4

The cart driver dropped them at a fork in the road and carried on towards his destination. Neither he, nor the other two occupants spoke another word after the Maestro had talked of vampires. No-one wanted to acknowledge the truth of the matter. That vampires were abroad within Austria and were scouring the great nation.

Beethoven, however, kept up a constant stream of words that made little sense at some points and even less at others. He talked of his compositions, but spoke of them as though they were great battles that he had fought to lay the notes onto paper. He bulled his status even beyond how known and far-reaching it truly was. To Beethoven, he saved the world with his music. Many times.

He had still not told Bernhard why he had brought him along on this cart ride. In between tales of how one symphony had cowed Napoleon so much that it led to his defeat, or how the King of Britain thanked him, personally, for making his marriage agreeable, Beethoven waved away any questions Bernhard asked. More than once, Bernhard considered returning to Vienna to face the consequences of his beloved's death and to mourn her as he wished to. Needed to.

After an hour or so of walking, they came upon a village that the Maestro decided would serve them as resting place for the night. Even here, the people recognised the great man, and Bernhard marvelled at how easy it came to Beethoven. The maidens of the village flocked around him, cooing and trying to force themselves to stand the closest to him. Even the men looked at him with admiring eyes and Beethoven drank in the admiration like a drunkard at an ever-filling mug.

No-one paid Bernhard the least attention, which he felt grateful for. He had no qualms in blending into the background and watching the Maestro hold court. The only time he saw Beethoven's face make any expression other than an enormous grin came when one girl reached up to his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, dislodging the scarf about his throat.

The Maestro snapped away, a look of horror crossing his face as he adjusted the scarf. But that look of horror fell away as fast as it had appeared and Beethoven returned to magnanimously accepting the adoration of the small crowd of people.

Once ensconced in the local inn, Bernhard wanted to take some time to question the Maestro, but, again, Beethoven brushed the questions aside as he headed towards a room where the innkeeper's wife had prepared him a hot bath. He had made it quite clear that he wanted to bathe alone and soak his weary bones in privacy.

Beethoven ate heartily, after his bath. Wolfing down Wiener Schnitzel, Austrian goulash and finishing with a large apfelstrüdel. And beer. A mug of beer with every course. Bernhard settled for goulash and some bread, though, he had to admit, both the goulash and the bread were exquisite. The beer he only drank in small amounts, his stomach still complaining from the excesses of the night before.

After eating, Beethoven sat with a fine young woman on either side of him, his hands clasping their waists, as he recounted even more tales of his work. The entire inn 'oohed' and 'aahed' as he told of his exploits, turning down the American ambassador to tour the fledgling United States, not long since colonies of the British. He demurred when asked to play for his spellbound crowd and, after some time, ushered his admirers away before leaning towards Bernhard across the table.

"What a bunch of lovelies, eh?" He slapped Bernhard's shoulder. "You can have any you want. I can't please them all. Though I think I could try, eh?"

"I cannot countenance laying with anyone. My beloved died not a day before!" Bernhard shrugged away Beethoven's hand. "I could not entertain such a vile thought, even as the dust of my betrothed still coats the streets of Vienna. How can you be so heartless at a man's loss?"

"Life goes on." The Maestro groped the innkeeper's wife's backside as she passed and held up two fingers, pointing at the beer mugs. He winked at the innkeeper, who didn't seem to care that another man molested his wife. "And so do we. Listen, how handy are you with that sword, anyway?"

The sabre sat at Bernhard's hip and he looked down to it. He had served with honour within the cavalry. Had fought and nearly died upon far flung battlefields with only the dream of seeing Hilde once more allowing him to carry on through the blood and the cannon blasted fields strewn with bodies of the young men of many nations. That sabre had tasted more than the blood of his beloved. Much more.

"I can fight well enough. As well as any cavalryman." He resisted the urge to run a hand over the grip of the sabre. War was one thing. This time was another. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." The Maestro grabbed the beer mug as soon as the innkeeper's wife laid it before him, taking great, long gulps before letting out a refreshed sigh. He pointed to Bernhard's mugs. "Drink up! You're being a lightweight."

