by Chris Paton
“No,” Nikolas cried and took a step forwards. Abraxas held out his arm and stopped him. “Do something,” he said. “Don't let him hurt Molotok.”
Abraxas nodded and curled a flicker of demonlight into a missile and hurled it and then another, followed by two more, at Khronos. The demon drew the energy from his fingers back towards his body and shaped a shield in front of him. Abraxas' missiles pushed Khronos back a step with each impact. Nikolas ran to Molotok as the emissary pushed itself to its knees. The lodestone behind the grille faceplate glowed and Nikolas grabbed Molotok's head with both hands.
“I love you,” he whispered and the emissary nodded, lifting Nikolas from the ground for a moment as he held on, never wanting to let go.
“Nikolas,” Abraxas said as he hurled another volley of missiles at Khronos. “I cannot keep this up. Molotok must attack now.
“No. I won't let him.”
“You promised you would help me,” Abraxas said and Nikolas heard the man's voice falter as he grew weaker with every bolt of demonlight he cast.
“No,” Nikolas said as Molotok lifted its head from his grasp and pushed itself to its feet. “Stop, Molotok. He can hurt you.” Nikolas wrapped his arms around the emissary's leg, but Molotok gently prised him free and set him on the ground. It bent its cylindrical head and the lodestone glowed a fierce red as if it was telling Nikolas to stop. Then the emissary turned and ran towards Khronos.
It was Molotok's left fist that shook the demon off balance and forced him to lose command of his shield. With his right fist, Molotok punched the demon across the street and into the side of a building. The timbers crumpled as Khronos slid down the wall, landing, to Nikolas' amazement, on his feet.
“Interesting,” Khronos said as he regarded the emissary stalking towards him. “Most of the metal beasts are inanimate stoves at best, but you remind me of another I have met.” He tilted his head and studied Molotok as the emissary began to circle him. “I wonder how you react to time?”
“Step back, Nikolas,” Abraxas yelled as he stumbled along the street. “Get away from him.”
“Why?” said Nikolas, but he sensed that he already knew why as the air grew heavy and time seemed to slip away from him. A vortex of light emanated from Khronos' body and expanded to encompass him, Molotok and Nikolas, if Abraxas had not pulled him beyond its reach. Khronos walked within the vortex as if he was enjoying a stroll in the park, while Molotok raised his fist and swung languid punches that missed Khronos every time. Nikolas watched as the demon paused in front of the fists, as if examining the fingers, touching them, sniffing them, and then letting the fist graze his cheek as if it was a caress.
“Molotok will be trapped within that time vortex for as long as Khronos wishes. We must hurry away, before he remembers us,” Abraxas said and curled his arm around Nikolas' shoulders. “Come. Let us get out of sight.”
“But Molotok?”
“He is safe inside the vortex. Trapped, but safe.”
“What about the demon?” said Nikolas as the old man guided him across the street and into a narrow alley between two blackwood buildings. “Can he get out of the vortex?”
“He can and he will,” said Abraxas. “We must hurry.”
Nikolas took one last look over his shoulder. Molotok continued to swing slow punches within the spinning vortex, but the demon, Khronos, the Father of Time, was outside the vortex and striding towards them, a missile of blistering energy in his palm and a murderous look in his eyes.
Chapter 31
The River Dvina
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
Akula was sinking. The tapping of Vladimir's hammer and Lena's curses, Stepan imagined, were all that was holding his submersible on a horizontal plane. Exiting the submarine pens had been easy enough, he reflected, their problems started when they encountered the first nets. The Germans had blanketed the river with great hawser nets that covered every possible location of the hidden submarine pens and fouled Akula’s propellers. Stepan had not considered for even one moment that the Germans might have anticipated such an attempt to take control of the river. Obviously, he thought as he applied as much pressure as he could on the rudder wheel, they knew about the submersibles. Someone must have tipped them off. Someone high up. Bryullov was the first name to come to mind, but Stepan rejected it. He is just not senior enough. This came from Moscow.
