The Winter Horses (21 page)

“There’s the trail,” he said. “Get in front of the corporal’s machine and make him follow you.”

The BMW sped quickly ahead, and taking over the lead, Grenzmann’s rider turned the small pursuit party back up the hill and toward the center of the stone circle. When they arrived there, Grenzmann saw that the tracks went down one side of the dip but did not come up again.

“What did I tell you?”

Grinning broadly, he held up his hand and brought the pursuit party to a halt.

“They must be hiding down there,” he said. “Turn off your engines and dismount. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Better bring a flashlight, Corporal.”

With machine pistols slung around their necks, the four Germans descended along the path to the door of the open burial chamber.

“This is a strange place,” said Donkels. “A temple or, more likely, a grave. It’s certainly not the sort of place you want to be entering at night, I’d have thought. These stone circles were made by people who believed in magic and witchcraft. And you desecrate a site like this at your peril.”

“Donkels is right,” said Hagen. “That’s a grave in there. Best leave whoever it belongs to well alone, if you ask me.”

“Nonsense,” said Grenzmann. “It’s perfectly obvious that they’re hiding in here. Which means that this grave has already been desecrated. Not that it is of any concern to us. We’re German soldiers, not a bunch of old women. It’s just a question of going in here and getting them.”

Corporal Hagen stared nervously into the entrance. A strange smell filled the air; he sniffed it suspiciously. “Maybe so,” he said. “But sometimes old women know best. And it is very dark in there. Perhaps it would be better just to wait here until the morning. It couldn’t do
any harm, could it? If they are hiding in there, it’s not like they can go anywhere else now, is it?”

“It might be a trap,” suggested Donkels. “Suppose they’re armed.”

“Give me that flashlight,” demanded Grenzmann, and stepped through the doorway.

Reluctantly, the three SS men followed him along a wide stone passage that turned to the left as it descended down a gentle slope.

“He doesn’t lack courage,” Hagen whispered to the other two. “I’ll say that for him.”

“Is that what you call it?” said Donkels. “If you ask me, he’s going to get us all killed. I’ve got a funny feeling about this place. As a matter of fact, ever since we got started, I’ve had a peculiar feeling about this whole business. As if there was something not quite right about these wild horses and this child.”

“Maybe there will be treasure,” said Hagen, trying to look on the bright side. “Perhaps, like Heinrich Schliemann, we’ll find the Ukrainian version of the treasures of Troy and all die rich men.”

Talk of treasure lifted the hearts of the Germans for a moment.

“As long as we don’t just die,” said the third SS man. “Like Schliemann.”

“Silence in the ranks,” hissed Captain Grenzmann.

As the passage came to an end, he moved the beam of the flashlight from the floor to the roof, revealing a high,
vaulted ceiling that was covered with paintings like the ones they’d seen back in the waterworks.

“What is this place?” breathed Hagen.

“These are the same paintings we saw back at Askaniya-Nova,” said Donkels. “Aren’t they?”

“Nonsense,” said Grenzmann, and pointed the beam of the flashlight straight ahead of them into the thick darkness. “Those were much more recent. These cave paintings are the real thing.”

Another, even stranger, sight met their widening eyes—so unutterably remarkable and unearthly that the Germans were stunned into silence as they tried to make sense of what they were looking at in the impatient beam of Grenzmann’s flashlight.

The three SS men gasped, and even Grenzmann felt his jaw drop; all thoughts of the original objects of their pursuit were momentarily forgotten.

“Incredible,” he said.

It was a life-sized war chariot that resembled an ancient exhibit in the world-famous Pergamon Museum in Berlin. The charioteer appeared to be a young female wearing a breastplate and helmet, with a spear in her hand, and she stood on a waist-high, semicircular chariot that was well equipped with arrows and javelins. Two horses were hitched side by side by a yoke, and next to them stood an enormous hunting dog. But what made the chariot group so marvelous to the Germans was that it appeared to be mostly
made of solid silver, and their fear now gave way to greed.

“Look at that,” said Hagen. “Did you ever see anything so lovely? So magnificent?”

“It’s silver,” said Donkels.

“If it is,” said Hagen, “we’re rich.”

A
S SOON AS
K
ALINKA
heard the throbbing and ominous sound of the German motorcycles on the hill outside the burial chamber, she knew exactly what to do. Having just woken up, she might almost have said the idea had come to her in a dream, except that she couldn’t remember having dreamed about anything very much. She knew instinctively that it was a good idea; besides, what else could they do? Even so, explaining the idea to Temüjin and Börte required all her powers of diplomacy.

She stroked Börte’s stiff mane for a moment and then scratched Temüjin’s muzzle, which he seemed to like.

“Look, I know you’re both wild horses and that you’re not and never could be domesticated,” she said. “And I know that both of you would run a mile rather than wear any kind of a harness. I respect your freedom to be
different from other horses and to breed only with your own. But this is a good idea, and I know it can work. And I can’t think of a better way of getting back at the men who shot your brothers and sisters at Askaniya-Nova than this, can you?”

Temüjin couldn’t argue with her, nor could Börte; neither of the horses liked the idea of being yoked to the ancient chariot, nor did they care for being smeared with the silver paint the girl had found in a jar, but undeniably, the plan was a good one and stood a reasonable chance of success. All the same, wearing a harness went against everything that made the wild stallion what he was.

He was still thinking about Kalinka’s argument when Börte nodded firmly and led the way to the chariot. Like any mare, she was always able to see reason before a stallion; but eventually Temüjin walked over and stood beside her. And patiently the two wild horses allowed themselves to be harnessed to the ancient chariot.

