by Brian Lumley
Safe from the men—mere men, most of them—who had put him here. For in his dreaming the wizened Thing had forgotten that those men were long dead. And their sons, dead. And theirs, and theirs …
The old Thing in the ground had lived for five hundred years, and as long again had lain undead in his unhallowed grave. Above him, in the gloom of a glade beneath stirless, snow-laden trees, the tumbled stones and slabs of his tomb told something of his story, but only the Thing himself knew all of it. His name had been … but no, the Wamphyri have no names as such. His host’s name, then, had been Thibor Ferenczy, and in the beginning Thibor had been a man. But that had been almost a thousand years ago.
The Thibor part of the Thing in the ground existed still, but changed, mutated, mingled and metamorphosed along with its vampire “guest.” The two were one now, inseparably fused; but in dreams that spanned a millennium, still Thibor could return to his roots, go back to the immensely cruel past …
In the very beginning he had not been a Ferenczy but an Ungar, though that was of no account now. His forefathers were farmers who came from a Hungarian princedom across the Carpathians to settle on the banks of the Dniester where it flowed down to the Black Sea. But “settling” was hardly the word for it. They had had to fight Vikings (the dreadful Varyagi) on the river, where they came exploring from the Black Sea, the Khazars and vassal Magyars from the steppes, finally the fierce Pechenegi tribes in their constant expansion west and northwards. Thibor had been a young man then, when at last the Pechenegi wiped out the rude settlement he called home and he alone survived. After that he’d fled north to Kiev.
Never much of a farmer, indeed, far more suited for war with his massive size—which in those days, when most men were small, made Thibor the Wallach something of a giant—in Kiev he sold himself into the service of Vladimir I. The Vlad made him a small Voevod or warrior chief and gave him a hundred men. “Go join my Boyars in the south,” he commanded. “Fend off and kill the Pechenegi, keep ’em from crossing the Ros, and by our new Christian God I’ll give you title and banner both, Thibor of Wallachia!” Thibor had gone to him when he was desperate, that much was clear.
In his dream, the Thing in the ground remembered how he’d answered: “Title and banner, keep them, my Lord—but only give me one hundred men more and I shall kill you a thousand Pechenegi before returning to Kiev. Aye, and I’ll bring you their thumbs to prove it!”
He got his hundred men; also, like it or not, his banner: a golden dragon, one forepaw raised in warning. “The dragon of the true Christ, brought to us by the Greeks,” Vlad told him. “Now the dragon watches over Christian Kiev—Russia itself—and it roars from your banner with the voice of the Lord! What mark of your own will you put on it?” On that same morning he had asked this question of half-a-dozen other fledgling defenders, five Boyars with their own followers and one band of mercenaries. All of them had taken a symbol to fly with the dragon. But not Thibor.
“I’m no Boyar, sire,” the Wallach had told him with a shrug. “That’s not to say my father’s house was not honourable, for it was, and built by a decent man—but in no way royal. No lord’s or prince’s blood flows in my veins. When I’ve earned myself a mark, then I’ll set it over your dragon.”
“I’m not sure I like you especially, Wallach.” The Vlad had frowned then, uneasy with this great, grim man before him. “Your voice sounds out perhaps a trifle loud from a heart as yet untried. But—” and he, too, had given a shrug, “—very well, choose a device for yourself when you return in triumph. And Thibor—bring me those thumbs or I’ll likely string you up by yours!” And that day at noon seven polyglot companies of men had set out from Kiev, reinforcements for the ensieged defensive positions on the Ros.
One year and one month later Thibor returned with nearly all of his men, plus another eighty recruited from peasants hiding in the foothills and valleys of the southern Khorvaty. He made no plea for audience but strode into the Vlad’s own church where he was at worship. He left his weary men outside and took in with him only one small sack that rattled, and approached Prince Vladimir Svyatoslavich at his prayers and waited for him to finish. Behind him Kiev’s civilian nobles were deathly silent, waiting for their prince to see him.
