Jasper Kent - Thirteen Years Later

Aleksei had managed to take only half a step to the side when Kyesha’s full weight hit him, throwing him to the floor. His arms splayed outwards and he lost hold of both his weapons. Kyesha scarcely needed to gather himself after landing. His knee had hit Aleksei’s chest, winding him. His fist came across Aleksei’s jaw in a heavy backhand blow, dissolving his vision into a thousand points of light. Perhaps he would be blessed by unconsciousness before Kyesha’s fangs descended upon his throat and took his life in the horrible way he had so often witnessed. But Kyesha had too much self-control for that. As though he had been momentarily dunked under water, Aleksei surfaced back from unconsciousness, instead of plummeting to its depths.

He kicked hard with his right leg, hoping to knock the vampire off him, but Kyesha was ready for it. He rocked slightly to one side with the movement, but then returned, pressing even more weight on to Aleksei’s chest.

‘You understand nothing, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ said Kyesha. His eyes glared down at his victim. His stare was much as any man’s would be after winning a fight, a mixture of exhilaration and triumph.

‘If you’re going to kill me, get on with it,’ Aleksei said.

Kyesha raised an eyebrow. Aleksei felt his weight shift, lightening for a moment. It was a bad time for him to drop his guard.

A booted foot flew over Aleksei’s face, inches from his nose, and connected firmly with Kyesha’s teeth. His head swung back sharply and Aleksei heard an unpleasant cracking sound as his neck was bent to an impossible angle. Blood began to pour from his lips and nose, and he fell to one side.

Aleksei was on his feet in an instant, raising his fists in front of him, for want of any more effective weapon. Kyesha lay against the tiny altar, glaring up at his assailant. Aleksei only needed to glance sideways to see who it was.

‘Don’t say a word,’ he growled.

‘About what?’ asked Dmitry. He was short of breath, but his voice revealed the smile on his lips.

‘About me not needing your help,’ said Aleksei, realizing now that it had been Dmitry, not Kyesha, whose figure he had glimpsed in the corridor outside. He glanced over at Kyesha, whose smile seemed to mimic Dmitry’s, but whose breathing was slow and relaxed. The voordalak’s eyes flicked from father to son, considering them, calculating what his next move should be.

A similar thought was on Dmitry’s mind. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘We kill him,’ said Aleksei, with a hint of bile in his voice.

‘Papa!’

Aleksei had forgotten that his own view of the situation would be radically different from his son’s.

‘Do as your father says, Dmitry,’ snarled Kyesha from where he sat.

Dmitry ignored him. ‘This isn’t the kind of Russia we both want,’ he continued, addressing Aleksei.

‘You don’t understand, Dmitry.’

‘If he’s guilty, he’ll be punished.’

‘Guilty?’ asked Aleksei. Could one be ‘guilty’ of being a voordalak?

‘Whatever evidence you had to track him down here will be enough for the court. Three murders will see him sent to Siberia for ever. We’ve done our part.’

It was tempting. Kyesha would never make it to Siberia, of course. The first light of dawn would destroy him, by which time both Aleksei and Dmitry would be safely in their beds, and Dmitry would be spared ever having to confront the knowledge of what Kyesha was. But it was too risky, certainly for whatever poor gaoler they handed him over to. Aleksei would not be able to explain the true danger the captive represented, nor would he be believed if he tried. Kyesha would escape and be more of a threat than ever – both to Aleksei and now to Dmitry. He picked up his two swords and held them ready. Kyesha had to die here and now, and that meant Dmitry had to be told.

But Dmitry had his own plans.

Over on the wall, a coil of rope hung, the slack end of the length that supported the candelabra, tied off on a hook in the wall. Dmitry went across and cut it through with his sword. He held the rope loosely in his left hand and approached Kyesha, holding his sword out in front of him.

‘Stand up,’ he said. Kyesha obeyed.

‘You don’t understand this, Mitka,’ repeated Aleksei. ‘Let me deal with it.’ He heard in his own voice the agonized remembrance of friends he had lost.

‘He understands,’ said Kyesha, with patronizing calmness. ‘You mustn’t give in to petty vengeance, Aleksei. He’s learned that from you.’

Dmitry tossed the rope towards Aleksei, who caught it clumsily with the same hand that held the wooden sword. ‘Turn round,’ Dmitry said to Kyesha; then to his father, ‘Tie him up – I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything.’

Kyesha did not turn round. He took half a step forward and Dmitry raised his sword threateningly. Now it was Kyesha’s smile that was patronizing. He reached forward with both hands and grabbed Dmitry’s sabre by the blade, grasping it tight and then twisting rapidly, turning his whole body so the sword was raised up over his head and wrenched from Dmitry’s grasp.

Dmitry stepped back and shook his stung hands, but Kyesha continued his motion, the sword whipped round in a wide circle, almost grazing the walls on each side of the narrow chapel, and returned to hit Dmitry on the jaw with its hilt, knocking him to the ground.

It took a moment for Aleksei to cast the rope aside and prepare to advance on Kyesha, sabre in his right hand and wooden dagger in his left. It was time enough for Kyesha to toss Dmitry’s sword in the air and flip it, so that he was now holding it in the more conventional manner. Aleksei glimpsed the unholy stigmata of blood on the palms of the voordalak’s hands where he had gripped the blade, but he understood well enough how quickly they would heal.

They faced each other. Aleksei knew from distant experience how hard it was to fight a vampire with a conventional weapon such as a sword. All the tactics in which he had been trained became meaningless in the face of an opponent who had no fear of the majority of wounds that might be inflicted upon him. Facing a vampire that itself wielded a sword was something new – and seemingly unnecessary – but it might play to Aleksei’s advantage, fooling Kyesha into using it and fighting like a man.

Aleksei raised his sword and brought it down towards the side of Kyesha’s neck – an attack which even a voordalak would have reason to fear. He did not expect the blow to connect, but in raising his sword to parry it, Kyesha would leave the right side of his body exposed. Aleksei’s left hand, in it the far more deadly wooden sword, was ready for attack.

But Kyesha did not raise his blade to fend off the assault. Instead, he simply lifted his left arm and absorbed the weight of the blow. It would have broken the bone in a human, and caused horrific pain, but on Kyesha it had no observable effect. Instantly, he counter-attacked with his own blade, aiming not at Aleksei’s body, but at the wooden sword. The impact was strong enough both to break it in two and knock it from Aleksei’s hand to the floor. Aleksei glanced down and saw that the weapon was useless, broken too close to the hilt to have length enough to penetrate. He took a step back in preparation to continue the uneven fight, but Kyesha did not care to engage him. Instead he fled from the room.

Aleksei dashed to the doorway and looked both ways, but could see nothing. He turned back into the chapel to see Dmitry rising to his feet.

‘Are you OK?’

Dmitry nodded, then held his hand to his head. ‘It hurts like hell,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll live.’ He made for the door. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘He can’t get far with wounds like those.’ He followed the gallery round to the right, and signalled to Aleksei to go the other way. Aleksei’s instinct was to give up – for the sake of his son and for himself – but waiting in the chapel until they could leave safely at dawn would only delay the confrontation until the following dusk, or the next one, or the next one.