Imperial Black

by David Bishop

  Ivanov was proud to lead his men from the front. He couldn't abide armchair officers who preferred to let their men do all the hard work. Ivanov would never ask any soldier to attempt more than he was prepared to do himself. Besides, it was far quicker to make decisions from the front. Then they did not have to be relayed through a dozen intermediaries. Of course, when night fell upon the mountains - and it fell with unusual severity - the general happily retreated to his private tent. This had the benefits of heat pads beneath the ground sheet and a force barrier round its exterior to keep out the cold. Ranks must bring some privileges, Ivanov believed.

  The regiment had been ascending since dawn of the previous day. There were paths and tracks, but these only allowed three men to walk abreast in many places. That had slowed progress considerably, as did carrying all their equipment. The Imperial Black had a proud tradition of self-reliance that was proving an extra burden in this challenging terrain. With winter so close, the hours of daylight were limited. Continuing at night was beyond question in this unforgiving environment. Ivanov had responded to these difficulties by leading his men at dawn each morning.

  Ivanov reached the top of a rise and called for a halt, his order being passed back through the column behind. A snap of the general's fingers and the Enforcer was at his side. "What does that look like to you, major?"

  There was a cluster of huts and enclosures ahead, clinging to the mountainside on a narrow plateau. The buildings were simple structures, with thick walls and low ceilings, dug into the side of the slope. Wisps of smoke rose from most of the chimneys and beasts of burden could be seen waiting inside the narrow compounds. Steps led to the settlement, the centre of each stone worn down by centuries of use. The path continued past the village and up the side of the mountain, eventually disappearing into a halo of clouds.

  "A village, sir. Little or no defences. No apparent threat to us."

  "Exactly. I doubt they get many visitors." The general smiled. "That should make our arrival all the more of a surprise. If this accursed citadel is nearby, the villagers should know where."

  "It's doubtful they shall willingly surrender such knowledge."

  Ivanov's eyes narrowed. "Then we shall have to persuade them."

  "When were you planning to tell us about the Tong of the Red Hand?" Dante demanded, glaring at Mai. He returned to the rocky overhang to find the others awake and preparing for the day's trek.

  "I wasn't. What I did before joining the Parliament of Shadows is no concern of yours," she said curtly.

  "Funny, isn't it?" Dante said to Spatchcock and Flintlock. "She can rant about what I allegedly did to her brother, but we're not allowed to ask what she did during the war."

  "I killed for the Tsar," Mai whispered.

  "What?"

  "I killed for the Tsar," she repeated. "We all did. The Tong of the Red Hand was employed by the Tsar to act as his secret police, hunting and executing dissidents within Imperial ranks."

  "You said slave traders sold you-"

  "To the Tong. I was inducted into the Red Hand, trained in its ways. I learned a hundred different martial arts. I could kill you a thousand times over, if I wanted, and you wouldn't have a chance. But I promised Lady Nikita you would remain alive until the Forbidden Citadel was found and the weapon secured."

  Dante shook his head, hollow laughter catching in his throat. "And you didn't think we should know any of this?"

  Mai stepped closer to him, struggling to keep her temper under control. "What difference would it make? I'm not proud of what I did during the war, but I had no choice. I tried to tell myself that by killing the Tsar's men, I was hurting the Imperial war effort. But I knew that was self-delusion, even then. Killing is killing, nothing more, nothing less. All it provided was carrion for the crows that plagued the battlefields during the war."

  Dante frowned. Had he not once thought much the same thing? He pushed aside the notion to concentrate on what Mai was telling him. "Once you join the Tong, you join for life. Obey all orders from your sensei or die at his hand. Death is the only way you can ever leave."

  "She's right," Spatchcock said quietly. "I had a few dealings with them before the war. Not the most cheerful band of assassins you'll ever meet."

  "I dared to desert their ranks when the war was over, so my brothers and sisters in the Red Hand marked me for death."

  "Why did you quit?" Dante asked.

