CHAPTER XXIV

THE OPRICHNIKI HAD NOT HAD LONG IN WHICH TO CAPTURE their victim. I had lost sight of them as I entered the woods, and that had been barely twenty minutes before. The only conclusion was that they had come across the woman earlier and left her imprisoned in the barn as they came after me. They may even have found her in the farmhouse just there. If she was the farmer's wife, then there must also be a farmer. I remembered the Russian voice I had heard from inside the barn.

I stole my way back over to the barn and peered through the crack at the side of the door. The scene within was unspeakably gruesome. The farmer was in the centre of the room. His wrists were tied together by long rope which had been slung over a beam in the ceiling. His arms stretched up above him, leaving his near-dislocated shoulders to take his full weight. His toes barely brushed against the floor as his body swung from one side to the other. Of all the devices medieval torture invented in the west as Catholic and Protestant each tried to bring the other closer to God, the rack was the most famously effective, but manacles were just as agonizing to their victim and far simpler. But this was only the first level of the suffering that the Oprichniki had created.

The man was stripped to his waist. His head hung limply backwards, but occasionally he tried to raise it. This, and the alternating groans and screams that emanated from his throat, told me that he was still alive. More importantly, they told the Oprichniki that he was alive. In what could be considered a twisted sexual parallel, the vampires' pleasure came not simply from the sensations which they experienced, but in the knowledge of the pain that they bestowed upon others.

Pressed close in around his body stood three of the four Oprichniki. They too were naked from the waist up – their appetites evidently requiring satisfaction through touch as well as taste. The three were Pyetr, Foma and Iakov Zevedayinich. Iuda stood a little way back from the action. He remained fully clothed and I saw on his bloodstained lips a sadistic smile that both shared and despised the gratification of the other three.

Iuda spoke. I could not understand what he said, but I could make out that it was addressed to Foma, and it had the tone more of a suggestion than of an instruction. Foma turned his head towards Iuda and grinned in pleasurable agreement. The other two watched Foma as he raised the palm of the man's right hand to his mouth and bit hard into the fleshly part at the base of the middle finger. The man screamed, not the shrill cry of shock that I would have expected, but the low weary howl of a man for whom pain has all too quickly become the only sensation he has left in his existence. The other wounds that I could see on his body told me that the Oprichniki had already indulged their appetites to quite an extent that night.

Foma pulled his mouth away from the hand and swallowed what he had bitten off displaying the same extravagance with which I might swallow an oyster in front of a charming dinner companion whom I wanted to impress. As he did so, the others all let out sounds that I took to be not part of their language but simple vocalizations of appreciation that could be understood in any tongue.

Foma moved to the next finger and took a deeper bite. This time, as well as the farmer's scream, I heard the crackle of splintering bones. The tip of his finger dropped to the floor, but Foma still managed to get a mouthful. He spat something out across the room, which bounced off a wall and fell to the ground. I could not see what it was, but it must have been in some way significant, since it got a tremendous laugh from the others; tremendous, but not hearty. It was the same laugh I had heard from them when I had first met them, the dirty laugh of those who want to be seen to laugh by those around them. Iuda joined in convincingly, but it was obvious that he mocked as much as he partook. Even later, when I discovered what Foma had spat out, it was difficult to fathom where the humour lay.

It is not easy to say now, nor was it then, why I stayed to watch the scene played out before me. But it was inevitable that I would. The fact that the farmer had just lost two of his fingers took me back to that prison in Silistria, three years before, but the strongest resonance was not with the farmer, not sharing his pain, but with those who stood and watched – with myself today, peering through a crack in the door and, worst of all, with Iuda who watched, smiled and, like me, did nothing.

The Turks had known that at least one of the seven of us was a Russian spy. They could just have killed us all, but they wanted information, and they could only get that if they could identify which one of us to concentrate their efforts on. They had kept us awake until late into the night, asking us questions, laughing at us, jeering at us. Eventually they lined us up; made us face the wall. I was in fifth place. Then they took the first man. I heard a strange crunching sound that I could not interpret, accompanied by a scream. It was the same sound I had just heard as Foma's teeth splintered the bones of the farmer's finger.

