Boris sat up, stared frightenedly about in the gloom, his darting and his head reeling. He was more than half-down the hillside on a sort of flat ledge of rock beneath the trees. He had never been here before, never guessed the place existed. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom and his senses returned to him more fully, he saw that in fact he sat upon lichen-clad stone flags before what could only be- A mausoleum! Boris had seen the like before; his uncle (at least, his Sister-father’s brother) had died a month ago and had been interred in just such a place; but that had been in holy ground, in the churchyard in Slatina. This place, on lithe other hand . . . this was not a holy place. No, not by any stretch of the imagination . . .
Unseen presence’s moved here, stirring the musty air without stirring the festoons of cobwebs and fingers of dead twigs that hung down from above. Here it was cold – clammy cold – where the sun had not broken through for five hundred years.
Behind Boris, hewn from a great outcrop of rock, the -tomb itself had long since caved in, its roof of massive slabs lying in a tangle of masonry. In his hurtling rush from above, Boris must have flown over that jumble of stone, or doubtless he’d have brained himself. Perhaps he had anyway, for certainly he was feeling and hearing things where there was nothing to be felt or heard. Or where there should not be anything.
He pricked up his ears and squinted his eyes in the dusk of this enclosed place, but. . . there was nothing.
Boris tried to stand up, managed it on his third attempt. He leaned his trembling weight on a sloping slab which had once formed the front lintel of the tomb’s door. Then he listened and looked again, straining ears and eyes in the gloom. But no voice now, no mouth dripping blood in the mirror of his mind. He sighed his relief, his breath rasping in his throat.
A thickly matted crust of dirt, lichens and pine needles fell away from the slab beneath his hands, partly revealing a motif or coat of arms. Boris cleared away more of the grime of centuries, and –
He snatched away his hands at once, reeled back, tripped and sat down again, gasping. The arms had consisted of a shield bearing in bas-relief a dragon, one forepaw raised in threat; and riding upon its back, a bat with triangular eyes of carnelian; and surmounting both of these figures, the leering horned head of the devil himself, forked tongue protruding and dripping gouts of carnelian blood!
All three symbols – dragon, bat, devil – now came together in Boris’s mind. They became amalgamated as the author of the voice in his head. The voice which chose that precise moment of time to speak to him yet again:
‘Run, little man, run . . . begone from here. You are too small, too young, too innocent, and I am far too weak and oh so very old . . .’
On legs that trembled so fearfully he was sure he would fall, Boris stood up, backed away. Then he turned and fled the place full tilt – away from the pine-needle-strewn flagstones, which the gnarled roots of centuries were pushing upward; away from the tumbled tomb and whatever
buried secrets it contained; away from the gloom of the place, so menacing as to seem to have physical substance.
And as he went – under the dark, uncut trees and down the steep hillside, torn by whipping branches and bruised from fall after fall, so the voice chuckled in his mind like a file on glass or chalk on a blackboard, obscene in its ancient knowledge. ‘Aye, run – run! But never forget me, Dragosani. And be sure I shall not forget you. No, for I shall wait for you while you grow strong. And when your blood has iron in it and you know what you do – for it must be of your own free will, Dragosani – then we shall see. And now I must sleep . . .’