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 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 imagina-tion. 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 Ferengi.’
Thibor looked – and sure enough he saw distant win-dows lit like eyes in the darkness under the horns. And it was for all the world as if some monstrous bat squatted there in the heights, or maybe the lord of all great wolves.
‘Like eyes in a face of stone,’ growled one of Thibor’s Wallachs, a man all chest and arms, with short stumpy legs.
‘And not the only eyes watching us!’ whispered the other, a thin, hunched man who always went with his head aggressively forward.
‘What’s that you say?’ Thibor was at once alert, casting about in the darkness. Then he saw the feral, triangular eyes, like blobs of gold, seeming to hang suspended in the darkness at the edge of the woods. Five pairs of eyes: wolves’ eyes, surely?
‘Ho!’ Thibor shouted. He unsheathed his sword, stepped forward. ‘Away, dogs of the woods! We’ve nothing for you.’
The eyes blinked sporadically in pairs, drew back, scattered. Four lean, grey shapes loped off, flowing under the moon like liquid, lost in the jumble of boulders on the plain of scree. But the fifth pair of eyes remained, seemed to gain height, floated forward out of the darkness without hesitation.
A man stepped from the shadows, as tall as, if not taller than, Thibor himself.
Arvos the gypsy staggered, seemed about to faint. The moon showed his face a ghastly, silvery-grey. The stranger reached out a hand and gripped his shoulder, stared deep into his eyes. And slowly the old man straightened up and the trembling went out of him.
In the manner of the warrior born, Thibor had placed himself in striking distance. His sword was still in his hand, but the stranger was only one man. Thibor’s men -astounded at first, perhaps even a little afraid – were on the point of drawing their own weapons but he stopped them with a word, sheathed his sword. If anything, this was a simple show of defiance, a gesture which in one move showed his strength and possibly his contempt. Certainly it showed his fearlessness. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘You come like a wolf in the night.’
The newcomer was slender, almost fragile-seeming. He was dressed all in black, with a heavy black cape draped about his shoulders and falling to below his knees. There could be weapons concealed under the cape, but he kept his hands in view, resting them on his thighs. He now ignored old Arvos, looked at the three Wallachs. His dark eyes merely fell upon Thibor’s henchmen and moved on, but they rested on Thibor himself for long moments before he answered: ‘I am from the house of the Ferenczy. My master sent me out to see what manner of men would visit him this night.’ He smiled a thin smile. His voice had a soothing effect on the Voevod; strangely, his unblinking eyes also, which now reflected moonlight. Thibor found himself wishing there was more natural light. There was that about the features of this one which repulsed him. He felt that he gazed upon a misshapen skull, and wondered that this didn’t disturb him more. But he was held as by some mysterious attraction, like a moth to the devouring flame. Yes, attracted and repulsed at one and the same time.