No sooner was my hand upon him than the gypsy caved in! All of him, collapsing inwards like a husk, like last year’s leaves when stepped upon! Beneath the cage of ribs, which also powdered away, there was nothing. The face likewise crumbled into dust, set free by the body’s avalanche; that old, grey, unlovely countenance, smoking into ruin! Limbs were last to go, deflating even as I crouched there, like ruptured wineskins! In the merest moment he was a heap of dust and small shards of bone and old leather; and all still clad in his coarse native clothes.
Fascinated, jaw lolling, I continued to stare at what had been Arvos. I remembered that worm of a finger coming loose from Faethor’s hand and going into him. And was that worm responsible for this? Had that small fleshy part of Faethor eaten him away so utterly? If so, what of the worm itself? Where was it now?
My questions were answered on the instant: ‘Consumed, Thibor, aye,’ said a dull, echoing voice. ‘Gone to feed the one which now burrows in the earth at your feet!’ Out from the dungeon’s shadows stepped an old Wallach comrade of mine, a man all chest and arms, with short stumpy legs. Ehrig had been this one’s name — when he was a man!
For looking at him now, I saw nothing in him that was known to me. He was like a stranger with a strange aura about him. Or maybe not so strange, for indeed I thought I knew that emanation. It was the morbid presence of the Ferenczy. Ehrig was now his!
‘Traitor!’ I told him, scowling. ‘The old Ferenczy saved your life, and now in gratitude you’ve given that life to him. And how many times, in how many battles, have I saved your life, Ehrig?’
‘I long since lost count, Thibor,’ the other huskily answered, his eyes round as saucers in a gaunt, hollow face. ‘Enough that you must know I would never willingly turn against you.’
‘What? Are you saying you are still my man?’ I laughed, however scathingly. ‘But I can smell the Ferenczy on you! Or perhaps you’ve unwillingly turned against me, eh?’ And still more harshly I added, ‘Why should the Ferenczy save you, eh, except to serve him?’
‘Didn’t he explain anything to you?’ Ehrig came closer. ‘He didn’t save me for himself. I’m to serve you — as best I may — after he departs this place.’
‘The Ferenczy is mad!’ I accused. ‘He has beguiled you, can’t you see? Have you forgotten why we came here? We came to kill him! But look at you now: gaunt, dazed, puny as an infant. How may one such as you serve me?’
Ehrig stepped closer still. His great eyes were very nearly vacant, unblinking. Nerves in his face and neck jumped and twitched as if they were on strings. ‘Puny? You misjudge the Ferenczy’s powers, Thibor. What he put in me healed my flesh and bones. Aye, and it made me strong. I can serve you as well as ever, be sure. Only try me.’
Now I frowned, shook my head in a sudden amaze. Certain of his words made sense, went some little way towards cooling my furious thoughts. ‘By now, by rights, you should indeed be dead,’ I agreed. ‘Your bones were broken, aye, and your flesh torn. Are you saying that the Ferenczy is truly the master of such powers? I remember now he said that when you recovered you would be in thrall to him. But to him, d’you hear? So how is it that you stand here and tell me I am still your lord and leader?’
‘He is the master of many powers, Thibor,’ he answered. ‘And indeed I am in thrall to him — to a point. He is a vampire, and now I too am a vampire of sorts. And so are you. .
‘I?’ I was outraged. ‘I am my own man! He did something to me, granted — put that which was of himself into me, which was surely poisonous — but here I stand unchanged. You, Ehrig, my once friend and follower, may well have succumbed, but I remain Thibor of Wallachia!’