Hooded Man (44 page)

Before there was any more time to react, Glazkov spun around, planting the blade of the axe in the tramp’s stomach, causing him to double over. Glazkov supported his weight for a moment or two, then dragged the axe backwards and forwards in a sawing motion. When he let the injured man go and pulled out his axe, the tramp’s guts came with it.

Rolling around on the floor, the man was still alive and – given enough time in a working operating theatre, and with the right doctors (an extremely slim hope in these times) – might yet pull through. But that wasn’t an option. Glazkov held the axe high above his head, ready to bring it down on his felled adversary. The throng around the ring were whipped into a frenzy.

“
GLAZKOV!
” came a voice, cutting through the atmosphere like the axe had through the tramp. The crowd, who had been baying for blood only seconds before, were instantly quiet. Glazkov stayed his hand, breathing deeply, the sweat pouring over his face and arms. Even the tramp on the floor dampened down his cries. For they all knew who the voice belonged to. And with whose authority he spoke.

Bohuslav was at the railing of the office. He didn’t have to say any more, because everyone below him could now see that the Tsar was in residence. Their Lord and Master had arrived. And when he was present, it was his say who lived and who died. Glazkov waited patiently for the outcome. Did the Tsar want him to finish this specimen off, put him out of his misery, or leave him alive for some reason – possibly so he could die more slowly? Glazkov wouldn’t be surprised by that one, although it would leave a sour taste in his mouth after working up an appetite for killing.

The Tsar stood, approaching the rail. All eyes were now on him, everybody wanting to know what he would decide. He was not so pretentious that he would use the old symbol of a thumb up or down. No, the Tsar would simply shake his head or nod: life or death, as if there was really a choice. Today he felt lenient. He ordered the swift execution of the injured man. The crowd roared with delight.

Glazkov smiled and finally brought down the axe, cleaving the tramp’s head from his body. It rolled across the ring, coming to a standstill near a little boy in the crowd, its eyes staring wildly into his. (And did it blink a couple of times, or was that the child’s imagination?).

The Tsar took his seat again as Glazkov was relieved of his weapon and given a towel to dry himself. The victor risked a glance up as he rubbed his face, but not at his master – rather at the twins that flanked him, appraising first one, then the other. The Tsar noted this, and the looks of admiration Xue and Ying returned: whether they just admired his fighting ability or his physique, he couldn’t be certain, but he would watch what developed with interest from now on. The twins were his and his alone.

There was a brief pause in the proceedings, during which Glazkov took a seat on the stool in his corner of the ring – sipping from a water bottle – and the body of the tramp was gathered up. The respite didn’t last long, however; by his yawns, it was clear the Tsar was eager for more action. He saw very little himself, these days, instead getting his fill of killing vicariously. But he missed it; oh, God how he missed it. Maybe if Glazkov kept looking at his bodyguards that way, he would find himself facing the Tsar in the ring? The thought both excited and troubled him.

But that wouldn’t be tonight. Because the next participant was already being forced to the ring, the crowds parting so that he could be brought through. The man wore what looked to be sacking or a large blanket, and appeared to be in even worse condition than the previous fighter. Obviously picked up off the streets, like the majority of them; his long, greasy hair was straggly and he was having trouble standing, limping into the centre of the ring.

In fact, it looked like this newcomer was about to collapse.

Glazkov rose from his stool, spitting out a mouthful of water. He wandered over to the man, looking down on him in disdain. Rubbing his hands together, Glazkov got started, much to the audience’s satisfaction. He threw a punch that landed squarely in the man’s kidneys. Then Glazkov clasped his hands together, leaping up and bringing them down hard on the man’s back. The figure toppled onto the floor.

The Tsar yawned again. This fight was barely going to be worth watching; it would be over in seconds at this rate.

The people’s champion kicked the beggar creature in the side, rolling him over once, twice, so that again he faced the floor. Then Glazkov raised his booted foot to bring it stomping down on the man’s head.

Only it stopped in mid-trample. Glazkov looked down the length of his leg, realising that this man, this frail example of street scum, had actually caught his foot and was holding it fast.

