MFUfic: The Master of the Hunt, ch 6
Illya crept up the stairs - and straight into trouble.
screencaps from MFU Image Library and the Illustrious Illushadarling w/ my graditude!
The Master of the Hunt
Chapter Six, Welcome To Exotic Buyan
The plan had been to search the structure for resources and a means of communication. It seemed that the luck Kuryakin had enjoyed in his escape from his guards was persisting, as he slipped through the unlocked door into an empty hallway. There were sounds of activity in the house, voices and movement, but none very near.
The agent padded down the woven runner that lined the wooden floor, peering through open doorways into the empty rooms beyond. The murmur of voices became louder as he explored the hallway. He recognized the route he had taken to Koschei’s bone room.
Aversion and the desire to eavesdrop warred in Illya’s mind, and in that moment of hesitation his luck expired. Garrard, Koschei’s lieutenant, stepped out of a doorway right in front of Kuryakin, a bulky bag of something in his arms.
Illya’s reaction was swift and immediate; he chopped the blades of both of his hands into the man’s throat in a stunning scissor-blow. The man gurgled and dropped his burden, but didn’t fall; he staggered back a pace in the threshold, grasping the doorjamb to keep upright.
Beyond the hulking man, Illya could see sunlight streaming in through a wide open door and a line of automobiles sitting idle in their slots. Transportation. It was high on his list.
Illya leaned back to avoid the swipe that Garrard took at him; the big man’s face was purple from lack of air, but he still had a lot of fight in him. Illya let his momentum carry him back, braced his hands on the floor and drove his feet into the pit of Garrard’s stomach. That cleared the doorway.
Most of the vehicles were open-topped Range Rovers; Illya dove into the one closest to the garage exit. Wires were pulled and crossed in a trice, the engine revving to life and the clutch popping. The Rover bolted out of the exit, scattering a flock of white-feathered birds which had come to roost in the packed earth of the open courtyard.
Trees sprang up around the courtyard, beyond a meticulously cropped area of grass. A road led away beneath the westering sun in a gap in the foliage, and there were two smaller, less defined paths cutting through the jungle. Kuryakin chose the road, hoping to put some distance between him and those he knew would bring pursuit. Getting lost in the jungle would be risky, but it was a good way to avoid capture, an option he would exercise if and when it became necessary. For now, he had three-quarters of a tank of petrol and a head start.
The languid clang of an alarm faded into the distance, and the jungle closed overhead and the drone of cicadas rose to compete with the roar of the engine and the wind in his ears.
xoxox
Koschei sat back in his chair with a satisfied growl. On the desk in front of him lay sheets of paper covered with columns and rows of numbers and letters - all indecipherable until they were placed inside one of his Decipher machines. It was a good system, but he’d been using it for some time and was beginning to think he needed to reconfigure the scrambling codes.
He set that thought aside for more pleasant contemplations. He knew Solo would not charge in recklessly - even to avenge his partner. That wasn’t really why he’d taken Kuryakin out of the picture. Solo’s biggest edge - the thing that had kept him on top and made him such a detriment to THRUSH and other willfully creative apolitical forces - was his uncanny luck.
Koschei believed in luck. But luck could be manufactured, he had found. A game of cards could be won by stacking the deck, or reading your opponent, or simply cheating. In removing Kuryakin, Koschei had struck a blow to Solo’s efficiency and taken the initiative for himself. Solo would either be forced to strike out blindly - wasting time and resources - or he’d be forced to wait, which would decrease his advantage further.
Koschei was pleased. He had time on his side. With his contacts in THRUSH providing valuable intelligence to him daily, he could observe Solo at his leisure. There was no need to rush, only the game to savor. He’d wait for a few days before setting his next maneuver in place.
Koschei flipped a switch on his desk. “Garrard. I wish to go to Paramaribo. I want to leave immediately.”
“Yes, Master,” Garrard responded. “I’ll get the helicopter ready.”
“And make sure a Decipher machine is placed on board.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Vasily fix a cocktail for our guest as I instructed?”
“It is being served now, sir. Should keep the little fellow quiet all night.”
“Excellent. I will be back tomorrow and we can have our little game then. Proceed.”