Stepan took a breath of stale air and squinted through the bow-facing porthole screwed into the tiny conning tower. He steered Akula in a slow circle as Vladimir fought against time to plug the leak allow them to rise from the depths. Surrender was not a Cossack word, but neither was drowning. Stepan took his eyes from the porthole and looked at Lena. She needs something to do, something to attack.
“Lena.”
“Da?”
“Open the port torpedo tube, the one on the left, and set the timer for thirty seconds.”
“Kapitan?” Vladimir said as he lifted his head from the bowels of the submersible.
“One of the nets is hanging from a transport ship,” Stepan said with one eye on Lena. She worked quickly, he noted. And shows no sign of claustrophobia.
“You are going to sink the ship?”
“I am going to force it out of the way at least. If we can cripple it, and it makes for the docks, then we have a way out.”
“I understand, Kapitan, but Akula is sinking no matter what. When we pulled free of the last nets, we must have snagged a fin and it is loose now. That's why you have to put so much pressure on the rudder, and that is why we are sinking – we have a leak.”
“All the more reason to do something drastic. Ivan and the German woman are counting on us to seal off the city. We will do our best.”
Lena tapped the brass lever on a pipe to get Stepan's attention. “The timer is set. What do I do next?”
“Give me a moment, I have to line up the front of the submarine with the transport ship.” Stepan bit his lip as he wrenched the rudder wheel to the right. Akula drifted though the water and bucked in the current. The starboard side of one of the crimson-hulled transport ships loomed into view and Stepan eased up on the rudder. He nodded at Lena.
“Ready,” she said.
“Okay, reach into the tube and pull the tag at the rear of the torpedo.”
“Da,” Lena said and cursed. “It is spitting.”
“It's supposed to. It's a propellant. Now, turn the dial to start the timer and close the tube.” Stepan listened for the clank as Lena closed the hatch to the torpedo tube and tightened the bolts with the lever. “Now flood it,” he said and looked at the largest of the three watch faces on his wristband.
Lena turned a wheel at the front of the tube. The river hissed inside as she opened the torpedo tube door. As soon as the water mixed with the propellant the tube started to heat up. Lena shrieked with delight as the torpedo fsshed out of the tube and into the river.
“I want to see it,” she said and squirmed out of the firing seat.
“There's not much room,” said Stepan.
“Pah. Move over, Kapitan. I want to see my torpedo.” Lena squeezed Stepan against the side of the conning tower with her body and pressed her nose to the glass. “Is that it?” she said and tapped her finger at a white contrail of bubbles fizzing through the water ahead of Akula.
“Yes,” said Stepan.
“Hah,” Lena said. “I like this.”
“We are sinking, Lena.”
“Nyet,” she said. “We are fighting, like true Cossacks. I didn't think it was possible to fight beneath the water. But now,” Lena lifted her head and raised her eyebrows at Stepan. “Now I believe anything is possible.”
“Still sinking, Kapitan,” Vladimir said from where he lay in the water at the stern of the submersible. “I suggest we fire the balloons and go for the surface.”
“Not yet, Vlad. Let's see if Lena's torpedo does the trick.” Stepan moved back to the porthole as Lena returned to the firing seat. She tapp
ed the lever on the tubes as if counting the seconds to detonation. “This is supposed to be a quiet ship, Lena,” he said.
“But I am excited. I like to make noise when I am excited.”
Stepan rolled his eyes and then focused on the torpedo. The contrail was fizzing out and the warhead was close to detonation. He checked his watch and counted the last few seconds before impact.
The torpedo detonated with a muffled blast that sent a ripple of energy through the river, defying the current and pushing Akula off course. Stepan peered through the confused waters and saw the transport ship's propellers begin to turn as the ship leaned to port.
“A hit,” he said and nodded at Lena. “Not bad for a Cossack.”
