The ebony door yawned open.
The chamber beyond felt cavernous, although it was difficult to discern, even with the benefit of his night-vision goggles; the edges of the space here were dark and impenetrable, cast in unnatural shadow. It was frigid, too—colder, even, than the previous chamber. He felt his boots crunch ice crystals as he walked across the threshold.
To either side of him walked Rutherford and Donovan, both battered and bruised, but both determined to see it through. The traitor had been dealt with—now all that remained was to cut the Koscheis’ network of portals off at the source.
“Straight ahead,” said the Ghost. “I can see something that looks like a sarcophagus.”
He led the others across the open space, their footsteps ringing out in the darkness. He could just make out a large stone structure in the center of the chamber—what appeared to resemble a large stone coffin, sitting upon a low plinth. Cables trailed from inside of its open lid, emitting the occasional flicker of low yellow light.
“Who goes there?”
The voice was eerie and disembodied, as if the speaker was standing right beside him, whispering in his ear. He could almost feel the ghost of their breath on his cheek, and despite himself, he felt his skin prickle with anxiety.
“Answer me.”
He could hear that the words were being spoken in Russian, but somehow, a second, spectral voice was speaking simultaneously, translating the words into whispered, broken English. The sound of it made his brain itch, as if something were ferreting around inside his head.
“Show yourself,” he said.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. He wondered if his demand had angered the owner of the voice. Then, slowly, the corners of the chamber began to glow, igniting with the same corrupting blue flame as the torches in the previous chamber, only bigger, like burning pyres, columns of terrible flame.
Slowly, the full extent of the chamber resolved.
It was huge, at least fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long, carved from the natural bedrock, its walls and ceiling roughly hewn and encrusted with a thick layer of blue-white ice.
They were standing on a man-made platform or dais, and around the edges stood a series of upright booths. They took the form and shape of coffins, but were glass-fronted, and rimed with frost. Fat cables trailed from each of them, trailing across the ground, before snaking up the side of the stone sarcophagus, disappearing within. Soft light pulsed along each of the cables.
There were around twenty of the glass-fronted booths, ten on each side of the dais, and Donovan crossed to one, wiping at the hoary glass with his sleeve. He recoiled at the sight that greeted him—the withered form of a man, ancient and near-death. The end of the cable was buried in his chest, as though whatever was inside the sarcophagus was slowing drawing the light from inside of him, absorbing it into itself.
“They’re all full of people,” said Donovan, checking another of the booths. “It’s grotesque.”
“It is necessary,” said the voice in the Ghost’s ear. “It is the only way.”
He watched as the thing in the sarcophagus stirred, slowly rising until it was sitting up. It had its back to them, and it twisted, turning to regard them.
It was like nothing the Ghost had ever seen—a living corpse, half rotten, its flesh peeling in tattered strips, jagged bones jutting from the end of its fingers where the skin had eroded. Its face was sallow and waxy, skin stretched thin across its skull, and its eyes were yellow and bulbous, protruding from their sockets as it glowered menacingly at him. It still wore a straggly gray beard, but its hair was almost entirely gone, with just a few wisps left upon its papery scalp.
What flesh remained on its back was covered in faint black markings—ancient pictograms and sigils; the language of the elements. Its elbows had been supported by mechanical servos that made a dry, grinding sound as it lifted itself up to its full extent, turning to provide them with a full and proper view. Servos also supported its hips and knees, and its chest was a mess of broken ribs and cables. Here, the opposite ends of all twenty cables were embedded, feeding this living corpse with whatever energy it was siphoning from the people in the booths.
“I am Rasputin,” said the creature. “Master of this place. Chief Magus of the Tsarina. Saviour of all Russia.”
“You are long overdue a proper burial,” said the Ghost. He raised his hand and loosed a flurry of flechettes. They struck home, but pinged uselessly off the creature’s hide, the black symbols on its necrotic flesh taking on a gentle glow.
The creature laughed. “Russia is eternal,” it said. “So is Rasputin.”
It walked forward, moving with surprising speed and grace, leaping down from the sarcophagus. It landed neatly on the dais and walked toward them, trailing cables across the ground.
“Sod this,” said Rutherford. He snapped out a series of shots as he walked toward the thing, emptying the chamber of his gun at its head and chest. Once again, the bullets struck it, and fell harmlessly to the floor, the sigils on its flesh glowing brighter with every shot.
It flexed the dry, creaking ligaments in its neck, and then struck Rutherford in the chest with the flat of its palm. Light erupted, and he was tossed from his feet, tumbling back, wheeling his arms, until he collided with one of the glass-fronted booths. He slid to the ground, groaning.
“Death is everything,” growled Rasputin. “Life is a mirage. Death is the only constant.”
