by Chris Paton
“Left to the river,” he said and clapped his hand to his mouth as the echo rocked around the walls of the tunnel. He squinted into the light, and, with one hand on the wall, he shuffled his way along the ledge until he felt comfortable with the light and began to walk faster. The algae on the walls oozed and slithered beneath his fingers as Nikolas continued, wrinkling his nose at the smell and taking shorter breaths than he was used to. He stopped at the first corner. He looked back to gauge the distance back to the wine cellar, but it was too dark to see. Nikolas pushed the guilt-ridden images of Molotok on the cart out of his mind and turned the corner, only to stop at the flicker of blue light coming from the direction of the river. He shrank to the wall and waited for the light to fade, but it didn't. The blue flame flickered all the way along the ledge until, less than twenty feet from where Nikolas pressed himself against the wall, the light was strong enough to reveal the beard and face of the man that carried it.
Abraxas, Nikolas said to himself and clenched his fists by his sides. Betrayer.
Nikolas waited as the man shuffled towards him, the shush of his smooth-soled shoes whispering along the wall. He thought about pushing the old man into the river, or battering him with... With what? I have nothing. With few options available for revenge, Nikolas waited, adrenalin coiled within his chest and pressing upon his lungs. He started to wheeze and the sound of it slowed Abraxas to a stop.
“Who's there?” he said and let the demonlight flicker from his palm and onto the ledge where it grew to the size of a small child and danced along the wall towards Nikolas. “Is that you, Nikolas?” Abraxas said and chuckled for a moment as the demonlight cast Nikolas' shadow along the tunnel, over the channel of water and onto the arched roof. “Here I am coming to set you free, and you have beaten me to it.”
“I didn't ask you to set me free,” Nikolas said. He clutched his chest at a sudden stab of excitement that knifed though his lungs. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” said Abraxas and he took a few small steps closer to Nikolas. “And I am sorry for what happened. I should very much like to make amends.”
“How? By breaking me out of my cell? Hah.”
“You're angry. I understand. But you are also alone. Tell me, Nikolas, how did you plan on releasing your friend, the emissary?”
“I'm still working on that,” Nikolas said and unclenched his fists.
“I can help.”
“Like last time?”
“Ah, Nikolas,” Abraxas said and sighed. “I did not lead Venzke's men to you.”
“But if you hadn't made me stay with you, I could have been free.”
“Made you stay? I did not make you do anything, but...” Abraxas curled his fingers and drew the demonlight back into his palm. “If you do not want my help...”
“I didn't say that,” said Nikolas, faster than he liked. “But I can't get Molotok out of the cellar alone. There are guards and,” he pointed over his shoulder, “I could not unlock the door to my cell.”
“Then I would like to help.”
“But why?” Nikolas searched the man's face for signs of deception, but found none. “What do you get out of it?”
“Beyond helping a small boy out of trouble? If that wasn't enough,” Abraxas said and smiled. “However, it is true, like I said to you before, I am expecting a visitor, someone like me, only more powerful. He seeks to send me back to a place where I do not wish to go...”
“The Passage of Time?”
“Yes.” Abraxas nodded. “I will not lie, Nikolas. I want to help you because I want Molotok to fight for me. I cannot defeat Khronos alone.”
“Who is Khronos?”
“He is the Father of Time, and if he finds me, my time in this world will end. I cannot let that happen, I have far too many things left undone.”
“And you think Molotok can help you defeat Khronos?”
“Molotok is but one part of my team, I hope you will be another, and I am waiting on several more. Actually, from the rumours I have heard among the people of the city, they may even have arrived.”
Nikolas considered his situation, the fact that he was lost without Molotok, and he had no way of rescuing him alone. And my father is never coming back. This thought had been growing for some time, and each time Nikolas had suppressed it. But here, in this tunnel, trapped between Venzke's guards and a crazy old man with a handful of magic, he realised he needed at least one friend if he was going to survive another week on the streets.