He would have his Hunt first thing in the morning - an entertaining diversion before breakfast. Kuryakin was a wily creature; Koschei had noticed how he studied his surroundings, how he maintained himself calmly while his devious mind worked. He’d admired the smoothness with which he had pilfered his weapons collection. He was surprised the man had not escaped immediately. Perhaps Kuryakin had simply been unable to get out of the cell, in spite of the tools at his disposal.
Koschei was just preparing to leave when the clamour of the alarm had alerted him. He activated the in-house intercom. “What is going on down there?” When no answers came to him, he took a large gun out of his desk drawer and hurried though the house to find Garrard dragging Kuryakin’s guards up the stairs, both too groggy to stand on their own.
“Where is Kuryakin?”
Garrard did not immediately reply to the question, positioning himself behind the barely-conscious figures of Plunkett and Flickinger in case the boss was in a shooting mood. He hoped that if Kuryakin’s escape needed to be blamed on someone, it wouldn’t fall to him for lack of other targets.
“Well?!”
“He took me by surprise as I was loading your transport.” Garrard admitted in a hoarse voice. The bruises on his throat stood out in livid purple on his corded throat. He was holding the men by their collars. He released them and they fell against one another and slumped to the floor in a pile. “These two let him get away.”
“Tricked us,” Flickinger mumbled. Plunkett snored.
Koschei swore at them. “You bungling idiots! How could you be so stupid as to eat food meant for a prisoner?”
“Din’ know ‘was drugged…” mumbled Flickinger, trying to stand.
Plunkett rolled over, smiling. “… mmm good… my compliments to the chef…”
Koschei’s knuckles whitened on the grip of the gun, but he firmly restrained himself from shooting any of them. “I don’t have time for this nonsense… Garrard! I want that man hunted down and dealt with… and I want you to take care of it personally! I have work to do.” He frowned down at his men.
“For god’s sake, call Vasily and have him wake these two up. They can work for you as beaters.”
Garrard pulled his shoulders back, stung. “I will bring him back.”
“No. Do not bring him back! Except maybe a piece or two.” Koschei was turning away. “Deal with him in your own way. Now, bring in my cipher machine from the Rover…” The look on Garrard’s face stopped him. “What?”
Garrard flushed. “Um… he took your Rover, Master... the one that I was loading--”
“Argh! Find that machine and bring it to me! And when you find it, I want you to kill Kuryakin. If that machine is damaged… kill him twice!”
xoxox
It was impossible to tell in which direction one was going; the foliage overhead was so thick as to cut off all of the sun’s light except an ambient haze, enough to see the road, but little else. Fallen limbs and drooping vines were constant obstacles. The infrequent glimpses of sky between the fingers of the trees gave a view of a very blue sky with sun that always seemed directly overhead. Rain manifested without care of cloud, dumping through the open roof of the vehicle.
Kuryakin shoved back damp hair from his eyes and drove on. A soggy seat was inconvenient, but eminently preferable to recapture.
The road had run straight out from the compound, but after a short time beneath the trees, it began to wind and twist, following a downgrade that grew sharper with each hairpin turn. Trails and paths branched out in unpredictable places, scrabbling up the steep banks, sometimes plunging off in a suicidal grade.
Illya wished the jungle would part enough to give him a glimpse of the terrain, but the further he went the thicker the trunks of the trees became, ever more dead branches and thick clumps of moss screening out the view. The condition of the road rapidly worsened; it was soon apparent that it was little-used beyond a few miles of the compound.
He wracked his brain, trying to remember something of his journey to this place, before waking in his cell. He recalled a dream of nausea and movement, and the sharp bite of a needle, but nothing else useful. His ears had been muffled-or perhaps it was his mind. He hadn't yet passed a clear stretch of land that would accommodate an airplane, but he had not really had the chance to explore the compound.
He was just beginning to consider the idea of stopping and climbing one of the great canopy trees the road was winding around, when his ears picked up the sound of engines. The heavy air under the leaves dampened and diffused the noise, making it sound as if it were coming from all around.
