CHAPTER XVII

'IT WAS BACK IN '09,' HE SAID, 'WHEN IT SEEMED LIKE THE TURKS were our only problem – and what a problem! You must have been down in the south-east then, across the Danube, but in the west, we were having real trouble. The Turks were way further north and I was trying to organize Wallachian peasants to do some of the fighting for us – to save their own country.'

Dmitry walked over to stare out of the window, the cold sunlight causing the burnt skin of his cheek to glisten.

'But it was useless,' he continued. 'They had no more wits than the serfs, and they were a darned sight slower to take an order. Still, I suppose they'd learned over the years that driving out the Turks just made it easier for us to move in – us or whoever happened to be fighting the Turks at the time. Anyway, things had gone badly and we'd been pushed right back up into the Carpathians. There was me and about fifteen locals – only one of them spoke any French – cut down from a force of over a hundred.

'It was late winter – you couldn't call it spring yet – and though the winters are nothing like as cold down there as they are here, we were high up in the mountains, so we felt it. Darkness fell, and we could see the torches of the Turks on the foothills below us, climbing up after us. There must have been ten of them for each one of us and, although it was going to take them a good couple of hours to reach us, reach us they would. And you know what they're like with prisoners.'

He turned slightly and nodded towards my hand and its missing fingers. I said nothing.

'I was all for carrying on up the mountain. At least then there might be some hope that they'd give up pursuing us, especially with the cold, but the others had lost it. They just sat around the fire muttering to each other and wouldn't move. The one I could understand said they were waiting for the 'saviour'. I said we'd all be seeing Him soon enough, but it turns out they were talking about some local mythic hero – though it might as well have been Christ, judging by the way they crossed themselves whenever this 'saviour' was mentioned.

'It was some local warlord from the Middle Ages; a ruthless type, but pretty handy at dealing with invading Turks. A genuine figure, if they were to be believed, which was all very well, but not much use to us four hundred years later. The idea was, of course, that he would 'rise again', much like Christ, when the country was in its direst need. Nothing very original; you'd get the same basic plot from peasants anywhere in Europe.'

He paused briefly and I could see his shoulders stiffen.

'But there was a slight difference. This redeemer lived and died not five versts from where we were camped. His castle was still there – in ruins, of course. Two of the Wallachians wanted to go up there – to beg for help – but the rest were scared, the one who'd been translating for me included. I went along with the two of them, not that I thought we were going to be saved by a four-hundred-year-old ghost, you understand, but I hoped these ruins might turn out to be defensible.

'The three of us clambered over steep, rough ground for ten minutes until we unexpectedly – for me, though not for the other two – came to a road. There was a bright moon to guide us and so, what with the road, we moved much more swiftly. I began to think that if the castle did turn out to be something we could use, then we might really have some chance of holding out until the Turks got bored. But as I cheered up, the two Wallachians' mood darkened. They muttered to each other and began to walk more slowly until eventually they stopped, and seemed to be discussing whether to go on at all.

'I thought, to hell with them, and just carried on down the road. It did the trick because before long, they'd caught up with me again. It was odd, though, the way they'd hang back a little way behind me, but always stay close. I couldn't tell whether they were looking to me for protection, or just making sure that I was delivered up to whoever we might find at our destination.'

Again Dmitry paused, lost in thought as he stared out into the distance.

'It was the reaction of the two of them that first told me we'd arrived. I didn't even see it, but suddenly one of them pointed and they both froze, looking. It must have been in plain view for ten minutes already but it wasn't until I looked that I saw. It was built into the mountainside – almost growing out of it – and it suddenly became clear to me that it was not a line of rocks that overhung the road we'd been walking down, but the walls of a vast, ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit sky.

'We went up to the gateway of a courtyard. The whole place was utterly dilapidated, but it must have been unassailable in its time. I could certainly believe it dated back to the Middle Ages. Even so, it wasn't completely decrepit; across the courtyard I could see, set in a projecting doorway of massive stone, a great wooden door had survived – old, and studded with large iron nails.