  "Because of you," she snarled. "The last Imperial I killed worked in counter-intelligence. He was reviewing an Imperial Black report on events from the Battle of Rudinshtein. I had been instructed to make the man's death look like an accident, so I suffocated him. You have to hold the victim's mouth and nostrils shut for ten minutes to make sure of total brain death. While I waited, I read the field reports he was reviewing. One talked about an attempted breakout by a group of civilians from the governor's mansion. I recognised my brother Rai from a description of the soldiers involved. You murdered him."

  Dante shook his head. "You don't understand. You weren't there."

  "Make me understand! Explain to me how you justified killing my brother!"

  "I can't," he admitted.

  "You're pathetic," she hissed. "To think I spent months searching for you after the war, searching for vengeance. I fled the Red Hand to hunt you down. I heard a whisper that the House of Zabriski had links with the Romanovs, so I confronted Lady Nikita. She persuaded me to become an operative for the Parliament of Shadows, gave me sanctuary from the Red Hand. I swore to help the cabal overthrow the Tsar and his regime. He's the only living person I hate as much as you. Lady Nikita gave my life a purpose beyond getting my revenge on you. Now I have to make sure you stay alive! I can't decide whether to laugh or cry." Mai spat into Dante's face, then stormed out into the dawn.

  That explains why she hates you so vehemently, the Crest observed.

  "Thanks," Dante snapped. "I had figured that much out for myself."

  Sonam pushed the bubbling mixture of curds back and forth inside the broad pot, his strong hands using the flat sides of the wooden churn to keep the liquid moving. Beneath the pot burned a fire of yak dung, the year-old manure giving off a steady heat while filling the hut with heady aromas. A bag of cured yak hide hung on the wall, awaiting the hot mixture to be poured inside, but Sonam knew the curds needed another hour before they were close to becoming cheese.

  His three youngest children were asleep on the bed, dozing fitfully in their brightly coloured clothes. The two girls were different ages, but the resemblance to Sonam was unmistakeable in their oval-shaped faces and dark hair. The boy took after his mother, chubby around the cheeks and with gentle eyes. She had died giving birth to him, five winters ago, leaving Sonam to raise the children alone.

  A distant cry made him pause, his hands faltering at their task. Sonam listened for another scream. Perhaps Dukar was hitting his wife again. She would stay inside her hut for days at a time, eventually emerging with the shadow of a bruise still evident over one eye, or wincing in pain as she bent over a fire. Sonam had warned Dukar about this conduct. It was not fitting, not when they lived so close to the goddess. Dukar always apologised, blaming the barley beer, or some fault of his wife, Namu. "I am headman of this village," Sonam had told him last time. "I say you are lucky to have a wife. Treat her as you would treat the goddess herself." Dukar promised to hold his temper, and he had kept that promise for five months. Was he now lapsing back into the bad ways of old?

  The cry came again, more of a scream and it was closer, but Sonam knew Dukar's wife had not made it; the cry came from a man. Sonam lifted the churn from the pot, then shifted it off the flames so the curd would not burn. He pushed aside the heavy curtain from the door of his hut and stepped outside to see who was crying for help. Another scream penetrated the air, drifting up from below the village. Sonam shielded his eyes to see what was happening.

  A man was racing up the stone steps that led to the village, one hand nursing a red smear across his face
. No, not a smear, Sonam realised, it was a cut. The man was Dukar and he had been sliced across the face with a knife or blade of some sort. Perhaps his long suffering wife had finally suffered enough and fought back, as everyone knew she would one day. If that was the case, why was Dukar running towards the village and not away?

  Movement below Dukar caught the headman's eye. A black swarm was surging up the slope, like ants, consuming the hillside. Sonam had lived on this mountain for all his forty-seven years, having next to no contact with the world beyond these slopes, but even he recognised soldiers when he saw them. There was a flash of light from the front of the swarm and it was followed by the sound of a gunshot. The effect upon Dukar was startling. His hands flew out sideways and his face showed surprise, before all life left his eyes. The wife-beater's body slumped forwards.

