The People's Will (3 page)

Otrepyev looked up, and then beckoned to Lukin. ‘Move!’ he snapped at the man beside him. The others parted to allow Lukin through, and Osokin took the opportunity to follow in his wake.

‘This has to be quick,’ growled Otrepyev.

Lukin nodded. ‘Get them back,’ he said.

Otrepyev ordered his men away and soon they were hidden behind a bend. Otrepyev stayed to watch Lukin, and Osokin did likewise. The lieutenant took the short stick of dynamite that his predecessor had been attempting to attach to the lock, and moved it to the other side of the door.

‘The hinges will be weaker,’ he explained. ‘At least you’ve brought the right kit.’

He delved into the bag that the soldier had been using and brought out a handful of wet clay, with which he easily fixed the explosive where he wanted it. He struck a match and the fuse was alight.

‘We’ve got about eight seconds,’ he said, already on the move.

Soon they were with the others. Osokin held his breath. Otrepyev glanced at him and then at Lukin. The words ‘Stay back and let
us
deal with this’ emerged from his lips an instant before the blast. Even as sound came, Otrepyev’s troops ran forward, and Osokin and Lukin had no choice, for the moment, but to obey.

It was Lukin who moved first, his curiosity evidently as great as Osokin’s. Within seconds they were back at what remained of the door, the top hinge blasted by dynamite, the bottom smashed by a soldier’s boot. The two officers gazed at what lay within.

It was like the inside of one of the cone-shaped chimneys used to manufacture glass; easily fifty paces across and twice as tall, with the curved walls converging almost to a point where one might expect to see a circle of daylight, though none was visible. By Osokin’s estimation, they were still below ground level, but the peak of this strange cellar was surely above it.

The squad had scattered across the room, brutally dealing with the Turcoman warriors they discovered inside. The defenders outnumbered the Russians by at least two to one but seemed no match for Otrepyev’s men, who happily slaughtered them with sword, bayonet and pistol. If the place had merely been some kind of barracks, then the effort of blasting their way in here would have been superfluous. But Osokin could see that the Turcomans were not here for their own comfort. They were here to guard something.

And what they were guarding stood at the very centre of the room.

It was a chair; a wooden chair – sturdy but surely not comfortable. The word ‘throne’ might have been more apposite, given its slightly raised, central position and the evident fact that this room – this throne room – existed solely to house it. But the man sitting
in it was no king, those surrounding him no loyal courtiers. He did not move. At first Osokin suspected he might be dead, but looking closer he saw the man’s eyes constantly flickering, taking in what was happening around him.

Osokin walked forward, oblivious of the melee that was taking place. With his injured arm, there was little he would have been able to do to defend himself, but he found he was strangely removed from what was going on all around. The Turcomans’ objective did not seem to be the repulsion of the invading soldiers, but was more like a retreat; a retreat which the Russians were intent on hindering. But how they might escape was unclear. There was only one door to the chamber – the one which Lukin had so effectively blown from its hinges – but the Turcomans did not head for it. Instead they were making for two muster points, towards the back of the room on either side of the chair, marked by pieces of machinery whose detail Osokin could not make out. None tried to defend the chair itself, though no one save Osokin was attempting to approach.

As he got closer, he could see more clearly why the occupant did not move: he was bound where he sat. On his forearms and shins, thick leather straps fastened him to its arms and legs and, as if this might not be enough to fetter him, chains added a further layer of constraint. A strap stretched across his shoulders, and his head was kept still by yet another across his forehead, pressing his unkempt blond hair tight against his skull and binding him to some extension of the chairback that Osokin could not see. The prisoner – there could be no doubt as to what he was – strained every sinew against his bonds, but could do nothing to free himself, or even to move.

It had become lighter. Osokin looked around, realizing that it had been no gradual process but a sudden increase in illumination beyond what was provided by the oil lamps. He looked up and saw that the dark circle at the apex of the chamber’s coned ceiling was now partially lit, almost like a waxing moon. Sunlight was spilling through and illuminating the wall, the line between dark and shadow gradually moving, soon to reach the floor as the gap above opened further.

