that same morning he had asked this question of half-a-dozen other fledgling defenders, 
five Boyars with their own followers and one band of mercenaries. All of them had taken a 
symbol to fly with the dragon. But not Thibor.
  "I'm no Boyar, sire," the Wallach had told him with a shrug. "That's not to say my 
father's house was not honourable, for it was, and built by a decent man-but in no way 
royal. No lord's or prince's blood flows in my veins. When I've earned myself a mark, 
then I'll set it over your dragon."
  "I'm not sure I like you especially, Wallach." The Vlad had frowned then, uneasy with 
this great, grim man before him. "Your voice sounds out perhaps a trifle loud from a 
heart as yet untried. But-" and he, too, had given a shrug, "-very well, choose a device 
for yourself when you return in triumph. And Thibor-bring me those thumbs or I'll likely 
string you up by yours!" And that day at noon seven polyglot companies of men had set out 
from Kiev, reinforcements for the ensieged defensive positions on the Ros. One year and 
one month later Thibor returned with nearly all of his men, plus another eighty recruited 
from peasants hiding in the foothills and valleys of the southern Khorvaty. He made no 
plea for audience but strode into the Vlad's own church where he was at worship. He left 
his weary men outside and took in with him only one small sack that rattled, and 
approached Prince Vladimir Svyatoslavich at his prayers and waited for him to finish. 
Behind him Kiev's civilian nobles were deathly silent, waiting for their prince to see 
him.
  Finally the Vlad and his Greek monks turned to Thibor. The sight they saw was fearsome. 
Thibor had soil on him from the fields and forests; dirt was ingrained in him; he bore a 
freshly healed scar high on his right cheek to the middle of his jaw, which made a pale 
stripe of scar tissue that cut almost to the bone. Also, he had gone away as a peasant 
and returned something else entirely. Haughty as a hawk, with his nose slightly hooked 
under bushy eye-brows that very nearly came together in the middle, he gazed out of 
yellow, unblinking eyes. He wore mous-taches and a scraggy, twisting black beard; also 
the armour of some Pechenegi chief, chased in gold and silver, and an earring set with a 
gemstone in the lobe of his left ear. He had shaved his head with the exception of black 
forelocks that hung one to each side, in the manner of certain nobles; and in all his 
mien, there was no sign that he knew he stood in a holy place or even considered his 
whereabouts.
  "I know you now," the Vlad hissed, "Thibor the Wallach. Don't you fear the true God? 
Don't you tremble before the cross of Christ? I was praying for our deliverance, and you-'
  "And I have brought it to you." Thibor's voice was deep, doleful. He tipped out his 
sack onto the flags. The prince's retinue and the nobles of Kiev where they stood back 
from him who ruled over them gasped and gaped. Bones clattered white in a heap at the 
Vlad's feet.
  "What?" he choked. "What?"
  "Thumbs," said Thibor. "I had the flesh boiled off them, lest their stink offend. The 
Pechenegi are driven back, trapped between the Dniester, the Bug and the sea. Your Boyar 
army hems them in. Hopefully they can deal with them without me and mine. For I have 
heard that the Polovtsy are rising like the wind in the east. Also, in Turkey-land, 
armies wax for war!"
  "You have heard? You have heard? And are you some mighty Voevod, then? Do you set 
yourself up as the ears of Vladimir? And what do you mean, "you and yours"? The two 
hundred men you marched with are mine!"
  At that Thibor took a deep breath. He paced forward-then paused. Then he bowed low, if 
inelegantly, and said, "Of course they are yours, Prince. Also the four-score refugees 
I've gathered together and turned into warriors. All are yours. As for being your ears: 
if I have heard falsely, then strike me deaf. But my work is finished in the south and I 
thought you had more need of me here. Soldiers are few in Kiev this day, and her borders 
are wide..."
  The Vlad's eyes remained veiled. The Pechenegi are at bay, you say-and do you give 
yourself credit for this?"
  "In all modesty. This and more."
  "And you've brought my men back with you, without casualty?"
  "A handful are fallen." Thibor shrugged. "But I found eighty to replace them."
  "Show me."
  They went to the great doors, out onto the wide steps of the church. There in the 
square, Thibor's men waited in silence, some upon horses but most afoot, all armed to the 
teeth and looking very fierce. They were the same sorry bunch the Wallach had taken away 
with him, but no longer sorry. His standard flew from three tall flagstaffs: the golden 
dragon, and upon its back a black bat with of carnelian.
  The Vlad nodded. "Your mark," he commented, per-haps sourly. "A bat."
  "The black bat of the Wallachs, aye," said Thibor.One of the monks spoke up, "But atop 
the dragon?"
  Thibor grinned at him wolfishly. "Would you have the dragon pissing on my bat?" The 
monks took the prince aside while Thibor stood waiting. He could not hear what was said, 
but he'd imagined it often enough in times since:
  "These men are utterly loyal to him! See how proud they stand beneath his banner?" the 
senior monk would have whispered in that sly Greek way. "It could be a nuisance."
  And Vlad: "Does it trouble you? I have five times their number right here in the city."
  The Greek: "But these men have been tried in battle; they are warriors all!"
  Vlad: "What are you saying? I should fear him? I've Varyagi blood in me and fear no 
man!"
  Greek: "Of course you don't. But... he sets himself above his station, this one. Can we 
not find him a task-him and a handful of his men-and keep the rest of them back here to 
bolster the city's defences? This way, in his absence, their loyalty will surely swing 
more rightly to you."
  And Vladimir Svyatoslavich's eyes narrowing more yet. Then-his nod of approval: I have 
the very thing. Yes, and I believe you're right-best to be rid of him. These Wallachs are 
a tricky lot. Far too insular..." And out loud to the Voevod: "Thibor, I'm honouring you 
tonight at the palace. You and five of your best. Then you can tell me all about your 
victories. But there'll be ladies there, so see you're washed and leave your armour in 
your lodgings and tents."
  With a stiff little bow Thibor backed off, went down the steps to his mount, led his 
men away. At his command, as they left the square, they rattled their weapons and gave a 
single, sharp, ringing shout: "Prince Vladimir!" Then they were gone into the autumn 
morning, gone into Kiev, called the City at the Edge of the Woods...
  Despite the disturbance, the unknown intrusion, the Thing in the ground continued to 
dream. Night would soon fall, and Thibor was sensitive to night as a rooster is to the 
dawn, but for now he dreamed.
  That night at the palace-a huge place with stone chimneys in every room, and wood fires 
blazing, sprinkled with aromatic resins-Thibor had worn clean but common clothes under a 
rich red robe taken from some high-ranking Pechenegi. His flesh was washed and perfumed, 
tanned like leather, and his forelocks freshly greased. He was an imposing sight. His 
officers, too, were spruce. Though they obviously stood in awe of him, still he spoke to 
them with some familiarity; but he was courteous to the ladies, attentive to the Vlad.
  It was possible (so Thibor had later reckoned) that the prince found himself in two