Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Sidabras came closer. Multi-coloured wires were wrapped around the man’s head and wrists. Some of them were connected to a large, quietly droning machine, positioned at the head of his bed, others were stuck in containers with bubbling dark liquid or trailed across the floor. The man’s eyelids were shut but his eyes were visibly moving back and forth under them. Not only his fingers, but his entire body was twitching. The man was shaking all over.

  Sidabras took his pulse. The man’s heart was racing.

  “Pranciskus Baltrus,” Sidabras murmured.

  He walked around the bed, trying to comprehend how the machine worked and what the readings meant. He could not understand a thing. The machine softly droned, its hands oscillating and pointing at the figures.

  “What is it?” Sidabras asked himself, examining the scientist’s face, which was white as a sheet.

  He crept up to the metal-bound door and slowly pushed it open. As soon as he poked his head inside the second room, his mouth gaped open. There was another laboratory. And what a laboratory it was! Any University Dominium scientist would have been overjoyed to have one of these. Dusk reigned in this room too but there wasn’t a living soul inside.

  Sidabras closed this door and walked over to the other, barred one. Here led the wires, coming all the way from the bed.

  “What is this? An open house day?” Sidabras wondered to himself.

  The barred door led into yet another room, which was completely dark, and so Sidabras got his lantern out again.

  The front part of this long room was taken up by broad wooden benches with leather handcuffs dangling off them. Solomon must have been speaking about this place. Holding the lantern up to light his way, Sidabras stepped inside the room.

  The back of the room was cut off by a double lattice, making it into a cage. But the cage was empty and the latticed door open. The wires trailed as far a box on the floor, before disappearing inside it.

  Sidabras stuck his head inside the cage-room. He did not notice anything worthy of his attention. He sniffed the air. It smelled of metal, engine oil and something else. Maybe blood? Whoever was kept in this cage was in no need of food or water.

  “Hunting time,” Sidabras muttered under his breath.

  After a moment’s consideration, he returned to the room where the scientist Baltrus lay.

  Sidabras’ eyes picked up on the little table with the lantern. There was a dirty dish, a bowl with soup leftovers and a crust of bread. A headscarf was lying nearby.

  “Packed lunch,” Sidabras mumbled. “The kind auntie must be taking good care of her Pranciskus.”

  The table also contained some other curious artefacts. A clear glass bottle with some left-over blue liquid at the bottom. Judging from the stack of papers on the side, Baltrus must have been making notes. Sidabras lifted the sheets to find a leather-bound note pad.

  With the note pad in his hands and the lantern placed on the table, he quickly scanned the pages, crammed with small letters. Some of the pages contained dates. Could it be Pranciskus’ diary? Sidabras shoved the notebook inside his jacket.

  He suddenly felt someone else’s presence in the room.

  “We would also like to have a look at what you just hid inside your jacket,” a polite voice reached him from the doorway.

  Sidabras looked up.

  Without a sound, four shadows glided into the laboratory.

  Dressed in short gowns that wouldn’t restrict movement, they had hoods pulled over their eyes. Pistols glistened in their glove-clad hands and their chests were adorned with orange amulets depicting a phoenix rising from the ashes.

  Phoenixes. Vitamancer assassins, led here by mech rat Rattus, appearing at the time when someone was about to turn to ashes.

  “Would you be so kind and return to the table what you have just appropriated,” one of the phoenixes asked. “And throw your pistol over here. But no sudden movements, please.”

  Sidabras pulled the notepad out from inside of his jacket, placing it over the table edge.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked calmly, dropping his pistol on the floor.

  “The suspended commander of the Vilnius Legion,” the same male replied. “The man who accidentally fell in the Neris, having drowned his sorrows.” He put his chin up. “Put your hands up, please.”

  Sidabras gave a deep sigh.

  “Isn’t it lovely the menacing Legate of Vilnius is so understanding,” another man remarked. “The hands, please!”

  “As you say,” Sidabras replied, gently yanking his hands up.

