Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

De Richleau hurried forward, and was in time to intercept the driver before he entered the building. The man, a tall fellow with high Mongolian cheekbones, was tying his reins to a wooden post.

“Will you hire me your troika?” the Duke asked at once.

The man looked up in surprise. “But no,” he said. “This troika is not for hire.”

The Duke launched into the same story again, of his sick wife and the urgent necessity of his immediate return to Sverdlovsk.

The tall man was not impressed. He shrugged his shoulders and entered the little brick building.

It was a fine troika , with three well-fed horses, the arch above the centre horse brightly painted and gay with little hanging bells; fur rugs were scattered over the interior.

De Richleau made up his mind instantly. “Jump in,” he cried, giving Simon a little push. “He may be back in a minute.”

Even as he spoke he was untying the reins, and scrambling into the driver’s seat; with one crack of the whip they were careering down the street, the sleigh bells jingling loudly.

The owner came running out of the building, shouting and gesticulating as he ran, but there was nothing to bar their progress, and they very soon had left the town behind.

The whole thing had been so sudden that Simon had hardly time to realize what had happened until they were out in the open country, then he leant forward and shouted in De Richleau’s ear:

“The way — will you be able to find it?”

The Duke’s only answer was to point with his whip to the stars. High above them, and a little to the left, Simon made out the “Great Bear”, with its pointers to the North Star. They were the only stars he knew, but it was enough. He realized that they must be going in the right direction.

The three horses carried them forward at a fast trot, but De Richleau was too old a soldier not to know the necessity of economizing their staying-power. Once he felt that they were safe from immediate pursuit he reduced the pace. At the end of the each hour he halted for ten minutes, carefully rugging up the horses against a chill.

Mile after mile was eaten up as the night wore on; the road twisted and turned a little here and there, but in the main it led them through vast stretches of glistening, snow-covered forest, ever to the eastward, towards the heart of Siberia.

At one o’clock in the morning they reached the Tavda river. There was no bridge and only a primitive wooden ferry.

They knocked up the ferryman, but he refused to turn out and take them over at that hour. De Richleau did not press the point or attempt to bribe the man; the horses badly needed rest if they were to be fit to travel next day. Simon and he had been up since six that morning, and both of them were worn out.

They found stabling for the horses in the ferryman’s barn, and rolled themselves up in their furs on the floor of his living-room — in spite of its hardness they were soon asleep.

Next morning they were up early and soon away, the horses — hardy beasts — seemed as fresh as ever. All through that long monotonous day they drove onwards, halting with military regularity, but never exceeding their allotted time of rest, except once, at midday, when they made a hurried meal at a wayside farmhouse.

Such farms were few and far between — during the whole of the long journey they scarcely saw a human being. Wide, desolate, wastes of snow alternated with long vistas of silent mysterious forest The whole land was so deeply in the grip of winter that it was almost impossible to imagine it otherwise, and to picture the fields bright with the thousand flowers of the short Siberian summer.

As the sun was sinking, a dull red globe, into the forests from which they had come, they passed first one farmstead and then another; they topped a hill, and there, in the gathering darkness spread below them, lay a town. They knew that they had reached their journey’s end, and that this must be the city of Tobolsk.

They halted at the side of the road and held a short consultation. The first question was what to do with the stolen sledge — no doubt its owner had notified the police in all the neighbouring towns.

“I think it would be best to abandon it in that small wood to the left there,” said De Richleau, climbing stiffly from his seat. “We can turn the horses loose, they will find shelter somewhere.”

“Ner,” Simon protested. “If we can find a stable for them they may be useful later on.”

“As you will,” agreed the Duke, wearily. He was over sixty, and the long drive had been a great strain upon him. “But where do you suggest?”

“Farm,” said Simon. “Lots of farms round here.”

“Don’t you think they will be suspicious — surely they will wonder why we do not drive on and stable our horses in the town?”

“Lame one of them,” suggested Simon, quickly.

“Lame a horse! What are you saying?” De Richleau was nearly as shocked at the idea as Simon had been, thirty-six hours earlier, when the Duke had killed a man.

“Say one of them is lame,” amended Simon.

“That is different — they will take them in I do not doubt. One thing is certain — we dare not drive into the town; we could not abandon the troika in the streets, and to attempt to stop at an hotel would be almost as good as walking into the bureau of the police.”

Simon nodded vigorously. “Better try a farm. If there’s a real muddle and the police are after us the farm people may refuse to let us have them again, but if we do as you say, we’ll never see them again anyhow!”

De Richleau roused himself and climbed once more into the driver’s seat. “Ah, what would I not give to be once more in the Hispano,” he said, with a little groan. “Heading for Curzon Street, my evening clothes and dinner. May the curse of God be upon the Soviet and all its works!”

Simon chuckled. “Wouldn’t mind Ferraro showing me to a table at the Berkeley myself, just at the moment!”

De Richleau whipped up the tired horses, and they proceeded a quarter of a mile down the road, then Simon tapped the Duke on the back. “What about that?” he suggested, indicating a low house to the right that had several large barns and outhouses clustered round it.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Duke, starting — he had almost fallen asleep over his reins. “Yes, why not?” He turned the horses into the side-track that led up to the farm. “Why is it, Simon, my friend,” he added, sadly, as they pulled up and he climbed down once more, “that you have never learnt either to drive a pair of horses or to speak Russian?”

“Never mind — we’re nearly through, now,” Simon encouraged him. Simon had not only slept soundly from one o’clock the previous morning till six in the ferryman’s hut, but, while the Duke was driving the solid twelve hours after they crossed the Tavda River, he had been able to doze a good deal of the time. He was therefore feeling full of vigour and enthusiasm now that they were so near their journey’s end.

“Nearly through!” the Duke echoed. “You have taken leave of your senses, my son — we have hardly started on this mad journey of ours.”

The farmhouse door had opened, and a dark-skinned woman, enveloped in so many layers of clothing that all semblance of waistline had vanished, stood looking at them with round, dark eyes.

Immediately De Richleau’s ill humour and fatigue vanished. He went up to her, breaking into voluble Russian. It was evident, however, that she had some difficulty in understanding him — and he her. Even Simon could appreciate that her harsh patois had little resemblance to Valeria Petrovna’s sibilant tongue.