The creature swung, waving its arm and causing Donovan’s gun to be whipped from his fingers, clattering away across the other side of the cavern. It closed its fist, and Donovan clutched at his chest, doubling over, collapsing to his knees.
The Ghost surged forward, closing the gap between them, swinging at the creature with all his might. It twisted, seeing him coming, and raised its hand, catching his fist as he came in to land the blow.
With a strength that belied its form, the creature squeezed his hand, twisting his arm so that he fell to his knees, wincing, as he tried to prevent his shoulder from popping out of its socket.
“This is only right. All shall kneel before Rasputin, for I have mastered death itself.”
Panicking, the Ghost fought against the white stars of pain that were burning across his vision, trying to remain conscious as the creature pulled his arm ever further back, wrenching it until it dislocated with a loud pop.
Master of death… How could he kill a thing that was already dead? Where did he even start? What was it that Newbury had said to him? Only the opposing force could beat the Koscheis. Only light could beat darkness, only water could beat fire. And only life could beat death.
He understood it now. Understood everything. That was what Albion represented: rebirth, and new life. The avatar lived only so long as it was needed, before returning to the soil. Then, when it was called upon again, it would sprout anew, regenerating, taking on a new form. This thing before him, though, this walking corpse—it represented everything that Albion did not. It clung desperately to its tattered existence, even while its body decayed. It drew upon the life force of others simply to eke out another day, another year. It claimed to have mastered death, but all it had done was perpetuate it—inflicting death upon all those around it. That was why Horwood had insisted only Albion could help them beat the Koscheis. That was why Albion was the only thing that could destroy this monster—life versus death.
With a roar of effort, the Ghost reached inside his trench coat, dragging the thorn he’d taken from Albion from his belt. This was Albion’s gift to him. It had known what he would face, and it had armed him for the battle to come.
He raised his head, screaming at the pain in his dislocated shoulder. “I shall not kneel before you!”
He pulled his left arm back, and plunged the thorn into Rasputin’s chest.
Immediately, the creature released its grip on his arm, staggering back. Both hands were at its chest, trying to pluck the thorn from the wound, but it was as if its hands could not grasp the weapon. It glared at him, yellowed eyes filled with shock.
“But I… am… Rasputin,” it stammered.
The sigils on its flesh had begun to glow. The Ghost staggered to his feet, right arm hanging useless by his side. He rushed over to Donovan.
“Felix? Felix?” He grabbed Donovan by the collar, feeling for a pulse. It was still strong and steady. “Felix!”
Donovan spluttered, and looked up to see the Ghost standing over him. “I haven’t missed it all again?”
“Just get up and start running,” said the Ghost. He crossed to Rutherford, preferring his good hand, hauling the British agent to his feet.
Behind them, the creature was still scrabbling at its chest, but now its entire body had begun to glow, wracked with an elemental energy it could no longer contain. It looked up, meeting the Ghost’s gaze.
“Come on,” said Rutherford, dragging him toward the door. “The portals are about to stop working, and we’re still trapped in a tomb beneath St. Petersburg.”
They barrelled toward the door, hurrying through into the adjoining chamber. Behind them, a sound like an erupting volcano marked the final moments of Rasputin, as his corpse-shell finally gave in, and the entire chamber was flooded with light.
The Ghost paused on the threshold for a single, satisfied glance back, before launching himself through the portal.
* * *
They fell out of the portal into the hallway of the house near St. Paul’s, to find the portals all around them were beginning to blink shut, flickering to nothingness as if they had never existed.
The Ghost was barely conscious, the pain in his shoulder so intense that it was sending waves of dizziness crashing over him, threatening to take him down. He fought it back, desperate to know that Ginny and the others were still alright, to see if they needed his help.
He staggered toward the main entrance, reaching for the handle.
“Hold on, Gabriel!” said Donovan, from behind him. “What if there are still Koscheis out there?”
“Then damn well shoot them,” said the Ghost. He yanked the door open and staggered out into the cold night air.
Out here, he could see that the battle was nearly over. Above, the two airships burned like twin suns, their gasbags ignited, their biplanes all lost. Vines curled from several holes in the ground, and the corpses of Koscheis littered the street. At the end of the road, British soldiers were still fighting a small pocket of hooded figures, but with nothing to power their portals, they were finished—stranded in London, and facing the might of the armed forces.
The Ghost took a step toward them. Maybe he could help round up the last of them while he searched for Ginny and Flora. But suddenly the world was spinning, and he was listing, scrabbling for something to grab hold of. He felt someone catch his elbow, and Rutherford was by his side, righting him.
“I think I might need to pay a visit to your Fixer friend,” said the Ghost, before pitching forward onto the cobbles as the blackness swam up to greet him.