run for it out of the square, completely oblivious of where he was racing to, paying no attention to the roads and turnings that he took. Now he realised that he had no clue as to his location. Being new to Vilnius, he still found the city quite confusing during the day, not to mention at night. He was surrounded by dark yards, gateways and quiet alley ways. Not a living soul around, but some faint music played in the distance. Suslov bit his lip. In his head he formed a simple plan: walk in the direction of the sound, and as soon as he reached a major road, hail a carriage with a driver and hurry to Viscigavas for the first available night-time flight. He had the documents and a stack of bank notes ready in his pocket. It was high time he waved goodbye to this damned city.

  All of a sudden he was startled by a loud clang, as if someone had dropped a chain on the cobblestones. Suslov froze and listened intently. With his eyes narrowed he looked towards the sound. There was another clang and he saw two red points of light flicker through the dark. They w
ere getting closer. The Russian shuddered and began to back off.

  That very minute cannons fired, sending shells loaded with the Alchemists’ magic compounds into the Vilnius night sky. At the peak of the trajectory the shells exploded, spraying the entire city with a rain of coloured lights. People gazed skyward, gasping with amazement.

  “Good job, fellows!” the explosives experts cheerfully roared on the Hill of Bekesas. “Let’s entertain Vilnius with flames they never knew existed.”

  Suslov screamed. He screamed in his thin, repulsive, breaking voice until he could scream no more. In a brief moment, with the darkness ousted by the lights of the sky, in front of his very eyes he saw a beast.

  “A wolf... wolf... an iron wolf!” he shrieked, backing away. “Help!” he screamed. “Help!” he rasped, flailing his arms about before tripping on a rock and bashing his head against the ground. He had no idea he was the one to name the underground beast.

  A few metres from the man sprawled on the ground, the metal monster paused with its head tilted down, contemplating him with its red eyes. With incredible dexterity the beast leaped beside him and lowered its steely paw on his chest, the pressure cracking and breaking the ribs. Its metal head looked to the side.

  “No!!!” Suslov screamed, his hands trying to shield the face.

  Like a pendulum the monster’s head swung, before its jaws opened up to expose the scalpel-like upper and lower teeth, whose single synchronised move neatly slit Suslov’s throat from ear to ear. A fountain of the Russian’s blood spraying all over the monster, he gave out a gurgling sound, and then a shudder, before freezing stiff.

  “Aooooo!!!” wailed the Iron Wolf.

  There came the rain of multi-coloured dazzling flames again. The iron monster tossed its head, turned around and vanished in the dark, accompanied by its own clanking.

  Chapter XLI

  Vilnius, Before midnight

  27 04 1905

  Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras missed out on the battle over Vilnius as he had spent these hours underground. He did look up though when a loud rumbling above his head made the clods of gravel separate from the tunnel ceiling.

  “The fireworks started early,” he muttered under his breath with a worried glance at his companion.

  The nuns had taken good care of Solomon: they bathed him and gave him a change of clothes (although Sidabras was of the opinion that it was pointless – they were going back to the sewage tunnels), they fed him (although the child only pecked at his food – a sparrow would have bested him), they made him drink hot tea and sister Liucia’s mysterious elixirs, meant to help the boy preserve his sanity, if they, God forbid, had to confront the horrendous monster.

  Sidabras had assured them repeatedly that this was not going to happen. He would only have Solomon walk him over to the opening in the ground which had released him from the vaulted tunnels, and then only for a little while along the tunnels in order to point him in the right direction. Following that Solomon would be heading back to safety. Sidabras would explore the cellars alone, without demonstrating any unnecessary heroism.

  In the pouring rain Sidabras and the boy closed the orphanage gate and made their way to the Wet Square, its name amply justified by its current condition. They clambered inside the patiently waiting carriage and rolled to Mirth City – the exact spot where the monster had taken poor Simaska’s life.

  The boy was quiet throughout the journey. Sidabras did not bother him with questions, his eyes fixed on the mud puddles in the streets outside the coach window.

  It wasn’t hard to find the opening into the sewage vaults, as both remembered it rather well. Sidabras squatted to check the broken or possibly cut grille bars. “I wonder,” he thought to himself, “was the grille pushed aside by someone unrelated a long time ago, or did someone make sure the beast had a hole to climb out. And how many holes like this are there around Vilnius?” Then, clutching a mini Volta lantern in his hand, he patted the pocket holding a scotch-filled hip flask, checked if his heavy club with a spike at the end, intended to ward off the daring rats the boy had told him about, was by his side, as was his favourite heavy large-barrelled pistol, which he had borrowed from the Legion’s armoury. He also had something else up his sleeve for surprises beyond what he could prepare for.

  Sidabras glanced over at Solomon. The boy was leaning over the dark hole, trying to see down below.

  “Not scared?” Sidabras asked.

  The boy shrugged.

  “Will you walk with me?”

