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Isn't it so?'
The other shook his wolfish head. 'So little faith,' he rumbled, almost sadly.
'But we shall see, we shall see. Now tell me, what do you know of the
Wamphyri?'
'Nothing. Or very little. A legend, a myth. Freakish men who hide in remote
places and spring out on peasants and small children to frighten them.
Occasionally dangerous: murderers, vampires, who suck blood in the night and
swear it gives them strength. "Viesczy", to the Russian peasant;
"Obour", to the Bulgar; "Vrykoulakas" in Greek-land. They are names which
demented men attach to themselves. But there is something common to them in
all tongues: they are liars and madmen!'
'You do not believe? You have looked upon me, seen the wolves which I command,
the terror
I excite in the hearts of the Vlad and his priests, but you do not believe.'
'I've said it before and I'll say it again,' Thibor gave his chains a last,
frustrated jerk. 'The men
I've killed have all stayed dead! No, I do not believe.'
The other gazed at his prisoner with burning eyes. 'That is the difference
between us,' he said.
'For the men kill, if it pleases me to kill them in a certain way, do not
stay dead. They become
I
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undead...' He stood up, stepped flowingly close. His upper lip curled back at
one side, displayed a downward curving fang like a needle-sharp tusk. Thibor
looked away, avoided the man's breath, which was like poison. And suddenly the
Wallach felt weak, hungry, thirsty. He was sure he could sleep for a week.
'How long have I been here?' he asked.
'Four days.' The Ferenczy began to pace to and fro. 'Four nights gone you
climbed the narrow way. Your friends were unfortunate, you remember? I fed
you, gave you wine; alas, you found my wine a little strong! Then, while you,
er, rested, my familiar creatures took me to the fallen ones where they lay.
Faithful old Arvos, he was dead. Likewise your scrawny Wallach comrade, broken
by sharp boulders. My children wanted them for themselves, but I had another
use for them and so
had them dragged here. This one -,' he nudged the blocky Wallach with a booted
foot '- he lived.
He had fallen on Arvos! He was a little broken, but alive. I could see he
wouldn't last till morning, and I needed him, if only to prove a point. And
so, like the "myth", the "legend", I fed upon him. I
drank from him, and in return gave him something back; I took of his blood,
and gave a little of mine. He died. Three days and nights are passed by; that
which I gave him worked in him and a certain joining has occurred. Also, a
healing. His broken parts are being mended. He will soon rise up as one of the
Wamphyri, to be counted in the narrow ranks of The Elite, but ever in thrall
to me!
He is undead.' The Ferenczy paused.
'Madman!' Thibor accused again, but with something less of conviction. For the
Ferenczy had spoken of these nightmares so easily, with no obvious effort at
contrivance. He could not be what he claimed to be - no, of course not - but
certainly he might believe that he was.
The Ferenczy, if he heard Thibor's renewed accusation of madness, ignored or
refused to acknowledge it. '"Unnatural", you called me,' he said. 'Which is to
claim that you yourself know something of nature. Am I correct? Do you
understand life, the "nature" of living, growing things?'
'My fathers were farmers, aye,' Thibor grunted. 'I've seen things grow.'
'Good! Then you'll know that there are certain principles, and that sometimes
they seem illogical. Now let me test you. How say you: if a man has a tree of
favourite apples, and he fears the tree might die, how may he reproduce it and
retain the flavour of the fruit?'
'Riddles?'
'Indulge me, pray.'
Thibor shrugged. 'Two ways: by seed and by cutting. Plant an apple, and it
will grow into a tree.. But for the true, original taste, take cuttings and
nurture them. It is obvious: what are cuttings but continuations of the old
tree?'
'Obvious?' the Ferenczy raised his eyebrows. 'To you, perhaps. But it would
seem obvious to me - and to most men who are not farmers - that the seed
should give the true taste. For what is the seed but the egg of the tree, eh?
Still, you are of course correct, the cutting gives the true taste. As for a
tree grown from seed: why, it is spawned of the pollens of trees other than
the original! How then may its fruit be the same? "Obvious" - to a
tree-grower.'
'Where does all this lead?' Thibor was surer than ever of the Ferenczy's
madness.
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