Most of the old road had washed away, and the new path up the mountains was little more than a sheep-track. San-Ragoz had skirted the three Moorish work-camps he had seen since he left Usca; they had been busy places, where slaves labored to cut down trees for the Moors' ships as well as reducing the places where enemies might hide. He was still a considerable distance from Mont Calcius and already he was certain he would not find all he sought in that place. Still he kept on, trusting he would find some remnants of the village, and perhaps his native earth to restore him. As the mountain became steeper, he once again entered the trees, for the Moorish workers had not come this far up the slopes for their trees.
His hunting revealed that the game was much reduced in the forest, and he supposed the Moors had been feeding themselves from the woods; he supposed the wolves and cats had been driven out, as had the bear. Still, there were sheep and goats to be had, and he chose carefully, leaving the drained carcases near small farmsteads or religious houses as he continued upward. He was circumspect in his journey, traveling at night, and taking precautions to bring no attention on himself; this slowed his progress but gave him the opportunity to gauge the changes of the last century. There were far fewer people in the mountains than had been there a hundred years before; he attributed this to the privations brought by invasion. The few villages he had seen were largely deserted, many marked with crosses as if to ward off the followers of Mohammed.
A few evenings later, when he was roughly ten thousand paces from Mont Calcius, he came upon something that perplexed him: there was an ancient funereal barrow, and in the arch marking it stood a large cup filled with coagulated blood. Approaching it, he quickly ascertained the blood came from horses. It had not been there very long-only a few insects had discovered it-but it had been put there with ceremony, and San-Ragoz decided that it was an offering: who had left it and to what purpose? He recalled Csimenae and the horse-skulls over the village gates. Had the people in the mountains resumed their worship of horse-spirits? The puzzle haunted him as he continued on through the night; he noticed how still the woods were-game was thin and what remained was nervously alert. Who else was abroad in the forest, that the animals went in fear of them? Robber bands might account for it, yet he was not convinced that they alone could account for the missing game.
When he found a second cup set out in a ruin, he began to worry, for whatever the blood was intended to appease, it was more frightening than the Moors. He walked around the small clearing with its broken stones and hollowed boulders, taking stock of all the impressions the place gave him. Moonlight dappled the worn stones and limned the cup where it stood within an arch cut into the old stones. There were broken urns scattered about the clearing, and bits of bone were strewn beneath the arch where the cup stood. The site was very old; it had been made before the Romans came, and until very recently had been all but forgotten. Yet the cup was of metal, good-sized and well-made, and the blood was less than a day old.
San-Ragoz lingered in the clearing for a good while, hoping to learn more about it; only the tug of coming dawn sent him to find a place where he could spend his day. Reluctantly he moved into the forest again, taking care to go silently as he circled the clearing. He chose the deep overhang of a rocky outcropping not too far from the clearing, and he made sure he was not so far under the rock that he could not hear any unusual noises that might come from the clearing. As he sank into his vampire-slumber, he listened for the call of birds that usually greeted the sun; this morning the immediate forest was silent.
Around mid-day he was wakened by voices from the clearing; keeping to the shadow of the boulder, he moved as near to the clearing as he could without entering direct sunlight.
"...and renew by blood," a shepherd was chanting, two other men standing with him. By the look of them, they were woodsmen, for both carried axes and saws.
"The protection of our own," said the two.
"To claim the Holy Blood, we give it you," said the shepherd. He held up another metal cup, not so fine as the one they had removed from the arch, but still of good quality and size.
"This we promise." The woodsmen laid their hands on the cup as the shepherd set it where the other had been.
"Tonight you shall feed elsewhere." The shepherd stepped back from the cup.
"Tonight you shall feed elsewhere," the woodsmen repeated.
San-Ragoz listened closely, trying to discern their intention by this rite.
"Spare us that we may serve you," the three said together as they backed to the edge of the clearing.
"I have a goat to leave out," said the older woodsman just as the shepherd was about to turn away.
"Good," said the shepherd, giving the woodsman his attention. "They had three of my flock last night. I cannot lose any more and feed my family."
There was an awkward silence among the three, and then the older woodsman said, "Since they took my younger daughter, it has been easier."