The road was little more than a path now, so narrow between the vast trees that often he was bumping up over gnarled roots to squeeze through. His face and hair were streaked with green from driving through curtains of Spanish moss. Twice he drove through swarms of insects, buzzing industriously over pools of rainwater. Frequently a six- or eight-legged visitor would drop from above. He calmly brushed them from his arms and face; he couldn’t remember when his last malaria inoculation had been, and worrying about it now would be a waste of time.
At last, he had to stop driving. The road ahead dipped so steeply down that it became a virtual ladder, ribbed with tree roots and sporting a steady splashing stream of water that dropped and rolled and dripped from the uneven ledges. There was no turning around at this point: the trees were too close. Backing up would take him into the arms of whoever was following him; he could still hear the roar of an engine echoing through the thick air.
He also had to consider that there might be someone waiting for him ahead. There was no radio in the vehicle, but they might be using handsets. Rather than run straight into any possible ambush, Illya decided to strike out to one side, taking to the trees and trying to keep on a downward grade.
It was then that he heard it; the tell-tale beat of helicopter blades, hammering ominously overhead. That decided him, and he abandoned the Rover, pausing only long enough to take everything that might be useful from the vehicle’s emergency kit. He stuffed it all into a knapsack that had been lying on the passenger seat. Then he shouldered the pack and headed into the jungle.
From this point, every direction was uphill. That suited him fine-he wanted to get the lay of the land, and see if he could spot an airstrip. He found a likely tree, a great gnarled strangler fig that looked as if it were old enough to have survived Noah’s flood, its lower limbs and trunk entwined with lianas. With the help of the thick vines he scaled easily up the vast trunk to where the limbs were close enough to reach, and from there he ascended the sturdy branches until his head poked up above the humid, leafy canopy.
The hazy light of the sun greeted him as he pushed through the leafy roof. He was soaked from the moisture and sweat from the difficult climb, tired and covered with sticky sap. Dark spots danced before his dazzled eyes for several moments before he realized what they were. Wasps-big ones, as long as his thumb from the tip to the first joint, and striped with red and yellow on their hairy black bodies beneath a blur of brownish wings-hundreds of them, flying over the treetops in an alien dance. Illya let out his breath slowly, then sucked it back in as the impact of an unexpected view struck him.
The treetops spread out in every direction, so thick as to appear solid enough to walk across. Here and there an ancient tree reached through with bony fingers to claw at the cerulean sky. The carpet of leaves rose and fell in places with the landscape, hinting at valleys and hills swallowed by the jungle. Away to the west, where the sun was now hinting, the treescape plunged like a waterfall, flowing around toothy granite cliffs to fall into a great body of water, the surface of which seemed spotted with gleaming white points.
Fishing in the pack for the binoculars he’d found under the Rover's seat, he rooted around something the size of a book, but which was made of metal. He laughed out loud when he realized what it was.
The binoculars were powerful, and when he brought them to focus where the trees and cliffs dissolved into the water, he gaped at the sight. The shining white glimmers he had seen in the water were also trees-drowned and dead trees, standing like stark thin tombstones for as far as his enhanced vision could reach. The water went far to either side of the scope of his vision, curving around him until the trees blocked his view.
The day was ending, but things were just beginning to dawn on Illya. He was on Buyan, the island of Koschei the Deathless-or so his psychotic host would have liked him to believe. Whether it was true or not, shivers crept up Illya’s spine.
The sun had been inching across the sky; now it seemed to dive toward the placid blue waters. Once the sun set, he knew he would have very little light left, and under the canopy of leaves it would be as dark as his own tomb. Illya quickly turned around to check for other landmarks.
Beyond an impressive stretch of treetops he could make out a large space, just distant enough to be the compound he had recently quitted. No brilliantly lit airstrip announced itself, but he did see a bald hill rising not far away: a flattened butte that would make an ideal landing site for a helicopter. A pass with the binoculars confirmed his suspicion; a white windsock fluttered on a tall pole on the edge of the plateau.
“Bingo,” Illya muttered. He stuffed the binoculars away and began a rapid descent. He wanted to reach that butte before the sunlight forsook him entirely.
