Thibor had thought he was alone but now he saw that he was not. In the flare of yellow lamplight he discovered that there were others here with him. But dead or alive . . .? One of them seemed alive, at least.
Thibor narrowed his eyes as the glare from the Ferenczy’s lantern brightened, lighting up the entire dungeon. Three other prisoners were with him here, yes, and dead or alive it wasn’t hard to guess who they’d be. As to how or why the castle’s master had brought them here —that was anybody’s guess. They were of course Thibor’s Wallach companions, and also old Arvos of the Szgany. Of the three, it seemed to be the stumpy Wallach who’d survived: the one who was all chest and arms. He lay crumpled on the floor where stone flags had been laid aside to reveal black soil underneath. His body seemed badly broken, but still his barrel chest rose and fell with some regularity and one of his arms twitched a little.
‘The lucky one,’ said the Ferenczy, his voice deep as a pit. ‘Or perhaps unlucky, depending on one’s point of view. He was alive when my children took me to him.’
Thibor rattled his chains. ‘Was? Man, he’s alive now! Can’t you see him moving? See, he breathes!’
‘Oh, yes!’ the Ferenczy moved closer, in that soundless, sinuous way of his. ‘And the blood surges in his veins, and the brain in his broken head functions and thinks frightened thoughts — but I tell you he is not alive. Nor is he truly dead. He is undead!’ He chuckled as at some obscene joke.
‘Alive, undead? Is there a difference?’ Thibor yanked viciously on his chains. How he would love to wrap them round the other’s neck and squeeze till his eyes popped out.
‘The difference is immortality.’ His tormentor thrust his face closer yet. ‘Alive he was. mortal, undead he “lives” forever. Or until he destroys himself, or some accident does the job for him. Ah, but to live forever, eh, Thibor the Wallach? How sweet is life, eh? But would you believe it can be boring, too? No, of course not, for you have not known the ennui of the centuries. Women? I have had such women! And food?’ His voice took on a slyness. ‘Ah! Gobbets you’ve not yet dreamed of. And yet for these last hundred — nay, two hundred — years, all of these things have bored me.’
‘Bored with life, are you?’ Thibor ground his teeth, put every last effort into wrenching his chains’ staples from the sweating stone. It was useless. ‘Only set me free and I’ll put an end to your — uh! — boredom.’
The Ferenczy laughed like a baying hound. ‘You will? But you already have, my son. By coming here. For, you see, I have waited for one just such as you. Bored? Aye, that I have been. And indeed you are the cure, but it’s a cure we’ll apply my way. You’d slay me, eh? Do you really think so? Oh, I’ve my share of fighting to come, but not with you. What? I should fight with my own son? Never! No, I’ll go forth and fight and kill like none before me! And I’ll lust and love like twenty men, and none shall say me nay! And I’ll do it all to the ends of the earth, to such excess that my name shall live forever, or be stricken forever from man’s history! For what else can I do with passions such as mine, a creature such as I am, condemned to life?’
‘You speak in riddles,’ Thibor spat on the floor. ‘You’re a madman, crazed by your lonely life up here with nothing but wolves for company. I can’t see why the VIad fears you, one madman on his own. But I can see why he’d want you dead. You are . . . loathsome! A blemish on mankind. Misshapen, split-tongued, insane: death’s the best thing for you. Or locked up where natural men won’t have to look at you!’
The Ferenczy drew back a little, almost as if he were surprised at Thibor’s vehemence. He hung his lantern from a bracket, seated himself on a stone bench. ‘Natural men, did you say? Do you talk to me of nature? Ah, but there’s more in nature than meets the eye, my son! Indeed there is. And you think that I’m unnatural, eh? Well, the Wamphyri are rare, be sure, but so is the sabre-tooth. Why, I haven’t seen a mountain cat with teeth like scythes in . . . three hundred years! Perhaps they are no more. Perhaps men have hunted them down to the last. Aye, and it may be that one day the Wamphyri shall be no more. But if that day should ever come, believe me it shall not be the fault of Faethor Ferenczy. No, and it shall not be yours.’