  Sonam ran to the highest point within the village, a stone cairn with a massive bronze bell mounted beside a wooden shrine to the goddess. The headman snatched up a rock and smashed it against the bell, again and again. A deep, booming sound resonated out over the village and then on down the mountain-side, towards the valley far below. "Soldiers!" Sonam bellowed between strikes of the bell. "Soldiers are coming!"

  "Why didn't you tell her what happened in Rudinshtein?" Spatchcock was crouching by Dante, trying to talk some sense into him. "Flintlock and I saw the whole thing from the wall of the Governor's mansion. You had good reason for doing what you did. She'll understand if you explain to her."

  "She won't understand," Dante replied bleakly. "We all know what serpent-wire does to a person, we saw enough of it during the war, but Mai didn't. Besides, maybe I don't want her forgiveness."

  Flintlock shook his head. "You want her hating you? Why, as some sort of punishment? Rai volunteered for that mission. He knew the risks, we all did. What happened to him wasn't your fault."

  "I pulled the trigger."

  "It was a mercy killing!"

  "Mai doesn't see it that way."

  "Then I'll make her understand," Flintlock said, but a popping noise in the distance stopped him. "What was that?"

  "Gunfire!" Dante was already running with his Huntsman 5000 clutched in one hand. Spatchcock and Flintlock followed him. Mai stood in the open, peering at the nearest mountain.

  "It came from up there," she said. "Wind can carry sound for miles."

  The four of them listened intently, waiting for another gunshot. Instead they heard a bell chiming, each strike low and resonant on the breeze.

  The strikes are not in any pattern or rhythm, the Crest noted. The clustering of chimes suggests panic more than anything else.

  A second shot was heard and the bell stopped ringing. After that nothing was audible beyond the whistling of the wind.

  Dante slung his rifle over one shoulder. "We knew the Imperials were ahead of us, but we didn't know how far - until now. If we want to overtake them, we'll have to travel light. Gather any essentials we need from the yaks, then release the animals. From now on we go by foot, at speed. Any questions?" Nobody spoke. "Good. Remember why we're here." He made eye contact with Mai. "Nothing else matters at the moment. We leave in five minutes."

  Sonam's hand was a crimson mess from the shot, blood seeping from the cloth he had wrapped around his gaping wound. The bullet had passed through his palm and excited out the other side. The pain was excruciating, but not fatal. Dukar had not been so fortunate. His body lay beside the path to the village, forgotten already and growing cold. Sonam hadn't had time to do anything about his dead neighbour. Indeed, he was still tying a makeshift bandage round his hand when the black-clad soldiers dragged him down the slope to join the other villagers. Hundreds of the invaders surrounded the settlement, their weapons trained on the terrified people. A broad-chested figure was barking orders to the troops, his features hidden behind a black facemask.

  Soldiers ran from building to building, searching for anyone who may have been hiding. The wind had died with Dukar, so when the women and children were dragged out into the icy morning, their sobs hung in the air as clouds of steam. Another terse command from the man in the facemask and the villagers were forced into three groups - men, women and young children. Once this was achieved, the soldiers formed themselves into groups of forty, each unit taking a position around the village. The officer, whose voice had commanded them with such authority, turned to a single figure and saluted. "This is all of them, general."

  "Very good, major. I want eight units deployed above, and eight units below the village, to make sure we are not disturbed. Anybody else on the mountain will have heard that damned bell, so we may yet have visitors."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sonam watched the major mustering his well-drilled men. These soldiers looked like professionals: skilled, disciplined, deadly. The ease with which Dukar had been despatched was ample evidence of that, along with the speed of this latest manoeuvre. But it was the glee in the general's eyes that worried Sonam most. He looked at the villagers the same way Sonam's young son looked at his toys. We're playthings to this man, nothing more and nothing less. He will keep us alive as long as we amuse him or have something that he wants. After that, we'll be cast aside. Sonam shuddered at the thought of his son's broken, discarded toys, imagining a similar fate for the village and its people.

  "You, the one who was ringing the bell. What's your name?"

  The headman realised he was being addressed. "Sonam. My name is Sonam."