A shot rang out. Osokin looked and saw Otrepyev holding his
pistol, his arm outstretched. Following its line, he saw a Turcoman slump to the ground. Beside him was one of the machines that Osokin had observed. It was fastened to the wall; a large wheel with a crank handle, which two of the dead man’s comrades continued to operate.

Otrepyev did not expend any more bullets, but strode over towards them, sabre in hand – the height that had so restricted him in the tunnels now giving him impressive speed without his having to break into a run. One of the men let go of the wheel and drew his sword in an attempt to defend his post, but Otrepyev quickly dispatched him with a backhand blow to the neck. The remaining guard desperately tried to turn the handle more quickly. Osokin could see now that from the wheel a long rope ran up the wall to a pulley, after which its path could not be seen, but it was clear enough that it was this which was gradually drawing aside the shutter that had been blocking out the sun, and allowing its light to spill into the room.

Why this action should be of such vital importance to the Turcoman was unclear, but it most certainly cost him his life. Otrepyev brought his sword down on the man’s hands. The Turcoman snatched them away from the wheel and held them up in front of him, as if hiding his face in fear. But one hand, lolling from his wrist by the fragment of skin and sinew that had been left by Otrepyev’s blow, provided no cover. Otrepyev quickly put him out of his misery, his pistol firing at close range into the middle of the face the Turcoman had seemed so eager to protect.

Next Otrepyev grabbed the rope that stretched out above him with one hand and hacked at it with his sword. It was soon cut through and the colonel let it swing freely across the chamber. Almost instantly another Turcoman broke free of the swordfight that had been engaging him and leapt high into the air, grabbing the dangling rope and pulling it down so that the panel above opened a little further and the line of sunlight progressed another step across the room. The Turcoman tugged and jiggled on the end of the rope, swinging back and forth as he did so, but his weight was insufficient to encourage any additional movement. As this human pendulum came past him, Otrepyev took a short run and flung himself into the air – an impressive feat for a man of his
years. At the apex of his flight he hacked at the rope again with his sword, cutting it in a single stroke. The Turcoman fell to the ground, still clutching his end of the rope like a valued treasure. Otrepyev landed comfortably on his feet and turned, but he had no need to deal with his adversary. A swarm of Russian soldiers rallied to the prone figure and finished him with their bayonets.

That so many of them were free to do so showed that the fight had turned in the Russians’ favour. There now remained only a small group huddled against the wall, furiously working on the other device that Osokin still could not see. Otrepyev shouted an order and pointed towards the Turcomans. A number of his men moved towards them. At the same moment one of the Turcomans gave a cry which Osokin guessed to be an exhortation to his god. There was a sudden movement among the group, two of them falling to the ground, and Osokin could at last see what they were working on: a great iron lever set into the wall which they had finally managed to pull down from the vertical to the horizontal.

Osokin heard a sound above him, as did Otrepyev, who looked to its source and then broke into a run towards the chair at the centre of the chamber. He quite deliberately barged one of his own troops out of the way, pushing him across the room so that he blocked Osokin’s view of the chair and the prisoner. As the soldier’s head turned towards Osokin, a look of horror appeared on the man’s face and he attempted to throw himself backwards. But he was already off balance and could do nothing. Behind him Otrepyev could be seen, still dashing towards the chair.

Osokin felt a whoosh of air above his head and a dark shape appeared in front of his eyes, as though some great black raven had swooped down from its nesting place high in the wall. But as it moved away Osokin saw that it was no bird. Two long, straight poles stretched up from it to a pivot in the ceiling by which it swung, released by the lever he had watched the Turcomans operate. At the end of the poles was a thin horizontal sheet of metal, which was travelling at huge speed now that it approached the bottom of its arc.

The Russian soldier in front of him had had no time to move. The horizontal blade hit him with gruesome precision just a little way above the middle of his Adam’s apple. The man’s body fell
to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut; as though the head had been holding up the body instead of the other way round. The head itself remained momentarily
in situ
, given a slight upward momentum by the impact and spinning frantically in the air, repeatedly showing and hiding the gaping red cross-section of its hewn neck. Osokin felt a splatter of blood across his face, and then another.