Pushing, the man toppled Glazkov over. He landed on his back, the air forced out of him. The spiky-haired gladiator scrambled about, clambering to get up quickly; he wasn’t used to being the one on the floor. And it wasn’t good for the crowd to see him that way.

As he was rising, so was his new foe. Only he kept rising, and rising... and rising. Letting go of the sacks and blankets he’d wrapped around him, Glazkov’s opposite number revealed his true size for the first time.

He stood a good few feet above the champion, and his muscles, visible beneath the khaki T-shirt he wore, were easily bigger than Glazkov’s – as impressive as those were. The crowd, who’d been cheering, though not quite as loudly as they had in the previous match, suddenly took notice of what had happened. There was deathly silence.

The Tsar frowned and inched forward in his seat. Bohuslav placed both hands on the rail and peered down while the twins looked on. It was like they were all watching the miracle of birth, and in a sense they were. A transformation akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Only this insect was olive-skinned and, as he swept back his greasy black hair, he sneered first at the people in the royal box, then at Glazkov.

The champion swallowed. The roles had suddenly been reversed, and Glazkov now found himself being towered over.

It was small comfort, but he was tossed a mace as spiky as his hair, while his opponent had to make do with receiving a length of chain. As Glazkov hunched down, circling the larger man and trying to weigh up his options, the olive-skinned colossus moved to follow him, obviously still having trouble with one leg... or was it his foot? Yes, the Tsar noted. He wasn’t putting as much weight on one side, as if an old injury was bothering him.

Glazkov struck and the blow glanced off the bigger man’s forearm, cutting him, but not badly. At the same time, the bigger man unfurled his chain, throwing it out like a whip and snaking it around Glazkov’s neck. Tugging, he yanked the champion towards him, then punched him hard in the face.

Glazkov unfurled along the chain, spinning away. His legs gave out. He ended up on the floor again with a thud, shaking his head.

The giant, seemingly in no rush at all, gave Glazkov time to recover and get to his feet as he wrapped the chain around his fist. This time when Glazkov took a swing with the mace, the newcomer batted it out of his hand, then punched the champion again, using the chain as a knuckle duster. Teeth and blood flew from Glazkov’s mouth, as his head rocked to one side. Regardless that their hero was getting thrashed out there, the crowd cheered louder than ever.

“Who is this?” Bohuslav muttered to himself, loudly enough for the Tsar to hear.

Glazkov was crawling around, spitting out more blood and teeth. When he looked up, his jaw was a mess. But he wasn’t defeated just yet. Someone, probably one of the Tsar’s guards, threw him a metal fighting pike.

He used it to help himself up, then turned it on his enemy, running at him – trying to skewer him on the end. In spite of his bad foot, the large man evaded the ungainly attack, whipping out the chain and lashing Glazkov across the back of the neck.

“
Mudak
!” growled the spiky-haired Russian. Livid, he tried again, but the giant used his chain to snag the pike, spoiling Glazkov’s aim. Try as he might, the champion just wasn’t strong enough to bring the weapon back towards his target. Then suddenly it was snatched from his grasp.

Before Glazkov could do anything, the pike had been turned on him and thrust through the Russian’s shoulder until it came out the other side. Then, holding onto the pike, the man brought up a boot and kicked Glazkov off. He staggered, not quite grasping what had just happened. Then the pain registered and he howled.

The giant didn’t give him long for self pity. Hefting the pike like a staff, the man struck Glazkov first in the stomach, then under his chin; with such force that Glazkov was lifted into the air, before landing heavily on the floor.

Glazkov didn’t have a clue what was coming next – and that was probably for the best. The stranger bent and aimed the pike at Glazkov’s head, forcing it in just behind the right temple. With his considerable bulk behind the strike, the man was able to push the sharpened end right through Glazkov’s skull. Like the last time, the giant kicked Glazkov off the spear and the former champion’s now lifeless body hit the ground.