I had still not been able to see what was happening as our Turkish captors worked their way along the line, but each time I heard the same unfathomable combination of sounds. Then they came to me. I saw the blood on the table – not a huge amount, but four small, separate stains. When they grabbed my wrist and held it down I thought I understood what was happening – that they were going to sever my whole hand. I tried to pull away, but couldn't. The blade was a mundane thing, not one of the palas with which they fought, just a meat cleaver they had found somewhere. They tucked my other fingers in and the blade fell. I don't know whether I screamed. I don't really remember the pain, but I do remember feeling the blood that ran from the stump of my little finger dripping off my other fingers to the floor.

Those of us who had already visited the table were returned to position, but facing away from the wall. Once the element of surprise had been lost, it was far better torture for us to see what was going on. They explained to us it would stop if the spy confessed; that it would end not only his suffering, but all of our suffering. I was unmoved. I had little concern for my fellow captives – Bulgarians who had been happy to fight with the Ottomans against fellow Slavs – and I had no doubt as to just how permanently our captors would end our suffering.

Then they went round again. The fear in all of us was greater this time. Even though I cannot remember the pain, I can remember being afraid of it. The sound was the same as before as each man in turn lost a second finger. Most of the men against the wall turned their heads away to avoid seeing what was happening – what would soon happen to them – but I did not. I stared at the table, saw the cleaver fall each time, saw the agonized face of the victim and saw the indifferent faces of the Turks as they brushed the severed finger aside. I don't know why I looked; perhaps it was the hope that I would become numb to it by the time my next turn came. It worked, but it worked too well. The numbness persisted – increased over the years. It was that numbness, I realized, that meant I was now able to – needed to – stand at that barn door near Kurilovo and watch the torture that went on within.

In Silistria, only one of the other victims had looked on as I did. He was the second in the row – a young man, scarcely more than a boy. He too did not scream as the blade came down and took away his finger. When they came to me, I certainly did scream. I have no idea why the second cut hurt so much more than the first. Perhaps it was the anticipation. I was not at the point of confessing, but I wondered how many fingers I would be prepared to lose before I did give in. I could face, I thought, the loss of my whole left hand, but how many fingers of my right could I lose before I became useless as a man? But why did I care? – they would kill me anyway.

Again I felt my own blood running over my other fingers. It would not be fast, but the blood loss itself would eventually be enough to kill me. One of the soldiers indicated that we should hold our hands above our heads. It reduced the flow, but it was not an act of kindness. They had done this before, and this was experience showing. Raising our arms to reduce the blood flow prolonged our lives, and added a new, throbbing pain as our numbed arms began to ache. I felt the warm trickle of my own blood now running down my arm and on to my chest.

It was after they had moved on to third fingers that the confession came – but not from me. It was from someone who, to all my knowledge, had no connection with the Turks' enemies at all: the boy who was second in the line, who had not turned his face away from the table. There had been silence after he spoke; relief on the faces of the captives – even of the boy – satisfaction on those of the captors. I remember hearing the quiet chirping of birds through the high window. We had been in the prison all night.

The odd thing was that the boy had confessed just after, not before, it had been his turn to have his third finger severed. Had the pain broken his spirit? It didn't look like it. I could only guess that he had done what I would not have dreamed of – he had decided to spare the rest of us. If that was the case then he was a noble fool, but a fool nonetheless. If he'd made up the fact that he was a spy – as he surely had, unless there were two of us – then they would soon work it out. And then the torture would resume for the rest of us – perhaps some new, even worse torture. Only at that point was I truly tempted to confess, but even then I did not.

All seven of us were led out into the early, pre-dawn light, to be thrown back into the two small cells where we had been previously kept. It was at that point the boy made a run for it. He was up on to the prison wall in a flash and about to jump over when a shot rang out. I just saw him fall, but then I was off in the other direction. My left hand first stung as it gripped the top of the wall, and then slipped on the greasy blood that still oozed from it. But by then, my right hand had got a grip, and I pulled myself over. The Turks had now realized their mistake in all pursuing the one escapee, and shots whistled over my head, but they were too late. I was lucky to escape the city and lucky not to bleed to death, but I survived. I do not know what happened to the others whose torture I had both witnessed and shared, and at the time I did not care.