Finally the Vlad and his Greek monks turned to Thibor. The sight they saw was fearsome. Thibor had soil on him from the fields and forests; dirt was ingrained in him; he bore a freshly healed scar high on his right cheek to the middle of his jaw, which made a pale stripe of scar tissue that cut almost to the bone. Also, he had gone away as a peasant and returned something else entirely. Haughty as a hawk, with his nose slightly hooked under bushy eyebrows that very nearly came together in the middle, he gazed out of yellow, unblinking eyes. He wore moustaches and a scraggy, twisting black beard; also the armour of some Pechenegi chief, chased in gold and silver, and an earring set with a gemstone in the lobe of his left ear. He had shaved his head with the exception of black forelocks that hung one to each side, in the manner of certain nobles; and in all his mien, there was no sign that he knew he stood in a holy place or even considered his whereabouts.
“I know you now,” the Vlad hissed, “Thibor the Wallach. Don’t you fear the true God? Don’t you tremble before the cross of Christ? I was praying for our deliverance, and you—”
“And I have brought it to you.” Thibor’s voice was deep, doleful. He tipped out his sack onto the flags. The prince’s retinue and the nobles of Kiev where they stood back from him who ruled over them gasped and gaped. Bones clattered white in a heap at the Vlad’s feet.
“What?” he choked. “What?”
“Thumbs,” said Thibor. “I had the flesh boiled off them, lest their stink offend. The Pechenegi are driven back, trapped between the Dniester, the Bug and the sea. Your Boyar army hems them in. Hopefully they can deal with them without me and mine. For I have heard that the Polovtsy are rising like the wind in the east. Also, in Turkey-land, armies wax for war!”
“You have heard? You have heard? And are you some mighty Voevod, then? Do you set yourself up as the ears of Vladimir? And what do you mean, ‘you and yours?’ The two hundred men you marched with are mine!”
At that Thibor took a deep breath. He paced forward—then paused. Then he bowed low, if inelegantly, and said, “Of course they are yours, Prince. Also the four-score refugees I’ve gathered together and turned into warriors. All are yours. As for being your ears: if I have heard falsely, then strike me deaf. But my work is finished in the south and I thought you had more need of me here. Soldiers are few in Kiev this day, and her borders are wide …”
The Vlad’s eyes remained veiled. “The Pechenegi are at bay, you say—and do you give yourself credit for this?”
“In all modesty. This and more.”
“And you’ve brought my men back with you, without casualty?”
“A handful are fallen.” Thibor shrugged. “But I found eighty to replace them.”
“Show me.”
They went to the great doors, out onto the wide steps of the church. There in the square, Thibor’s men waited in silence, some upon horses but most afoot, all armed to the teeth and looking very fierce. They were the same sorry bunch the Wallach had taken away with him, but no longer sorry. His standard flew from three tall flagstaffs: the golden dragon, and upon its back a black bat with eyes of carnelian.
The Vlad nodded. “Your mark,” he commented, perhaps sourly. “A bat.”
“The black bat of the Wallachs, aye,” said Thibor.
One of the monks spoke up, “But atop the dragon?”
Thibor grinned at him wolfishly. “Would you have the dragon pissing on my bat?”
The monks took the prince aside while Thibor stood waiting. He could not hear what was said, but he’d imagined it often enough in times since:
“These men are utterly loyal to him! See how proud they stand beneath his banner?” the senior monk would have whispered in that sly Greek way. “It could be a nuisance.”
&nb
sp; And Vlad: “Does it trouble you? I have five times their number right here in the city.”
The Greek: “But these men have been tried in battle; they are warriors all!”
Vlad: “What are you saying? I should fear him? I’ve Varyagi blood in me and fear no man!”
Greek: “Of course you don’t. But … he sets himself above his station, this one. Can we not find him a task—him and a handful of his men—and keep the rest of them back here to bolster the city’s defences? This way, in his absence, their loyalty will surely swing more rightly to you.”
And Vladimir Svyatoslavich’s eyes narrowing more yet. Then—his nod of approval: “I have the very thing. Yes, and ! I believe you’re right—best to be rid of him. These Wallachs are a tricky lot. Far too insular …” And out loud to the Voevod: “Thibor, I’m honouring you tonight at the palace. You and five of your best. Then you can tell me all about your victories. But there’ll be ladies there, so see you’re washed and leave your armour in your lodgings and tents.”
