by Brian Lumley
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 imagination. 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 windows 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.
As that idea dawned—that he was falling under some strange malaise or enticement—he drew himself more upright, forced himself to speak. “You may tell your master I’m a Wallach. Also that I come to speak of important things, of summonses and responsibilities.”
The man in the cape drew closer and the moon shone fully in his face. It was a man’s face after all and not a skull, but there was that which was wolfish about it, an almost freakish longness of jaws and ears. “My master supposed it might be so,” he said, a certain hard edge creeping into his voice. “But no matter—what will be will be, and you are but a messenger. Before you pass this point, however, which is a boundary, my master must be sure that you come of your own free will.”
Thibor had regained his self-control. “No one dragged me up here,” he snorted.
“But you were sent …?”
“A strong man may only be ‘sent’ where he wishes to go,” the Wallach answered.
“And your men?”
“We’re with Thibor,” said the hunched one. “Where he ventures, we venture—willingly!”
“Even to see one who sends out wolves to do his bidding,” Thibor’s second companion, the apish one, added.
“Wolves?” The stranger frowned and cocked his head on one side quizzically. He glanced sharply all about, then smiled his amusement. “My master’s dogs, you mean?”
“Dogs?” Thibor was certain he’d seen wolves. Now, however, the idea seemed ridiculous.
“Aye, dogs. They came out to walk with me, for it’s a fine night. But they’re not used to strangers. See, they’ve run off home.”
Thibor nodded, and eventually he said: “So, you’ve come to meet us half-way, then. To walk with us and show us the way.”
“Not I,” the other shook his head. “Arvos can do that well enough. I came only to greet you and to count your numbers—also to ensure that your presence here was not forced. Which is to say, that you came of your own free mind and will.”
“I say again,” Thibor growled, “who could force me?”
“There are pressures and there are pressures,” the other shrugged. “But I see you are your own man.”
“You mentioned our numbers.”
The man in the cape raised his eyebrows. They peaked like gables. “For your accommodation,” he answered. “What else?” And before Thibor could reply: “Now I must go on ahead—to make preparation.”
“I’d hate to crowd your master’s house,” said Thibor quickly. “Bad enough to be an unexpected guest, but worse far if others are obliged to vacate their rightful positions to make room for me.”
“Oh, there’s room enough,” the other answered. “And you were not entirely unexpected. As for putting others out: my master’s house is a castle, but it shelters fewer human souls than you have here.” It was as if he’d read Thibor’s mind and answered the question he’d found there.
Now he inclined his head towards the old Szgany. “Be warned, however, that the path along the cliff is loose and the way a little perilous. Be on your guard for rock falls!” And once more to Thibor he said, “Until later, then.”
They watched him turn and make off after his master’s “dogs” across the narrow, jumbled, boulder-strewn plain.
When he’d gone into the shadows, Thibor grabbed Arvos by the neck. “No retainers?” he hissed
into the old gypsy’s face. “No servants? What, and are you a simple liar or a very great liar? The Ferenczy could harbour an army up there!”
Arvos tried to snatch himself back and found the Wallach’s grip like iron on his throat. “A … a manservant or two,” he choked. “How was … was I to know? It’s been many a year …” Thibor released him, thrust him away.
“Old man,” he warned, “if you’d see another day, just be sure you guide us carefully along this perilous cliff path.”
And so they had crossed the stony depression to the cliff, and started up the narrow way carved in its sheer face …
Chapter Three
THE PATH CLUNG TO THE BLACK ROCK OF THE CLIFFS LIKE A silver snake under the moon. Its surface was wide enough to take a small cart, no more; but in places the rim had fallen away, and then the track narrowed to little more than the width of a man. And it was in just such narrow spots that the night breeze off the forests picked up to a bluster, seeming to tug at and threaten the men who toiled up like insects towards that unknown aerie which was their destination.
“How long is this damned path, anyway?” Thibor snarled at the Gypsy, after maybe half a mile of slow, careful climbing.