Now, staring into a similar scene inside that barn, I did care. But there was nothing I could do. To engage in a fight that pitted the four of them against just me would have ended in such a pointless death as to be immoral. I knew that I had to wait for better chances – to wait for the Oprichniki to become separated and to wait for daylight – before I could risk an attack. But the more difficult question was why I stayed to watch. I did not need to see any more to appreciate the vile nature of the Oprichniki, nor to find any aspect of their behaviour which might reveal a weakness in them. Part of what I needed was fuel for my hatred. It was a facet of myself of which I had long been aware. I am, or at least I perceive myself to be, a man of many passions, but all of those passions are difficult to kindle. I arrive at them in small steps, not in giant bounds. I would not go to the trouble of taking a lover, unless that lover was so available that her selection cost me but a few roubles. Moreover, I would not go to the trouble of falling in love unless it was with someone who was already my lover; it was only through the intensity of sex that I had discovered my depth of love for Domnikiia.

And similarly, it was only through the nauseating wrath of seeing what the Oprichniki actually did that I could stoke the fires of loathing enough to know that I would carry to the end my determination to destroy them. Iuda's words to me had struck home. I was a shallow, fickle, comfort-loving man. De-sensitized by what had happened in Silistria, and by what I had already seen of the Oprichniki, I had to remain there with my eye glued to what went on within the barn in order to corral the strength and determination that I would later require to defeat the accursed creatures. And yet, though it would give me that determination, would watching also not desensitize me further? The next time – though I prayed to God there would be no next time – I saw such horrors, would I dismiss them as commonplace, needing ever greater depths of corruption to raise my righteous passion? Whatever the risk, I stayed and watched.

Iuda issued another suggestion; this time it was to Iakov Zevedayinich. The vampire knelt before the man's stomach, gazing at it as if preparing to bite. The man already had several wounds to his belly. One on the side was long and deep and still bled profusely. Into this Iakov Zevedayinich swiftly jabbed his fingers, and the man's whole body convulsed with pain. Again a wave of laughter rippled through the Oprichniki. Foma grabbed the man's feet and Pyetr his chest so that he could not move. Iakov Zevedayinich twisted his fingers in the wound once more and this time the man's contortions, though more intense, were absorbed by the two vampires that held him fast.

Iakov Zevedayinich poked the wound again and again, learning from each jab how to make his victim's pain more intense. Each time, he exchanged glances with the other two, seeking their approval and relishing with laughter the approbation that he found. Pyetr called out to Iuda in a tone that might in normal life have said, 'Come on in, the water's fine.' Iuda strolled over to them. He had in his hand a small stick of wood. He may have picked it off the floor or ripped it from some tree or bush as he passed, but it was long and probing and had a jagged, uneven point. Iuda rammed it into the wound in the man's side and at the same time turned it like a gun worm. The man screamed in agony and Iuda spoke to him in Russian.

'I think your wife enjoyed it more than you when I did that to her.'

The man raised his head and attempted to meet Iuda's eyes. Had he the strength, he might have spat at him, but his head merely fell back as the exhaustion of his suffering overcame him.

Foma asked a question that could only be interpreted as 'What did you say to him?' Iuda's reply was, I presume, an honest answer to the question. The Oprichniki laughed again that same laugh.

Iuda took a step back and made a further suggestion. This time it was to Pyetr. I did not need to understand the details of it to comprehend that Pyetr complied readily. Whatever power struggles Dmitry might have perceived within them, it was clear that at this moment Pyetr was utterly subservient to Iuda, as were both of the other surviving Oprichniki. There was no laughter at Iuda's latest idea, but an intake of breath and an anticipatory licking of lips on the part of the two vampires who were not to be its implementers.

Pyetr opened his mouth wide and put his lips to the man's chest, totally encompassing his nipple. He left himself there for a moment mimicking a suckling baby and glancing slyly sideways at Iuda. Iuda smiled an appreciative smile and the other two exchanged their own glances, communicating solely in appreciative grunts, like a couple of dogs who knew that their master was about to feed them a titbit.

With a cocky smile, Iuda uttered a single word of encouragement to Pyetr, to which Pyetr's response was simply to bring his jaws together and then to pull back, shearing away the flesh that he had clasped between his teeth. The man's scream, momentarily so loud, exhausted him, fading into a croaking plea. Pyetr lay on his back on the floor of the barn with his hands behind his head, chewing contentedly at the flesh between his lips. It was as a red rag to the other two.

