Blood of the Impaler (27 page)

And then words and voices, pictures and images, began to drift upward from the depths of his being into the forefront of his mind, and he began to feel himself seeing with another's eyes, hearing with another's ears, speaking with an-other's tongue.

It was the blood remembering what it was, remembering
whose
it was, stimulated by the proximity of the dust, awakening dreamlike memories from centuries gone by.

Malcolm shuddered. He felt as if he were falling headfirst into a bottomless pit, plummeting uncontrollably into the past.

And his eyes have all the seeming

of a demon's that is dreaming…

—from "The Raven"

F
irst there was mist and a sense of emptiness as if he were passing from one form of existence to another, and then the mist thinned out and allowed him to see. Malcolm had a sense of standing aside from his own being, watching himself, listening to himself, aware that he was no longer truly Malcolm Harker, but someone whom he did not know. That one small part of his consciousness, his Malcolm-being, remained isolated, observant, fascinated, and terrified.

He began to feel with someone else's body and think with someone else's mind, and the facts of the strange world and the situation into which the awakening blood had cast him became known to him through the mind and thoughts of the memories buried in the blood.

He looked down at his hands and found them surprisingly small, and then he realized that he was a child, a little boy. He looked around him at the opulent tapestries and the shiny marble floor, at the windows with their cupola shape and the high, vaulted ceiling. The delicate scent of flowers from the garden without drifted into the room through the oriental windows. He looked to his left and saw another small boy, younger than himself, wiping a tear from his eye and gazing with undisguised fear at the two men who stood before them.

And as the memories crystallized, he understood everything. He knew that it was the year 1440. He knew that the little boy whose hand he was holding was his little brother Radu, age five. He knew that the fat man with the silken robes and the insincere smile and the shiny, oil-smeared skin was the Beloved of Allah, Murad II, the master of the Ottoman Turks, the Sultan at whose name the Christian princes of the Balkans trembled. He knew that the other man, the tall, slender man with the easy smile and the flashing eyes, was his father, Vlad II, the Voivode of Wallachia, often called Dracul, the Dragon, by his adoring subjects.

And he knew that he was nine years old, that he was in the city of Smyrna near the Aegean coast, that he was his father's second son. His older brother Mircea would be Vlad II's heir, but it was to his second son that the voivode had bequeathed his own name. The boy was already being called Vlad the Little Dragon, Mad Dracula, by the people of Wallachia and the members of the sultan's court.

His father knelt down before his two little sons and said smoothly, "Vlad and Radu, I want you to make me proud of you. Mircea and I are returning to Bucharest, but we have been able to get our sublime friend's permission for the two of you to remain here and represent us." The voivode smiled. "It is a great honor and a great responsibility, my boys. For as long as you are here in Smyrna, you will be representing me and our principality. You must behave yourselves and be good guests."

Radu nodded obediently. "Yes, Father."

Vlad nodded also, saying, "We shall be good, Father. And I trust that you will be faithful in your duties." He said this knowingly, without a hint of arrogance or disrespect.

The voivode's heart swelled with silent pride at the astuteness of his middle son. Unlike Radu, Vlad knew that the two children were not guests, but hostages.

All the realms of the Balkans were in flux in 1440. The primitive principality of Wallachia, a vassal state of the Kingdom of Hungary until a scant fifty years ago, was now a tributary dependency of the Ottoman Empire. Moldavia to the north had enjoyed a brief period of independence from the Hungarians, then had fallen under Lithuanian rule, and was now as closely tied to the Turks as was Wallachia. Of the Rumanian principalities, only Transylvania to the west was still firmly in Hungarian hands, and this fact particularly rankled, for it was in the little Transylvanian city of Sighisoara that Vlad Dracula had been born in 1431, the same city in which his father Vlad Dracul had been born three decades earlier.

But neither Voivode Vlad II nor his sons could spare much time lamenting the alien rule over their birthplace. The Carpathian lords followed rising stars, not setting ones, and it was clear that the Ottoman Turks were destined to be the masters of the Balkans, if not all Europe. And so Vlad II had switched his allegiance from Budapest to the Ottomans. The Turks had been content, at first, to give their new vassal a long and loose leash.

That was before 1437, before the attempt on the part of Sultan Murad II to overrun Hungary was thwarted by the Magyar patriot John Hunyadi; that was before 1440, when the thrones of Hungary and Poland were united in the person of King Vladislav I and VI, of Hungary and Poland respectively. Now the destiny of the Ottoman dynasty seemed less than certain. Now it seemed wise to Murad to keep the children of his vassals close at hand, pledges of the continued loyalty of their fathers.

Little Vlad Dracula understood this, even if little Radu did not. And the Voivode Vlad II was pleased and proud at his son's intelligence.

"Either Mircea or I will return to Smyrna next spring to visit you," the voivode said. "Until then, be good boys, and obey our illustrious friend."

"Yes, Father," Vlad said quietly.

"Oh, please, you come, Father," Radu whined, "not Mircea! I hate Mircea! He calls me names and—" Vlad punched Radu in the side as covertly as possible.