“The same distance again,” Arvos at once replied, “but steeper from now on. Once they brought carts up here, I’m told, but that was a hundred years or more ago and the way has not been well kept.”
“Huh!” Thibor’s apish aide snorted. “Carts? I wouldn’t bring goats up here!”
At that the other Wallach, the hunched one, gave a start and pressed more closely to the cliff. “I wouldn’t know about goats,” he whispered hoarsely, “but if I’m not mistaken we have company of sorts: the Ferenczy’s ‘dogs’!”
Thibor looked ahead to where the path vanished round the curve of the cliff. Silhouetted against the starry void of space, hump-shouldered wolf-shapes stood with muzzles lifted, ears pointed and eyes ferally agleam. But there were only two of them. Gasping his shock, then a harsh curse, Thibor looked back into the deepest shadows—and saw the other two; or rather, he saw their triangular moon-silvered eyes. “Arvos!” he growled, gathering his wits, reaching for the old gypsy. “Arvos!”
The sudden rumbling might well have been thunder, except the air was crisp and dry and what few clouds there were scudded rather than boiled; and thunder seldom makes the ground shudder beneath a man’s feet.
Thibor’s thin, hunched friend was hindmost, bringing up the rear at a point where the path was the merest ledge. It required but a step to bring him to safety. “Rock fall!” he cried hoarsely, making to leap forward. But as he sprang, so the boulders rained down and swept him away. It was as quick as that: he was there—arms straining forward, face gaping white in the light of the moon—and he was gone. He did not cry out: clubbed by boulders, doubtless he’d been unconscious or dead even as he fell.
When the last pebble and plume of dust had fallen and the rumbling was an echo, Thibor stepped to the rim and looked down. There was nothing to see, just darkness and the glint of the moon on distant rocks. Up and down the trail, of wolves there was no sign.
Thibor turned to where the old gypsy shivered and clung to the face of the cliff.
“A rock fall!” The old man saw the look on his face. “You can’t blame me for a rock fall. If he’d jumped instead of shouting his warning …”
Thibor nodded. “No,” he agreed, brows black as the night itself, “I can’t blame you for a rock fall. But from now on blame doesn’t come into it. From now on if there’s any problem at all—from whatever cause or quarter—I’ll just toss you off the cliff. That way, if I’m to die, I’ll know that you died first. For let’s have something clearly understood, old man. I don’t trust the Ferenczy, I don’t trust his ‘dogs,’ and I trust you least of all. There’ll be no further warnings.” He jerked his thumb up the path. “Lead on, Arvos of the Szgany—and nimble about it!”
Thibor did not think that his warning would carry much weight; even if it weighed on the gypsy, it certainly wouldn’t weigh on his master in the mountain. But neither was the Wallach a man to issue idle threats. Arvos the Szgany belonged to the Ferenczy, no doubt of that. And so, if more trouble was on the way from that quarter (Thibor was sure that the avalanche had been arranged) then he would see that it came to Arvos first. And trouble was coming: it waited in the defile where the cliff was split by a deep chasm, at the back of which sat the castle of the Ferenczy.
This was the sight they saw, Thibor and his simian Wallach friend, and the now sinister gypsy Arvos, when they reached the cleft. Back in the dim mists of time the mountains had convulsed, split apart. Passes had been formed through the ranges, of which this might have been one. Except that in this case the opening had not gone all the way through. The cliff whose face they’d traversed had led finally to a high crest which reared now a half mile away. The crest was split into twin peaks—like the ears of a bat or a wolf. And there, straddling the defile where it narrowed to a fissure—clinging to both opposing faces and meeting centrally in a massive arch of masonry—there sat the manse of the Ferenczy. As before, two windows were lighted, like eyes under the sharp black ears, and the fissure below seemed to form a gaping mouth.
“No wonder he runs wolves, this one!” Thibor’s squat companion grunted. His words acted like an invocation.