They pounced upon the farmer and began tasting the blood of old wounds and creating new ones with their sharp, probing teeth. Iuda's voice became firmer and his utterances became orders rather than ideas. He took a step forward and jerked Foma away. On seeing this, Iakov Zevedayinich meekly stepped away from the farmer as well, but it was too late – too late for them, but nothing like soon enough for their victim, or indeed for me. The farmer was dead, whether through the accumulation of unendurable pain or the happy accident of a thoughtless bite at a vital artery, it did not matter. He was released to join his so recently departed wife.

I slipped back into the surrounding woodland just in time to see the farmer's body ejected from the barn to lie alongside his wife in the snow. Crouched behind a tree in the freezing cold, I waited. If all four chose to sleep there through the following day, then it would be their last sleep. In daylight I had no qualms about confronting them and disposing of each as I had done others before them. But I would not go and face them in the dark. The fear that I had seen in Dmitry now became a solid presence in my chest. It stifled me and stiffened me, making me incapable of either advance or flight. It was as a conduit for the cold around me to enter my heart and freeze every sensation, every concept except for the most volatile instinct of all – that of self-preservation.

But at least the cold and the terror combined had one positive side effect – they kept me awake. Much as I would have liked to surrender to oblivion as I stood sentinel outside that barn, I could not. I waited and I wondered, thinking of all that had taken place since I had first met the Oprichniki, thinking of my memories, both happy and sad, of Vadim and Maks, thinking of Marfa and Dmitry Alekseevich, and thinking most of all of Domnikiia. The most ridiculous thing was the way that I attempted to combine my thoughts of those last three together – to see Dmitry playing happily with Domnikiia and to see the youthful Domnikiia chatting carelessly with the wise Marfa. I did not want them to merge. I did not want a single creature with the best aspects of both any more than I wanted a single great city of Russia, combining all that was fine in both Petersburg and Moscow. The result would be nothing – a synthetic perfection that could appeal only to the blandest of palates. I would enjoy it no more than if I were to take half a glass of red wine and another half of white and mix them together to produce the ideal beverage. My task was not only to keep them separate, but also to keep them balanced – to ensure that neither bottle became empty and also that neither came to taste so good to me that I would forget the other.

I may not have been at my most lucid, but at least I was wakeful when, some hours after their hideous feast, Iuda and Foma emerged from the barn. At the roadside they exchanged a few words and then Foma headed south while Iuda turned north. Foma's journey south would not have taken him far. He would soon hit the main road that could take him either east to Serpukhov or west to Mozhaysk. The latter seemed more likely. That would take him back to the path along which Bonaparte was retreating. As for Iuda's course, there was only one major city to the north.

I waited. There were good reasons for me not to rush in and surprise the two remaining vampires in the barn. One was that Iuda and Foma might yet return. The other was that, under the veil of night, even two Oprichniki might prove to be able opponents. I knew that I should wait – wait until midday when they would both be at the nadir of their consciousness and would be able to offer no opposition to the wooden stakes that pierced their chests. But in their consciousness lay the only satisfaction I could derive from their deaths. I had seen that they loved to keep their victims alive – that their only pleasure came in the pain of others. My reasoning went beyond that. I wanted them to suffer, but moreover I cherished a desire for them to know why they died, and at whose hand. In all honesty, I felt the same desire in myself. To perceive and comprehend the moment of one's death must be the final act of understanding, be the perception good or ill. I had failed to be present at the moment of Maks' death and before that, at my father's. I did not want to miss the occasion of my own mortality, nor did I see why these two vampires should miss theirs. Thus, even if it had not been to punish them, I would have wanted them to be sentient of their own deaths. It was merely that that was how I felt it ought to be.

Hence it was not long before dawn, but most certainly before it, that, to the sound of the first birds welcoming the new day, I crept back up to the barn and looked inside once more.

It was empty. I slipped inside. Two lanterns, hung from beams in the ceiling, lit the space within. The rope by which I had earlier seen the farmer suspended was still there, both ends roughly severed where his body had been cut down. Beneath it, the ground was stained with blood; two patches, side by side – one for the man, one for his wife. There was little else. In one corner was a collection of farm tools, and near to them an overturned manger, not big enough to hide a man. A ladder led up to the hayloft. There was no sign of any Oprichniki, not even of their coffins.

Above me I heard the sound of rats scuttling across the hayloft – their tiny claws clattering and their tails slithering over the wooden floorboards as they either scoured for food or clambered to see if I was any threat to them. Or was it rats? Was it a different breed of vermin? The hayloft provided a low flat ceiling for about a third of the length of the barn. From it sprouted a thick beam that ran across to the far wall. This was the beam from which the rope still hung. Smaller shafts sprung outwards from the central beam to support the walls and upwards at angles to hold up the roof.

