Jasper Kent - Twelve

I chose in my last moments to turn my mind to pleasant things. Images of my wife and my son came to me, but were quickly dismissed by thoughts of Domnikiia. My mind's eye became detached from my body and flew back to Moscow to observe her. It dwelt on her large eyes, her lips, her pale earlobes. I observed her closely, though she was unaware of my presence. I brought to mind the chatter of her voice, and even though I could make out no individual word, the sound of it was a perfect rendition of the real Domnikiia. It would have been hard to discover a more contented frame of mind in which to die.

Through the whistling of the wind, I heard the howl of a wolf, which was soon accompanied by a second. I prayed that the cold would render me insensible before the wolves got to me. At the same time, I remembered the folklore that the voordalak could transform itself into a wolf. I modified my prayer. If the cold could not save me, at least let the howling come from regular, respectable wolves.

I remember being dragged across the snowy ground, and the sound of voices shouting all around me. I also remember the impression of mouths and sharp teeth close to my face, the repellent smell of half-digested flesh rising from a carnivorous gullet and the curiously pleasant sensation of my face being licked

.

When I awoke, the one concept that cut its way through an abundance of feelings was that of warmth. I was wrapped in a heavy fur, and near me a fire blazed in an iron stove, filling the room with heat. I tasted brandy on my lips, which must have been forced between them while I was unconscious. Beside the fire, breathing heavily, their tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths, lay two huge dogs. They could well be mistaken for wolves. Their fur was a mixture of grey and white and their grey eyes looked towards me with a blank curiosity. One of the dogs raised an eyebrow as it turned its gaze away from me towards the source of a sound.

'Drink some more brandy!'

The voice came from just behind me. A tall, bulky man stood a little away from the fire, staring into its dancing flames, breathing in its warmth through large, hairy nostrils. On the table beside me was a glass of dark liquor, with a bottle beside it. I drank and the man refilled it for me.

'Thank you,' I said, drinking again from the replenished glass.

'You're a long way from the rest of the troops,' he said.

'How did you know I was a soldier?' I asked.

'You carry a sword, even though you wear no uniform.'

'How did you know I wasn't French?'

'I didn't until you spoke,' he explained, placing a cocked pistol gently on the table beside him, 'but I do now.'

The fact that we both spoke Russian was as reassuring to me as it was to him. This far west, I could just as easily have found myself in a Polish household, where a Russian soldier might have encountered a less friendly welcome.

The dogs turned their heads across the room to the door. Another man entered, younger than the first, but still of the same powerful build.

'He's awake then,' said the newcomer.

'Yes,' replied the other, 'and he seems to be on our side, although he still hasn't told me what he's doing here.'

'I'm supposed to be meeting someone,' I explained. 'This is Yurtsevo?'

'It is,' said the older man.

'There's a farm about a verst north of here,' I went on, 'towards Mezhevo.'

'Not any more. It burnt down.'

'The French?' I asked.

'Not even the French. It burnt down more than a year ago.'

'I see. I think my friend will still try to meet me there.'

'We haven't seen anyone. Mind you, in this weather, they could walk past the village and never see it – or walk through the village and we'd never see them. You were lucky the dogs caught your scent.'

'There was that smoke we saw from over there the other day, Pa,' said the younger man.

'When?' I asked.

'Yesterday, or the day before.'

'I must go and find him,' I said, rising from my chair.

'Not tonight, you don't,' said the older man. He put his meaty hand on my shoulder and pushed me back into my seat with an enormous, casual strength that reminded me of the force that the vampire Pavel had used to hold me against the wall. As the man moved, his dogs rose swiftly to their feet and silently bared their teeth. 'You go in the morning,' he told me firmly.

I spent the night in the chair where I had been sitting, revelling in the warmth given to me by the furs and the fire. I was woken early when a woman – I presumed from her age that she was the older man's wife – came in to refuel the fire. Later, she beckoned me into another room, where I shared a silent breakfast with her and her husband and son.

Soon after dawn, the head of the household turned to me.

'You're still planning on going out to the farm?' he asked.

'I have to,' I replied.

'Well, I won't offer to come with you, but I'll show you the road. It's not far, but in this weather it's treacherous. You should leave your horse here and go on foot.'

'My horse is alive?' I asked in surprise. I hadn't even thought to consider it.

'Why shouldn't she be? She was in a lot better state to survive the weather than you were when we found you.'

I put my overcoat and hat back on and we went outside. The village was not large and the buildings seemed to huddle together for warmth in the winter cold. It had stopped snowing and the wind was lighter than it had been, but it was still bitterly cold. We walked along the single main street to the edge of the village.

'That's the road to take,' the man told me, pointing to a path that could only be discerned as a vague gap in the trees. 'It's only about a verst. There's still enough of the buildings left for you to recognize it, unless the snow's covered it.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'If you're not back in three hours, I won't be coming to look for you, because you'll be dead. I'll bury you in the spring, if the wolves leave anything of you.'

I offered him my hand, but he preferred not to take his out of his deep pockets. I headed along the road he had indicated. I turned back to wave to him, but he had already turned and I saw only his stooping back as he trudged towards the warmth of his home.

The wind blew up again soon after I set off, directly against my direction of travel, making each step more tiresome and whipping sharp flecks of snow across my face. It seemed preposterous that Dmitry had ever got here, let alone that he would have stayed here, and yet being so close, it would be ridiculous for me to turn back. The same thought might well have passed through Dmitry's mind. If he had got this far, he would have gone further, and that could be said of him even if 'this far' had only been a single step. Besides, there had been smoke, so someone had been there and that was most likely Dmitry, though it was still improbable that he had stayed.

It was thanks only to a lucky break in the wind that I didn't walk straight past the ruins of the small farmhouse. The snow had not completely covered the charred remains, which still bore some resemblance to the basic shape of the building, but shrouded in the blizzard they would have been hard to spot. Walking through the blackened timbers, I saw on the far side of the structure the remains of a more recent fire – this time a campfire. The gnarled shapes of snow-encrusted logs that had been pulled up to sit on partially ringed a wide patch of burnt wood and cinders. I put my hand to it and felt that the fire was now completely cold. It had been more than a day since it had been burning. However, I was now certain that Dmitry had been here. No one would cast more than a passing glance at this cold, deserted place, let alone stop and make a fire, unless they had reason to be there. I too had made it to the appointment, but I was too late.