It was, Kalinka reflected, just like harnessing the big Vladimirs to her father’s coal cart back in Dnepropetrovsk.

This process was quickly completed, after which Kalinka buckled on the warrior priestess’s armor and daubed Taras and herself with more of the silver paint. The armor was lighter than she had imagined. The bronze helmet felt comfortable—it was even a good fit—and the breastplate could have been made for her. It was now
clear to Kalinka that the warrior priestess was of an age and build that were similar to her own. Hoping that she wouldn’t have to use it, she picked up the spear and held it at the ready, while with her other hand, she took hold of the ancient leather reins and prepared to greet their unwanted guests.

She could hear the Germans now and see a flashlight as they walked down the winding passage that led into the burial chamber.

“I don’t have to tell you that they’ll kill us all if they can,” she whispered. “But if we can all just stand completely still until I give the word, I’m certain we’ll give them the biggest shock of their lives since the Battle of Stalingrad.”

As soon as the beam from the captain’s flashlight touched Kalinka and the animals, the silver paint seemed to glow in the dark; when they started to laugh and to dance around the floor, Kalinka realized with grim satisfaction that the Germans believed she and the animals were made of real silver.

“We’re rich,” said Hagen. “Look at her. She’s probably solid silver. She makes those treasures of Troy look like secondhand junk.”

“Unbelievable,” said Donkels. “There’s enough silver in that charioteer to pay the whole German army.”

“Then it’s lucky for us they’re not here.” Hagen laughed unpleasantly. “More for the rest of us, eh, lads?”

“What do you think, sir?” Donkels asked Grenzmann.

“This does seem to change things,” admitted Grenzmann.

“Steady,” Kalinka murmured through clenched teeth as she waited for all of the Germans to emerge from the passage. She hoped there weren’t any more of them aboveground, but if there were, she was ready to give them battle. Things weren’t going to be like in the botanical gardens—not if she could help it. And the very thought of what had happened there made her angry now. So angry that she screamed what she thought was an ear-piercing war cry, and snapped the reins in front of her so that the two Przewalski’s horses sprang forward and galloped straight toward the terrified Germans.

Extreme greed now gave way to abject terror as the shock of discovering their silver charioteer and her hunting dog were apparently alive caused the four SS men to turn and run for their lives. The last thing anyone saw clearly, before terror caused his trembling hands to fumble and then drop the flashlight, was Captain Grenzmann disappearing under the horses’ hooves, and then the iron-bound wheels of the chariot, which left him bruised and bleeding on the ground for several minutes.

In their rush to escape the darkness, and screaming almost as loudly as the terrible warrior priestess in the chariot, Hagen and Donkels collided with each other before running straight into a wall, and managed to knock themselves out.

The fourth SS man fled in completely the wrong direction,
tripped on the skeleton of a dead horse and then fainted with horror when, having found the flashlight on the floor, he managed to crawl on top of the mummified corpse in the center of the burial chamber.

Fortunately, the eyesight of Przewalski’s horses is excellent—even in the dark—and Temüjin and Börte quickly found the path that led out of the burial chamber; seconds later, they were speeding out of the ancient doorway. Kalinka was more used to driving the coal cart than a chariot—it was the speed of the thing that took her breath away, and this lack of charioteering experience was the main reason why the girl allowed her left wheel to clip one of the vertical beams supporting the heavy stone lintel, which brought the whole edifice down in a loud crash of snow and dust and rock, sealing the entrance forever.

Taras barked his approval, and Kalinka brought the chariot to a halt next to the motorcycles near the top of the slope to look for more Germans. But there were none, so instead, she turned to survey the damage her chariot wheel had done to the ancient monument.

“I think it’s going to take them a while to get out of there,” said Kalinka, who had little appreciation of the enormous weight of the stone lintel.

Temüjin and Börte reared up on their hind legs and neighed triumphantly. They had a keener appreciation of the true fate that had met the four Germans.

“Whoa, steady,” said Kalinka.

Still holding the spear, she climbed down off the chariot platform and stabbed all six tires on the two motorcycles and their sidecars, just in case the Germans managed to escape sooner than she imagined. Then she threw the keys away for good measure, after which she conducted a swift search of the two sidecars to look for anything useful she could steal.

Kalinka hooted with delight as she found several packets of sausage, groundsheets, some lighters, some pumpernickel bread and cheese, some cigarettes and matches, ammunition, a pair of clean socks, woolen mittens, a bottle of schnapps, a bottle of beer, several canteens of water, a bag of apples, a thermos flask of lukewarm coffee, some chocolate, a book by someone called Goethe, a scarf, a snood and an SS officer’s cap.

“You wouldn’t think you could get so much stuff in the sidecars of two motorcycles,” she said. “There are more supplies here than in a salesman’s suitcase.”

There was even a compass.

She gave the apples and the beer to the horses and half of the sausage to Taras. Taras also took the hat, and for a while, he used it as a chew, which he thought was a poor substitute for biting one of the Germans. Kalinka put on the scarf, the snood and the socks, and crammed everything except the ammunition into a soldier’s forage bag.

She got rid of the armor and the helmet, and with handfuls of snow, she washed the silver paint off herself and the animals, after which she was very glad of
the mittens. Then she took a quick compass reading and pointed out the route.

“I think we’d better leave right now,” she said, stepping back onto the chariot platform. “There may be more Germans around here. So the quicker we’re away from this place, the better.”

Kalinka took hold of the reins, snapped her team forward again, and soon the chariot was racing across the hard-packed snow.