He also wanted to get a closer look at Koschei’s cipher machine. He had a feeling that the crazy old bastard just might want his little toy back.
screencaps from MFU Image Library and the Illustrious Illushadarling w/ my graditude!
The Master of the Hunt
Chapter Six, Welcome To Exotic Buyan
The plan had been to search the structure for resources and a means of communication. It seemed that the luck Kuryakin had enjoyed in his escape from his guards was persisting, as he slipped through the unlocked door into an empty hallway. There were sounds of activity in the house, voices and movement, but none very near.
The agent padded down the woven runner that lined the wooden floor, peering through open doorways into the empty rooms beyond. The murmur of voices became louder as he explored the hallway. He recognized the route he had taken to Koschei’s bone room.
Aversion and the desire to eavesdrop warred in Illya’s mind, and in that moment of hesitation his luck expired. Garrard, Koschei’s lieutenant, stepped out of a doorway right in front of Kuryakin, a bulky bag of something in his arms.
Illya’s reaction was swift and immediate; he chopped the blades of both of his hands into the man’s throat in a stunning scissor-blow. The man gurgled and dropped his burden, but didn’t fall; he staggered back a pace in the threshold, grasping the doorjamb to keep upright.
Beyond the hulking man, Illya could see sunlight streaming in through a wide open door and a line of automobiles sitting idle in their slots. Transportation. It was high on his list.
Illya leaned back to avoid the swipe that Garrard took at him; the big man’s face was purple from lack of air, but he still had a lot of fight in him. Illya let his momentum carry him back, braced his hands on the floor and drove his feet into the pit of Garrard’s stomach. That cleared the doorway.
Most of the vehicles were open-topped Range Rovers; Illya dove into the one closest to the garage exit. Wires were pulled and crossed in a trice, the engine revving to life and the clutch popping. The Rover bolted out of the exit, scattering a flock of white-feathered birds which had come to roost in the packed earth of the open courtyard.
Trees sprang up around the courtyard, beyond a meticulously cropped area of grass. A road led away beneath the westering sun in a gap in the foliage, and there were two smaller, less defined paths cutting through the jungle. Kuryakin chose the road, hoping to put some distance between him and those he knew would bring pursuit. Getting lost in the jungle would be risky, but it was a good way to avoid capture, an option he would exercise if and when it became necessary. For now, he had three-quarters of a tank of petrol and a head start.
The languid clang of an alarm faded into the distance, and the jungle closed overhead and the drone of cicadas rose to compete with the roar of the engine and the wind in his ears.
xoxox
Koschei sat back in his chair with a satisfied growl. On the desk in front of him lay sheets of paper covered with columns and rows of numbers and letters - all indecipherable until they were placed inside one of his Decipher machines. It was a good system, but he’d been using it for some time and was beginning to think he needed to reconfigure the scrambling codes.
He set that thought aside for more pleasant contemplations. He knew Solo would not charge in recklessly - even to avenge his partner. That wasn’t really why he’d taken Kuryakin out of the picture. Solo’s biggest edge - the thing that had kept him on top and made him such a detriment to THRUSH and other willfully creative apolitical forces - was his uncanny luck.
Koschei believed in luck. But luck could be manufactured, he had found. A game of cards could be won by stacking the deck, or reading your opponent, or simply cheating. In removing Kuryakin, Koschei had struck a blow to Solo’s efficiency and taken the initiative for himself. Solo would either be forced to strike out blindly - wasting time and resources - or he’d be forced to wait, which would decrease his advantage further.
Koschei was pleased. He had time on his side. With his contacts in THRUSH providing valuable intelligence to him daily, he could observe Solo at his leisure. There was no need to rush, only the game to savor. He’d wait for a few days before setting his next maneuver in place.
Koschei flipped a switch on his desk. “Garrard. I wish to go to Paramaribo. I want to leave immediately.”
“Yes, Master,” Garrard responded. “I’ll get the helicopter ready.”
“And make sure a Decipher machine is placed on board.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Vasily fix a cocktail for our guest as I instructed?”
“It is being served now, sir. Should keep the little fellow quiet all night.”
“Excellent. I will be back tomorrow and we can have our little game then. Proceed.”
