Around the prisoner’s neck was a loop of wire rope, which was tightened like a dog’s leash. Otrepyev held the other end and now that he had pulled his captive away from Osokin, he had his foot in the small of his back, so that he could further tighten the noose. The prisoner’s hands were at his throat, scratching in search of some way to relieve the tension, but they could find nothing.
‘Bind him.’ Otrepyev’s command was to the two men who had returned with him. They had brought a wooden trunk which they emptied on to the floor. A pile of metalwork lay before them, chains, manacles and other devices. Otrepyev maintained his grip on the wire rope, while the soldiers moved in. First they placed a helmet over the prisoner’s head. It was not solid but made of strips of metal so that his eyes, ears and nose were not covered. His mouth received no such favour. A steel tongue forced its way between his lips as the device was fastened. Osokin had seen such a thing before, in a museum in Leipzig. It was called a Schandmaske – a scold’s bridle.
Next they manacled him – both his hands and his feet. The wire rope was looped through the bindings at his wrists and tied off on those at his ankles. Now Otrepyev released his grip, confident that there was no chance of escape. Finally the prisoner was bound with chains, across his arms and torso, at about the level of his elbows, and around his knees.
Under Otrepyev’s direction, the two men lifted the prisoner and began to carry him across the room. Osokin was on his feet now and could see more clearly the box they had brought in. It was no simple crate. The sides, top and bottom were constructed of thick, solid oak, and additionally there were bands of iron, hinged so that the lid could open, and fitted with hasps so that they could be locked. From its shape anyone would guess that the box was intended for use as a coffin – only those who had witnessed the inhuman powers that had just been displayed would understand the need for it to be so strong.
The prisoner offered no struggle as he was lowered inside. Otrepyev lifted the lid and took one last, long look at the creature within before allowing it to drop with a slam that echoed around the inside of the conical chamber. Padlocks were quickly applied as a final security measure.
The two men picked up the coffin – whose weight must have been doubled by all the additional metalwork – and carried it from the room. Colonel Otrepyev took a final glance around the chamber, as if checking he had not forgotten anything.
He pointed to a couple of his men. ‘You two, come with me. I’ll need you to load the crates. The rest of you can return to your regiment.’ Then he turned to Osokin, offering a salute. ‘Thank you very much, Major,’ he said. With that, he was gone.
Osokin felt the urge to laugh. He’d always despised men like Otrepyev – men who worked for the Third Section, or now the Ohrana. Was this really what they spent their days doing? If so, it was now clear that Colonel Otrepyev was a brave man. A hero. And yet still the question niggled at the back of Osokin’s mind; why couldn’t they have just left that creature to perish in the sunlight?
He looked around him, at the bodies of the injured, dying and dead. He knew he must act. They needed a doctor. He was about to leave when he saw something on the floor – bloody and gnarled, but still recognizable. It was a human ear. At least it appeared human, but Osokin knew where it had come from. He had seen it being cut from the prisoner’s head during the struggle.
And that was enough to expel any doubt there might have been in Osokin’s mind. The creature – the prisoner – was irrefutably a voordalak. Osokin had observed him closely as they had clamped the Schandmaske over his head and seen for himself with absolute clarity. The ear, whose twin now lay in the dirt of the cell floor, was perfectly intact on the prisoner’s head. There was only one explanation: it had grown back.
CHAPTER IV
LIEUTENANT MIHAIL KONSTANTINOVICH lukin leaned on the railing of the boat and gazed north across the Caspian Sea. The breeze