Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  “So it is said by the guards. One of the prisoners owes blood to both, and they fight over the claims.”

  “Hope he dies before that.”

  Death had surprised Steve. He did not think creatures could die here, but they did. “You!” A guard had called, pointing at a small, rodent-like creature. “You’ve paid all debts but one.”

  The small squirrelman shook his head, hands up in front of him. “I paid them all, please, no, have mercy, no!”

  Huh? What’s going on? Are they going to flog him? Alexi had seen the “real” whip in action once. He’d had dry heaves for several hours after.

  Worse. Three guards had torn the prisoner apart in front of the others, then ate the squirrelman’s flesh. They hadn’t killed him first, no, but had—Steve’s mind shied away from the memory. May God have mercy on whoever ticked off two big spirits.

  As he trudged up the long spiral ramp, he heard a strange thumping and swishing sound that drowned out the usual noises of the gem mine. Everyone, including the guards and senior prisoners, stopped and stared up. Two of the creatures then fell on their faces and curled into balls. That’s not a good sign. Steve looked up again in time to see a heavy stone bowl fly overhead, driven by a round-bottomed stone thing that made the pounding noise with each stroke. A broom swept back and forth like a rudder behind the bowl, and he caught a glimpse of long grey hair belonging to the person in the bowl. Dude, that’s strange even for here.

  “You!” A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder on the next trip to the surface, his bad shoulder, and Steve bit his tongue trying to hide the pain. “You’ve been reassigned. To the forest.” The boarman’s bristles stood up.

  Steve thought he’d been scared before. Oh no, no, that had been a delightful laughter filled experience compared to what waited for him in the inner courtyard of the wooden palace. Three figures loomed up from the shadows. Arms chained behind his back once more, but legs free, Steve stared, then averted his eyes. His nightmare just got worse. An old woman with a mass of grey hair that reminded him of steel snakes and stick-like arms watched and smiled, opening her mouth so he could see iron teeth. “I smell the blood,” she said, and her teeth threw sparks.

  “Yesss,” the central figure whispered. “He belongs to the soldier’s son.” Black and sickly-green fire surrounded the man and his snake-like eyes glowed the green-white of decay. He folded his arms and Steve noticed the talons and bulging biceps, and a hint of what might have been wings behind him. The smell of a swamp, not a healthy wetland but one redolent of decay and stagnant water, where death and wrongness swelled, made Steve queasy.

  “He is yours, my lord father,” the old man-god said. The black demon licked his lips and the familiar burning pain began on Steve’s chest. He felt his guts trying to turn loose and he fought to hide his fear. Something told him that fear only made things worse. He grasped the first prayer he could think of, one of the ones of St. John Chrysostom, and whispered it inside his head. Then he switched to the Kyrie. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison, God have mercy, Christ have mercy, God have mercy.

  “I have first claim,” the old woman countered. “This one’s father cost me dear in power and strength, and slew my child. I claim blood for blood.” She too licked her lips.

  There are two evil spirits arguing over who gets to kill me. He fought to hide absolute raw terror.

  “Baba Yaga, my father is senior in power.”

  “Yes, but my claim comes first by time and blood right.”

  Steve looked from the old man to the demon, then decided to look at the ground. OK, wait a minute. Baba Yaga is the one Mom and Dad called the Sweeper. Who was a demon’s son? Not demon, the Swamp God is what Dad called him. Chernobyl? No, Chernozem? No, that’s a good kind of dirt. Chern, chern, chern, Chernobog! Oh shit, Chernobog and Baba Yaga are debating which one hates my dad worse. I am never, ever going to complain about ‘this is the worst day of my life’ ever again. Now he remembered what had been nagging him. The old man must be Koschai the Deathless, the son of Chernobog, the one who let himself age but could not die. Steve really wondered what his dad had done to cheese off the three most powerful dark spirits in Russian folklore. It must have been good. Recalling the old man’s real name called up another bit of information that made Steve want to hit his head against the closest wall.