  A click was heard, and the next thing they knew Sidabras was holding a tiny pistol in each of his hands, pushed out of his sleeves by cleverly installed springs.

  Quick as lightning Sidabras crossed his arms, the sound of both shots merging into one. Even before the phoenixes had the chance drop their jaws, two of them were stretched out on the ground. Leaping over Baltrus’ bed, Sidabras glided to the corner of the room with the metal cabinet and a number of chairs. Despite having been brutally deprived of two of their members, the remaining phoenixes did not lose their heads – they fired a stream of bullets at him. One of them hit the target, causing a burning in Sidabras’ calf and a grimace on his face. Another bullet ricocheted from a metal cabinet and flew past his nose. Sidabras realised how precarious his situation was – all he had left was a single bullet in each of his pistols.

  Both phoenixes’ gun barrels were turned at him.

  There was no time left, but the well-trained mercenary did not feel he needed any. He fired the pistol, held in his right hand, at the same time kicking the standing nearby chair. Another phoenix slumped to the ground killed by a bullet, while the chair crashed into the legs of the last living assassin, who was just about to squeeze the trigger. The phoenix’s hand shook and the bullet became embedded in the wall next to Sidabras’ ear. The last bullet exited Sidabras’ left gun with a husky cough, and the fourth intruder collapsed to the ground.

  Sidabras exhaled, his face convulsing with pain. He felt blood trickling down his calf. There must have been some bandages in the laboratory but there was no time to think about himself. Stepping over the dead bodies, he ran into the tunnel to search for the boy.

  “Solomon!” he yelled. There was no reply. “Solomon!” Silence. “Margarita will wring my neck,” he muttered.

  Deep down in his heart he hoped the street-wise boy had managed to escape in time.

  He limped back to the laboratory.

  A strange rasping sound welcomed him into the room. He leapt to Baltrus’ bed and swore.

  The scientist’s chest was heaving up and down, while a red stain at his neck was expanding in front of Sidabras’ eyes. Another bullet ricochet had found itself an easy target.

  “No, no, no!” Sidabras shouted, pressing his ear against Baltrus’ chest.

  The scientist’s heart was still beating but it was weak.

  Sidabras leaned low over the old man’s face.

  Suddenly Sidabras became aware that Baltrus’ eyes had opened wide. He flinched.

  “I... I... won’t be able to stop it,” the old man rasped. “It’s unfortunate... unfortunate for everyone. I had, I ordered... it was to come back home. But now... I am very sorry... tell the guardian... I am... I am dying.”

  “How can I stop it? How?” Sidabras cried, his hands shaking the old man’s shoulders. “How can I switch the monster off?”

  “You can’t,” Baltrus rasped again, a final stream of blood gushing out of his mouth.

  Scientist Pranciskus Baltrus was dead. The machine at his head beeped one last sound – as if in farewell – before falling silent.

  That was also the moment when the metal monster drifting along the underground tunnels stopped dead in its tracks. The orders that had been resounding through its head were suddenly gone. The rats, which were now seeping out of every hole, eyed the intruder and its bloody jaws with their little curious eyes, not daring to approach it any closer.

  The iron
monster slowly tilted its head to the side, raising its muzzle upwards like a hungry wolf, keenly sniffing at the air. The beast was awaiting its command. None being forthcoming, it headed towards a patch of blue sky quivering over a hole in the ground. The living part of its brain recalled its last action. It had been satisfying.

  By the end of the Summit, Vilnius lost itself in celebration, as if expecting the imminent end of the world. People, as if blown by invisible bellows, were drifting between the streets, where they admired the alchemic flames dancing against the night sky, and the inns, where they succumbed to other types of pleasures. Rivers of beer, wine and vodka were poured out, and the exhausted nymphs of the joy houses dabbed on fresh layers of blush, their gaudily dressed madams fussing about the clients and making sure no one remained unhappy and everyone got what they had come for. Street musicians, acrobats, fireeaters and magicians worked themselves ragged, a continuous stream of coins jingling into their considerably sized boxes.