With a stiff little bow Thibor backed off, went down the steps to his mount, led his men away. At his command, as they left the square, they rattled their weapons and gave a single, sharp, ringing shout: “Prince Vladimir!” Then they were gone into the autumn morning, gone into Kiev, called the City at the Edge of the Woods …
Despite the disturbance, the unknown intrusion, the Thing in the ground continued to dream. Night would soon fall, and Thibor was sensitive to night as a rooster is to the dawn, but for now he dreamed.
That night at the palace—a huge place with stone chimneys in every room, and wood fires blazing, sprinkled with aromatic resins—Thibor had worn clean but common clothes under a rich red robe taken from some high-ranking Pechenegi. His flesh was washed and perfumed, tanned like leather, and his forelocks freshly greased. He was an imposing sight. His officers, too, were spruce. Though they obviously stood in awe of him, still he spoke to them with some familiarity; but he was courteous to the ladies, attentive to the Vlad.
It was possible (so Thibor had later reckoned) that the prince found himself in two minds: the Wallach would seem to have proved himself a warrior, a Voevod indeed. By rights he should be made a Boyar, given lands of his own. A man will fight even harder if he fights to protect that which is his. But there was that sombre something about Thibor which the Vlad found disquieting. So perhaps his Greek advisors were right.
“Now tell me how you dealt with the Pechenegi, Thibor of Wallachia,” Vladimir finally commanded, when all were feasting. Their dishes were several: Greek sausages wrapped in vine leaves; joints roasted in the Viking fashion; goulashes steaming in huge pots. Meads and wines came by the gallon. All at table stabbed and speared with their knives at smoking meats; snort bursts of conversation would erupt now and then amidst the general clatter of eating. Thibor’s voice, though he hardly raised it at all, had carried over all of that. And gradually the great table had grown quieter.
“The Pechenegi come in parties or tribes. They are not like a mighty army; there is little of unity; they have their own chiefs who vie with each other. The earthworks and fortifications on the Ros at the edge of the wooded steppe have stopped them because they are not united. If they came as an army they could cross river and battlements both in a day, carrying all away before them. But they merely probe around our defences, contenting themselves with whatever they can pillage in short, sharp forays to east and west. This is how they sacked Kolomyya on the west flank. They crossed the Prut by day, crept forward in the forests, rested overnight and attacked at first light. It is their way. And so they gradually encroach.
“This is how I saw the situation: because the defences are there, our soldiers use them: we hide behind them. The earthworks act as a border. We have been content to say, ‘South of these works lies the territory of the Pechenegi, and we must keep him out.’ Wherefore the Pechenegi, barbarian that he is, in fact holds us in siege! I have sat on the walls of our forts and seen our enemies make camp, unafraid. Smoke from his fires goes up, all untroubled, because we don’t molest him on ‘his’ ground.
“When I left Kiev, Prince Vladimir, you said: ‘Fend off the Pechenegi, keep him from crossing the Ros.’ But I said, ‘Pursue the fiend and kill him!’ One day I saw a camp of some two hundred; they had their women, even their children with them! They were camped across the river, to the west, quite apart from the other encampments. I split my two hundred in half. Half went with me across the river in the dusk. We stole up on the Pechenegi fires. They had guards out but most of them were sleeping—and we cut their throats in the night without them ever knowing who killed them! Then we set about the camp—but all in silence. I had daubed my men in mud. Any man not daubed was Pechenegi. In the darkness we slew them, flitting from tent to tent. We were like great bats in the night, and it was very bloody.
“When the camp was awakened half were already dead. The rest gave chase. We led them back to the Ros; and them hounding us, eager to catch us at the river, all of them shouting and screaming their warcries! But we shouted and screamed not at all. At the river, on the Pechenegi side, my second hundred lay in waiting. They were daubed in mud. They struck not at their silent, muddy brothers but trapped the howling pursuers. Then we rose up, turned in upon the Pechenegi, slew them to a man. And we cut off their thumbs …” He paused.
“Bravo!” said Vladimir the prince, faintly.