I walked backwards to the far end of the barn, keeping my eyes on the hayloft. As I moved, I heard the sound of their movement. When I stopped, they stopped. I could not see them, but I knew that Pyetr and Iakov Zevedayinich were up there. Then, between two bales of hay, I saw the glint of a pair of gleaming dark eyes. I fixed my gaze on the eyes and began to approach. They made no move, nor any indication that they knew I was looking at them. My hope was to get back underneath the hayloft, directly under whichever of the Oprichniki those eyes belonged to and to stab at him upwards from below. I knew that I could not kill them that way, but I had seen how disabling the wound to Iuda had been the night before and I hoped it would give me enough of an advantage to move in for the kill. I glanced occasionally toward the ladder and along the edge of the hayloft. There was a second vampire up there as well, and I did not want my attack on one to leave me vulnerable to the other.

With a start, I felt something land on my cheek. I brushed it away and looking at my hand saw that it was a spider, curled up into a defensive ball. I glanced upwards to where it had fallen from and came face to face with Iakov Zevedayinich. He himself was perched much like a spider, his limbs spread across the oak roofbeams without any visible means of purchase. It was the same climbing skill that I had seen Foma display once in Moscow. Iakov Zevedayinich dropped down towards me from the ceiling, and though I had enough warning to take a step back, he still knocked me to the ground.

The vampire was immediately looming over me, ready for the kill. Over his shoulder I saw Pyetr emerging from the hayloft along the central beam, managing to crawl on all fours along a path no wider than his hand. I slashed wildly at Iakov Zevedayinich with my sword and he held back, giving me a chance to get to my feet. I swung the sabre sharply back and forth in front of me, aiming for his neck. On one stroke, I felt a tiny impediment as the sharp tip made contact with his skin. He put his hand to his throat. It was a trivial wound, but enough to make him wary. He backed further away and I looked up to see Pyetr now even closer to me, climbing his way deftly through the web of beams as though he had spun them himself.

I made a few upward jabs at him, but he easily dodged them, emitting a feral snarl. Iakov Zevedayinich made another lunge for me, but I was not so distracted by Pyetr that I could not connect the blade of my sword with the back of his hand. He snatched it back. Pyetr swung down from above, his legs hooked around a beam, and grabbed at my sword, holding the blade tightly with both hands, oblivious to any pain that the action might cause him. I tried to shake the sword free from his grasp, but he held firm. Iakov Zevedayinich approached again, more slowly now, not out of fear, but to savour the moment of my death. With Pyetr holding my sword, I had nothing with which to fend him off. My wooden dagger, though a fine device to despatch the creatures, was no weapon for engaging them in open combat.

I grasped the handle of my sword and lifted my feet, as though trying to drop to my knees. Pyetr managed to sustain my full weight for a fraction of a second, before the sharp blade of my sabre sliced its way out of his grip and I fell to the ground. I lashed out with the sword at Iakov Zevedayinich's ankle and landed a blow which made him leap sideways. Pyetr was still hanging upside-down from the beam, examining his injured hands, his head dangling like a ripe plum ready for the harvest. I swung at his neck and only a cry of warning from Iakov Zevedayinich told him to raise his body back up to the roof as my blade whistled inches beneath his head.

Pyetr retreated back across the rafters and I followed, jabbing at him with my sword. Iakov Zevedayinich too had retreated back under the hayloft. I soon discovered why, as a pitchfork from amongst the tools I had noted earlier flew towards me, flung like a trident from across the barn. I side-stepped and parried it with my sword, but still it caught my upper left arm, tearing through my coat and drawing blood before continuing to the ground, where its tines sunk in deep. The battle was not going my way and I decided now was the time for departure. I raced to the door, but Iakov Zevedayinich beat me to it. He now held a scythe in his hands and swept it in front of him, keeping me away from both himself and the exit. With a leering smile he slid the bolt across the door. It was not a serious impediment, but it would delay me.

'Just like you locked Ioann in,' he said, still smiling.