  He’d given them his name! Each time someone heard his last name, they either got excited or tried to kill him. His parents had never named the powers, just called them “the Sweeper” or “The Swamp God.” Names had power. Thank you God that I didn’t give them my full name! He also wanted to sit down. Motion attracts predators’ attention, and I do not want them to rip me apart arguing over who gets what bit. I’ll just stay right here.

  After way too long, Baba Yaga and Chernobog seemed to have reached an impasse. They had slid from Russian that he barely understood into something that sounded really nasty, with sparks of different colors flying back and forth. Koschai, the old man, waved to someone. “Return him to work until he is called for.”

  The mine wasn’t as bad as it had been, Steve decided as he looked at the forest and the chained creatures working among the trees, trees that reached for them as if trying to catch the prisoners.

  I need to get away. Somehow, holy Lord, I need to find a way to escape, one way or another. I wish Ivan was here.

  Chapter 5: Brother and Sister in Arms

  Catherine Theodora Zolnerovich paced in the clearing outside the crack cave and wondered what her little brother had managed to fall into. Ivan the Purrable’s text had been terse, to put it mildly. Stepping onto the balcony of the conference hotel to see Vasili the Little Humpbacked Horse floating there waiting for her did not improve things. “Blood calls to blood, Soldier’s Daughter, you are needed.” She made her apologies, pleading family emergency, and had caught up with the ugly grey horse with the long mane and tail near the swimming pool. The meeting had almost finished anyway, and the last panel didn’t really need her presence in the audience. Dr. Pushkin was already loaded for bear and looked ready to hurl brickbats at Dr. Andreavich as soon as he finished introducing himself. Catherine mounted Vasili after tucking her carry-on into a pannier on his saddle, and they launched into the night sky.

  The North Wind, Vasili’s dam, had loaned them some of her speed and they reached Colorado quickly. Vasili trotted to a landing by the rear porch of Babushka’s old house. “Grab what you need, and quickly. Ignore the door, Soldier’s Daughter. That which entered will not come again.” She’d grabbed her special emergency bag and put on more practical clothes. She’d already let her parents know that something was up. Vasili dropped her off by the cavern and told her to wait. “The bounds have been crossed. All is not hopeless, but you must use every grain of wits and wisdom. I can not help you further, not unless you return here.”

  She’d bowed. “I thank you for your aid and counsel, sir, and I will do what I can.” He’d tossed his mane and trotted up into the sky, leaving her to zip up her jacket and wonder what the heck was going on. She reviewed the texts on her smart phone, then turned it to low-power mode, found a place to sit and waited.

  Not long after she heard huffing and puffing, and someone muttering in what was probably a dialect of US Marine. “Up here,” she called quietly.

  “Oh good,” pant pant. “I’ve been at sea level for too long.” Pant pant. Her big brother Peter lumbered into view, carrying his big military-surplus bag that he used for day hikes. “The Red Horse let me off back that way, said the door was here.”

  “Vasili says the cave is our access point. I’m going to strangle our brother when we find him.”

  “I get what you leave. I’ve been hunting around for you for a while, then saw Vasili. He’s not subtle.”

  “Sorry, and no, he’s not. I stopped in Kansas on the way. Vasili wasn’t too happy but I needed to tell Mom and Dad what was going on. Mom give me her blessing and a little something her grandmother had given her for good counci
l.”

  “The grandmother that was supposed to be a strega before she became a nun?”

  Catherine nodded and patted her pocket. “Yes. Gatta insisted.” The fluffy white cat had been exceedingly insistent, dragging the thing out of her mother’s suitcase and down the hall, then flinging it at the two Catherines.

  “Well, in that case.” Peter sighed with sympathy. He’d been on the receiving end of Gatta’s and Ivan’s suggestions a few times himself.

  “Do you know where we are, besides Colorado?” Catherine asked. She brushed her dark hair back from her face. The ride had tangled bits and she grimaced as her fingers found a snarl.

  Peter shook his head. “The Red Mare didn’t say. She just showed up as I was waiting for a cab, said there was danger, and off we went. I—” he shook his head. “I’ve stopped asking some questions.”

  “Yeah. Vasili wasn’t forthcoming either, and Ivan’s his usual terse self.”