  The general smiled genially. "Call me 'sir', when you address me."

  "Yes... sir."

  "That's better. Now, Sonam - you showed remarkable forethought in ringing that bell, alerting the others to our arrival. Are you their leader?"

  "I am headman of the village, as my father was before me."

  "Sir."

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Don't forget again, will you?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very good." The general walked slowly among the villagers, studying their faces, gently patting the heads of the children, nodding to the women. All the while he continued talking to Sonam, as if passing the time of day. "You're probably wondering why we've come to your little corner of the world. Well, I will be completely honest with you, and I hope you'll extend me the same courtesy. We are here on a mission from Tsar Vladimir Makarov, Ruler of the all the Russias, and leader of the our glorious Empire." The general paused in front of Sonam. "Your people know you are governed by the Empire, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir. But it leaves us in peace so..."

  "Good." The general strolled to a position up the slope from the villagers, where he could look upon all of them simultaneously. "First of all, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am a general in the Tsar's forces and proud to lead the men around you. They are a regiment known as the Imperial Black, a thousand of the finest warriors ever to walk this planet. My name is Vassily Ivanov, but some of you may know me by another name - Ivanov the Terrible." He smiled. "Any questions so far?"

  Nobody spoke. Sonam glanced at the faces of his neighbours. Most were too scared or bewildered to challenge the invaders. A few saw what had happened to Dukar, as everyone had heard the shooting. Guns were not permitted on the mountain, as the monks had labelled them a blasphemy against the goddess.

  Ivanov raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the silence. "Very well, I shall get to the reason for our rather abrupt arrival. The Tsar has sent us here to find the Forbidden Citadel, a fortress hidden within the Himalayas. We have good reason to believe it is either on this mountain, or one of the peaks either side. Winter will soon engulf this region, so it is imperative my men and I find the citadel before the weather closes in. You will help us locate it, or suffer the consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

  Still nobody spoke. Nobody replied to him. Sonam knew that the mood among the villagers was one of shock and fear. But he also knew his people would never willingly surrender the location of the Forbidden Citadel. Most of them had been within its walls and thus could see it from outside, but they we
re sworn to protect the goddess - with their lives, if necessary. That vow had never been put to the test until now. Sonam was confident his people would not be found wanting. They owed everything that they were and everything they had to the Mukari. Without her, they would have been swept away by the capricious peaks, their village obliterated by avalanches generations ago. But she protected them from such forces of nature.

  They must do the same for her, whatever the cost.

  The general's face darkened. "I asked you people a question... Do I make myself clear?" The villagers remained silent, even the youngest child refusing to speak out. Ivanov folded his arms. "I will give you one last chance to spare yourselves. I did not acquire the name Ivanov the Terrible without good reason, and those who helped me earn it paid the cost in blood. Now, who will volunteer the location?"

  Sonam took a deep breath and stepped forward. The general smiled at him. "That's better. I was beginning to think none of you had the sense to save yourselves. Where is this legendary fortress to be found, headman?"

  "None of us will tell you," Sonam replied. "From birth we are taught to keep this secret close to our hearts, to carry it with us to our graves. You can threaten us, you can torture us, you can murder us - it will make no difference. We shall not tell you, we shall never tell you. Better you leave the mountains now, lest our goddess smite you down."

  Ivanov pursed his lips. "Does this goddess have a name?"

  "None that I would tell to you."

  The general nodded. "I see." He gestured at his second-in-command. "This man is a major in the Tsar's forces but, like me, he has acquired another name during his time with the Imperial Black. He is known as the Enforcer." The major stepped out of formation and snapped to attention. "He is a most observant individual, for whom the tiniest detail can offer a wealth of information. For example, at no time during my latest exchange with your headman, did he address me as 'sir'. I gave him two warnings against failing to show me the proper respect, as dictated by my rank. The Enforcer will have noticed this blatant challenge to my authority. He will also have observed the threat veiled within your headman's suggestion that I leave these slopes." The general smiled at his second-in-command. "What do you suggest I do about that, Enforcer?"