Behind me I heard a thud which I took to be Pyetr dropping to the floor of the barn. With the two of them now on my level and with Iakov Zevedayinich armed, the fight was most definitely going away from me. Iakov Zevedayinich was the closer of the two and I knew he had to be removed from the picture before Pyetr could take the few steps needed to reach me. Despite all that I knew of the inefficacy of the traditional use of the sword against these creatures, years of training and experience had built up in me so strongly as to make it almost an instinct. I attacked Iakov Zevedayinich as though he were a mortal man.

As he swung at me again with the scythe, I took a step back. He followed my movement and became slightly off balance. I grabbed hold of the shaft of the scythe and pulled him closer towards me and towards my sword, wincing even as I did at the pain it caused to my wounded arm. In fear, he let go of the scythe, and took a step away from me. The door was at his back and he could go no further. At that moment I lunged and the tip of my sabre pierced his chest, went through his heart, out of his back and through the wooden door behind him. So great was the force of my thrust that the blade continued, stopping only when the guard came to his chest. I let go the sword and took a step away. Any human would have died in an instant, his heart rupturing as the blade penetrated it, and with its rupture would come the withdrawal of that force which supplied blood so vitally to the body. But vampires had different means of supplying their bodies with blood and had no need – in any sense – for a heart. I heard Pyetr's laughter behind me, and a broad grin spread across Iakov Zevedayinich's brutal face.

'You should stick to fighting against men,' said Pyetr, mockingly. 'You'd be good at that.'

Iakov Zevedayinich prepared to take a step forward to resume the attack, but found that he could not. Although my sword had done him no serious injury, it had pinned him to the door like a butterfly in a collector's case. He put his hands to the handle of the sword and tried to pull it out, but he had no leverage. Pyetr's laughter ceased.

I turned to face Pyetr, drawing my only remaining weapon – my wooden dagger. Pyetr backed away in what struck me as unnecessary fear, but I took full advantage of it. I began to run towards him, and he backed away faster. Behind him, the handle of the embedded pitchfork jutted out of the ground towards him like a spear. It would be a lucky chance if he fell on it at the correct angle.

In the event, Iakov Zevedayinich foresaw the danger and shouted to his comrade. Just in time, Pyetr twisted his body to one side and avoided falling on to the handle of the pitchfork. Instead he fell on to his back on the ground beside it. I wrenched the pitchfork out of the earth and thrust it back down on to Pyetr's throat. His flesh offered only a momentary resistance before yielding deliciously to my pressure and allowing the sharp points to penetrate through it and deep into the ground beneath. It did not kill him; it didn't even appear to hurt him, despite the blood that oozed from the punctures in his neck, but it kept him from moving. His body writhed and arched as he tried to get free and he could even raise his head a little, his pierced neck sliding up and down the tines of the pitchfork, but unable to escape them.

Now I had two captive Oprichniki in my collection, but I needed only one. I turned back to Iakov Zevedayinich. He was still struggling to free himself from the door. It would take a few minutes, but he would have worked himself free. I kicked at the door's bolt with the sole of my booted foot. It gave a little, but not completely. Iakov Zevedayinich stretched out towards me with flailing arms, but could not reach me. At a second blow, the metal bolt splintered away from the wood and the door swung open into the early daylight outside, taking the vampire with it like a jacket hung on a peg – like Vadim Fyodorovich hung on a wall.

Only then did Iakov Zevedayinich realize the implication. His scream was not of pain, but of fear, and it was soon cut short by the sound of an explosion as the sunlight hit his body. It was not the tight, sharp explosion of a gun or a cannon, but a slower, broader whoosh, as when gunpowder ignites in a bowl. The door opened as far as it would go and then bounced closed again. My sword still remained protruding from the back of the door at the height of a man's chest. Of Iakov Zevedayinich there was no sign, save a few scorched rags drooping from my sword and a slight singeing of the wood, roughly forming the shape of a man.

I turned back to Pyetr. He was still struggling to try to free himself. I pulled the pitchfork out of him and held it to his face. He crawled backwards away from me with a crab-like motion, heading towards the door as if it could bring him some escape. I thrust the fork back into him – this time through his shoulder, laying in with all my weight so as to pierce the tough bone and sinew – and he was immobile once more. He stared at me with a face that revealed no fear; only hatred and contempt.

'More Russian hospitality?' he sneered. 'You invite people into your country and then kill them off one by one.'

'We may have invited people,' I replied, 'but that's not what we got.'

I glanced around the barn and saw the two pools of blood, reminding me of what I had witnessed just hours before. Part of me wanted to forget it, but a stronger part had to know more.

