Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [12]
He peered at the map again. It showed a number of unmarked tombs, but one in particular caught Yevhen’s eye. It was a smallish room surrounded by seven larger enclosed vaults like protective animals. And immediately above it, in the main cathedral building, was the largest altar, the heart of the church.
Surely this would be the one – the legendary protector of Kiev resting at the very centre of the city.
It appeared suddenly in the darkness as the thick stone ribs of the roof descended to form the ceiling of a small tomb. It was square, and seemingly just tall enough to allow one or two people to stand comfortably. Its outer walls carried only the simplest of patterned adornment.
Yevhen nodded, speaking at last. ‘Yes, this is it.’
‘How can you be sure?’ queried Taras.
Yevhen did not answer, for he did not know. Instead, he moved to the door of the tomb, which was held shut by one of the smallest, most delicate locks he had ever seen. He could find no key to fit it.
He turned to Taras. ‘Break it down.’
The shock on Taras’s face was clear, even in the gloom. ‘I cannot do that!’
‘You will break open the door,’ snapped Yevhen. ‘It is only a small lock. It can be replaced once we have been saved from our enemies.’
Taras did not argue further, though his body language spoke of a man whose boyish excitement had turned swiftly to fear. He put his shoulder against the door and, as Yevhen had indicated, the lock snapped almost instantly. Taras pulled at the brass handle, tugging the door open.
The air within was freed with an audible sigh, and Yevhen could feel some of the men behind him take a nervous step back.
He began to wonder if it had been right to bring along so many others – perhaps he and Taras could have achieved their objective, and with less fuss, on their own. And, in any case, what opposition was he expecting? He was an adviser to the governor, after all.
He turned to Taras. ‘Follow me. The rest of you may stay here.’
Yevhen and Taras ducked through the doorway, then straightened to hold their lamps high above their heads. It was a plain stone room, lacking any hint of finery. And if it had been cold in the catacombs, in here it was colder still. It was as if the entire structure had been carved from ice. Their breath spiralled upwards like plumes of smoke from a fire.
Worse still, a chill of apprehension began to grip Yevhen.
For in the centre of the room lay a rounded silver casket.
The more Yevhen looked at it, the more the casket seemed to glow, as if it was greedily sucking on the first light it had been exposed to for decades. But perhaps it was his eyes growing accustomed to darkness, or a trick of the flickering torchlight.
Taras’s earlier apprehension had vanished, and was replaced now by an excitement laced with awe. ‘You are right!’ he exclaimed in a cracked whisper. He stepped forward eagerly, running his hands along the surface of the casket.
Yevhen was about to warn Taras to be cautious, but again he reminded himself – what have we to fear? Are we not upright men, striving to liberate an angel of God?
On closer inspection, the casket seemed less like a manmade structure of metal and more like something that had grown naturally. A flattened dragon’s egg, perhaps, or the shell of some great sea-monster.
Yevhen tentatively extended his hands, brushing his fingertips over the surface of the casket. To his surprise, and despite the temperature of the tomb, it was warm to touch.
Taras squatted and ran a probing finger along its outer edge, tracing a fine line. ‘There is a joint here. Presumably a concealed hinge.’ He drew a sharp knife from his belt, and attempted to force it into the slender gap.
It would not fit.
‘We need more than brute force,’ said Yevhen, his attention drawn to a series of nodules and depressions along the top of the casket. One pattern, at the centre, reminded him of a hand, though there were only three slender marks for the ‘fingers’. He put his own hand in the depression, but nothing happened.
Taras stood up, boiling over with