But the impact had done little to slow the blade’s progress. As the soldier’s head continued to turn in the air, behind it Otrepyev had launched himself off the ground, his feet out in front of him, as if aiming a drop kick at the prisoner. But instead the impact was just to one side of the captive’s head, to the wood of the chair itself.

The blade was level with Otrepyev’s own head as his feet made contact with the wood. It was a race between the two of them. If the blade were to be the victor it would fulfil its design – there could be no doubt that all of this was planned – and sever the prisoner’s head. The chair back received the full force of Otrepyev’s lunge. The room was filled with a screeching, tearing sound as the chair’s legs ripped away from the nails and bolts that fixed it to the platform beneath.

The prisoner gazed at the blade, now only inches from him, and then seemed to look upwards as the chair finally began to tip back under the force of Otrepyev’s assault. For a few moments, the blade continued to make ground, closing faster on the prisoner’s neck than the falling chair could move him away. But then he began to fall quicker, down as well as back, and the blade finally skimmed over him, just missing, or perhaps just catching, the ball of his chin.

The chair and the prisoner and Otrepyev and the spinning, severed head all continued to fall, each matching the others’ speed in response to the same gravitational force. There was a loud crash – nothing compared with the blasts that Osokin had heard earlier in the day – as the two men and the chair hit the ground. At the same instant the head landed and, still revolving, began to roll eagerly towards Osokin’s feet, coming finally to rest just in front of them, its dead eyes gazing upwards. It had been only seconds since the blade’s release.

Over by the lever, Otrepyev’s men had dealt with the last remaining Turcomans and were already wiping their bayonets clean. Otrepyev himself was pressed against the floor, aware that the swinging blade was still loose. Osokin could see it returning already, level with his eyes and hurtling towards him. He stood his ground. It had missed him before, and would follow the same path back. He felt his hair ripple as the blade flew over his head and relished his bravery, or at least the power of his intellect to overcome his native fear. It swung past again, on its way down.

‘Deal with it!’ shouted Otrepyev from his position on the floor.

Two soldiers approached warily, knowing full well what the blade had done to their comrade. They kept to the side of its path, jabbing at it with their rifles and each time taking a little of its momentum. When it had slowed enough, one of them felt sufficiently brave to grab at it, but he couldn’t keep hold. The other man was knocked to the floor, but the blade had lost its power to kill. Soon they had it under control and let it come to rest at its natural position, just above where the chair had been, at the height of the prisoner’s neck.

Otrepyev pulled himself to his feet and dusted down his greatcoat.

‘Get him up,’ he snapped.

Two more of his men ran forward and grabbed the chair, dragging it across the chamber, away from the dangling blade. Then they began to tip it back upright, the prisoner still bound to it as tightly as ever.

Osokin stepped closer, keen to see the man who had been the focus of so much effort, both on the part of Otrepyev to get at him and, it seemed evident, on the part of the Turcomans to ensure that he was not taken alive. The others gathered around too. Osokin noticed that Lukin was among them. Whether he had taken part in the battle or, like himself, had been merely a bystander, Osokin could not tell.

With grunts and gasps the chair was finally lifted back to an upright position. Otrepyev leaned forward and stared into the prisoner’s eyes. Osokin had a clear view of both men. They were of about the same age – late forties, perhaps fifty – but apart from that, in appearance they were almost opposites. The prisoner was
not short by any means, but compared with the towering Otrepyev he seemed puny. His blond, straggling, unkempt hair contrasted with the neat dark brown of Otrepyev’s. But his cold, grey eyes spoke of a fierce intelligence which, Osokin guessed, was not nearly matched by that of the colonel.

One thing, however, was beyond doubt: that these two men knew each other. The entire chamber became hushed. One of them would have to speak; the prisoner or his … rescuer, if that was what Otrepyev truly was.