The audience was speechless. They’d seen Glazkov in some challenging fights, but never known him get more than a few cuts or bruises. What were they supposed to do now? They couldn’t chant the new champion’s name; they didn’t know it. Besides, he didn’t look like the kind of man you applauded, but trembled before.

The Tsar was equally shocked, not least when the bear of a man holding the pike and chain looked up and pointed at him. Bohuslav immediately nodded to the guards at the ring, who entered, raising their AK-47’s and demanding that he put down his weapons.

“Call them off!” shouted the stranger in perfect Russian. His voice was deep, his words to the point. When the men remained where they were, and then actually moved closer, the man cocked his head as if to say,
that was a big mistake
.

Seconds later, the chain was unfurled and the pike was flicked to the side. The Kalashnikovs all fired at the same time, but were quickly knocked out of the guards’ hands, completely missing the man in the middle. Having disarmed them, the giant set to work on the men themselves, taking out the closest by simply charging into them like a juggernaut – or flinging the chain at their faces. The others he dispatched with kicks and pike-blows.

Then, limping towards the edge of the ring, he used the weapon like a pole-vault to clear the cordon. At the same time Bohuslav was ordering the guards with him to open fire into the ring. By the time they’d got their act together, the giant was already part of the crowd, crouching, moving from side to side so they couldn’t track him.

“There!” shouted Bohuslav when he saw the tip of the pike above the mass of heads. The guards looked at each other, then at the Tsar, obviously troubled about firing into the throng. The Tsar nodded firmly and they did just that, picking off the people around the troublemaker, but not touching him. It only made the confusion worse. Those who remained panicked, slamming into each other, pushing each other out of the way. At one stage, when the giant saw he was close to being shot, he grabbed a woman and pulled her in front of him.

“Enough!” shouted the Tsar. This was only losing him subjects; it was obvious it had to be handled at closer range. “Xue, Ying.” His bodyguards nodded, and ran to the viewing rail, leaping over it, into the crowd. Pockets of clear floor were opening up and in one to their left rose the olive-skinned man.

The twins drew their hook swords, circling him. He grimaced.

They attacked in a flurry of gleaming metal – and he blocked each and every swipe with the pike. The Tsar had never seen anything like it, never seen fighters move so fast. The space cleared much quicker and, were it not for the twins, the Tsar might have ordered his guards to start shooting again.

Swish, clack! Swish, clack! The three of them fought all the way to the base of the viewing platform. The Tsar got up and walked towards the rail, ignoring Bohuslav’s gestures to remain out of harm’s way.

He saw Xue duck as a pike blow whipped over her head; Ying almost ended up with the sharp end in her thigh. As confident as he was in them, he could also see that this interloper was highly trained. And people this skilled always wanted something... But what? Did he want the Tsar dead?

The giant took his eyes off the twins long enough to find his mark standing at the rail. “Call... them... off,” he said, still blocking attacks, then added, “I would speak with you.”

The Tsar rubbed his chin, still unsure.

Snarling, the giant elbowed one of the twins out of the way, kicked back the other – and lifted his pike like a javelin, aiming at the Tsar. Bohuslav’s sickle was already out and he was about to throw it when the Tsar held up his hand.

“Wait... wait!” Both men halted, staring into each other’s eyes. The twins were about to attack again, but the Tsar ordered them to stand down. “Bohuslav, put that away. You men, lower your guns.”

When the attacker saw this, he lowered the pike, placing it by his side – though his body was still tense, ready for any surprises. “I came here seeking an audience,” he said in those clipped tones.

“You... you came here? You were brought here.”

“I let them bring me.”

Bohuslav’s eyes narrowed.

The Tsar nodded; it did seem unlikely that he would have been captured on the streets if he hadn’t wanted to be. “Who are you?”

“I am Tanek.”

The name was familiar, but the Tsar couldn’t remember why. It would no doubt come to him. In the meantime he asked: “What do you want?”

“As I said, I would speak with you.”

The Tsar frowned. “What about? What is so important that you would risk your life like this?”

The olive-skinned man brushed the long, greasy hair out of his eyes and said: “I have a proposition for you.”