'My two companions were muttering amongst themselves. As they finished, one of them made visible efforts to compose himself and then he marched hesitantly into the courtyard. The other raised a hand to tell me to remain where I was, though I needed no prompting. Inside the courtyard, the first one was staring up at a high window, his eyes fixed on an occupant that I could not see, and that I doubted he could either.

'He threw himself to his knees in front of the door and raised up his hands and shouted out what I took to be his plea for help, always staring up at that window. He continued to cry out, now beating at his breast, now tearing his hair until finally he flung himself forward and I could hear his bare hands beating against that heavy wooden door. At length the sound stopped and we waited. The Wallachian inside the courtyard just lay still, slumped against the door. The one with me glanced nervously around, his eyes coming to rest on each of the windows above us in turn, looking for someone who would answer his countryman's plea. But answer came there none.

'After perhaps ten minutes, the one inside the courtyard pulled himself to his feet and came back towards us, shaking his head dolefully as he looked at his friend. With no words passed between them, they turned and headed back down the road from which we had come. My plan had been that we might make some use of the castle, and though it had the makings of a strong position, I was in no mood to remain there alone. I briskly caught up with them.

'Our return was much quicker than had been the journey up to the castle. I might have become lost, but the others had no problem finding the camp. Those who had remained had sunk into a fatalistic silence, and it took no words from us to convey the failure of our mission. Ridiculous as it had seemed to me both before we set out and after we returned, there had been a moment when I had been half expecting to see their saviour emerge from the castle and come to our aid.

'The Turks were much closer now, and soon, as well as being able to see their torches, we could hear their shouts from one to the other as they spread out to surround us. We knew the time was close. I rose to my feet, and the others did likewise. I was armed with a musket, a pistol and a sword. Some of the others had swords, some merely knives. Through the trees I could now begin to make out the shapes of men, each in a pool of light cast by his own flame. And then we heard the sound.

'It was not an unfamiliar sound – the sound of horses' hooves galloping – but on that cold, barren mountainside, it was incongruous. The Wallachians with me were as bewildered as I as to its cause, but it soon became clear that it came from behind us – from further up the mountain – and that it was coming closer.

'The Turks hadn't heard it, or didn't care, and had continued to advance. Now they were in range. Shots fired out and two men near to me fell. I fired back with my musket and brought one down. All the time, the sound of hooves became more thunderous. I turned to look for what was causing it, but still there was nothing to see. The Turks were well armed and had no need to engage us hand to hand. They had stopped and begun to pick us off with their muskets. A Wallachian in front of me was hit and fell back on to me, knocking me over. I twisted and was facing back uphill just as the horsemen leapt into view.

'Zmyeevich came first, clearing the ridge that had hidden his approach atop a white stallion. He was terrifying – his eyes filled with hateful lust and his fangs bared. Immediately on his tail came ten others; Oprichniki, as we've called them – vampires of a lower caste than Zmyeevich. They galloped past – in some cases over – the Wallachians and down towards the Turks, and I remember noticing that, terrifying though the horsemen were, they carried neither swords nor spears – nothing with which they might attack the opposition as they charged them. It was only later that I made the association with Zmyeevich's wolf-like teeth. The Turks themselves might have laughed. Mounted though these new arrivals were, they were utterly outnumbered – and outgunned. You wouldn't have expected more than two of them to make it across the open space between us and to penetrate the enemy line. I certainly didn't, but then I didn't know them.

'The first volley from the Turks ripped through their bodies, but had no effect on their charge. More guns fired, but still the lesson hadn't been learned. Then some began to believe the evidence of their own eyes and realized that bullets would do nothing to stop these creatures. Now they aimed at the horses – flesh-and-blood horses that fell quickly under the hail of musket-shot. But it was too late. The horses had done their job and carried the vampires into the midst of the enemy. As each horse fell from under its rider, the rider would land on his feet and continue to run, falling upon the Turks in front of him.