"It isn't wise to speak of those who have been taken," said the younger woodsman.
"It isn't wise to speak of any of them at all," said the older woodsman.
"I do not want to sacrifice my children as well as my sheep," said the shepherd. "Better to give them the flock than-" He stopped abruptly.
"They may take all," said the younger woodsman.
"If we had more horses," the older woodsman declared.
"It would only delay them," said the shepherd, fear and disgust making his voice harsh.
"Then why do we bother?" asked the younger woodsman.
"To buy time," said the older. "They will take others before they take us and ours so long as we prove our devotion."
"The Moors will deal with them, when they come to cut down our trees," said the shepherd: he was fidgeting now.
"That will not be for a while. They are still far down the mountains," said the older woodsman.
"And when they come, we will have to leave or turn carpenters," said the younger.
"That is for later," the shepherd said. "For now, we must deal with the night ones." He crossed himself. "They have kept us safe from the Moors and the Gardingi before them. It is the pact and they will honor it so long as we do."
"And so we will," said the younger woodsman. "Tomorrow I will bring the cup."
"Good," said the shepherd, shifting the one he held from hand to hand. "What blood?"
"We will butcher a shoat. There should be enough blood." He sounded uneasy.
"Well enough," said the shepherd, and swung around on his heel, going away from the other two as if he was too anxious to remain in this place for long.
"He fears for his woman," said the older woodsman.
"With good cause," said the younger; he coughed and stared off into the forest.
"Well, tomorrow," said the older.
"Yes. Tomorrow," the younger agreed before he strode off, walking rapidly.
The older woodsman lingered a moment, then he, too, left the clearing.
San-Ragoz emerged from the shadows, for the moment ignoring the discomfort he felt in the sunlight. How he missed his native earth in the soles of his houseauz! He shook his head impatiently as he went back to the clearing, disliking the foreboding that had begun to intrude on his thoughts. The ritual he had witnessed was not intended to rouse old gods for the protection of the people in the mountains, it was designed to placate a danger that was far more imminent than the Moors, a danger that was linked with blood. His strength was fading rapidly, leached by the sun; he stumbled back to the shelter of the boulder and tried to resume his rest. Sleep eluded him, for he kept casting back to what he had heard, and what it implied grew increasingly plain to him. "She cannot have been so reckless," he muttered as the forest fell into twilight and the creatures of the day surrendered the woods to the creatures of the night. Now that it was dark, San-Ragoz climbed to the top of the boulder and used this vantage-point to look out on the forest, his night-seeing eyes penetrating the deepest gloom.
There was laughter in the dusk, light and youthful; four young men came into the clearing. None was older than fourteen, and all four of them were dressed in peculiar assortments of garments, some of them Moorish, but most in the style of past years, as if their clothes were trophies or souvenirs. The apparent leader ambled over to the cup, sniffed at it and shook his head. "They are forgetting how to honor us."
The laughter came again as one of the four called out, "Aulutiz, we will have to remind them what we require."
All four laughed again, and the sound was not wholesome.
Aulutiz! the name rang in San-Ragoz's memory: that infant Csimenae had been so determined to save. There could be no doubt that they were the same, not with what he sensed of the young men, who had been young men for decades. The ritual the shepherd and woodsmen had performed put the seal upon his convictions. He came down from his perch, moving silently toward the four young men. He realized it was folly to challenge them, so he entered the clearing slowly, his attention focused on the leader; he was hungry for conversation, not conflict. He stood still, letting the four take notice of him in their own time.
One of the youths tugged at the leader's sleeve and pointed to San-Ragoz, whispering something before he stepped back.
"A stranger in the place of Holy Blood," said Aulutiz mockingly. He strolled toward San-Ragoz. "A pilgrim, by the look of him," he remarked to his companions. "With nothing to offer us but what we want."
Again the malign laughter sounded in the night.
San-Ragoz said nothing as he watched the dark-haired young man come toward him, When Aulutiz was an arm's-length from him, San-Ragoz said. "You are from Mont Calcius?"
Aulutiz stared at hearing the language of his people. "Yes," he said curtly. "How do you know?"
"I was in that place, some years ago," San-Ragoz told him calmly.
"Not recently," Aulutiz corrected him. "I do not know you. I know everyone who lives in this region."