“Another time,” Thibor continued, “we went to Kamenets which was under siege. Again I had half my men with me. The Pechenegi about the town saw us, gave chase. We led them into a steep-sided gulley where, after we had scrambled through, my other half rained down an avalanche upon them. I lost many thumbs that time, buried under the boulders—else I would have brought you back another sackful!”
Now there was almost total silence about the table. It was not so much the reporting of these deeds that impressed but the stony delivery, which lacked all emotion. When the Pechenegi had raided, raped and razed this man’s Ungar settlement, they had turned him into an utterly pitiless killer.
“I’ve had reports, of course,” Svyatoslavich broke the silence, “if somewhat vague until now and few and far between. But this is something to chew on. And so my Boyars have driven the Pechenegi back, you say? A recent turn of events? Perhaps they learned something from you, eh?”
“They learned that standing guard behind high walls achieves nothing!” said Thibor. “I spoke to them and said: ‘Summer is at an end. The Pechenegi far to the south are grown fat and idle from the little work they’ve had to do; they do not think we’ll come against them. They are building permanent settlements, winter homes for themselves. Like the Khazars before them, they are putting aside the sword in favour of the plough. If we strike now they’ll fall like grass beneath the scythe!’ Then, all the Boyars banded together, crossed the river, struck deep into the southern steppes. We killed the Pechenegi wherever we found them.
“But by then I had heard rumours of a greater peril in the making: to the east the Polovtsy are rising up! They spill over from the great steppes and deserts, expand westward—soon they’ll be at our doors. When the Khazars fell they left the way open for the Pechenegi. And after the Pechenegi? Which is why I thought—why I dared to think—that perhaps the Vlad would give me an army and send me east, to put down our enemies before they wax too strong …”
For long moments Prince Vladimir simply sat and stared at him from eyes half-lidded. Then he quietly said, “You’ve come a long way in a year and a month, Wallach …” And out loud, to his guests: “Eat, drink, talk! Honour this man. We owe him that much.” But as the feasting continued he got up, indicating that Thibor should walk with him. They went out into the grounds, into the cool autumn evening. The wood smoke was fragrant under the trees.
A little way from the palace, the prince paused. “Thibor, we’ll have to see about this idea of yours—this eastward invasion, for that’s what it would be—for I’m not sure we’re ready for that. It’s been tried before,
you know.” He nodded bitterly: “The Grand Prince himself tried it. First he tackled the Khazars—Svyatoslav ground them down and the Byzantines swept up their pieces—and then he had a go at Bulgaria and Macedonia. And while he was at it the nomads laid siege to Kiev itself! And did he pay for his zeal? Aye, however many sagas are written about him. Nomads sank him in the river rapids and made his skull into a drinking cup! He was hasty, you see? Oh, he got rid of the Khazars, all right, but only to let in the damned Pechenegi! And shall I be hasty too?”
The Wallach stood silent for a moment in the dusk. “You’ll send me back to the southern steppe, then?”
“I might, and I might not. I might stand you down from the fighting entirely, make you a Boyar, give you land and men to look after it for you. There’s a lot of good land here, Thibor.”
Thibor shook his head. “Then I’d prefer to return to Wallachia. I’m no farmer, Prince. I tried that and the Pechenegi came and made a warrior of me. Since then—all my dreams have been red ones. Dreams of blood. The blood of my enemies, the enemies of this land.”
“And what of my enemies?”
“They are the same. Only show them to me.”
“Very well,” said the Vlad, “I’ll show you one of them. Do you know the mountains to the west, which divide us from the Hungarians?”
“My fathers were Ungars,” said Thibor. “As for the mountains: I was born under them. Not in the west but in the south, in the land of the Wallachs, beyond the bend in the mountains.”
The prince nodded. “So you have some experience of mountains and their treachery. Good. But on my side of those peaks, beyond Galich, in that area called the Khorvaty after a certain people, there lives a Boyar who is … not my friend. I claim him as one who owes allegiance to me, but when I called in all my little princelings and Boyars he came not. When I invite him to Kiev he answers not. When I express a desire to meet with him he ignores me. If he is not my friend then he can only be my enemy. He is a dog that comes not to heel. A wild dog, and his home is a mountain fastness. Until now I’ve had neither the time, the inclination, nor the power to winkle him out, but—”