  Pickpockets were attracted to the crowd like moths to a flame, their hands gracefully prodding the gawks’ purses, never forgetting how important it was to keep their distance from the patrolling Legionnaires. The watchmen of public order – even the most slothful constables and sergeants – were also working in the sweat of their brows. Steam coaches with barred windows would linger until packed with offenders like herring in a barrel and only then make a move from their posts in the Blots, Mirth City, Pohulianka or University Dominium, heading for Sluskai. With not even nearly enough capacity for all the pickpockets, robbers, fighters and those who had had one drink too many, Sluskai’s cells were bursting at the seams. Although swearing like sailors, the Legionnaires were quietly pleased that they were not having to deal with murder. Despite having more than enough wounded, thrashed or broken-boned clients on their plates, they managed to keep medical expert Radzinskis’ carriage in its yard. At least for now.

  Across the Cathedral Square dashed a tooting chartered steam trolley, the heads of its student passengers poking out of the windows. They were members of the University Dominium’s riding association, and were blowing trumpets and French horns to celebrate their victory at the Pospieska Hippodrome.

  The broceurs in the Blots were also working through exhaustion, while the cleverer ones – those who had once tried to run their own street trolley, were now running a human chain – from Wet Square to The Iron Owl: every client was welcomed and either directed to the required place or to another broceur standing further along the chain.

  The church bells announced one, then two, then three o’clock in the morning, but the passing of time did not occupy the minds of the celebrating crowds. The night was brim full of surprises and it seemed that the carousing would never end.

  It was three thirty when a metal muzzle poked out of a hole behind a derelict house, and the red eyes pierced through the darkness. They were followed by a hefty head and a torso. The rusty grille had been pulled apart by The Iron Wolf before, and so there was nothing to stand in its way now. It moved its head from side to side and, without even casting a glance at Suslov’s corpse, trotted ahead. In one of the lanes it stopped.

  Simutis and Mikelis – the two fine fellows visiting Vilnius from Pernarava – had been staying in one of the New World common use houses. For some unknown reason they had been kicked out the previous night, but did not allow this little mishap to spoil their fun. Having feasted their eyes on the Battle Over Vilnius and the Alchemists’ skies of flame, they spent the remaining time staggering about the streets. That was how they met a farmer they knew, who promised to take them back in his carriage, if only they waited for him on the Ukmerge Highway. Overjoyed with the news the pair decided to sell Simutis’ jacket in the Blots, as spending the last night partying in Vilnius now a suddenly came to seem like a very important obligation. Although the friends found the inns to be too costly, the streets teemed with traders offering bottles of vodka and a complimentary snack of a quarter of an onion on a slice of rye bread.

  “We was clever to come to this Vilnius, right Simutis?” – the cheery Mikelis belched onion fumes. “So many things to see, so many things to do.”

  “So much booze to glug,” added the swaying Simutis with a hearty laugh. Today everything seemed hilarious to him.

  All of a sudden Mikelis grabbed his comrade’s shirttails, which had become untucked. He lurched to one side, nearly ending with his face flat against the cobble stones.

  “Over there, over there, Simutis” – the excited Mikelis’ hand was eagerly pointing at something. “Look you over there. Another wonder of the city!”

  Simutis’ eyes followed in that direction.

  In an alleyway with no name, perpendicular to Perkasas Street, along which the two friends were making slow progress, there stood a metal creature. It had the appearance of a wolf but was much larger. Its enormous head turned slowly towards the men, the red eyes pierced them through.

  “Oh my Gosh, Simutis,” Mikelis couldn’t believe his eyes. “Do you see? That’s the automot... automut... well, one of those metal things we seed at the exhibition. Let’s go have a closer look. Can you believe our fortune? Who’d a thought we’d ever get a chance to see it up right close? Not in a million years we’d a elbowed our way through all the Exhibition crowds – but here we can ogle it to our heart’s content!”

  The monster opened its jaws, flashing its sharp long teeth. The next thing he did was tilt its head backwards.

