'"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."

'"And you created them?" I asked. "Made them vampires, I mean."

'"Again, no. Who could be proud to claim such creatures as his sons? They tend to perpetuate themselves. Occasionally a stranger may join us – a vampire whose ears our fame has reached. Generally, they are welcomed."

'One of the Wallachians – the one who had gone up to the door of the castle – had sidled over to the group of vampires, trying to see what they were about. As he got close, one of them turned and pounced. Within seconds the Wallachian was pinned to the floor, with two more crouching over him. Zmyeevich shouted at them and they stopped to look at him. He shouted again and they reluctantly returned to the pack. I could almost see their tails between their legs.

'Zmyeevich and I talked some more, though I noticed him becoming distracted, glancing over to where his underlings were finishing off the remains of various Turkish corpses which they dragged from out of the woods. It was at his suggestion that we decided to work together, at least to clear the Turks out of his area of the Carpathians. We would work much as we had planned to in Moscow; we would scout by day to locate the Turks and then they would come out at night to destroy them. He said he would have no trouble finding us on the mountains. He even went over and explained our plans to the six surviving Wallachians.

'"And now it is nearing dawn, and you must excuse us," he said to me as he returned from speaking to them. "But first, might I borrow your sabre?"

'I handed it to him, not knowing what use he could possibly have for it. He took it and strode towards the other vampires, who were still huddled around the body of one of the Turks. I couldn't make out what he did with the sword, but soon he was leading his band away, back uphill towards his castle. As they came close, I could see he was holding the tip of my sword to his mouth. On it was a chunk of bloody, raw flesh, which he tore at with his teeth until he had consumed it all. Then, with a smile, he threw the weapon back to me. As I caught it, he gave a casual salute and carried on up the mountain. Within minutes, they were out of sight.

'I sat down, looking at the remnants of the night's battle and considering our bizarre conversation. In the cold light of day, all that I had heard and seen would be strange and unbelievable, and yet I had no sense of doubting it – no sense of shock, even, at the discovery. I suppose that, because I had no personal apprehension of danger, I had no feeling of horror. Then I looked at the ravaged Turkish corpses that lay around us, looked at my huddled, frightened comrades and looked at the blade of my sabre, caked in blood in a way that was so familiar and yet, on that day, so repellent. I turned and vomited.'

He stopped and for several seconds we were both silent.

'So did you meet him again?' I asked eventually.

'It was just like he'd suggested. We'd comb the mountains by day, locating the Turks, but we wouldn't engage them. At night, Zmyeevich and the others would appear, and that particular band of invaders would be destroyed. They must have killed hundreds in total. Zmyeevich was good company – you may laugh, but he was better than anyone else I'd met in that damned country. And I talked to the other vampires a little too. They weren't quite as subhuman as Zmyeevich made out. Well, you know what they're like; you've spoken to the Oprichniki. And remember, they were my brothers-in-arms; at least for the duration. They didn't use those names, but Pyetr, Varfolomei, Andrei and Ioann were the only ones in common with now.'

Dmitry turned and looked me in the eye, considering what he was about to say. Then he shook his head dismissively, as if waking from a dream.

'As far as I can remember, at least,' he said. 'It was a long time ago.'

'How long did you stay with them?' I asked.

'Not long. Eventually, after about a fortnight, we caught sight of a Russian battalion and I decided to return to the familiar. I waited until Zmyeevich met up with us that night to say goodbye. He understood why I'd made my decision, and told me with all sincerity that if I ever needed help I should not be afraid to ask.'

'And he was as good as his word,' I said. Dmitry didn't catch the bitterness of my tone.

'Exactly, Aleksei. Exactly. You may not like what they are – God knows, I don't either – but they can be trusted. They've proved that.'

And in my own mind, I couldn't fault him. The Oprichniki had answered our call for help; they had done what we had asked them to do. Dmitry and I both knew it, and yet we appeared to have come to very different conclusions. I searched for the distinction between us, and soon found it. God might know that Dmitry did not like what these creatures were, but I remained to be convinced. My visceral, instinctive hatred of them, simply for what they were, seemed missing – or at least hidden – in Dmitry. His view of them as being like cannon that simply had to be pointed towards the enemy was quite, quite logical. It would have surprised Maks, as it did me, to find Dmitry the more rational of the two of us.

Yet, if that was rationality, it could go to hell. Love was irrational, yet it was both right and beautiful. Couldn't hatred be just the same? My experience of the Oprichniki had convinced me that it could.

I had further questions for him, but no stomach to ask them. I changed the subject. 'When are you leaving?' I asked.

'I'm ready now.' He smiled sheepishly. 'I'd already made plans. I'll leave today.' Then he added, 'Look out for Natalia and Boris for me.'

We embraced. There were no words with which to say goodbye, and yet as I walked away I knew in my heart that there was still a more honest conversation to be had between us. Dmitry, I was certain, was lying – or at least not telling the full story. His account of his first meeting with Zmyeevich was too tidy; too much designed to make Dmitry himself happy. There was more that he had wanted to tell me, but had not.

And why not? Because I was a liar too. Dmitry might not have the insight to guess what exactly I was holding back, but he had known me long enough to see that there was something. That something was that I had made it my quest – a quest that I would continue now that I had no more excuses for not returning to Moscow – to destroy every one of these abominable creatures. And why did I not in turn tell him my secret? Because I did not trust him. I deceived him because I knew he was deceiving me. His behaviour was identical. Neither of us could break the deadlock with a leap, or even a small step, of faith.

How much easier it had been when Maks was the only deceiver amongst us. His presence had sown no seeds of doubt into our midst. Perhaps he had just been a better liar than either Dmitry or I, so much so that, even now, even after he had been exposed, even now he was dead, I still felt a greater degree of trust in him than in the living comrade with whom I had just parted.

Two days later a great convoy of coaches, trucks and wagons left Yuryev-Polsky. It was the fourteenth of October – over a month since we had said goodbye to Natalia and departed the city. It turned out to be the last day before winter truly fell upon us. On the second day of our journey, the temperature dropped suddenly. Our ride to Moscow would be colder than anyone had planned for, but it would only last three or four days and then I would be back. Bonaparte's retreat through the Russian winter would take much longer.