  Peter looked grim. “For all of them to call for us, it can’t be good. Especially,” he glanced around, as if looking for witnesses, and reached into his backpack, pulling something half-out.

  “Oh, is that, that’s from the Red Horse?”

  He slid the glowing, liquid-looking bit of fire back into the bag and closed the top. “Yes. She said I’ll know when and how to use it.”

  “I think we’ll be dealing with deep kimchi.” She pulled her own backpack on and settled the straps.

  He grinned a little despite the situation. “Now that I’ve met kimchi first hand, I know why Dad used that phrase. On one of the bases, the Korean troopers had converted a swimming pool into a giant kimchi pit. It ferments really fast in August.” He pinched his nose closed. “Really fast.”

  “Erk. No thanks. I remember Mom’s experiment with home made yoghurt. Live and active cultures almost took over the whole kitchen.”

  They walked up the slope to the cave mouth. A few bats loafed out into the night sky, and Catherine glanced up to see a cloud drift over the moon. Thanks. All we need is a wolf howl to finish the scene. Her brother peered left and right, stopped and listened. “No wolves.”

  “Would you not ask for things like that, please?”

  “Jinx and so on?” His smile faded as he remembered. “Oh, words and names. Got it. OK, from here on, you are Two.”

  “Good call, One.” Was that how Stavros had gotten into trouble? Possibly, although there were a lot of ways S.G. could have found to become a prisoner of the Swamp God’s eldest son, if Ivan’s latest text was right. Or of a rusalka, or Baba Yaga, or any number of spirits and haunts. “I hope we’re not going to be facing the Swamp God.”

  “Um, no, I’d just as soon not cross paths with him, from what the folks said. The Sweeper’s enough to give me the cold chills. And we’re going to be in her territory.” Both of them stopped, closed their eyes, prayed silently and crossed themselves, then started into the cave. Catherine went first because of her smaller size and her knowledge. Peter followed, alert for traps and trouble.

  They went down and down, pausing every hundred meters or so to make a chalk mark on something dry and easy to find. The cave smelled like a normal cave, and a few more bats flittered out above them. Instead of growing darker, though, the cave remained dim but navigable, and the tunnel allowed them to go upright, mostly. Peter ducked out of habit. “Too much ship time?” Catherine asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  They’d gone a lot farther than Catherine expected from a normal cavern when the cave opened without warning. She stopped, almost skidding, and Peter grabbed her arm. “Holy shee-yipe,” she gasped.

  “No way. No fucking way,” he said, lapsing into Marine for a moment.

  “Way. Is magic.” She switched into Russian. “Has own rules.”

  “Is impressive. Path?”

  She slid the little flashlight out of the holster on her backpack and risked shining it down. “Ugh. Stairs.” Peter made a gagging noise. She turned the light off and stowed the flashlight, then studied the landscape. Peter released her arm and moved to stand, or rather to loom, beside her.

  They could see forever even though it seemed to be night. The cavern contained an entire world, with fields and forests, several rivers, a misty area way off to the left almost out of sight that made her nervous just to look at it, and a lake with something glowing on the far edge of it, with more country beyond. Pete took off his backpack for a moment and rummaged around until he found a set of small binoculars, then peered out and whisper-whistled. “I think I know where the amber room went.” He handed the glasses to his sister.

  She fiddled with them and looked to the glow. “Oh my. I wonder if those are emerald, sapphire, and other gems.” She returned to field glasses. “You think the amber room serves as the servant’s bathroom or as the storage closet?”

  “Garage. Let’s go. We’re a target.”

  She nodded, gulped, and started down the stone steps, one hand on the rock at her left shoulder. Catherine did not care for heights, stairs, or hiking at night. The stone felt cool and gritty, with smooth patches, like layers had been turned on end. Well, if they were in Colorado, then they had been. Could they be near the Flatirons? Something shifted under her foot and she stopped speculating and concentrated on keeping her feet where they should be. She couldn’t recall any tale that included Vasili the Little Humpbacked Horse swooping in to save a hero as he plunged off a cliff. She could almost see the steps in the darkness. Catherine did not count, she did not look at the landscape, she just walked and stayed close to the stone beside her. Pretty soon her knees and calves let her know that she needed to get more exercise.

