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that the Vlad had sent him on a suicide mission, from which he was not
expected to return to Kiev.
As for the climb: at first the going had been easy, and this despite the fact
that the way was unmarked. The track (there was no real track, merely a route
which the old gypsy knew by heart)
climbed a saddle between foothills to the base of an unscalable cliff, then
followed a rising apron of sliding scree to a wide crevice or chimney in the
cliff, which elevated steeply through a fissure on to a false plateau beneath
a second line of even steeper hills. These hills were wild and wooded, their
trees massive and ancient, but by now Thibor had seen that indeed there was a
path of sorts. It was as if some giant had taken a scythe and cut a straight
line through the trees; their wood had doubtless provided much of the
village's timber, and perhaps some of it had been hauled up into the mountains
for use in the construction of the castle. That might possibly have been
hundreds of years ago, and yet no new trees had grown up to bar the way. Or if
they had, then someone had uprooted them to keep the path free.
Whichever, the climb along the track through the rising woods was fairly easy
going, and as twilight grew towards night a full moon rose to lend the way its
silvery light. Spying their breath for the climbing, the three men and heir
guide spoke not at all and Thibor was able to turn his mind to what little
he'd heard of the Boyar Ferenczy from his foppish court contact.
'The Greeks fear him more than Vladimir does,' that loose-tongue had informed.
'In
Greek-land they've long sought all such out and put them down. They call such
as the Ferenczy
"vrykolax", which is the same as the Bulgarian "obour" or "mouphour" - or
"wampir"!'
'I've heard of the wampir,' Thibor had answered. 'They have the same myth, and
the same name for it, in my old country. A peasant supersition. And I'll tell
you something: the men I've killed rot in their graves, if indeed they have
graves. They certainly don't bloat there! Or if they do it's from rotten
gasses, not the blood of the living!'
'Nevertheless this Ferenczy is said to be just such a creature,' Thibor's
informant had insisted.
'I've heard the Greek priests talking: saying how there's no room in any
Christian land for such as that. In Greek-land they put stakes through their
hearts and cut off their heads. Or better still, they break them up entirely
and burn all the pieces. They believe that even a small part of a wampir can
grow whole again in the body of an unwary man. The thing is like a leech, but
on the inside! Hence the saying that a wampir has two hearts and two souls -
and that the creature may not die until both
facets are destroyed.'
Thibor had smiled, humourlessly, scornfully. He'd thanked the man, saying,
'Well, wizard or witch or whatever, he's lived long enough. Vladimir the
Prince wants this Ferenczy dead, and I've been given the job.'
'Lived long enough!' the other had repeated, throwing up his hands. 'Aye, and
you don't know how true that is. Why, there's been a Ferenczy up in those
mountains as long as men remember.
And the legends have it that it's the same
Ferenczy! Now you tell me, Wallach, what sort of man is it who watches years
pass like hours, eh?'
Thibor had laughed at that, too; but now, thinking back on it - several things
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connected, it seemed.
The 'Moupho' in the name of the village, for instance - which sounded a lot
like 'mouphour', or wampir. 'Village of the Old Ferenczy Vampire'? And what
was it Arvos the Szgany had said? 'The sun's no friend of his. Nor any mirror,
for that matter!' Weren't vampires things of the night; afraid of mirrors
because they showed no reflection, or perhaps a reflection more nearly the
reality? Then the
Wallach gave a snort of derision at his own imaginings. It was this old place,
that was all, working on his imagination. These centuried woods and ageless
mountains...
At which point his party came out of the trees and on to the crest of domed
hills where the soil was thin as a whisper and only the lichens grew; beyond
which, in a shallow depression, a jumbled plain of stony rubble and brittle
scree reached perhaps half a mile to the inky shadows of dark cliffs.
To the north it reached up high, that black boundary, forming horns; and to
these horns in the light of the moon, old Arvos now pointed a crooked finger.
'There!' He chuckled as at some joke. 'There broods the house of the old
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