"No, you do not know me," San-Ragoz agreed. "I have not been here recently." He made no move as Aulutiz circled around him, taking stock of what he saw.
"Who are you?" The question came from behind him.
"Sanct' Germain," San-Ragoz answered.
This time the laughter was incredulous. "He left long ago. He is dead." He rounded on San-Ragoz. "Do you say you are dead?"
"As dead as I was when I came here," said San-Ragoz. He turned to face Aulutiz. "You were still an infant, as I recall."
"You are not Sanct' Germain," said Aulutiz. "You look like a beggar. Sanct' Germain had horses and mules, and a servant. You cannot be him."
"Not just at present, no I am not." San-Ragoz said easily, his full concentration on the young-appearing man. He decided against giving him the name he currently used.
"This is a disguise, then?" Aulutiz suggested sarcastically.
"In a manner of speaking," San-Ragoz said.
Aulutiz shrugged. "My mother said you died."
"And so I did," San-Ragoz said with a cordial nod. "Thirty-seven centuries ago." He gave the four a short while to consider this.
"You are lying," Aulutiz accused, his jaw thrust out.
"I do not lie," San-Ragoz responded, his voice level as he contemplated the four.
Aulutiz continued to walk around San-Ragoz, his flinty eyes showing his age and nature if nothing else of him did. "Where have you been?"
"Away from here," said San-Ragoz, making no effort to appease the others.
"Why?" Aulutiz asked harshly. "You can find all you need in these mountains."
"Vampires become too obvious if they remain in one place too long." San-Ragoz paused. "Or if they gather in groups."
"So you say." Aulutiz howled his amusement. "Well. My mother will be surprised."
"She is still here?" San-Ragoz asked, more shocked than he expected to be.
"Where else should she be?" Aulutiz demanded. "This is her native earth. And mine. And theirs." He belatedly indicated the other three. "We are all hers."
"Hers?" San-Ragoz repeated as the whole implication sank into him. "Do you mean she brought you to her life?"
"Certainly," said Aulutiz contemptuously as if any other possibility were beneath his consideration. "She brought all of us to her life." This was a boast, and he smiled.
"She?" The enormity of the act shook him. "How could she?"
"If you are Sanct' Germain, you know." Aulutiz held up his hand in defiance.
"You say your mother brought you to her life," San-Ragoz repeated, his incredulity increasing. "How did she accomplish your change?"
"I drank her blood; what else should I do? So have all the others." He glared at San-Ragoz. "You had her drink yours."
San-Ragoz nodded numbly. "That I did." He could not think of anything more to say; he was too caught up in the tangle of his emotions: it was appalling to realize that Csimenae had done something so unthinkable to her child.
"What do you expect of her?" He folded his arms and faced San-Ragoz, his flint-colored eyes arrogant. "She has made this place ours."
One of the three sighed. "How long do we bother with this?"
"I say we hunt," seconded another. "This fellow is nothing if we do not feed."
"There is no point in it," said Aulutiz in disgust. "He has nothing for us." He turned on his heel, walking away from San-Ragoz. "Come. It is time we were on our way. There will be something left out for us, or we can claim what we want."
"Before you go," San-Ragoz called out. "How many of you are there?"
"You mean vampires?" Aulutiz asked. "Oh, forty or so." He signaled the others and led the way into the forest.
Remaining where he stood, San-Ragoz thought over what he had been told. Forty or so! This was the most dreadful revelation yet. No wonder the living called this region the place of Holy Blood: they would not intend the appellation ironically, no matter how richly it was deserved. He began to pace, his consternation increasing with every step. What had happened here in the years he had been gone? How could Csimenae allow so many vampires to be created? For he had to assume she had permitted it to happen: she had shown herself prepared to keep her position as village leader on her son's behalf. If she had made her son a vampire, she must have consented in the creation of the rest, directly or indirectly. But forty vampires! All the game in the forest would not be sufficient to feed them in these lean times, and every living human for many thousands of paces around would be in danger from them. Better to face ravening wolves in winter than have more than three vampires in one region-to have forty was catastrophic, and not for the living alone, but for the vampires. He tried to figure out what Csimenae had hoped to gain by this folly, and was left perplexed. He told himself that Aulutiz might have exaggerated the number, yet even half that amount posed a threat of such magnitude that San-Ragoz found it staggering. He halted in front of the cup of blood and shook his head. How much longer, he wondered, would the living be willing to extend themselves for vampires? Eventually they would refuse to accommodate, and then there would be carnage.