“And I wasn't even drunk,” she said, her eyes shining in the gloomy interior of the submersible. “Think what I could do with vodka.”
“I don't doubt it.”
A string of Russian curses forced Stepan away from the porthole and onto one knee. With a wrench in one hand and a hammer in the other, Vladimir wriggled his body free of the pipes and sat up. He gave Stepan the look he saved for those moments preceding difficult command decisions. Stepan knew the outcome and nodded.
“We blow the balloons,” he said and waited for Vladimir to agree.
“What balloons?” said Lena.
“We have pontoons on each side of the hull,” said Vladimir. “There are candles that produce oxygen and we light them to increase Akula's buoyancy. Once the candles are lit, we seal the pontoons and release them from the hull. They rise to the surface and we unbolt the lead weights we have on the bottom of the hull. We should shoot to the surface. The trick,” he said, “is not to hit the balloons when we rise.”
“Light the candles, Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” said Stepan.
“Aye, Kapitan.”
Once the candles were lit, Vladimir released the pontoons and quickly loosened the lead weights. Stepan let go of the rudder wheel and removed the pistol from his belt. He gestured for Lena to do the same. Akula wobbled in the water as it ascended and the three submariners held onto the closest pipes as it bucked through the different stratas of the river.
The bow was the first to part of the submersible to breach the surface of the river, followed a second later by the top of the command tower. Stepan turned the wheel with one hand and unlocked the hatch. He raised it an inch and then threw it back until it clanged against the side of the stubby tower. With his pistol raised, he clambered out and onto the slippery deck of Akula. Lena followed as Vladimir opened a torpedo tube and retrieved the missile within.
“Vlad,” said Stepan. “Leave the torpedo and get on deck.”
“Just a second, Kapitan. I have it.”
“And I am telling you to leave it.”
Vladimir shoved the torpedo back in the tube and stuck his head out of the hatch. Stepan and Lena stood with their hands raised as a small flotilla of wooden boats filled with German soldiers circled Akula.
“You see what I mean?”
“I see,” said Vladimir as he gripped the sides of the tower and pulled himself out of the hatch and stepped onto the deck. “We don't have any options left, eh?”
“No,” said Stepan. “But Lena sank her first ship.”
“Da,” said Lena with a barely contained smile creased across her face. “Not even the great Ivan Timofeyevich has ever sunk a ship. I will be remembered in Cossack history.”
“If we survive that long,” said Stepan as he studied the soldiers while searching for the officer in command.
A thin man wearing an officer's uniform stood up and waved at him. He pointed at the pistols in their belts. “Throw your weapons into the river,” he said as his men tightened their grip on their muskets.
“Nyet, I will not,” said Lena.
“Do it,” Stepan whispered.
“Kapitan, do you know how long I have had these pistols?”
“No.”
“They have been in my family for...” she paused as Vladimir stepped in front of her and bent down to kiss her on the lips. Lena clasped her hands around his neck and returned the kiss as he lifted her off her feet. The soldiers whooped as Vladimir drew the pistols from the bandolier belt and tossed them into the river. Lena pulled back her head and scowled at the first and second splash, only to kiss Vladimir one more time.
“Marry me,” he said.
“When?”
“Today, tomorrow... now.”
“Da, I will marry you tomorrow,” Lena said and bit his lip. “Now put me down, I want to fight some Germans.”
“There will be no fighting,” Stepan said as he tossed his pistol into the river. Akula shifted beneath their feet as the first German boat bumped into the hull. The officer ordered each of them into separate boats and then called out for the soldiers to row back to the docks. Stepan and Vladimir watched Akula as the hull began to slowly sink beneath the surface. Lena watched Vladimir.
“You are to be taken directly to Herr Venzke once we are back on land,” the officer said as his boat drew level with Stepan's. “He intends to use you to help stop this pathetic siege.”
