Uprising

Chapter Seventy-Seven

As he rode, Joel refused to regret having turned down the offer of a hot plate of food and a bed for the night back at the village — though that wasn’t easy as the bumping, rutted road towards Vâlcanul worsened with every mile. He was grateful for a third wheel on the rugged terrain, but the thick leather gauntlets weren’t doing much to keep out the cold wind and his fingers were becoming numb on the bars. The old man had been right about the snow, too. The horizontal sleet that stung Joel’s face as he rode was turning to thickening flurries of white. He had to keep wiping the flakes from the glass of his goggles, and the rocky road was slowly disappearing in the feeble glow of the Dnepr’s headlamp as it merged with the snowy verge.

After another arduous hour, and just as his hands and feet were beginning to feel like lifeless lumps of meat, Joel caught a glimpse of stone buildings a few hundred yards ahead.

Vâlcanul. From the directions he’d managed to prise out of the teacher woman, he knew this had to be the place.

Not a single light was shining. Not a soul around, no vehicles anywhere to be seen apart from his own. The village was even smaller than the one he’d come from, and it seemed to be completely deserted. From the rotted doors and glassless windows, the collapsed roofs, the weeds growing through the paving stones, it was as if nobody had lived here for a hundred years.

Joel braked the bike to a slithering halt in the middle of the snowy street and dead silence filled his ears when he turned off the engine and climbed down from the saddle. The clouds had parted. Pale moonlight shone down through the wisping snowflakes. Joel removed his goggles, unstrapped his helmet and gazed around him at the scene of desolation.

Could this be the right place? It was hard to imagine Gabriel Stone abandoning his manor house in England for a remote ruined mountain village. Joel reached into the sidecar, opened the case and took out the cross, remembering the way it had seemed to thrum with its own life when he’d been near Kate Hawthorne. He gripped it tightly in his fist. It felt cold and inanimate.

There was nothing here.

Joel couldn’t do anything to repress the weight of bitterness that settled over him. He’d come all this way for nothing. And now he was going to have to stay the night in this dismal place. But where? Most of the houses were nothing more than roofless shells.

Then he noticed the old church. It overlooked the houses from the end of the street, standing at the top of a gently sloping rise. Sections of roof were still in decent order, enough to provide a bit of shelter. Joel left the bike where it stood — he didn’t think anyone was going to steal it.

There wasn’t much left inside the church except for its bare stone walls. Joel found a spot away from the icy wind that whistled through the broken stained glass windows, laid down the case and grimly started rooting around in his rucksack for his little Primus stove, a box of matches and a can of soup. As he struck a match with trembling fingers, he glanced out of the smashed window. From this slightly higher ground, he had a better view of the craggy mountain peaks rising out of the pine forests, like rows of jagged white teeth stretching from horizon to horizon under the pale moon.

Then he stopped, did a double take and stared. The match burned back and singed his fingers; he dropped it without taking his eyes off what he’d just seen.

Perched on the summit of a nearby mountain, bathed in a shaft of moonlight, was a castle.