A breaking branch brought him out of his hideous reverie. Lifting his head, he attuned himself to the forest. He sensed a boar nearby, and he pondered for a moment going in pursuit of it; he was too distressed to have any heart for hunting; what else might he find if he went after the animal? He listened as the boar made its way through the undergrowth, then trundled off into the depths of the woods.
Deciding that he would spend another night without feeding, San-Ragoz started toward Mont Calcius-he knew he had to find Csimenae, to discover why she had done what she had done, and to try to persuade her to abandon so disastrous a course. He could not bring himself to believe he might fail in his efforts; he felt very much a stranger in unfriendly territory. The forest around him was no longer familiar, and so he went carefully, listening for every sound, aware of the vitality of the night.
By the time he reached Mont Calcius, night was almost over; the first birds were singing and the penned animals were growing restless. He circled the village, noticing that the olive orchard was smaller than before, and the sheepfold was larger; one of the out-buildings had fallen into ruin and the creamery showed a tattered roof. The village itself seemed to have weathered the last century badly-many of the buildings inside the walls were entirely roofless, and others showed signs of neglect. Whatever had become of the place, it had not been to the benefit of those still living there. He noticed an old building at the far end of the olive trees and for an instant considered hiding there for the day. Almost at once he decided against anything so obvious; anyone searching for vampires would know all the hiding places near villages and farmsteads, and during the day he-and all his kind-would be vulnerable. He went back into the forest and finally came upon a fallen shelter that had once protected logs from rain and wind. The bark and shavings made a rough bed, but he was glad to have it as he settled in for the day, and to be engulfed in torpor until sunset.
The woman minding the gate was marked by a life of drudgery; her hair was already veined with white, and her face was wrinkled although she could not have been more than twenty. There was no one else about; only the torches burning along the street hinted at other occupants of Mont Calcius. The woman moved nearer to the torch next to the gate; she glared at San-Ragoz, her brows drawn down in wariness as he approached. "Stop there, outsider." Her accent was somewhat changed from the one Sanct' Germain had learned, but he was able to understand her well enough to converse.
San-Ragoz did as she ordered him. "I am a pilgrim," he said.
"You are lost," she corrected him.
"Perhaps," he answered, and waited.
"You must be, to have come here." She studied him, making note of his self-possessed demeanor at such variance with his clothing.
"I speak your tongue: how can I be lost?" He did not quite smile but there was a softening of his eyes.
She frowned. "We have nothing to offer you. There is no inn, and no one here receives strangers into their houses. As you should know," she added in a testy manner.
"A wise precaution in such times," he agreed.
"And yet, you are outside this gate." She very deliberately looked away from him.
"I am on this path. I seek a way through the mountains, one that does not put me in the way of the Caliph's soldiers." He did his best to look reassuring in his ragged, dirty clothing. "I do not want to travel the obvious roads."
"We cannot help you. And I must warn you to leave this region as quickly as you can. The Caliph's soldiers are nothing compared to what hunts in these woods." She made a nervous gesture and coughed. "They have taken my brothers to be one of them."
"Outlaws?" San-Ragoz suggested, hoping she would reveal more.
"No. We have no outlaws anymore. They do not dare to come here because of the vampires. They know none of us will give them shelter, and they do not want to face the blood-lovers." She spat to show her anger as she squinted through the dusk at him. "Be wary. They are everywhere and their numbers are increasing."
"Vampires?" he repeated, letting the word draw out.
"Those who should be dead and are not," she told him abruptly. "Those who drink living blood. They live in the forest and we give them tribute in exchange for their protection."
"How do you come to have such a plague as this?" San-Ragoz crossed himself, and saw the woman relax a bit. He could sense the nearness of his chest of his native earth, and the pull of it was more intense than his hunger.