“Pathetic?” said Stepan as he turned to face the officer. “We have sunk one of your ships – just the three of us. We are one hundred outside the gates and,” he paused as he caught sight of a pall of smoke rising from one of the buildings closest to the gates. The first sounds of battle carried across the river and Stepan stood in the boat to get a better view.
“Sit down, Kapitan,” the officer said and drew his pistol. “Sit down or I will shoot.”
“Save your bullet,” Stepan said and pointed at the docks. “The Cossacks are inside the city walls.”
The docks were lined with townspeople escaping the fighting at the gates and looking towards the sea for salvation. It reminded Stepan of the day the ships had arrived, and every day since. Not one had passed without him thinking of his son, and now, as buildings inside the city began to burn, the need to see his son and soon, pressed Stepan into a deliberate state of calm.
Venzke has my son, he remembered. Then that is where I will go. He sat down and concentrated, ignoring even Vladimir's gasp as Akula sank from view. Venzke has my son.
Chapter 32
The Gates of Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
Hari ducked as the djinni tossed another bruised blue emissary over his shoulder. The bronze amour plates buckled on impact as the emissaries, one after another, crumpled upon the packed-earth streets and rolled into the blackwood buildings. The soldiers of the German Confederation beat a fighting retreat, covering the controllers as they unclipped the useless control boxes from their harnesses and dropped them onto the ground. With his kukri pointed level in front of his body, Hari dared the bravest of the soldiers to come forwards. None did. He cast a glance over his shoulder and understood why – the djinni's skin flared orange across its massive body. It grew a pair of legs from thick coils of fire smoke and strode down the street, its shoulders rising above the tallest of buildings. Hari jogged to get ahead of it and slow it down.
“Wait,” he said and waved his arms at the djinni. “We must wait for the others to join us.”
“What others?”
“The Cossacks, the Wallendorf soldiers,” Hari said. He whispered the last name to himself, “Miss Luise,” and held his arms outstretched. The djinni bent down to peer into Hari's face.
“You are a strange little man. You want me to fight, and I fight. Now you want me to stop. But,” it said and pointed a stubby orange finger in the direction of the river, “there is still much fighting to be done.”
“Truly,” Hari said and dipped his head in respect. “You are not wrong, but I wish to find someone and you will be most useful.”
“We had a deal, little man,” the djinni said and scowled. “You are not thinking of reneging on that agreement, are you?”
“I am not. We do have a deal, but the fighting is not yet over, as you pointed out. But I wis
h us to be cautious...”
“And to wait for your friends. Yes, tedious.” The djinni shrank in size but retained the orange flush across its skin. “Does this colour bother you?” it said and tilted its head to look at Hari. “You seem ill at ease.”
“I confess, I prefer you to be blue,” Hari said and fingered the buttons of his shirt with his left hand. The kukri he let fall to his side as he took a step back from the djinni. The djinni's laughter caught him off guard and Hari felt the tattoo on his chest crackle with a burst of nervous energy.
“I find myself energised after my short rest and rejuvenation. Perhaps,” the djinni said as it gestured towards Hari's chest, “we would be more than equally matched this time, little man?”
“I do not doubt it, my friend.”
“Friend? Have we become friends?”
“You have always been my friend, British,” Hari said. “And no matter what you have become, I will honour that friendship.” Hari sheathed the kukri and pressed his hands together in a namaste, bowing to the djinni until the sound of metal feet clanking along the street behind him turned his head.
Kettlepot, as Hari had learned it was called, strode ahead of the Wallendorf emissaries and the girl skipped along beside it. Luise, he saw, picked her way around the broken emissary parts littering the street, pausing at each of the German soldiers lying dazed or dead, their limbs wrenched at odd angles. She shuddered and walked on as the Cossacks removed weapons and souvenirs from the dead, hauling the wounded off the street and into the shelter of the broken gate towers from where they were treated and guarded. Kettlepot clanked to a stop beside Hari and turned its head to look at the djinni as it smoked above the ground in its diminished form not much taller than Hari.