  “Aooooooooooooo!!!” – a blood-curdling howl rolled over the streets of Vilnius, announcing the start of The Hour of the Wolf to all living creatures.

  Both jolly fellows from Pernarava felt weak at the knees and keeled over, their eyes glazing into fixed stares. Making a mighty leap over the bodies of the fainted men, the wolf charged along Perkasas street, in the direction of the city lights.

  It stopped in the square that marked the convergence of Perkasas, Laundry and Paplauja streets, the latter also crossing Vilnele Bridge. The gears installed in its head began to crackle, but the command Go home was not there. All it could hear was Kill! played over and over again, like a vinyl record player with a stuck needle.

  The monster opened its jaws. The living part of its brain was vaguely conscious that there would be no other commands, and that from then on there was no one for it to obey.

  Sweeping it head from side to side, The Iron Wolf set off along Laundry Street, in the direction of the noise and aiming for hunting grounds as yet unexplored.

  “Aoooooooooo!” the ear-splitting howl rumbled over Vilnius. “Aoooooooooo!”

  “What the hell was that?” swore a Legionnaire on patrol in Mirth City.

  “The students must be getting out of control,” his partner replied. “We’ll run ourselves ragged if we start arresting noise makers as well.”

  The first Legionnaire dismissed his colleague’s comment with a wave of the hand and became all ears.

  “Aoooooooooo!” the howling continued, slightly closer this time.

  “I will investigate just in case,” the Legionnaire decided and hurried towards the bridge along Uzupis street.

  “Hey, just look at this gigantic dog,” a fellow grinned, coming out of the inn with a group of friends. The inn from which he had just emerged occupied a space in the compact Fish Square, named after the crowd of fishermen who swarmed here together with their catch every morning. “Come here, doggy, over here!” he stretched out his arm.

  One leap of the open-jawed wolf and the arm was gone – a fountain of blood squirted out of the shoulder stump. While the stupefied man dumbly stared at the puddle of his own blood, the iron claws drew across his neck, nearly tearing his head off. The unfortunate powerless body slumped to the ground with a thump.

  The group froze. The wolf lifted its chin. A girl let out a few hysterical screams and started to run across the Vilnele and into Safjaniki Street, towards the great Russian Orthodox Church. All of her companions tore after her in great haste.

  The wolf stood the
re but the gears in its head were turning, the eyes darting fast as they registered future victims.

  “Shit! Who is that devil?” – seeing the horrific scene and people rooted to the spot, the jaw of the Legionnaire from Mirth City dropped.

  The screams alerted two Legionnaires on Boksto Street. They sprinted round the corner and dived into the winding Isganytojo Street, intent on discovering what was causing so much noise. As soon as they had given way to people running towards them from Fish Square, they were instantly confronted with the monster. Despite being utterly shocked, they somehow managed to preserve their composure and jointly fired in volleys. But not a single bullet penetrated the wolf’s metal armour, while their ammunition belts lightened by the second.

  With its red eyes fixed on the two men, The Iron Wolf languorously advanced along Safjaniki Street.

  “Run! Raise the alarm! To all posts over the wireless!” one of the Legionnaires yelled to his colleague. “Faster! I will try to distract its attention!”

  Like a bolt of lightning the second patrolman dashed back into Isganytojo Street, and continued along Pilies, aiming for Baltasis Stralis and its Legionnaires’ post, his hand frantically groping at his chest for the mechanical whistle on a cord. Each and every street patrol had one of these whistles – tiny loudspeakers with a choice of three signals – a harsh and loud warning for offenders, a melodious call for help intended for nearby Legionnaires, who were obliged to respond to it immediately, and a hellishly shrill one which was only used on extremely rare occasions, in the event of a catastrophe. This signal, which only members of Legionnaire circles were familiar with, meant that the entire city was facing a serious threat. Upon hearing this shrieking siren, all patrols had to abandon their current duties and run to the scene of the incident or the nearest mobile post. Moreover, they had a duty to pass the message to other patrols.