"We shall await your return, Father," Vlad said, his voice a calm, guarded monotone. "Please tell our dear brother that we will remember you both in our prayers."

"Good, my boy, good," the voivode said, rising to his feet and then the surroundings seemed to fade away into the billowing mists. Malcolm realized that the memories were drifting to the surface selectively, as if those events and incidents that had made the deepest impression upon the mind of the long-dead Rumanian nobleman were the ones that emerged foremost and strongest, as the memories in the blood struggled to integrate themselves into a living mind.

Malcolm felt, briefly, the cold stone floor of the ruined castle press against his bruised cheek, but the mist carried him away again, and now he was standing in an ornately furnished private chamber, his trembling child's hands holding a small white kitten. He kept his eyes lowered, neither wishing nor daring to look up at the fat, oily sultan who stood before him, smiling malevolently.

"Do you like the kitten, Little Dragon?" Murad asked smoothly.

"Yes, Sublime One," Vlad muttered. "Thank you very much."

The sultan shrugged casually, dismissing the thanks. "It is a trifle, my dear one, a trifle. I have many gifts for you, many, many nice gifts." The chubby fingers of the sultan reached out and gently caressed Vlad's smooth, close-cropped black hair. "We are always kind and generous to people who are kind and generous to us, Little Dragon."

Vlad did not raise his eyes. "Yes, Sublime One," he repeated. The little boy gritted his teeth behind his tightly shut lips and attempted to maintain a stoic calm as the fat, scented arms enfolded him and drew him close to the hairy bovine belly of the lord of the Turks.

And then the mist descended again and rose again, as if the memory that had been awakened was one which was so painful that the disjointed yet stirring mind of the long-dead nobleman was fleeing from it. When the mist cleared, he found himself sitting in great discomfort, in great pain, upon a large cushion in the chambers that had been designated for him and his little brother. Radu was standing in front of him, his face a study in shock and fear. Vlad tasted something salty, then realized that a few unbidden tears were rolling down from his reddened eyes and dripping upon his lips.

"I would die!" Radu was saying in a hoarse whisper. "I would take my own life before I would allow—"

"You would not," Vlad spat, shifting his weight in an attempt to ease the pain upon which he sat. "You would do what you must, until Father can free us from these pig-eaters."

"No." Little Radu shook his head obstinately. "I would never let the sultan lay his hands upon me! Never!"

Vlad laughed grimly. "And do you think he will ask for your permission, you little idiot?" Radu began to protest again, and Vlad silenced him with a brusque, "Oh, Radu, get out of here. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace."

Radu's lower lip thrust out angrily and he spun about on his heels, leaving his older brother sitting in quiet solitude upon the cushion. Vlad made no sound and did not stir, and yet a burning rage was seething within him. A seed of violence and hatred had been planted in soil already made fertile by insecurity and fear, by abandonment and loneliness, by the almost instinctive bravado of noble birth and the natural timidity of a frightened child.

Pig-eater
, Vlad thought bitterly.
You fat, disgusting ani
mal. I'll have my revenge upon you, someday, somehow, Turkish slime. I only pray to God that you live long enough for me to grow old enough to . . . to . . .

"To do what, Little Dragon?" a soft, intimate voice asked. "Tell me, what would you like to do to Murad?"

Vlad looked around the room, startled by the sudden intrusion, but he did not move from the soft cushion. "Radu?" he snapped. "Is that you?"

Gentle laughter seemed to float about his ears. "I am not Radu, Little Dragon."

"Who are you, then?" Vlad asked, frightened yet attempting to mask his fear. His blanching face and trembling hands belied his poise. "Show yourself this instant!"

"Ah, but I cannot show myself, Little Dragon," the voice said. "I am sorry, but I have no body to show."

Vlad leaned back upon the cushion, wincing as the cool silk rubbed against the sores. "What manner of trickery is this?" He allowed his eyes to move carefully over the interior of his private chamber. "Is this supposed to be an amusement? Are you Turks in such dire need of diversion that you resort to such silly games?"

Again the voice laughed. "I am not a Turk, Little Dragon. I am not a man."

Vlad repressed a smile. Having persuaded himself that this was all some pig-eater prank, he relaxed somewhat. "Not a man! You have not a woman's voice."

"Nor am I a woman," the gentle voice said. "1 am merely your friend, Little Dragon."

"So great is my fortune," he said, laughing, "to have invisible friends." Suddenly serious, and attempting to infuse his voice with imperious hauteur, he snapped, "Now show yourself to me at once! I am not some little Bulgarian shepherd, to be impressed with your tricks! Present yourself, or begone!"

The voice seemed to lose some of its friendliness. "I shall be your companion and your ally, Little Dragon, but I shall not be your servant. If you desire my friendship, it is yours for the taking; but friendship with me is based upon service."

Vlad lay down upon the cushion, weary and growing annoyed. "Such impressive magic, Turk! Where are you? Behind the tapestry? Is there a hidden chamber behind the walls?"