'I watched you,' I said, my voice scarcely above a whisper, 'watched what you did to that man. I saw the body of that woman. Animals eat, but that was . . . What was that? Why was that?'

Pyetr smiled. 'You really want to know?'

'No,' I lied instinctively. 'But tell me anyway.'

Within the constraints of the metal shafts that pierced his shoulder, Pyetr adjusted his posture, as if settling in to tell a long story.

'We each start off just by drinking,' he began, 'and that in itself is a pleasure, when one is young at least, and inexperienced. But as we grow older, merely drinking becomes dull, so we eat. Then eating becomes what drinking was, so we play. Then playing becomes as dull as eating, so we torture. Then to satisfy, torture becomes worse torture. The older the vampire, the further he has to go.'

They were, it seemed then, like me. I needed ever more intensity of experience to raise my anger; they needed it for their pleasure.

'Your beloved Zmyeevich is pretty old,' I said. 'He must do . . .' I dared not even imagine what he must do.

'The master is too old. He told me once, he has gone beyond physical pain. There is more pleasure to be had from people's minds. But humans realize that far quicker than we do. It's beyond me. The physical will do for now.'

'I'm surprised you have the imagination to find new . . . ideas.'

'It can be troublesome.' He smiled again. 'But Iuda must have been a vampire for a very long time – not as long as the master, for Iuda's interests are still physical, but he has such ideas.' He nodded an acknowledgement of the word he had taken from me. 'For instance,' he went on, smiling more broadly, 'had the man not died, we were going to—'

I jogged the handle of the pitchfork. In a human, that slight motion would have sent agonies through his wounded shoulder. For him it meant little, but at least it shut him up. I didn't want to help him indulge in a vicarious pleasure through his retelling, much as – to my shame – I was eager to hear. I moved on to more significant matters.

'Where have Iuda and Foma gone?' I asked.

'Gone to screw your mother,' he replied charmingly. I kicked him hard in the armpit, just next to where the pitchfork transfixed him.

'Tell me,' I growled, but again he seemed to feel no pain. I had no urgent need for the information. I felt sure that I would be able to track them down and that, even if I didn't, Iuda would not be able to resist the temptation of coming after me once again. I took a step back and picked up my wooden dagger, readying myself to kill the defenceless monster. Outside, the distant sound of a cockerel belatedly heralded the dawn. I turned back to Pyetr and saw that his expression had changed from a look of resigned malevolence to one of utmost fear. It was as though the sound of the cockerel had terrified him. Perhaps it had. It was a signal of the danger that he would have known every morning since he first made the repellent choice to become a vampire.

But it was not the sound – or at least not only the sound – that caused him this new unease. His breathing was short and shallow and he flicked his nervous gaze between me and his right hand, which he had snatched up from the ground in pain. On the ground where his hand had lain, a small patch of sunlight had been allowed in through the door by the damage I had done when I kicked off the bolt. A wisp of smoke arose from the centre of the patch, where a fragment of fingernail was shrivelling to nothing.

I looked at Pyetr's hand. The cuts to his palm where he had grabbed the blade of my sword had already vanished. The nail of his middle finger was missing where the sunlight had hit it. Even as I watched, it began to grow back. Pyetr was now gripped by a fearfulness that I had not seen in any of the Oprichniki before. He tugged his whole body against the pitchfork, trying to get free, and he looked up at me with a meek, frightened anxiety.

I placed my foot on his forearm and pushed it back down towards the ground, forcing his hand back into the patch of sunlight. His scream was high-pitched and continuous. The mild sunlight burnt the flesh of his hand in a way that would require the heat of a fire on human flesh. The skin of his fingers quickly blackened and split open, peeling back and curling like the skin of a rotten apple. Through the splits in the skin oozed red blood and yellow pus, some of which dribbled to the ground, while the rest boiled away into the atmosphere. The stench was nauseating – a mixture of the most pungent mildew and burning human hair. Soon his four fingers and the top half of his hand were stripped of all flesh and all that remained were bones which themselves began to smoulder. The tip of his middle finger caught fire and then fell off on to the ground below. The edge of the beam of light left a neat divide across his hand. All that was in darkness was untouched. The surviving skin ended in a thin black fringe across his palm, where the flesh had begun to burn and then receded into the safety of darkness. From the back of his hand, like a torn glove, hung a large flap of charred skin which had similarly slipped out of the sunlight as it fell away from the bone.