He would have his Hunt first thing in the morning - an entertaining diversion before breakfast. Kuryakin was a wily creature; Koschei had noticed how he studied his surroundings, how he maintained himself calmly while his devious mind worked. He’d admired the smoothness with which he had pilfered his weapons collection. He was surprised the man had not escaped immediately. Perhaps Kuryakin had simply been unable to get out of the cell, in spite of the tools at his disposal.
Koschei was just preparing to leave when the clamour of the alarm had alerted him. He activated the in-house intercom. “What is going on down there?” When no answers came to him, he took a large gun out of his desk drawer and hurried though the house to find Garrard dragging Kuryakin’s guards up the stairs, both too groggy to stand on their own.
“Where is Kuryakin?”
Garrard did not immediately reply to the question, positioning himself behind the barely-conscious figures of Plunkett and Flickinger in case the boss was in a shooting mood. He hoped that if Kuryakin’s escape needed to be blamed on someone, it wouldn’t fall to him for lack of other targets.
“Well?!”
“He took me by surprise as I was loading your transport.” Garrard admitted in a hoarse voice. The bruises on his throat stood out in livid purple on his corded throat. He was holding the men by their collars. He released them and they fell against one another and slumped to the floor in a pile. “These two let him get away.”
“Tricked us,” Flickinger mumbled. Plunkett snored.
Koschei swore at them. “You bungling idiots! How could you be so stupid as to eat food meant for a prisoner?”
“Din’ know ‘was drugged…” mumbled Flickinger, trying to stand.
Plunkett rolled over, smiling. “… mmm good… my compliments to the chef…”
Koschei’s knuckles whitened on the grip of the gun, but he firmly restrained himself from shooting any of them. “I don’t have time for this nonsense… Garrard! I want that man hunted down and dealt with… and I want you to take care of it personally! I have work to do.” He frowned down at his men.
“For god’s sake, call Vasily and have him wake these two up. They can work for you as beaters.”
Garrard pulled his shoulders back, stung. “I will bring him back.”
“No. Do not bring him back! Except maybe a piece or two.” Koschei was turning away. “Deal with him in your own way. Now, bring in my cipher machine from the Rover…” The look on Garrard’s face stopped him. “What?”
Garrard flushed. “Um… he took your Rover, Master... the one that I was loading--”
“Argh! Find that machine and bring it to me! And when you find it, I want you to kill Kuryakin. If that machine is damaged… kill him twice!”
xoxox
It was impossible to tell in which direction one was going; the foliage overhead was so thick as to cut off all of the sun’s light except an ambient haze, enough to see the road, but little else. Fallen limbs and drooping vines were constant obstacles. The infrequent glimpses of sky between the fingers of the trees gave a view of a very blue sky with sun that always seemed directly overhead. Rain manifested without care of cloud, dumping through the open roof of the vehicle.
Kuryakin shoved back damp hair from his eyes and drove on. A soggy seat was inconvenient, but eminently preferable to recapture.
The road had run straight out from the compound, but after a short time beneath the trees, it began to wind and twist, following a downgrade that grew sharper with each hairpin turn. Trails and paths branched out in unpredictable places, scrabbling up the steep banks, sometimes plunging off in a suicidal grade.
Illya wished the jungle would part enough to give him a glimpse of the terrain, but the further he went the thicker the trunks of the trees became, ever more dead branches and thick clumps of moss screening out the view. The condition of the road rapidly worsened; it was soon apparent that it was little-used beyond a few miles of the compound.
He wracked his brain, trying to remember something of his journey to this place, before waking in his cell. He recalled a dream of nausea and movement, and the sharp bite of a needle, but nothing else useful. His ears had been muffled-or perhaps it was his mind. He hadn't yet passed a clear stretch of land that would accommodate an airplane, but he had not really had the chance to explore the compound.
He was just beginning to consider the idea of stopping and climbing one of the great canopy trees the road was winding around, when his ears picked up the sound of engines. The heavy air under the leaves dampened and diffused the noise, making it sound as if it were coming from all around.