“I have done well to make it this far,” he said to himself. “Mama would be pleased, and papa,” he added although the thought was desperate and sad. “All right,” he said and straightened his back. “What do we do?”
“First,” said Abraxas with a smile that made his whiskers bristle, “we have to put you back inside your cell.” The demonlight in his palm flickered and Nikolas felt his stomach turn.
Chapter 28
The Imperial Navy Submarine Pen
Arkhangelsk
July, 1851
There were two submarine pens hidden beneath the shipyard, and Stepan was relieved to see the snub-nosed hulls of both vessels under his command. He let Vladimir shuffle in front, with Lena by his side, and paused for a moment to do a quick visual check of the pens and the alcoves tucked into the walls on each side. The Imperial Navy's Submersible Research Unit was cramped like the vessels they sailed. Pipes snaked at right angles around the walls and hung from the ceiling. The steam piffing out of the pipes above the port side pen confirmed that the pen was functioning and that Vladimir had made sure at least one of the two submersibles was operational. Stepan smiled as he realised it was his own command, Akula. Vladimir's Kosatka was tied to the dock of the starboard pen, the thick glass of the command turret revealing a dark and cold interior. The furnace was empty.
Vladimir stopped by a cot tucked inside the space between two stacks of crates. He lowered his massive frame onto the bed to let Lena examine the stubborn knife wound in his side. Stepan walked on and entered his office space, ducking beneath the gear hanging in hawser nets from the ceiling to sit at his desk. He leaned back in the chair and smoothed his hands along the surface of the blackwood desk. Akula was docked in front of him and he admired the lines and dull reflection of the marine blue hull as he reached for the framed portrait of his family.
“I saw you,” he said and smoothed his finger around Nikolas' image. “Just hold out a little longer and I will come and get you. I promise.” Stepan clutched the portrait to his chest and turned his attention to Akula.
The Imperial Navy's submersibles were experimental by design, hot and noisy to sail. Stepan smiled at the thought of Vladimir squeezing himself inside them, and how he managed to steer and stoke the craft, moving from one end of the ship to the other like a rat inside a tunnel blocked at both ends. Akula, like its sister ship, burned small, expensive blackwood pellets, about the size of a fist. They were turned by a local sawmill until they were as smooth as cannonballs. The mill's apprentices gouged flecks and wings into the sides to allow flames to catch the surface. Stepan thought they resembled headless wooden chickens. Carved in the likeness of the apprentices, he mused and allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Each pellet burned hot and clean, tumbling into the furnace from the brass tubes attached to the pellet pods bulging from each side of the submersible. When looking at Akula from the bow, it resembled a sausage pressed between two curved loaves, just like the ones the butchers and bakers sold on the first day of spring in Arkhangelsk. Stepan swallowed at the thought.
Akula expelled smoke from thin exhaust tubes, pressing the smoke under pressure into the water before it had a chance to protest. With two full pellet pods, Stepan and his crew of two could sail for three days before refuelling. If Vladimir was strong enough to have Akula ready to sail, Stepan knew the Poruchik would have filled each pod, and lodged more pellets between and behind the pipes inside the submersible. The torpedo tubes will be loaded too.
The torp
edoes were wound by hand with a brass lever stowed in a secure pocket of every submariner's uniform. It was ingrained in their culture. Stepan smiled at the memory of the numerous official dinners and ceremonies he had attended, spotting the secret brotherhood of submariners from the right-angled bulge in their breast pockets. He placed the family portrait on the desk and opened the top drawer to find his own. Stepan tucked the lever into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Lena knocked on the wood scaffold framing the entrance to Stepan's office alcove. She ducked beneath the nets and made herself comfortable on a long cushioned crate that Stepan slept on between long shifts. She huffed as she collapsed onto the pillow.
“What is it?” Stepan said.
“Vladimir, my Russian,” she said. “He is sleeping.”
“He is tired. He has been busy.” Stepan gestured at Akula at the dock. “And he is wounded.”
“Pah,” said Lena. “A scratch. I have cleaned it. Then he fell asleep.”