Despite appearing to not have a care in the world, Bernhard noticed the several glances that the Maestro made towards one, particular, corner of the inn. Bernhard had thought everyone had shown excitement at the presence of the great composer, and they had. All of them. All, that is, but one and that 'one' sat in the corner that Beethoven made those glances towards.

Bernhard couldn't believe that Beethoven would resent one, solitary figure from not joining in the adoration that the rest of the village poured upon him, especially as two more young women came to sit either side of the Maestro. There had to be more to those surly glances than merely an ego not receiving what it thought his due. The rest of the time, glances aside, Beethoven looked in his element as the centre of attention and he was welcome to it.

But Bernhard couldn't cast aside his thoughts. He leaned to one side, trying to get a good look at the only patron of the inn that did not sing Beethoven's praises, but the man leaned back, into the shadows. Several more times, Bernhard attempted to get a look at the man, until, finally, the man raised the hood of his cloak and left the inn.

"Speaking of weapons. How did you manage to kill those ... ahem ... those 'things', back in Vienna?" He leaned forward, keeping his voice low, but no-one else seemed to pay him any attention at all. "It was as though you threw fire into their hearts. As though you reached out your hand and poured the wrath of Lucifer within them."

"Oh. Oh! Yes! That was brilliant, wasn't it?" Without thinking, the Maestro opened his jacket wide, elbowing both women at his sides and they shuffled a tiny distance away. "When you're fighting vampires, you've got to have the right kit, eh?"

Bernhard cringed as the Maestro mentioned 'vampires', but every head around them appeared to turn away at that exact moment and found a number of things far more fascinating than that word. Once again, the power of chosen ignorance permeated the air. They didn't believe in vampires. They chose not to believe in them, because it was easier.

Meanwhile, from the inside of his coat, the Maestro had started to pull several objects from hidden pockets and folds, laying them out upon the table before him. He gave another glance towards the corner of the inn and felt satisfied the hidden man had gone and then started to arrange the objects in some kind of order.

Bernhard saw a number of different items. Long, thin sticks that looked like the batons used by conductors of an orchestra. Similar items, that resembled the batons in all but material, these made in some shining metal. Little glass vials, filled with liquid and several crosses of differing shapes, sizes and material.

"These? These are your weapons?" Bernhard picked up one of the vials and the Maestro cringed, reaching out, taking the vial and replacing it carefully beside its companions. "I don't see how these can hurt ... them."

"Hazel batons. Vampires are vulnerable to hazel more than any other wood. Lodged in the remains of their heart and, whoosh, vampire dust." The Maestro used his hands to illustrate something exploding and the onlooking villagers laughed, though they looked uncomfortable when he mentioned vampires again. The great man picked up the next item. "Silver batons. These are for the really nasty ones. The older ones that think hazel stakes only tickle. Holy water. Doesn't kill 'em, but hurts like hell. And crosses. It doesn't have to be crosses, any symbol of faith will work, but, you know, Europe. Toss a stone over your shoulder and you'll hit a cross in a field."

It made a sort of sense, if Bernhard allowed himself to accept the existence of vampires, then he had to accept the tales of what could defeat them. The stakes through the heart. The garlic. Holy water. He wondered what other weapons could defeat the vile, blood-drinking creatures. Fresh, running water, perhaps? Sunlight? Did sunlight kill, or hurt them. He had so many questions. Not least about how his sword had worked. Vampires were all supposed to be immune to such mundane things.

"How did I manage to ki ... stop my beloved?" His hand did drop to his sabre, then. The comforting feel of the grip kissing his fingers. "All the stories say ... they can't be killed by a sword."

"Remember I said any symbol of faith?" The Maestro pointed towards the sabre and wiggled his eyebrows, as though that explained everything. "Drink up! We need to get as much sleep as possible before ... Well, you'll see."

The Maestro finished his mug of beer, then turned to kiss first one woman and then over to the woman on his other side. They laughed and tried to cajole him to stay, but the great composer lifted his arms in surrender, apologising for his weariness. He didn't appear weary. Bernhard, however, was quite tired and he would find great comfort in sleeping at this moment.

He only wondered what the Maestro meant when he said they needed to sleep 'before' something. Before what?