  “Could be worse. Could be the Grand Canyon,” Peter said from behind and above her.

  “Worse?”

  “Mules have the right-of-way and they get the cliff side. Hikers get the drop off.”

  “Thaaanks.”

  After a very long descent the siblings reached the bottom. Catherine found a rock, confirmed that it was indeed a rock and not something else, and flopped down on it, resting her legs. Peter did likewise on a different rock. “Remind me,” he started. “Can we eat and drink here?”

  She thought for a few minutes. “I think so, if we are asked. Stealing’s still bad, but if someone offers us food, as long as we know they are not allied with You-Know-Who, then we should be OK. Running water’s safe, as I recall.” In fact, she wondered if they were near the spring with the Water of Life and the well of the Water of Death. Does the Water of Life work on houseplants? Probably not. That fern in Madame Androvich’s office is practically a fake fern by this point.

  “Break’s over,” Peter announced, offering her a hand and pulling her to her feet. Catherine did not groan. She took a few steps, looked left and right, and stopped.

  “What’s that?”

  A large shadow appeared ahead of them, like a rock that moved. It moved again and blue eyes appeared. “Mro.”

  “Thanks be it’s you!” Catherine crouched down, hugging Ivan, a much bigger Ivan than when she’d gone to Chicago. “Are you OK?”

  He nodded. “Mrow.”

  “Where’s—” Peter caught himself just in time. “Where’s Three?”

  Ivan heaved a long, loud sigh. “Mrat, mow, mrow, chitter chitter mraaaagh.”

  Catherine and Peter both sighed in turn. “Lead on, then, and you can explain later, please.”

  Ivan nodded once more and turned around, leading the siblings deeper into the strange world. The trail entered a woods and Catherine wondered if they’d find a house made of gingerbread. No, wrong story, she giggled. Although . . . Could Baba Yaga disguise the Little House on Chicken Feet to look like something else? If she could, that story suddenly made a lot more sense, and there had been crossing between the Polish and Bohemian Slavs and the Germans. Right, there’s good spirits, evil spirits, and neutral. We want to court the good and neutral.

  Once they got well into the woods, they stopped. Ivan and Peter disappeared into the bushes and
Catherine had a moment of mechanical envy. Ivan came back first. He shook all over and sat down, looking at her with unblinking blue eyes. “Your brother is in grave peril,” he enunciated.

  Catherine wanted to stare. He sounds like that Russian-British actor Grandmom liked, um, Peter Ustinov. Instead she nodded, “I take it Three did not heed good council?”

  “No. Nor did he finish what he began. And he gave the elder powers one of his names. Not his full name or he would be deceased, if he were fortunate.” Ivan held up one paw in warning. “Words are power.”

  Peter had arrived in time to hear Ivan’s news. “I’m not surprised that Three’s in trouble, sir. Can you help us rescue him?”

  Ivan looked from brother to sister. “That I cannot do. I may travel with you, but here I may do no more than advise unless you act first and I assist. The house is mine, not this world. Even here speech comes only with difficulty. I can say this: you have allies here. Your rod is known and you,” he nodded to Catherine, “have earned some of what your father and mother have as well. Be wary but wise, and do what good you can here.”

  “The law of three, sir?” Peter asked.

  “A form of it, yes.”

  Catherine looked a question at her brother. He shrugged, adjusting his backpack as he did. “One of my troopers dated a Wiccan. Apparently one of their beliefs is that if you do good, it comes back to you three fold, and if you do evil, it comes back three fold or more.”

  “So don’t set ourselves up to get hit by the karma bus, in other words.”

  Ivan snorted and Peter smiled. “You got it.”

  “Ah, practical question. Cell phones?”

  Ivan cocked his head to one side. “Work between each other and seem to stay charged. Are your world magic, so function.”

  Peter and Catherine both blinked a little, then shrugged.

  Catherine looked around for a hint as to which way they needed to go. They’d stopped at a junction where their little trail from the cliff ran into a wide path and a second, narrower way. Her brother walked around her, went to the left a little, then went to the right a few meters on the wide path. He crouched down, studied the surface, and stood again. “This way.”