  Solomon replied with a bold nod.

  “Let’s go then,” said Sidabras. He lowered himself on to the edge of the hole, then slid into the damp and stinking darkness. The boy followed him down into the vaults.

  None of them had any idea that they were accompanied into the cellars by another creature. Its pointy metal snout flashed in the dark, and the mech rat Rattus scuffed behind the light, its claws scraping the ground.

  “Attention! Inclinometer is showing a deviation from the true horizontal. Rattus is going underground. Look, he is there already!” anxious Brother Urtas reported to the Elder.

  “So I see... Going down into the tunnels, Legate?” the Elder muttered, his eyes narrowing behind his round spectacles. “But indeed! Where else could old Baltrus be hiding? We should have thought of it ourselves.”

  Brother Urtas looked away from Elektrolab.

  “I await your instructions, master,” he said in a humble voice.

  “We can’t waste another minute,” the Elder replied. “Phoenixes should be sent out with no delay. We should get the prize, not Sidabras.” His robe flapping around his legs, he marched out of the room.

  Sidabras had brought along a piece of limestone and started drawing lines on the walls as he walked along, marking his way back, but he soon gave up on this pursuit. The old tunnels, which had once served as prison cells, goods or grain warehouses, were confusing by themselves, but what complicated matters even more now were the sewage ditches, criss-crossing the vaults as they carried the filth. Some of the rooms had turned into slop pits. At one point Solomon took a wrong turn and barely avoided tumbling down into a pit. Luckily for him, Sidabras happened to be beside him at the right time and he grabbed the boy by his collar. While in some places the tunnel vaults were solid, in others the bricks were crumbling to pieces, requiring the two visitors dash under them quickly with their backs bent, as they risked brick fragments tumbling on to them.

  Sidabras suffered pangs of consciousness for dragging the boy along, instead of leaving him in a safe place, as he had promised Margarita. But if not for Solomon, he would have been instantly stranded. Besides, his sixth sense was telling him to hurry.

  There was a scraping sound in the slops under their feet, and then something clawed at Sidabras’ boots. He swung his spiked bat up in the air before thrusting it down. With the target seemingly successfully hit, he lifted the bat to inspect the spike. It dripped with a mixture of slop and blood.

  As the intruders appeared to be out of reach of the rats, they chose to attack a different target instead. One obese and experienced rat squeaked with joy, having sensed easy prey – a much smaller and skinnier unfamiliar rodent was making its way towards them. The fat one lunged forward, intending to claw at the visitor with its claws and sharp teeth.

  The Vitamancers had carefully considered the issue of Rattus’ possible actions during an encounter with enemies like real rats or other rodents, and had equipped it with a means to survive. The nails of the underground rat scraped and slid over Rattus’ metal flank, which also proved to be impenetrable to its teeth. Facing its attacker, Rattus, like some Pied Piper of Hamelin, opened its jaws to release a sound only audible to the rats’ ears. Only it was not meant to lure the underground beasts, but to repel them. And so the squealing rats dashed off in all directions, while the mech rat continued its calm progress behind its target.

  Solomon realised he had lost his way and stopped. He must have taken a wrong turn, as t
hey had now come to a pile of bricks and rocks blocking their way. Sidabras wondered how much time had passed since they had descended into the cellars. An hour? Maybe two? Was the boy only leading him on a merry dance?

  They went back and turned right. Sidabras noticed the tunnel widen up. Soon after they stumbled across a hole, and an alcove-lined corridor beyond it.

  Sidabras paused, pulled out his flask and took a few good swigs. The liquid burned his throat and made him cough.

  That moment the boy’s hand grabbed one of his, and waved to the left with his finger pressed against his lips.

  The lantern in Sidabras’ hand revealed a metal-bound door.

  He bent over Solomon.

  “Is this it? he asked. After Solomon had nodded in confirmation, he added, “From here I will go alone. And you should hide...” he looked around. “Where the tunnels meet,” he waved towards the hole. “And don’t move from there, do you understand? I won’t take long. I’ll only have a quick look around and be back with you. If, however, you don’t see me soon enough, go back the same way, run to the nuns of the orphanage and tell them everything. Is that clear?”

  Solomon nodded and shuffled to the alcove.

  With his lantern dimmed, Sidabras cracked open the door with an apprehensive push.

  Back pressed against the wall, he strained to listen. What he heard was an odd droning sound.

  Firmly clutching the club in his palm, he slowly opened the door.

  The door opened up into a room drowning in dusk. Sidabras crept inside.

  It was a laboratory, faintly lit by a lonely gas lantern standing on the corner table. Sidabras extinguished his light and surveyed the space around him.

  The room had two exits – through a metal-bound door which was closed, and through a barred one, which was wide open. One part of the room was occupied by narrow cabinets, filled with small bottles, while next to them – almost in the middle of the room – there was a bed. A man was lying in it.