That was it. It was what Dragosani had feared. Keogh was here, definitely, and he was calling up the dead! But where from?
Tell them to fire at will,’ he coughed the words out in a spray of froth. Tell them to cut the bastards down -whatever they are!’
The DO passed on his orders. But already, from every quarter, dull explosions were beginning to pound all around the Chateau; the harsh clatter of machine-gun fire, too. The defenders had finally used their own initiative, had commenced firing almost point-blank on a zombie army that came marching inexorably through the snow.
Gregor Borowitz had not lied. He had indeed known his History of Warfare, and especially in his native land. In 1579 Moscow had been sacked by Tartars from the Crimea; there had been arguments about the division of the loot from the city; a would-be Khan had challenged the authority of his superiors; he and his splinter-group of three hundred horsemen had then been stripped of loot, rank, most of their weapons and whipped out of the city. Disgraced and scavenging where they could, they had ridden south. It had rained heavily and they had bogged down in a marshy triangle of forest where rivers overflowed their banks. There a five-hundred-strong Russian force riding to the relief of the beleaguered city had come across them in the mist and rain and cut them down to a man. Their bodies had gone down in mud and mire, never to be seen again – until now.
Nor had they needed much persuasion from Harry; indeed they’d seemed merely to be waiting for him, ready at a moment’s notice to fight their way free of the bitter earth where they had lain for four hundred years. Bone by bone, tatter by leathery tatter they had come up, some of them still bearing the rusted arms of yesteryear, and at Harry’s command they’d moved on the Chateau Bronnitsy.
Harry had stepped out of the Mobius continuum inside the perimeter walls; the defenders of those walls, gazing outward, hadn’t even seen him or the agonising emergence of his long-dead army. Moreover, the machine-gun emplacements on the outer walls were pointing the wrong way; which all combined with the night and the snow to give him excellent cover.
But then there had been the tripwires and other intruder detection devices, and now there was the minefield and the inner ring of disguised pill-boxes.
For Harry none of these obstacles was any great problem: they weren’t even obstacles when at will he could simply step out of this universe and back into it a moment later in any room in the Chateau where he chose to reappear. But first he wanted to see how his back-up force was making out: he wanted the Chateau’s defenders fully engaged in the business of protecting their own lives, not the life of Boris Dragosani.
At the moment he was down on his belly in a shallow depression, huddled behind a headless bone-and-leather thing which a moment ago had marched ahead of him towards the pill-box outbuilding where call-sign One and his machine-gunner second in command sat and gibbered through their viewing slits, firing long bursts into the wall of death which slowly bore down on them. A large percentage of Harry’s army – about half of his three hundred – had emerged from the earth in this sector, and the mines were quickly taking an unfair toll of them. Even now the pill-box and its chattering gun were dealing Harry’s army terrific blows.
He decided to take out the pill-box, broke open Gregor Borowitz’s shotgun and slipped cartridges into the double breach.
Take me with you,’ begged the Tartar who shielded
him. ‘I helped sack a city once, and this is but a palace.’ His skull head had been taken off by shrapnel from a landmine, but that hadn’t seemed to matter much. He still held up a massive, battered iron and bronze shield, its rim dug into the cold earth, upright in the snow, using his own bones and the shield to give Harry as much cover as possible.
‘No,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘There won’t be much room in there and I’ll need to get in and get it over with. But I’d be obliged for the use of your shield.’