They came down the cliff-hugging track from the castle, and not just four of them. A flood of them, a wall of grey fur studded with yellow jewel eyes. And they came at the lope, full of purpose.
“A pack!” cried Thibor’s friend.
“Too many to fight off,” the Voevod shouted back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arvos start forward, towards the oncoming wolves. He reached out a leg, tripped the old gypsy.
“Grab him!” Thibor commanded, drawing his sword.
The squat Wallach lifted Arvos as easily as he would lift the dead, dry branch of a tree, swung him out over the abyss and held him there. Arvos howled his terror. The wolves, scant paces away, came to an uneasy halt. Their leaders threw up pointed muzzles, howled mournfully. It was for all the world as if they waited upon some command. But from whom?
Arvos stopped his yelling, turned his head and gazed wide-eyed at the distant castle. His gullet bobbed spastically with his gulping.
The man who held him glanced from the wolves to Thibor. “What now? Do I drop him?”
The huge Wallach shook his head. “Only if they attack,” he answered.
“You think the Ferenczy controls them, then? But … is it possible?”
“It seems our quarry has powers,” said Thibor. “Look at the gypsy’s face.”
Arvos’ gaze had become fixed. Thibor had seen that look before, when the old man used the frying-pan mirror down in the village: as if a film of milk had been painted on each eyeball.
Then the Gypsy spoke: “Master?” Arvos’ mouth scarce moved. His words were the merest breath, vying with the mountain breeze at first but rapidly growing louder. “Master? But Master, I have always been your faithful—” He paused suddenly, as if cut short, and his filmed eyes bulged. “No, master, no!” His voice was now a shriek; he clawed at the hands and brawny arms that alone sustained him against gravity, shifted his once more clear gaze to the ledge and the wolves where they gathered themselves.
Thibor had almost felt the surge of power emanating from the distant castle, had almost tasted the rejection which had surely doomed the Szgany to his death. The Ferenczy was finished with him, so why delay it?
The leading pair of wolves, massive beasts, crept forward in unison, muscles bunching.
“Drop him!” Thibor rasped. Utterly pitiless, he urged, “Let him die—and then fight for your own life! The ledge is narrow—side by side we’ve a chance.”
His companion tried to shake the old man loose but couldn’t. The gypsy clung like thorns to his arms, fought desperately to swing his legs back onto the ledge. But already it was too late for both men. Heedless of their own lives, the pair of great g
rey wolves sprang as one creature, as if triggered. Not at Thibor—not even looking at him—but directly at his squat comrade where he tried to break Arvos’ grip. They struck together, dead weight against a lurching double-silhouette, and bore the apish Wallach, Arvos, and themselves out over the rim and down into darkness.
It was beyond Thibor. He gave it only a moment’s thought. The pack leaders had sacrificed themselves in answer to a call he had not heard—or had he? But in any case, they’d died willingly for a cause he could not possibly comprehend. He still lived, however, and he wouldn’t sell his life cheaply.
“All of you, then!” he howled at the pack, almost in its own tongue. “Come on, who’ll be first to taste my steel?” And for long moments not a beast of them moved.
Then—
Then they did move, but not forward. Instead they turned, slunk away, paused and looked back over lean shoulders.
“Cowards!” Thibor raged. He took a pace towards them; they slunk further away, looked back. And the Wallach’s jaw dropped. He knew—suddenly knew—that they weren’t here to harm him, only to ensure that he came on alone!
For the first time he began to understand something of the true power of the mysterious Boyar, knew why the Vlad wanted him dead. And now, too, he wished he hadn’t scoffed so much at the warnings of his court informant. Of course, he could always go back to the village and bring up the rest of his men—couldn’t he? Behind him, pale tongues lolling, a crush of furry bodies crowded the track cut from the face of the cliff.
Thibor took a pace their way; they didn’t move an inch, but their dog grins at once turned to snarls. A pace in the other direction, and they crept after. He had an escort.