Шон Хатсон: Sabres in the Snow

Petrovski rode around the decimated camp driving his lance into any German still moving and many of the other cossacks did the same.

“No prisoners,” shouted Namarov as two SS men raised their hands in surrender, and he himself cut them down with a blast of fire from his PPSh. He looked up to see the jeep speeding up the slope, away from the carnage, Boniak in pursuit.

The youngster was gasping for breath as he urged his horse to even greater speed and, indeed, he seemed to be gaining on the speeding vehicle. Using one hand, he gripped the sub-gun and fired.

The recoil nearly broke his wrist, but the fusillade of fire had some effect.

One bullet hit pimmel in the back of the head and the driver shrieked, slumping forward over the wheel but Kleiser hurriedly kicked the body out and scrambled into the driver’s seat himself. He looked round to see Boniak gaining. The SS officer drew his pistol and fired twice but both shots missed.

Boniak drew closer, steadying himself to fire again.

His finger tightened on the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber. Cursing, he tossed the sub-gun away and waved his sabre in the air.

He was within striking distance of the SS man when Kleiser fired again.

The bullet hit Boniak’s horse in the neck and, with a whinney of pain, it went down, cartwheeling in the snow, hurling the youth from the saddle. He crashed heavily into the frosty ground and rolled over. By the time he had dragged himself to his feet, Kleiser’s jeep was disappearing into the distance.

For long seconds the boy stood still, seeing his enemy escape then, with a cry which came from the depths of his soul he raised both hands skyward and screamed, almost in pain.

“Kleiser.”

The name echoed through the morning.

Boniak dropped to his knees, crying softly. But they were tears of frustration and anger and, when he finally did look up, he saw that Namarov was before him, looking down. The major’s sabre was caked with blood and some of the crimson liquid had even spattered his face and coat.

“Kleiser got away,” said Boniak, his voice cracking.

Namarov nodded.

“He killed Kuragin’s family,” the boy said.

“We found them,” the major told him. “They’re being buried.”

“The rest of Kleiser’s men?”

“Dead. All of them.”

Boniak got to his feet wearily, accepting the helping hand which the one-eyed officer extended. He looked at his dead horse and then at his sabre.

“I nearly had him,” he said, softly

“We can pick up his trail again,” said Namarov. “There’s a fresh horse waiting for you.”

Boniak nodded and reached into the little pouch on his belt. He took out one of the bear claws and held it between his fingers.

A symbol of his vengeance.

He thought of his father and mother. Of Kleiser. Of revenge.

“One day,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

Then, he dropped the bear claw into the snow, watching as it sank in the soft powder.

For fleeting seconds, the sun caught the claw and it glinted brightly.

A beacon.

A token of remembrance and of vengeance.

Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, Shaun Hutson now lives and writes in Buckinghamshire where he has lived since 1986. Having made his name as a horror author with bestsellers such as Spawn , Erebus , Relics and Deathday (acquiring the nicknames ‘The Godfather of Gore’ and ‘The Shakespeare of Gore’ in the process) he has since produced a number of very dark urban thrillers such as Lucy’s Child , Stolen Angels , White Ghost and Purity .

© Shaun Hutson 1983

Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1983 by Robert Hale Limited.

This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Machine-Gun