The Vampyre by Tom Holland Page A

the ambush, and I caught a glint of bone in the sun. I was costumed like an Albanian pasha now, you see, all crimson and gold, very magnifique , and it’s hard to be a coward when you’re dressed like that. So I twirled my moustaches, and swaggered in my saddle, and felt myself the equal of any bandit in the world.
    â€˜It was late when we heard the waterfall’s roar, and knew that we had reached the Aheron. Ahead of the bridge, the road forked: one path led down, towards the village where I had stayed before; the other ever up. We took the second path; it was steep and narrow, winding through crags and littered boulders, while to our right, a chasm of blackness, yawned the gorge through which the Aheron flowed. I began to feel nervous, ridiculously, wretchedly nervous, as though the waters below me were chilling my soul, and even Viscillie, I noticed, seemed ill at ease. “We must hurry,” he muttered, glancing at the red-lined mountain peaks to the west. “It will be nightfall soon.” He drew out a knife. “Wolves,” he said, nodding at me. “ Wolves - and other beasts.”
    â€˜Ahead of us, in an unclouded blaze of light, the sun was disappearing fast. But even after it was gone, its heat remained, oppressive and thick, so that as the twilight deepened into night, the stars themselves seemed like prickles of sweat. The track began to wind more sharply upwards, through a forest of dark cypresses, their roots twisting and clutching at the rocks, their branches shadowing our path in black. Suddenly, Viscillie reined in his horse and held up his hand. I couldn’t hear anything, but then Viscillie pointed, and I saw, through a break in the trees, a gleam of something pale. I rode forwards; ahead of me was an ancient archway, its marble cast white by the moon, but crumbling, on either side of the path, into rubble and weeds. There was an inscription, barely legible, just above the arch: “This, O Lord of Death, is a place sacred to you . . .” - nothing more could be read. I glanced around: everything seemed still. “There’s nothing here,” I said to Viscillie, but he, whose eyes were trained to the night, shook his head and pointed up the path. Someone was walking there, his back to us, in the shadow of the rocks. I spurred my horse forwards, but still the figure didn’t look round, just continued walking with a relentless stride. “Who are you?” I asked, wheeling in my horse to confront the man. He said nothing, just stared ahead, and his face was shadowed by a coarse black hood. “Who are you?” I asked again, then leaned down to flick the hood back from the man’s face. I stared - and laughed. It was Gorgiou. “Why didn’t you say?” I asked. But still Gorgiou said nothing. Slowly, he looked up at me, and his eyes seemed without sight, glazed and torpid, sunk deep into his skull. No flicker of recognition crossed his face; instead, he turned, and my horse whinnied in sudden fear and backed away. Gorgiou crossed the path and went into the trees. I watched him disappear, his pace the same slow stride as before.
    â€˜Viscillie joined me, and his horse too seemed coltish and afraid. Viscillie kissed the blade of his knife. “Come, My Lord,” he whispered. “These ancient places are haunted by ghosts.”
    â€˜Our horses continued nervous, and it was only with an effort that we could force them to carry on. The path was widening now, as the rocks on one side began to fall away, while on the other a sheer cliff rose high above our heads. This was a promontory, I realised, jutting out between us and the Aheron; I stared up at it, but its summit was just a line of black against the silver of the stars, blotting out the moonlight so that we could scarcely see ahead. Reluctantly, our horses picked their way along the path, until the cliff grew less sheer and the moonlight returned. Ahead of us, the path rounded