'I couldn't see what they were doing. We could hear men screaming, but as each was attacked, his torch was dropped or extinguished and so we could see nothing of their fate. The men around me cowered in fear, and I decided that there was little to be gained by being heroic. Much like that time we watched the Oprichniki at work on the road to Borodino, weeks ago, we heard the shouts and screams of the Turks become fewer and more desperate. I expect you felt as I did, Aleksei, a mixture of horror and awe at the brutality and efficiency of the killers.'

I said nothing. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I had felt both those things, but any such emotions had long since been replaced in me by the purest form of loathing.

'With practised speed, the few remaining cries faded to nothing. The surviving Wallachians and I stayed frozen in terror, their superstitious fear infecting me and leaving me bewildered as to what to do. I soon overcame it and tried to find out from the others what they knew of what had happened, but it was useless. The French-speaker among them lay dead, a Turkish bullet through his eye. Even if I had been able to communicate with the rest of them, I doubt whether I could have broken through their terror. Although, as I was already beginning to sense, the horsemen we'd seen were in some way related to the saviour they had spoken of, these peasants seemed to greet his arrival more with fear than with joy.

'I strode out on my own towards where the Turks had been. Amongst the trees ahead, I caught sight of crouching, scurrying shadows and heard sounds that lay halfway between the language of men and the grunts of animals. Then I heard a loud cry. I was sure it was in Turkish, but it was quickly silenced, to be replaced by more of the snorting and sniggering that I had heard before. I wandered through the trees for several minutes, stumbling across dozens of Turkish bodies, each with the same bloody wound to the neck – many with other wounds beyond that – but still I came face to face with none of the horsemen. Then I stopped and listened.

'The noises I had been hearing had subsided and all I could now hear around me was the hoarse, shallow breathing of animals preparing to attack – all around me. I had walked into their midst and now I was encircled. I put my hand to my sword, knowing even then that it would be of little use. There was the sound of a footstep close behind. I turned and found myself face to face with Zmyeevich.

'He spoke, but I didn't understand the language. I did notice the foulness of his breath; like a swamp. He spoke again, in a different language, but again, not one I understood. Then he spoke in English: "Good evening." I rolled off a stock English phrase to say that I was Russian. He paused, trying to formulate a sentence, then smiled and said in fluent French, "In that case, you speak French."

'I told him I did, and he led me away. Only then did I notice that he was dragging behind him, like a cloak that he was too lazy to throw over his shoulder, the inert body of a Turk. As we walked on, he turned and casually discarded the body behind him, into the centre of the circle of creatures that had surrounded me. Behind us I could hear them closing in on what their master had flung them.

'We went back towards where I had left the Wallachians. In the time since I had left them, they'd plucked up some courage and were now standing, discussing what to do next. On our arrival – on Zmyeevich's arrival – they flung themselves to the ground once more and cowered. Zmyeevich paid them no attention. We sat some way away from them and talked.

'Fascination overcame both fear and good manners, and I asked him the most obvious question directly: "What are you?"

'"You are Russian," he said, "and so you will understand these things. We are vampires – voordalaki, in your tongue." I had no need to express surprise. "And we are patriots," he continued.

'"You're all Wallachian?" I asked him.

'"Mostly, at the moment; a few from Moldavia. We are an ever-changing band – except in terms of leadership," he added, with a slight bow. "But at the moment, we are all from . . . around here."

'By now, his comrades had begun to emerge from the forest.

The ten of them had formed a low, huddled group, not unlike the formation of my own Wallachian comrades, but there was something in their midst that was catching the attention of this new group. I could guess only too well what it was.

'"They don't all seem like you," I said.

'"And they don't seem like you," he replied, wafting his hand towards the Wallachians. "There are different classes of men in all societies." He turned to face me directly. "And that is why it is such a rare privilege to sit here and talk with you."

'"So I presume you saw us at the castle," I said.

'"I did, but I had already known you were here and known what we would do."

'"And you've lived there four hundred years?"

'"Not quite yet," he replied with a wistful smile that little suited him, "but soon."

'"And the others – are they all as old?"

