Prokopiev’s head moved slightly, then sagged down to his chest.
Michael fought to keep focus. Prokopiev, as well, was bootless, ankles shackled. But they had left him his socks. Prokopiev’s BDU jacket was gone, the pistol belt gone too, Prokopiev’s black sweater half ripped from his upper body and bloodstains visibly along his neck.
Slowly, so he would not pass out again, Michael Rourke began to move his head, to the right.
Another Russian, the face blue veined and livid, [ the ankles shackled, dead on the almost black stone floor less than two yards away. Another Russian still, a crude bandage over his naked chest, the bandage saturated dark red with blood, ankles shackled, Michael was suddenly aware of the sound of the Russian’s labored breathing.
Michael arced his head left, slowly, seeing the dead man again, seeing Prokopiev again, his head and eyes stopping as he reached the heavy steel door a
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yard from him.
He was tempted to shout, if his voice still worked well enough for that. It had sounded strained and felt dry as he had called out to Prokopiev. But he did not shout, instead returning his gaze to Prokopiev.
Michael Rourke closed his eyes then and began to focus on what had to be done. The still living, seriously wounded Russian. Check the chest wound, see if the bleeding has stopped. He reminded himself that was contingent on whether or not he could walk or crawl, or for that matter whether or not the shackles on his ankles were somehow fastened to the wall against which he leaned.
He tried raising his left hand, to inspect the wound to his head from the sword blow. When the stiffened fingers of his left hand found the wound the pain washed over him suddenly, consumed him . . . Michael Rourke opened his eyes, this time without great difficulty. They were not crusted over and he presumed the bleeding had stopped. He was colder than he had been, but he was aware of a throbbing pain on the left side of his head near the crown of the skull, which, he theorized, meant that his overall pain level had reduced.
Slowly, he moved his head, raising it, leaning his head back against the damp stone of the wall against which he reclined. The chamber’s ceiling seemed at least a dozen feet above him, but that could have been perspective. He would know better when he stood. But first the shackles. He lowered his head, pain washing over him, but consciousness not ebbing. He visually inspected the shackles. They were steel, the chain links seeming sturdy, but the shackles
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were not attached to any chain leading to the wall. The distance between the shackles was perhaps eighteen inches, which would make walking difficult, if he could stand.
And his balance would be impeded by them, of course, Michael reminded himself.
He tried to stand, his back twisting with the agony of movement. He fell partially forward, but kept conscious, catching himself on his hands. There was no time for the luxury of unconsciousness. He would save standing. On hands and knees, he crawled across the damp floor to Prokopiev, checking vital signs as best he could.
If there were ever an end to this, he had decided that he would go to New Germany, or perhaps to the American colony, Mid-Wake, and study medicine. Prokopiev, despite the visually poor condition, had a strong pulse and breathed regularly, if somewhat shallowly. Quickly, Michael inspected the wounds that he could readily discern. What looked like a bullet crease across the left temple. It had bled considerably because there seemed to be no other wounds to the head or face. A shoulder wound, but the collar bone did not appear broken and the bleeding had stopped all but for a trickle as Michael examined it. The right shoulder appeared to be dislocated.
While he was unconscious was the best time to try it. Michael gently laid Prokopiev flat on the floor, taking the right arm by the wrist and gradually inscribing an ever enlarging arc. There was a pop and Prokopiev’s entire body seemed to tremble and a moan issued from his blood caked lips. Michael felt
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the shoulder. The dislocation was reduced. There was likely substantial muscle damage, but in time that would heal. But he needed something with which to bind the arm so it would not dislocate at the ball and socket of the shoulder joint again. He considered using a portion of Prokopiev’s already tattered sweater, but thought better of it. Instead, he crawled on hands and knees to the already stiffened body of the dead Russian Elite Corpsman. He stripped off the dead man’s pants, the legs of the BDU trousers long enough that he could bind both the dislocation and apply a portion of the trousers as packing to the left shoulder where there was the bullet wound.
As he set to work, he heard a scream, and at last he knew the meaning of the oft-used word “bloodcurdling.” It was a man but barely sounded like one, and he was in terrible pain.
Michael crawled toward the door, reaching up to the bars set at chest height, touching at them gingerly lest they were electrified, then pulling himself to a standing position, the change in circulatory pattern instantly bringing him nausea and dizziness. He swayed, leaned heavily against the door, controlled his breathing.
And he peered through the bars. Mongols. Second City Chinese regulars. And a beefy looking man, naked except for long underpants, his wrists and ankles shackled to some sort of table with crank handles attached to both top and bottom. As one of the Mongols brandished a sword in the man’s face, Michael Rourke heard a curse issue from his lips, in Russian.
And then someone entered the chamber and stood
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beside the table on which the Russian was secured. A woman, tall, graceful, hair as black as the night well past her waist, her slender body covered in robes of maroon cloth like velvet and decorated with gold stitched figures of dragons and griffins.
She reached to one of the crank handles on the table and suddenly moved it and the Russian shrieked with pain. Michael Rourke closed his eyes, leaning his head heavily against the bars.
Ego, humanity, all demanded that he shout, ordering them to stop torturing the man —it was a medieval rack of some sort. But logic dictated attending to the injured man with the chest wound, then trying to rouse Prokopiev.
He turned away from the bars and set about doing what had to be done, securing Prokopiev’s bandaging first. The screams haunted him, and so did the woman who was causing them.
The Russian was cursing them, that much Russian Michael Rourke knew. He set to work on the man with the chest wound, on his knees again, his balance better that way, working gently in the gray light to pry away just enough of the packing that if the soldier’s bleeding had stopped, he would not inadvertently re-start it. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped, the pulse weak, the respiration labored, the skin colder even than it should have been considering the ambient temperature of the room — dungeon — in which they were confined. The lungs were likely filling with blood, one of them perhaps already collapsed. Using the dead man’s shirt, he worked to stop the bleeding, hearing a grating sound behind him, looking back, the woman in the velvet robes standing in the door,
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her face exquisite, except for her eyes. The lids looked like deep blue tinted shrouds.
“This man is dying,” Michael Rourke said to her, not knowing if she could understand. “He needs a doctor.”
“He needs death” she answered, her English well spoken but curiously accented, as though she had learned it but never heard it before.
“No-”
She snapped her fingers and one of the Mongols walked past her, drawing his saber. Michael pushed himself up, nearly tripping because of the length of chain which was between his ankles, throwing himself at the Mongol, both Michael’s hands locked to the Mongol’s wrist. A second Mongol and two regular guards pushed into the chamber. Michael’s left knee smashed up into the first Mongol’s groin, a rush of incredibly foul breath from the Mongol’s mouth washing over his face. As the Mongol sagged, Michael lost his balance, unable to recover it, falling in a heap to the floor with the Mongol beside him. But Michael had the saber, raking it across the abdomen of the second Mongol.
He saw the rifle butt coming and rolled away from it, losing the saber as his head slammed against the wall and the dizziness washed over him.
The Chinese woman was barking orders and more guards, Mongol and regular, were flooding the room now.
As Michael tried to stand, one of the Mongols thrust a saber into the dying Russian soldier. Michael’s hands reached out, catching the Mongol by the ankle, pulling him off balance, falling on him