'It was not an unfamiliar sound – the sound of horses' hooves galloping – but on that cold, barren mountainside, it was incongruous. The Wallachians with me were as bewildered as I as to its cause, but it soon became clear that it came from behind us – from further up the mountain – and that it was coming closer.
'The Turks hadn't heard it, or didn't care, and had continued to advance. Now they were in range. Shots fired out and two men near to me fell. I fired back with my musket and brought one down. All the time, the sound of hooves became more thunderous. I turned to look for what was causing it, but still there was nothing to see. The Turks were well armed and had no need to engage us hand to hand. They had stopped and begun to pick us off with their muskets. A Wallachian in front of me was hit and fell back on to me, knocking me over. I twisted and was facing back uphill just as the horsemen leapt into view.
'Zmyeevich came first, clearing the ridge that had hidden his approach atop a white stallion. He was terrifying – his eyes filled with hateful lust and his fangs bared. Immediately on his tail came ten others; Oprichniki, as we've called them – vampires of a lower caste than Zmyeevich. They galloped past – in some cases over – the Wallachians and down towards the Turks, and I remember noticing that, terrifying though the horsemen were, they carried neither swords nor spears – nothing with which they might attack the opposition as they charged them. It was only later that I made the association with Zmyeevich's wolf-like teeth. The Turks themselves might have laughed. Mounted though these new arrivals were, they were utterly outnumbered – and outgunned. You wouldn't have expected more than two of them to make it across the open space between us and to penetrate the enemy line. I certainly didn't, but then I didn't know them.
'The first volley from the Turks ripped through their bodies, but had no effect on their charge. More guns fired, but still the lesson hadn't been learned. Then some began to believe the evidence of their own eyes and realized that bullets would do nothing to stop these creatures. Now they aimed at the horses – flesh-and-blood horses that fell quickly under the hail of musket-shot. But it was too late. The horses had done their job and carried the vampires into the midst of the enemy. As each horse fell from under its rider, the rider would land on his feet and continue to run, falling upon the Turks in front of him.
'I couldn't see what they were doing. We could hear men screaming, but as each was attacked, his torch was dropped or extinguished and so we could see nothing of their fate. The men around me cowered in fear, and I decided that there was little to be gained by being heroic. Much like that time we watched the Oprichniki at work on the road to Borodino, weeks ago, we heard the shouts and screams of the Turks become fewer and more desperate. I expect you felt as I did, Aleksei, a mixture of horror and awe at the brutality and efficiency of the killers.'
I said nothing. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I had felt both those things, but any such emotions had long since been replaced in me by the purest form of loathing.
'With practised speed, the few remaining cries faded to nothing. The surviving Wallachians and I stayed frozen in terror, their superstitious fear infecting me and leaving me bewildered as to what to do. I soon overcame it and tried to find out from the others what they knew of what had happened, but it was useless. The French-speaker among them lay dead, a Turkish bullet through his eye. Even if I had been able to communicate with the rest of them, I doubt whether I could have broken through their terror. Although, as I was already beginning to sense, the horsemen we'd seen were in some way related to the saviour they had spoken of, these peasants seemed to greet his arrival more with fear than with joy.
'I strode out on my own towards where the Turks had been. Amongst the trees ahead, I caught sight of crouching, scurrying shadows and heard sounds that lay halfway between the language of men and the grunts of animals. Then I heard a loud cry. I was sure it was in Turkish, but it was quickly silenced, to be replaced by more of the snorting and sniggering that I had heard before. I wandered through the trees for several minutes, stumbling across dozens of Turkish bodies, each with the same bloody wound to the neck – many with other wounds beyond that – but still I came face to face with none of the horsemen. Then I stopped and listened.
'The noises I had been hearing had subsided and all I could now hear around me was the hoarse, shallow breathing of animals preparing to attack – all around me. I had walked into their midst and now I was encircled. I put my hand to my sword, knowing even then that it would be of little use. There was the sound of a footstep close behind. I turned and found myself face to face with Zmyeevich.
'He spoke, but I didn't understand the language. I did notice the foulness of his breath; like a swamp. He spoke again, in a different language, but again, not one I understood. Then he spoke in English: "Good evening." I rolled off a stock English phrase to say that I was Russian. He paused, trying to formulate a sentence, then smiled and said in fluent French, "In that case, you speak French."
'I told him I did, and he led me away. Only then did I notice that he was dragging behind him, like a cloak that he was too lazy to throw over his shoulder, the inert body of a Turk. As we walked on, he turned and casually discarded the body behind him, into the centre of the circle of creatures that had surrounded me. Behind us I could hear them closing in on what their master had flung them.
'We went back towards where I had left the Wallachians. In the time since I had left them, they'd plucked up some courage and were now standing, discussing what to do next. On our arrival – on Zmyeevich's arrival – they flung themselves to the ground once more and cowered. Zmyeevich paid them no attention. We sat some way away from them and talked.
'Fascination overcame both fear and good manners, and I asked him the most obvious question directly: "What are you?"
'"You are Russian," he said, "and so you will understand these things. We are vampires – voordalaki, in your tongue." I had no need to express surprise. "And we are patriots," he continued.
'"You're all Wallachian?" I asked him.
'"Mostly, at the moment; a few from Moldavia. We are an ever-changing band – except in terms of leadership," he added, with a slight bow. "But at the moment, we are all from… around here."
'By now, his comrades had begun to emerge from the forest.
The ten of them had formed a low, huddled group, not unlike the formation of my own Wallachian comrades, but there was something in their midst that was catching the attention of this new group. I could guess only too well what it was.
'"They don't all seem like you," I said.
'"And they don't seem like you," he replied, wafting his hand towards the Wallachians. "There are different classes of men in all societies." He turned to face me directly. "And that is why it is such a rare privilege to sit here and talk with you."
'"So I presume you saw us at the castle," I said.
'"I did, but I had already known you were here and known what we would do."
'"And you've lived there four hundred years?"
'"Not quite yet," he replied with a wistful smile that little suited him, "but soon."
'"And the others – are they all as old?"
'"Oh, no," he replied scornfully. "To live to my age requires skill, intellect, foresight. These are not the abilities one finds – or seeks – in a foot soldier. They are older than you to be sure, but not by a great deal."