I lifted my foot and he snatched his hand back towards him. His screams stopped, but his breathing was irregular. He breathed out with hard, grating pants, but his in-breaths were short and snatched. He was coping with both pain and fear.

'Where have Iuda and Foma gone?' I asked again, shouting this time. He made no reply. It was hard to tell whether he had even heard my question. I was about to press his arm back into the light when, just as I had glimpsed with his nail, I saw the whole of his hand beginning to regrow. The bone that had fallen from his middle finger had already been replaced and lumps of healthy new flesh were forming before my eyes around each of his fingers. A new layer of skin was smoothly advancing from the undamaged half of his hand. Within five minutes the whole thing would be back to normal. This explained why there were no lacerations on his hands from my sword, and even further, explained why Maks could claim to have severed Andrei's arm when I had subsequently seen Andrei with the full complement of limbs. These creatures were (in this and in other ways) like spiders. The loss of an arm or a leg could be a temporary inconvenience, but they could be sure it would grow back. I shuddered as a thought crossed my mind that made me hope that they were merely like spiders. For a vampire to grow back an arm was one thing, but I prayed that the arm, once detached, could not grow back a new body, as is the case with an earthworm or a sorcerer's broomstick. If that were the case then there could still be another Andrei out there to deal with.

To my more immediate ends, however, this was an interesting turn of events. The aim of the torturer is to inflict the greatest pain on his victim whilst doing the least damage – the Turks had taken fingers, not arms or legs. The motivation is not out of any sympathy for the victim, but simply lies in the understanding that, once a body has been damaged too much, it is no longer able to feel pain – or indeed much of anything. But the vampire was a torturer's dream. Continuous pain could be inflicted because the body would be continually refreshed. I could take Pyetr up to the very point of death and then let him revive, only to do the same thing again the next day and the next. It was tempting, but I was not that much a follower of de Sade. I could not be sure it would work, anyway. When I had been tortured, although the physical pain had been excruciating, half of the terror had been in the knowledge that I would be maimed, that I would forever be missing those two fingers. Had I known that, whatever the degree of pain, I would still leave with my hand as intact and whole as it had ever been, the physical pain might perhaps have been bearable.

Pyetr did not seem to view it so philosophically. The pain to him was very real. And yet still he had not answered my question. I stamped my foot down on his arm again. The sun had moved a little and so this time the whole of his hand was exposed to the light. He screamed again as the centre of his palm split and peeled open to reveal the roasting flesh beneath. I held it down there until his entire hand was almost gone, and even then, I only let go to alleviate the sickening smell.

'So are you going to tell?' I asked.

He nodded, trying to catch his breath. 'Yes,' he panted. 'Yes.'

'Well?'

'They've gone after the French. They're trying to get back home to the Carpathians, but they'll stick with the French as far as they can – for food.'

'Both of them?' I asked.

Pyetr nodded. I placed my boot on his arm again, but did not push down.

'So why did I see Iuda heading towards Moscow?'

'I don't know,' he replied, trying to shrug his shoulders. I pressed his arm down once more, just briefly letting his raw, bleeding wrist touch the light before releasing him.

'All right,' screeched Pyetr. Then he smiled the self-satisfied smile of a man who in death foresees the ultimate retribution that will befall his killer. 'He's gone to see your whore. Dominique – that was her name. He's going to make her into one of us. He thinks she is just the sort who could be persuaded. And if not – well, you can look outside if you want to see how much we get out of a single human body. Either way, you won't get to fuck her again.' He forced out a laugh that reflected no amusement in him, but which he hoped would contribute to my pain.

I marched purposefully to the door. As I approached it, something glinted at me from the floor. Seeing what it was, I wondered how it might have got there. Then I realized. This was precisely the place where Foma had spat something after biting off the farmer's finger the previous night. I could now see what the thing was that had caused so much mirth amongst the Oprichniki. It was the man's wedding ring.

I continued to the door and flung it open. Behind me I heard the broad, whooshing explosion that had accompanied the destruction of Iakov Zevedayinich. I turned to see no sign of Pyetr, but only the pitchfork tottering to the ground now that its support had vanished. A rectangle of light shone through the door casting a shape akin to a coffin around where Pyetr had been lying, the lingering smoke his only memorial.

I wrenched my sword out of the door and set off on my way.