'"Oh, no," he replied scornfully. "To live to my age requires skill, intellect, foresight. These are not the abilities one finds – or seeks – in a foot soldier. They are older than you to be sure, but not by a great deal."

'"And you created them?" I asked. "Made them vampires, I mean."

'"Again, no. Who could be proud to claim such creatures as his sons? They tend to perpetuate themselves. Occasionally a stranger may join us – a vampire whose ears our fame has reached. Generally, they are welcomed."

'One of the Wallachians – the one who had gone up to the door of the castle – had sidled over to the group of vampires, trying to see what they were about. As he got close, one of them turned and pounced. Within seconds the Wallachian was pinned to the floor, with two more crouching over him. Zmyeevich shouted at them and they stopped to look at him. He shouted again and they reluctantly returned to the pack. I could almost see their tails between their legs.

'Zmyeevich and I talked some more, though I noticed him becoming distracted, glancing over to where his underlings were finishing off the remains of various Turkish corpses which they dragged from out of the woods. It was at his suggestion that we decided to work together, at least to clear the Turks out of his area of the Carpathians. We would work much as we had planned to in Moscow; we would scout by day to locate the Turks and then they would come out at night to destroy them. He said he would have no trouble finding us on the mountains. He even went over and explained our plans to the six surviving Wallachians.

'"And now it is nearing dawn, and you must excuse us," he said to me as he returned from speaking to them. "But first, might I borrow your sabre?"

'I handed it to him, not knowing what use he could possibly have for it. He took it and strode towards the other vampires, who were still huddled around the body of one of the Turks. I couldn't make out what he did with the sword, but soon he was leading his band away, back uphill towards his castle. As they came close, I could see he was holding the tip of my sword to his mouth. On it was a chunk of bloody, raw flesh, which he tore at with his teeth until he had consumed it all. Then, with a smile, he threw the weapon back to me. As I caught it, he gave a casual salute and carried on up the mountain. Within minutes, they were out of sight.

'I sat down, looking at the remnants of the night's battle and considering our bizarre conversation. In the cold light of day, all that I had heard and seen would be strange and unbelievable, and yet I had no sense of doubting it – no sense of shock, even, at the discovery. I suppose that, because I had no personal apprehension of danger, I had no feeling of horror. Then I looked at the ravaged Turkish corpses that lay around us, looked at my huddled, frightened comrades and looked at the blade of my sabre, caked in blood in a way that was so familiar and yet, on that day, so repellent. I turned and vomited.'

He stopped and for several seconds we were both silent.

'So did you meet him again?' I asked eventually.

'It was just like he'd suggested. We'd comb the mountains by day, locating the Turks, but we wouldn't engage them. At night, Zmyeevich and the others would appear, and that particular band of invaders would be destroyed. They must have killed hundreds in total. Zmyeevich was good company – you may laugh, but he was better than anyone else I'd met in that damned country. And I talked to the other vampires a little too. They weren't quite as subhuman as Zmyeevich made out. Well, you know what they're like; you've spoken to the Oprichniki. And remember, they were my brothers-in-arms; at least for the duration. They didn't use those names, but Pyetr, Varfolomei, Andrei and Ioann were the only ones in common with now.'

Dmitry turned and looked me in the eye, considering what he was about to say. Then he shook his head dismissively, as if waking from a dream.

'As far as I can remember, at least,' he said. 'It was a long time ago.'

'How long did you stay with them?' I asked.

'Not long. Eventually, after about a fortnight, we caught sight of a Russian battalion and I decided to return to the familiar. I waited until Zmyeevich met up with us that night to say goodbye. He understood why I'd made my decision, and told me with all sincerity that if I ever needed help I should not be afraid to ask.'

'And he was as good as his word,' I said. Dmitry didn't catch the bitterness of my tone.

'Exactly, Aleksei. Exactly. You may not like what they are – God knows, I don't either – but they can be trusted. They've proved that.'

