Sergeant Dietz ran towards the half-track, firing his MP40 as he did. He brought down two horses but one of their riders got to his feet and, flinging his sabre, managed to bring the sergeant down. The sub-gun skidded from his grasp and he swiftly picked up the sword, using it to defend himself.
“You Bolshevik scum,” he roared and ran at the two men, one of whom calmly shot him in the face with a Tokarev.
Rostov rode his horse into a tent, forcing the occupants into the open. The first of them he felled with a blow that sliced off the man’s left arm just below the shoulder, the second ran, pursued by the cossack. He drew his horse alongside then brought the sabre down in a powerful arc. It hit the German on the nape of the neck and he went down in a heap, blood spurting madly from the vicious wound. Rostov allowed his horse to trample the body before reining it back, looking for more prey.
Reifel made it to the half-track and leapt behind the MG34, firing into the hordes of cossacks. Many fell in the initial fusillade but Boniak, seeing the danger, opened up with his own sub-gun, watching with satisfaction as the heavy grain slugs blasted holes in Reifel. He fell backward into the snow. But Boniak was more concerned with other things now. He turned his horse frantically, his eyes searching the confusion for the man he had come to kill.
Kleiser emerged from his tent holding an MP40, firing from the hip. He brought down half-a-dozen cossacks in the first burst of fire then, firing short bursts, he backed off towards a jeep which was parked nearby. Just behind him was pimmel and the bald-headed youngster was pushing Kuragin’s family along at the point of a Mauser rifle. Boniak roared something and spurred across towards the fleeing group but, as he watched, Kleiser pushed the three Russians to the ground and emptied the remnants of the sub-gun’s magazine into them. Then he and pimmel ran for the jeep and Boniak heard it roar into life.
Other SS men were either unwilling or unable to run. They merely sought cover behind or beneath the row of vehicles but there was only a handful of them left now and the cossacks used grenades to destroy the lorries. Massive explosions ripped through the air, pieces of metal and human debris flying into the snow-flecked sky. Huge tongues of flame lapped hungrily from the burning wrecks, and more than one German ran shrieking from cover, his clothes ablaze.
“Let the bastards burn,” said Rostov, watching as one of the black-clad men rolled over and over in the snow trying to extinguish the flames which were devouring his flesh. His screams seemed even louder than the roar of burning vehicles and the chatter of machine-gun fire. He lay on the snow praying for death, lumps of charred flesh flaking off like leprous growths.
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.
About the Author
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.
Copyright
© 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.