Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [11]
‘But the others... They are superstitious.’
‘If the people of Kiev were more superstitious,’ spat Yevhen,
‘then perhaps God himself would liberate us from the devils on horseback. As it is, we must pray – and be prepared to play our part.’
In silence he led the group to the side of the great cathedral.
There was a small door there, facing a stunted row of artisans’
dwellings, long since closed. Not a candle burnt in the surrounding buildings, or in the cathedral itself.
‘Here, hold that lantern steady,’ barked Yevhen as he sorted through the iron keys. He finally found one that fitted and unlocked, then pushed open, the door of blackened oak.
Followed by the men, he stepped down into a small room of yellowish stone. It had once been some sort of vestry, but had long since fallen into disuse. Torchlight revealed one or two simple wooden stools, and a broken storage box containing only a few scraps of clothing.
Despite the room’s appearance, and the rat droppings that littered the floor, the men knew they were on holy ground. If they had immediately become quiet when Yevhen appeared, they were now as hushed as the grave.
Taras closed the door behind them, cutting out the scant light of the moon. The only illumination came from torches and lanterns, showing suddenly fearful faces made waxy by the sulphurous glow.
Yevhen pushed open an inner door and led the men into the cathedral corridors. He had obtained a faded map of the building some months ago, from a stonemason who claimed that one of his ancestors had worked on the original cathedral. The plans were, he said, priceless, a family heirloom, though a few tankards of ale soon brought their value down to a more reasonable level.
Yevhen peered at the map. Three main areas, representing the triune nature of the Godhead, were further subdivided into twelve sections, which stood for the apostles of Christ. The entire edifice – its golden towers, its weighty arches, its geometrically precise aisles – rested upon deep foundations riddled with catacombs and tunnels. And one of the tombs was rumoured to contain the very angel of God.
Yevhen led the men through the corridors to another dark door, this one even smaller than the others and surrounded by enormous stone columns that stretched up into the shadows like angular trees. The door had two locks, one old, one recent, but Yevhen had the correct keys for both.
He pushed the groaning door open, releasing the musty air and damp chill of the catacombs. A tight staircase twisted down into nothingness.
Steeling himself,Yevhen bent through the doorway, holding his lamp low to illuminate the unscuffed steps. And began to descend.
He placed his feet carefully on one block after another, grateful for the limited light. As he concentrated on each step, it was as if he was descending in a vertical shaft. Had he been able to see better, he might have realised that the darkness was not the darkness of stone, but the darkness of empty space – and that one stumble could see him pitching downwards into infinity.
Yevhen forced his fears to one side, thinking only of the complex patterns of tunnels and vaults that awaited him and his followers. He permitted himself a deep breath of satisfaction when he finally reached the bottom of the steps. He turned to see a procession of lights descending, like slowly spinning motes above a fire.
He could smell the rats down here, and thought he could hear the scrabble of claws even over the mutterings of the descending men. The walls, cold with decades of neglect, were marbled with filigree lines of fungus. The floor was damp underfoot.
When the men had finished their descent Yevhen again set off without a word. A selfish thought occurred to him – perhaps they should stay here, with provisions, and wait for the Tartar hordes to sweep over them. But then he remembered his daughter, and the countless other sons and daughters who would die if left unprotected, and thought only of the angel of God,