And in my own mind, I couldn't fault him. The Oprichniki had answered our call for help; they had done what we had asked them to do. Dmitry and I both knew it, and yet we appeared to have come to very different conclusions. I searched for the distinction between us, and soon found it. God might know that Dmitry did not like what these creatures were, but I remained to be convinced. My visceral, instinctive hatred of them, simply for what they were, seemed missing – or at least hidden – in Dmitry. His view of them as being like cannon that simply had to be pointed towards the enemy was quite, quite logical. It would have surprised Maks, as it did me, to find Dmitry the more rational of the two of us.

Yet, if that was rationality, it could go to hell. Love was irrational, yet it was both right and beautiful. Couldn't hatred be just the same? My experience of the Oprichniki had convinced me that it could.

I had further questions for him, but no stomach to ask them. I changed the subject. 'When are you leaving?' I asked.

'I'm ready now.' He smiled sheepishly. 'I'd already made plans. I'll leave today.' Then he added, 'Look out for Natalia and Boris for me.'

We embraced. There were no words with which to say goodbye, and yet as I walked away I knew in my heart that there was still a more honest conversation to be had between us. Dmitry, I was certain, was lying – or at least not telling the full story. His account of his first meeting with Zmyeevich was too tidy; too much designed to make Dmitry himself happy. There was more that he had wanted to tell me, but had not.

And why not? Because I was a liar too. Dmitry might not have the insight to guess what exactly I was holding back, but he had known me long enough to see that there was something. That something was that I had made it my quest – a quest that I would continue now that I had no more excuses for not returning to Moscow – to destroy every one of these abominable creatures. And why did I not in turn tell him my secret? Because I did not trust him. I deceived him because I knew he was deceiving me. His behaviour was identical. Neither of us could break the deadlock with a leap, or even a small step, of faith.

How much easier it had been when Maks was the only deceiver amongst us. His presence had sown no seeds of doubt into our midst. Perhaps he had just been a better liar than either Dmitry or I, so much so that, even now, even after he had been exposed, even now he was dead, I still felt a greater degree of trust in him than in the living comrade with whom I had just parted.

Two days later a great convoy of coaches, trucks and wagons left Yuryev-Polsky. It was the fourteenth of October – over a month since we had said goodbye to Natalia and departed the city. It turned out to be the last day before winter truly fell upon us. On the second day of our journey, the temperature dropped suddenly. Our ride to Moscow would be colder than anyone had planned for, but it would only last three or four days and then I would be back. Bonaparte's retreat through the Russian winter would take much longer.

Looking behind me along the great train of vehicles, I caught sight of the three covered wagons that Pyetr Pyetrovich had used to evacuate his 'assets' from Moscow. He sat at the front of the first coach, next to the driver. Behind him, in the shade of the canopy, I could just make out a face that I knew to be Domnikiia's. I spent most of the long journey simply staring towards her.

My own carriage contained quite a mixture of people – old and young, some families – none that I felt much urge to converse with. I remember on the afternoon of our fourth day of travel, as I caught my first glimpse of the towers and domes of my beloved city, a mother sitting next to me was just finishing off telling a folk story to her two young children, bringing back memories of my own childhood. I looked at the approaching city for only a few minutes before turning back to gaze once again at Domnikiia.

The story that the mother was vividly telling her children had been one of my grandmother's favourites, and one of her strangest and, despite its simplicity, most frightening. It was about a town in the south called Uryupin, and I listened idly, comforted in the memory of my fears as a child which now seemed so utterly insignificant.

'After the traveller and his creatures had gone, everyone rejoiced,' she recounted, her voice rising to match the rejoicing, 'but soon people began to notice that something was wrong.' She bent towards her children conspiratorially, and her voice lowered.

'The town was quiet – so quiet that you could have heard the sound of a farmer sowing poppy seed.' The children smiled up at her, anticipating the ending of a story they had heard many times before.

'In the end, it was a little boy, just about your age, Grisha,' she said to her son, 'who understood what was wrong. It was so quiet because there was no birdsong. The traveller's pets had eaten not only the rats, but all of the birds in the village too.

'And to this day, you know, not one of them has come back.'