“I am sure he will be more affectionate once he has rested,” Stepan said and smiled. “You can bother him when he wakes up.”
“Da.”
“And what about your arm?”
Lena lifted her arm and rotated it one way and then the other. “It is fine. A little stiff. Nothing a good Cossack cannot live with.”
Stepan reached inside the drawer and pulled out a small bottle of vodka. He popped the stopper and took a quick swig before tossing the bottle to Lena. He counted less than five drops of vodka to splash on her tunic before she caught the bottle and drank a good quarter of the contents. Stepan watched her press the stopper into the bottle and move to throw it back.
“No,” he said and paused for a moment. “Lena?”
“Da?”
“What will you do after this?”
“Ah,” she said as a broad smile dimpled her cheeks. “I want a farm in the woods, with space for the children.”
“A farm?”
“Da. I will grow roots for market and potatoes for booze. And,” she sighed, “sunflowers.”
Stepan struggled with the thought of Ivan Timofeyevich's daughter working on a farm and he clicked his fingers for Lena to throw him the bottle. He took a long pull of vodka and asked, “Sunflowers?”
“Da,” she said and sat up on the cot. She leaned her back against the wall and crossed her legs. “They can grow this big.” Lena reached out towards the nets hanging above her. “And the heads are the size of pumpkins.”
Stepan imagined Lena tending a field of sunflowers, and the light in her eyes convinced him that it was only a question of time. He pressed the leather stopper into the mouth of the bottle and rolled it into the drawer. Lena gave him a look and he shrugged. “We have work to do. It is time to prepare Akula for battle. Come,” he said as he ducked beneath the nets and stepped outside the alcove. Lena followed and, with a quick glance to where Vladimir was sleeping, she climbed down the short ladder and onto the dock to which the submersible was tied. She stopped to look at the small craft, only four horses in length.
“How many men can fit inside?”
“Three,” said Stepan as he stepped from the dock and onto the hull.
“And Vlad? He can fit?”
“It's a squeeze, but he does well.”
“Why did he choose to sail in one of these? He could have become a Kapitan, like you.”
“Ah,” Stepan said as he undogged the hatch. The metal squealed beneath his hands. “That would be my fault,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, Vladimir is a loyal Poruchik. When I promised Anna I would stop fighting, I applied for the job as Kapitan aboard one of the Navy's new submersibles – they were looking for volunteers. Vlad threatened to resign his commission if the Navy did not assign him to me.”
“And he squeezes himself into that,” she said and nodded at Akula, “because he wanted to stay with you?”
“Yes,” Stepan said and smiled at the look on Lena's face. “Of course, there is more space on a farm.”
“Kapitan?”
“I will encourage Vlad to choose again when this is all over.”
Lena stepped onto the hull and peered inside the hatch as Stepan opened it. She wrinkled her nose at the smell – a mix of sweat, wood smoke and something that teased her brow into a frown.
“Apples,” said Stepan. “A small luxury on a small craft. Do you want to climb in?”
“Not really.”
“Good. I will go first. You follow me.”
Stepan lifted his leg over the lip of the stubby command tower and climbed inside. He stopped a moment later as the dull echo of his boots on the deck rang through the ship. He straightened his back and looked up at Lena.
“Kapitan? If you close this,” she said. “There can only be a few inches between your head and the hatch.”
“Two and a third.”
“But Vlad, he is much taller than you.”
“Yes,” Stepan said. “And very loyal.”
“Da,” Lena said and nodded. “I am coming in.”
Stepan shrank deeper into Akula as Lena climbed over the command tower and down the short ladder to the deck. Stepan pressed an apple into her hand and squirmed onto a small wooden seat in front of the tower, slipping his legs over the central torpedo tube and jamming his knees beneath the two tubes on either side.
“This is the gunner's position,” he said and wriggled past Lena to give her room. “Try it.”
“Gunner's position?” she said and wiped at the apple juice on her chin. “Where are the guns?”
