The drifts are now so deep we seem to be swimming: there’s snow in my mouth and eyes, and I see the sweat-flecked heads of our horses above an engulfing sea of white. I turn my neck but can no longer see the sled behind us. Emily shouts.
“This deep snow’s in our favor. If it carries on, we just might lose them.” I see her head and shoulders through a spray of powder – then suddenly, we are clear of snow. We’ve reached the top of the slope: our horses gallop out onto a smooth white track that might have been designed for racing.
The flat area stretches out, straight ahead of us, lined on our left by a wall of dark conifers. To our right, lumps and hollows of snow descend unevenly; it's the start of the bluffs and slopes dropping into the valley. After that climb, we must be several hundred feet above the river.
“Are they following us – or was that last snowdrift too much for them?” Emily gasps: the effort of urging the horses up that steep slope has taken her breath. I stare behind us, praying for our pursuers’ sled not to appear.
My wish is granted, for a few seconds. But then, a horse’s head appears, a tiny dark shape. It strains desperately: then with a final lunge, it pulls free from the snow.
“Yes, they’re behind us, Emily. A long way back, but they’re moving.”
“Then it’s all about speed now. We’ll just have to hope that that steep climb has exhausted their horse.”
We’re galloping out across a wide white space. Our horses are strong and fast. But, freed from the deep snow, the other horse is gaining on us. Its hooves thunder, its eyes stare blankly ahead and its nostrils flare wide. Sweat like froth covers its black flanks, as the driver shouts and cracks his whip. Every second, the other sled gets closer. On this flat ground, there is no shaking or movement; just speed. All the horses are racing like the wind.
The sled is a few yards behind us now. The driver shouts to the man on the back, who stands, gripping the revolver with both hands. We’re on a dead-flat stretch of snow, as smooth as silk. The man’s stance is braced, his grasp of the gun is steady, his view totally clear. Even with the speed, he can’t miss.
He fires. The bullet flies harmlessly past me. But the next shot will kill one of us.
With a sharp pull, Emily steers us to the right, down into the hummocks of snow. The sleigh plunges into a deep drift; I'm blind with snow, then we emerge onto a steepening downward slope. Ahead are jagged rocks: the top of the bluffs overlooking the river.
I look behind: the other sled appears, plowing through the drifts. It's now just feet behind us: I can see the driver's florid face, his eyes focused hard on his horse. Below his chin, I see what I knew I would see: the silver chain around his neck.
We’re seconds from the edge of the cliff. Emily wrenches her shoulder to pull the reins left. It's just in time; our horses swerve their course, on the very crest of the bluffs. Our sleight spins out into the air, the outer runner grazing along the edge of the rocks. I see the river like a blue ribbon far below me. We bounce along the rim of the cliff, holding our line along the edge, until we hit a huge frozen wave of snow. Our horses rear and plunge, as if in deep water, and we slow to a stop.
But I'm looking behind us, to see what has happened to our enemies.
The great horse is pulling powerfully towards us, but the last-minute swerve is too much for the sled. Momentum pulls it, swinging out over the top of the cliff, teetering along the brink. The sled slides further and further outwards; the centrifugal force of the swerve is pushing it over the edge. Each moment is frozen in time, as its outer runner slides off the edge of the bluff. The sled is slipping out, further and further into empty space: dropping, tumbling and crashing.
The horse is strong: it tries to keep its footing at the top of the cliffs, straining desperately. Soaked with sweat, eyes staring wildly, it treads a line towards us, then stops, arresting the sled's fall in a tangle of reins and harnesses. The sled hangs over the precipice, still attached to the horse.
Emily and I step down from our sleigh and run across the snow. The sled is dangling in the air; its occupants are nowhere to be seen. Emily has the knife.
“I'll cut this poor beast free, before the weight of the sled pulls him over the cliff.”
The horse strains and lunges in mad alarm: Emily watches its savagely kicking hind legs, as she saws at the leather. “Stay back, Agnes. I know what I’m doing.”
I stand, looking around the oddly calm landscape: the vertical bluffs dropping down to the river, the wide sweep of the valley. On the slope above us, lumpy drifts and bulges of snow are outlined in the sun. One of the drifts moves and lifts. Its snowy crust breaks open, like a hatching egg, to reveal the rising figure of a man, huge and strong.
Horobets stands, silhouetted; then he steps heavily towards us, his boots crunching through the snow. Within seconds, he's standing only a few yards from us, and I see that he still has his revolver.
He doesn't bother speaking. Both arms stretch out, gripping the gun and pointing it straight at me.
I hear the last strap of the harness rip, as Emily cuts the horse loose. Freed, the panicked creature plunges straight ahead, blundering up the slope in a frenzied terror.
It runs straight into Horobets. There’s a whirl of trampling hooves amid a cloud of snow. I hear the crumpling sound of his body falling onto the snow, and a choked, gurgling scream. Then the sound cuts off instantly, and everything is quiet.
Behind us, I realise the sled hasn't fallen. Although free from the horse, the cut harness is still tangled in the rocks, the leather stretched and strained to the limit.
I see a hand.
Gripping the edge of the sled, a man is pulling himself up. I see an elbow, a shoulder, a face. A face that I recognise.
Emily and I run forward. This man was shooting at us – but it’s sheer instinct to save him. I grasp an extended hand; Emily takes the other, and we pull him up from the sled onto the safety of the snow. He collapses in a shivering heap: a big man, although small compared to Horobets. He's too exhausted to speak, but all the same he is trying to mouth something. A minute passes, then I hear a gasp, a few distinct words.
“I wasn't trying to shoot you. I was aiming to miss. After all, I’m English you know. I would never shoot a lady.”
Emily looks at me. “Who on earth is this man?”
I reply with a smile. “I can answer that, Emily. His name is Rufus du Pavey. Long ago, when I knew him, he was an airplane pilot.”
“Mr Sokolov. You are colluding with murderers!”
The startled man stands in his little office, speechless with shock as Emily’s pent-up rage explodes at him. Ten seconds pass, and he fumbles with a piece of paper on his desk. Then he mutters “Excuse me” and stumbles away.
“I’ll get an answer out of him, if I have to—”
I point gently to the paper. “Could this be an answer?” I turn it round to show her. It’s a telegram.
“St Petersburg Soviet – Bolshevik Party to Mr Andrei Sokolov, Yermak Estate, Kungur, near Perm
Please arrange a visit for two of your residents Emily Neale and Agnes Frocester to the Kungur Ice Caves Stop Tell them it is a tourist day excusion Stop Do not inform any other residents of Yermak about Miss Neale and Miss Frocester’s excursion Stop Our representative will meet Miss Neale and Miss Frocester at the caves and will accompany them directly from there on a journey to St Petersburg en route to the United States Stop”