The road was little more than a path now, so narrow between the vast trees that often he was bumping up over gnarled roots to squeeze through. His face and hair were streaked with green from driving through curtains of Spanish moss. Twice he drove through swarms of insects, buzzing industriously over pools of rainwater. Frequently a six- or eight-legged visitor would drop from above. He calmly brushed them from his arms and face; he couldn’t remember when his last malaria inoculation had been, and worrying about it now would be a waste of time.
At last, he had to stop driving. The road ahead dipped so steeply down that it became a virtual ladder, ribbed with tree roots and sporting a steady splashing stream of water that dropped and rolled and dripped from the uneven ledges. There was no turning around at this point: the trees were too close. Backing up would take him into the arms of whoever was following him; he could still hear the roar of an engine echoing through the thick air.
He also had to consider that there might be someone waiting for him ahead. There was no radio in the vehicle, but they might be using handsets. Rather than run straight into any possible ambush, Illya decided to strike out to one side, taking to the trees and trying to keep on a downward grade.
It was then that he heard it; the tell-tale beat of helicopter blades, hammering ominously overhead. That decided him, and he abandoned the Rover, pausing only long enough to take everything that might be useful from the vehicle’s emergency kit. He stuffed it all into a knapsack that had been lying on the passenger seat. Then he shouldered the pack and headed into the jungle.
From this point, every direction was uphill. That suited him fine-he wanted to get the lay of the land, and see if he could spot an airstrip. He found a likely tree, a great gnarled strangler fig that looked as if it were old enough to have survived Noah’s flood, its lower limbs and trunk entwined with lianas. With the help of the thick vines he scaled easily up the vast trunk to where the limbs were close enough to reach, and from there he ascended the sturdy branches until his head poked up above the humid, leafy canopy.
The hazy light of the sun greeted him as he pushed through the leafy roof. He was soaked from the moisture and sweat from the difficult climb, tired and covered with sticky sap. Dark spots danced before his dazzled eyes for several moments before he realized what they were. Wasps-big ones, as long as his thumb from the tip to the first joint, and striped with red and yellow on their hairy black bodies beneath a blur of brownish wings-hundreds of them, flying over the treetops in an alien dance. Illya let out his breath slowly, then sucked it back in as the impact of an unexpected view struck him.
The treetops spread out in every direction, so thick as to appear solid enough to walk across. Here and there an ancient tree reached through with bony fingers to claw at the cerulean sky. The carpet of leaves rose and fell in places with the landscape, hinting at valleys and hills swallowed by the jungle. Away to the west, where the sun was now hinting, the treescape plunged like a waterfall, flowing around toothy granite cliffs to fall into a great body of water, the surface of which seemed spotted with gleaming white points.
Fishing in the pack for the binoculars he’d found under the Rover's seat, he rooted around something the size of a book, but which was made of metal. He laughed out loud when he realized what it was.
The binoculars were powerful, and when he brought them to focus where the trees and cliffs dissolved into the water, he gaped at the sight. The shining white glimmers he had seen in the water were also trees-drowned and dead trees, standing like stark thin tombstones for as far as his enhanced vision could reach. The water went far to either side of the scope of his vision, curving around him until the trees blocked his view.
The day was ending, but things were just beginning to dawn on Illya. He was on Buyan, the island of Koschei the Deathless-or so his psychotic host would have liked him to believe. Whether it was true or not, shivers crept up Illya’s spine.
The sun had been inching across the sky; now it seemed to dive toward the placid blue waters. Once the sun set, he knew he would have very little light left, and under the canopy of leaves it would be as dark as his own tomb. Illya quickly turned around to check for other landmarks.
Beyond an impressive stretch of treetops he could make out a large space, just distant enough to be the compound he had recently quitted. No brilliantly lit airstrip announced itself, but he did see a bald hill rising not far away: a flattened butte that would make an ideal landing site for a helicopter. A pass with the binoculars confirmed his suspicion; a white windsock fluttered on a tall pole on the edge of the plateau.
“Bingo,” Illya muttered. He stuffed the binoculars away and began a rapid descent. He wanted to reach that butte before the sunlight forsook him entirely.
He also wanted to get a closer look at Koschei’s cipher machine. He had a feeling that the crazy old bastard just might want his little toy back.