"It shames us, for it began here, in this village long ago." She faltered, then went on as if compelled to explain the whole of it. "A woman saved herself from the Great Pox by summoning a vampire to protect her." She sighed heavily. "In other parts of the mountains, they say it was Satan Himself who bargained with her, but in the village we know better. Chimenae was the first and she is still the most to be feared. She brought our village to the ruin you now see. She and all her tribe."
"Did Satan make the rest?" He wanted to know how distorted the stories had become.
"No: she did. They say she had to, that if she went a year without making a new vampire, her life would be forfeit." She glanced westward. "They will be abroad by now."
San-Ragoz had to force himself to ask the next question. "How did it come about that she had been able to do this? Did no one try to stop her?"
"Stop Chimenae?" The woman shook her head. "She said we would not starve to long as we sheltered her and her kind. We did not know what a bargain we had made. It disgraces me to speak of it." She motioned to him as if to shoo him away. "You must not linger here. The vampires will come soon. It is dark enough to be dangerous. Find yourself a secure place and close yourself in for the night. As I must." She started away from the gate, not quite running but moving faster than a walk.
"Wait," San-Ragoz called after her; he did not want to leave the village, and his precious cache of earth.
"No. It is no longer safe." Saying that, she ducked into one of the houses that still had a roof, and pulled the door to with a loud slap of wood on stone.
San-Ragoz did not remain by the gate; that would be useless. He slipped away into the forest, and found a vantage-place where he could watch the village. He promised himself he would find game before morning-at the moment, discovering the extent of Csimenae's folly seemed more urgent than his hunger.
Not long after midnight, his patience was rewarded: half a dozen figures emerged from the trees on the far side of the village, two deer carried hanging from wooden bars. The vampires brought the animals to the gates of the village, fixed them so that they hung over the wall, then went away, only to return dragging the body of a man with a stake driven through him. This they left sprawled near the midden. As soon as they had finished they went back into the woods once more; they did not return.
Apprehensive and curious, San-Ragoz came down from his watch-point and went to inspect what the six had left. The deer were drained of blood and perfunctorily gutted; they would have to be skinned and dressed shortly if all the meat was to be used. The dead man was another matter: he, too, had no blood left in him-indeed, he was pale as fine clay for lack of it-but the stake that severed his spine ensured he would never rise to join the ranks of vampires; he was a laborer, his garments like those of the slaves cutting down trees for the Caliph's navy. Either the vampires had extended their range dramatically or the man had run away from his work detail-San-Ragoz assumed the latter, and he could not conceal the pang of sympathy he felt for the dead man, who had sought freedom and found utter death.
Had he been at liberty to act out of conscience, San-Ragoz would have prepared a grave for the dead man, and put some description of him on a marker; but from what the woman at the gate had said, the bargain the villagers had with Csimenae's tribe made such an act unwise. He contented himself with tearing off the sleeve of his habit and dropping it over the man's face. This done, San-Ragoz hastened into the forest to catch a young sheep to slake his thirst. He put the gutted carcase with the deer, then returned to his resting place of the day before.
At nightfall, San-Ragoz came out of his lair once more, this time with purpose, for he realized he could not continue on his journey without securing some of his native earth to line the soles of his houseauz. There were streams up ahead, and towns with gates open only in daylight: his native earth would protect him from these hazards. He went back toward Mont Calcius, his stride soundless and rapid. This time he kept to the shadows until all the doors were shut and only the flames of the torches moved in the night. When he was certain he could proceed, he climbed over the wall and made his way to the tumbledown wreckage that had been his house, recalling the chest had been buried under the pantry.
The walls leaned at angles and the fallen roof littered the floor as San-Ragoz scrambled through the rubble to where he felt his native earth. He had nothing to serve as a shovel, but determination goaded him on as he dug with his hands, his strength increasing as he neared the buried chest. Finally he grasped the iron bands that secured the leather-and-wood body of the chest, and hauled it from its grave, revitalization surging through him as he opened the lid and laid his hands on the good Carpathian soil.
"No gold?" The light, jeering question came out of the darkness as Aulutiz sauntered toward him. "We've been told you buried a treasure."