“Torpedoes. They are locked inside each tube. This is where you will sit.” Stepan pulled the lever from his pocket and pressed it into Lena's hand. “You must not lose this.”
“All right,” she said and took the lever.
“Put it somewhere safe. You understand?”
“Da,” Lena said and tugged the lever free of Stepan's grip. “I understand.”
“Good. When the time comes, Vlad and I will tell you what to do.”
“And where will you be?”
“It is my command,” Stepan said and placed his hand on the wheel tucked within a small forest of stubby brass levers beneath the window of the command tower. “I drive the boat, and Vlad,” he said with a nod towards the rear of the submersible, “he stokes the furnace and navigates with the charts, there.” Stepan pointed at a thin map table tucked behind the pipes. A large watch and a pair of navigators calipers dangled on leather straps beside it.
Lena looked around Akula's spartan workspace. Stepan recognised the look in her eyes, he had seen it in the faces of the Imperial Navy's senior staff – a mix of wonder, pride and incredulity that the Navy owned such a fleet of curiosities.
“Kapitan?”
“Yes?”
“Why does Imperial Russia need emissaries when she can build things such as this?”
“A good question,” Stepan said and sat on the deck. He tucked his knees to his chest. “Akula and Kosatka are secret. We do not want anybody to know we can build such a vessel. That I understand. It makes good strategic sense. But I also know that as soon as the emissaries were discovered, Moscow became obsessed with remote control, and failed in every attempt to copy the technology. That is one answer, perhaps. But I wonder if Moscow feels threatened by the Germans, and in the fight for Central Asia, they are willing to give up a lot of things in order to win.”
“And you, Kapitan. What are you willing to give up to win?”
“Me?” Stepan said and wiped his hand across his face. He fingered the watch face on the leather band wrapped around his wrist. “I have already lost one half of what I love more than anything in this world. A few days ago, I thought I had lost everything. I will give up everything to get Nikolas back to his mother.”
“Then we had better get started, Kapitan Skuratov,” said a voice above them. Vladimir leaned down through the hatch and caught Lena's eye. “We have a new recruit,” he said and smiled.
“That's ri
ght, Poruchik Pavlutskiy. I expect you to show her the ropes.”
“He is going to teach me?” Lena said and rolled her eyes.
Vladimir exchanged a quick look with Stepan, slipped his legs over the lip of the hatch and lowered himself to the deck. “Da,” he said. “Lena Timofeyevich, it is time to go to war.”
Chapter 29
The Gates of Arkhangelsk
Arkhangelsk Oblast
July, 1851
“Come and meet my brother,” Luise said and took Emilia's hand. She led her through the crowd of wary Cossacks circling Hari and Jamie, her lips trembling between a broad smile and a nervous laugh – Luise had lost track of the years it had been since she had last seen Jamie. Is he still my brother? she wondered as they drew close.
“Miss Luise,” Hari said, pressing his hands together in a namaste and bowing. He looked up as Luise let go of Emilia and closed her hands around his.
“I thought I had lost you,” she said. “When Khronos...”
“Yes.”
“You fell...”
“Yes.”
“But you are alive,” Luise said and threw her arms around Hari. Small clouds of dust lifted from his robes as she hugged him.
“Truly, I am,” Hari said and pulled his arms free of Luise. He stroked her cheek and curled his fingers through her strawberry blonde hair. “I will never leave you again.”
“Don't say that,” Luise whispered as she looked into his eyes. “Don't promise anything. Not yet.”
“All right,” he said and nodded. “Now, would you like to meet your brother?”
Jamie shuffled his bare feet in the dusty dry earth. Bryullov's shirt had a bloody sleeve, and it was the first thing Luise noticed as Hari stepped back to make room for her brother.
“You're hurt?” she said.
“Me? No. It's not my shirt.”
“Go on,” Hari whispered.
Luise took another step and held out her hand, but Jamie rushed forwards and pulled her into a tight embrace, his fingertips pressing into her shoulders and his arms closed tight around her body.
