Chapter Twenty-Two

Svaneti, Georgia

Caucasus Mountains

October 2012

Giovanni nodded at the old woman who refilled his wine glass and smiled at the young woman who set down the bread. The women left the room, retreating into the kitchen to whisper quietly about the foreign visitors and leaving the two vampires alone with the three humans gathered in the dark room. Giovanni’s attention was drawn to the head of the family and leader of the small village in a remote mountain valley in Northern Georgia.

The man was seated in a richly decorated chair. Giovanni guessed that it was hundreds of years old, but had been lovingly oiled and tended, a mark of pride for the small village and the man who sat upon it that night. The head of the village, a Svan in his early fifties, was dressed in the curious blend of ancient and modern typical in the mountains. His jacket sported an American logo, but his head was topped by the grey felt hat typical of all men of the region high in the Caucasus Mountains. A long dagger hung at his belt and an icon of Saint George graced the wall. The cold wind whistled around the old house, and Giovanni was grateful not to be out in the wind, at least for a little while.

Carwyn was still exchanging stories with the man, laughing over ribald jokes in Russian, since neither of them spoke Georgian or the strange, old language of the Svans. Giovanni’s Russian was passable, but not nearly as good as the priest’s, so he sat back and listened.

“This region you speak of,” the human said. “No one goes there.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You want hiking or climbing, I will have my son, Otar, show you to some of the lower trails. It is too cold in that part of the mountains anyway.”

Carwyn steered the conversation back toward the mountain pass they were now almost certain led to the forgotten fortress of Arosh that Saba had mentioned in her letters to Ziri. It had been first dark when Giovanni and Carwyn entered the village. They had taken shelter in a cave the earth vampire had carved out at dawn the day before. The tiny town was nestled at the base of several passes. They knew that Arosh’s fortress lay in the mountains, but they weren’t certain through which of the three gorges they needed to pass to get there.

Carwyn spoke. “This mountain we speak of is unique. And we will not need a guide for the hike. We ask only your permission to climb there and direction to the proper trail.”

“Your horses will not make the journey this late in the year,” the man continued to protest, as Giovanni’s eyes scanned the room. The house was not a wealthy one, but the art and icons on the walls gave testament to the man’s position of authority in the community. His son stood at the doorway, watching the two foreigners with cautious eyes.

“I appreciate your concern.” Carwyn nodded respectfully. “But we must go there. It was recommended to us by a very dear friend. A climbing partner who insisted we must see the vistas from the peak.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know who you might speak of. That mountain is not a good place; I am telling you, no one travels there.”

Giovanni broke in. “Why? Why doesn’t anyone go there?”

The Svan hesitated, glancing between Giovanni and Carwyn. “Bandits. There are bandits in that part of the mountains.”

The man’s son broke into the conversation, murmuring in their own tongue, as he and his father seemed to have a low-voiced debate. Finally, the father raised his hand and his son fell quiet. “If you want to go there. I will not stop you. But I must know that no one will come looking for you and causing us trouble.”

Giovanni said, “No one will come after us. We do not wish to bring trouble to your home.”

The older man nodded and sat back in his chair. “Otar will take you as far as the base of the trail, but that is all. He will not accompany you up the mountain.”

Carwyn’s eyes darted toward Giovanni’s, and he nodded. Carwyn said, “That is more than we ask; we appreciate your hospitality.”

“Tell me again,” Giovanni said. “Why do you not want us to go there?”

Otar spoke from behind them, surprising Giovanni when he spoke in English. “That mountain is cursed. No one goes there. Or at least, no one comes back.”

“Cursed by what?”

The younger man shrugged. “The old people tell legends. And sometimes, the girls disappear if they go too close.”

“Only the girls?” Carwyn asked.

The young man was about to speak, but his father interrupted. “There are still robbers in the hills. It is better now than it was, but… we keep our children close to the village. Especially at night.”

Giovanni turned to the father. “Tell me about the legends.”

“They are nonsense.”

He smiled. “I am curious. I am a literature professor in Italy. I love stories and myths.”

The father shrugged. “The old people say that an angel appeared to Queen Tamar hundreds of years ago when she visited the mountains. He shone like fire and fell in love with our queen, so she gave him this mountain and let him build a stone tower. He stayed in the tower when she returned to the lowlands and her castle, but she returned here every summer to visit him. Many years passed in peace, but when the messengers came to the mountains, telling the people that the queen had died in her castle, the mountain she had given the angel was engulfed in flames. All the trees burned and none grew again. The angel continued to live there, but he grew angry with the Svan people. Hundreds of years passed, and the village that once thrived in the gorge beneath was deserted. Now, no one goes there. It is cursed.”