"And so I did," said San-Ragoz. "As you will know if you ever venture beyond this place, and which I hope you will do, not only for yourself, but for all of your...clan. The longer you remain here, the more danger you will have. Our kind are not meant to live together as you do." He paused, seeing that Aulutiz was growing irritated with him. He stretched; his body was stronger, more resilient than it had been for all the years of his enslavement, his mind more acute. "What do you want, Aulutis?" He used the old pronunciation of the young man's name deliberately.
"I want to know what you are doing here." He straightened up and glowered at San-Ragoz. "You should not be here. My mother said you were dead, long ago. I asked her." His young face was shadowed with age as he pointed at the chest, "You have deceived us."
"Not I," San-Ragoz countered, his expression somber. "I never told you anything. You were an infant when I left. I told Csimenae what this chest contained just before my servant and I departed, and why I valued it."
"She said you buried a treasure," Aulutiz persisted stubbornly. "You have jewels hidden in the earth."
"No, I do not," said San-Ragoz. He laid his hand on the old metal claps; he saw that digging had broken two nails. "I have only the earth, which is worth more to me than emeralds and rubies." He did not add that for centuries he had made his own jewels alchemically.
"Search it," said Aulutiz to his companions, signaling them to lift their weapons. "And strike off his head if he fights you."
San-Ragoz felt a twinge of anticipated misery. "Will you at least pile the earth carefully, so I may make use of it?"
Aulutiz laughed. "Perhaps," he said, and stood back to permit his comrades to empty out the chest in their futile search for gold and jewels as San-Ragoz stood close by, his features unreadable, his dark eyes glowing with pain.
Text of a letter from Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan to Ermangild of Alta Usca, carried by Abran ben Rachmael.
By the will of Allah the All-Merciful and All-Wise, I, Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, Marine Commander of the Caliph's ships, do send this offer to the Christian leader Ermangild of Alta Usca, with my most solemn vow to uphold the terms outlined here, if you, Ermangild, find them acceptable to you.
First, I Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, promise not to imprison or enslave any of the family or household of Ermangild for as long as Ermangild is willing to give my men access to his forests for the purpose of cutting down trees to build ships. No claim shall be made upon Ermangild for concubines, or boys to pleasure me or any other officer of the Caliph. I, Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, will supply such men and slaves as will be needed for the task of cutting trees and any other that may arise, so that the slaves and farmers of Ermangild will not be taken away from their labors on the land on Ermangild's behalf. In no other way shall Ermangild's authority be reduced or abrogated.
Second, for a period of ten years, I, Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, swear I will raise no taxes beyond those I have already imposed, so long as it is shown that not Ermangild, nor any of his servants or family, has contrived to retain any of the money to be collected for the forces of the Caliph.
Third, that on my command, Abran ben Rachmael, who brings this letter, will inspect the records of Ermangild, his family and his servants, and his decision in regard to any question of taxation or other monies shall be final and unquestionable. Further, should Ermangild, his family or his servants be shown to be in arrears, the tax, double that of followers of the True Faith, shall be doubly taxed again. If there is not sufficient money and produce to discharge this or any similar debt, the servants and family of Ermangild shall be taken as slaves in such number as will discharge the tax debt in full, and the buildings owned by Ermangild seized and occupied by men of the Caliph.
Fourth, that such fighting men as Ermangild now houses will be given the opportunity of joining with the forces of the Caliph, for which service they shall receive the same recompense as any soldier of the True Faith without having to change their religion to be paid and enrolled, so long as they swear their loyalty to the Caliph. Should any fighting man prefer to remain in the service of Ermangild, he shall be subject to the same double taxation as all Christians and he will be made ineligible to take up the banner of the Prophet unless he converts to the True Faith.
Fifth, that all dowries and legacies are to be subjected to the review of Abran ben Rachmael, who shall determine how much of such monies may pass to the husbands and heirs of Christians, and how much is to be collected to the benefit of the Caliph. These amounts will be taxed but once, and after such debts are discharged, the money cannot be diminished by any follower of the True Faith. In the case of dowries paid for Christian women entering the religious life, as Christians are people of the Book, the religious dowries will not be subject to any taxation.
Sixth, that Ermangild shall receive, for the trees we have taken, ten measures of grain and two sheep every half year.
I, Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, set my hand to this of the fifth full moon in the Christian year 722, 104 of the Hegira.
