“Their lives for ours,” said the one-eyed officer.
Kuragin nodded.
“Andrei, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you attack them now. My family will be killed for sure.”
“So how long did you plan to let this go on? What did you think the end result would be? Did you expect him to release them?” Namarov asked, a note of pity in his voice for his colleague.
“I don’t think I knew. I still don’t. All I know is I cannot allow you to attack Kleiser and his men. You know nothing of family-ties, Andrei, you cannot know what I am feeling.” The big cossack swallowed hard. “Torn between my love for them and my loyalty to you.” He laughed again, a hollow empty laugh. “You told young Boniak that revenge could eat away at a man’s insides, tear him apart. Well, so can loyalty. But my family come first.” There was a loud hiss as he drew his sabre. “If I have to, I’ll kill you.”
“Then kill me,” said Namarov and drew his own sword.
The two men faced each other, friends for so many years now transformed into deadly enemies. They moved across the snow, each watching the other intently, waiting for the first movement.
When it finally came it was from Kuragin.
The big man ran at Namarov, bringing his sabre down with a force so great, blue sparks glittered briefly in the air as the blow was parried. The clash of steel on steel echoed through the night and, as his opponent ran past, carried by his own momentum, Namarov kicked him hard in the small of the back. Kuragin fell forward, hastily rolling onto his back in time to avoid the lethal downward lunge aimed at his chest. He himself struck upwards and caught Namarov on the forearm but the blow was not powerful enough to draw blood and the major jumped back.
Kuragin hauled himself upright, using a tree as support, holding his sabre at arm’s length to fend the one-eyed officer off. But, taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary lapse, Namarov swung his sabre upward, catching the big man across the fingers in a blow which opened all four of the thick digits to the bone. Kuragin shrieked in rage and backed off, dropping to one knee as Namarov swung the sword over his head and lopped off a tree branch by mistake. Unbalanced by the force of his swipe, Namarov was unable to parry the thrust which came next. The point of the sabre tore through his clothes and nicked his side and he felt the coldness of the steel against his flesh.
He jumped back, his own backhand swipe slicing open Kuragin’s cheek, exposing part of the gum.
The big man grunted and staggered upright, glaring at the one-eyed officer through a haze of pain. He could feel the cold wind hissing though the flap of skin and the blood spilling warmly down his neck.
He ran at Namarov once more, the pain giving fuel to his anger, but his swing was wild and the major avoided it with ease. He drew his own sabre back a foot and then thrust forward with lightning speed.
The blade buried itself in the small of Kuragin’s back, destroying one kidney as it did so. Blood burst from the wound and the big man staggered, dropped to his knees but, even so, as Namarov advanced on him, he still had the strength to take a powerful swipe at his attacker and Namarov winced as the tip of the blade caught his left hand and split the palm wide open. However, by this time he was close to his opponent and, using both hands, he brought the curved blade down at the point of neck and shoulder.
There was a strident snapping of bone as Kuragin’s clavicle was shattered, his jugular vein also severed by the force of the stroke. A great spurting fountain of blood shot a full three feet into the air, some of it spattering Namarov, the remainder spraying onto the snow, soaking in like ink on blotting paper.
The big man let out a low gurgling sound as blood filled his mouth, dribbling over his lips to congeal and freeze in his thick beard. Then, with a last despairing grunt, he fell forward and lay still.
Namarov stepped back, looking down at the body, his breath coming in gasps. He felt as if he had just killed his own brother. The big man’s eyes were still open so, carefully, the major knelt and pushed the lids down. Simultaneously, he took the sabre from his dead friend’s hand and, raising it to his lips, kissed the hilt. Then he laid it back in the snow, murmured a few indefinable words and walked slowly across to Kuragin’s horse. He swung himself up into the saddle and set off back to the camp.
Rostov sat up angrily when he felt the toe of a boot in his back. He looked up to see Namarov standing there, the bloodstained sabre in his hand.
“What the hell is going on?” Rostov demanded.
Namarov told him what had happened and, as more men began to wake up, he told the entire story. Of Kuragin’s ‘deal’ with Kleiser, of why they had ridden into an ambush in Ridanski.
Rostov shook his head slowly.
“Oh God,” he said. “Now I understand all that about having to attack them from the front. I’m sorry, Andrei about…”
Namarov cut him short.
“No need to be sorry, my friend,” he said. “Get your men ready. We’re going in now.” He glanced at his watch. “Two hours earlier than they’re expecting us.”
Rostov needed no second prompting, he ran amongst the other men kicking them, pushing them, even physically pulling some to their feet. Horses were saddled, weapons hastily checked. Men swung themselves up onto their mounts and began to gather in formation.
Namarov himself ran across to Boniak and woke the boy.
“Your time has come,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “Take your revenge.”
The major dashed off to organise the remaining troops and Boniak felt his heart beating faster. He drew his sabre, hefted it before him and made one mighty swing before sheathing it again.
“Kleiser,” he whispered, softly.
He fumbled in the pouch on his belt and took out one of the bear claws, touching the point briefly. Then, he dropped it back into the little pouch and swung himself up into the saddle.
Daybreak was just ten minutes away as the cossacks rode off in the direction of the German camp.
Chapter Sixteen
More than one cossack felt a thrill run through him as the tents and vehicles which made up the SS camp came into view. They looked so silent, deserted almost. A thin layer of snow covered everything, even the helmets of the sentries who patrolled the perimeters of the camp.
It was one of those sentries who was the first to see the onrushing horde of cossacks.
The man opened his mouth to shout a warning but it seemed to be drowned out by the thundering hooves of the horses and as he turned to run, a lance caught him squarely in the back, erupting a full two feet from his chest and tearing away most of his right lung as it did so.
The Germans in the tents and trucks were catapulted from sleep by the sudden eruption of sub-machine gun fire which ripped through the stillness of the morning and, as a watery sun crawled up over the horizon dragging a cold dawn with it, the Russians swept into the camp.
Men emerged from their tents still half-asleep, only to be piked or hacked down with sabres. Those more fortunate were hit by the sprays of automatic fire, spared the renewed agonies as horses trampled them.
Namarov hurled a grenade into a krupp and rode past, ducking low in the saddle as it went off. The explosion sent bodies hurtling through the air and there was a blast of renewed ferocity as the petrol tank went up. A great mushroom cloud of fire screamed at the sky and blazing petrol sprayed out to cover the snow.
Mig saw two Germans emerging from a large tent, one of them trying to pull on his jacket. The cossack rode forward and, with one powerful swipe, struck the man’s head from his body. The head rose on a gout of blood, hanging in the air for long seconds as if suspended on invisible wires, then it thumped to the ground and lay in a widening pool of crimson. Mig let out a triumphant whoop and rode on.