Blood of the Impaler (32 page)

Vlad made a few casual introductions of the people who were seated at his table upon the dais, then said to the pasha, "I don't believe I have met your aide, Illustrious One." He smiled amicably at the young Turk who had accompanied the pasha and his son, and who had thus far remained quietly attentive.

Kemal snorted. "This is my nephew, Torghuz."

"Torghuz Beg," the young man reminded him. He turned to the Voivode and inclined his head slightly. "You honor me with your hospitality, Beloved of the Sultan."

"And you do me honor with your presence, Torghuz Beg. Is this your first expedition to the Balkans?"

Torghuz laughed. "No, Voivode. I fought at the siege of Constantinople six years ago, and fought at the siege of Belgrade a few years later."

"Interesting," Duke Stephan interjected, leaning forward from his side of the table and looking over at the Turk. "I too was at Belgrade. My late master Hunyadi dealt you quite a blow at that battle, as I recall." The duke smiled as he spoke, but this reference to a major Turkish defeat was obviously designed to be provocative.

Torghuz Beg refused to be provoked. He laughed and replied, "Yes, the crows grew fat on the remains of both our armies. Empires rise and fall, and the only true victors are the birds."

The Voivode laughed. "And yet some empires last longer
than others, my dear Beg. You Ottomans have had an interesting century, but it may be that the tide has already turned against you."

Torghuz shrugged. "If that is Allah's will, then so be it. But I think not. We have Constantinople, we have taken the Morea and slaughtered Greeks by the tens of thousands. Soon enough we will advance again. Soon enough."

"It is ordained," Kemal Pasha said angrily. "We shall sweep away the corrupt and degenerate Christian kingdoms and establish Allah's rule in all the lands of the earth."

Torghuz Beg glanced over at the Voivode as the pasha was speaking, and the twinkle in his eye told the Voivode that he regarded his uncle as an ignorant fanatic. Vlad repressed the urge to smile as he returned the beg's amused glance. He formed the opinion that the Turk was as amoral and pragmatic as he, with no concern for divine destinies or spiritual imperatives.

The feast progressed into the night, and the odd mixture of Magyar and Turk under the watchful eye of Wallachian soldiers did not result in the violence that so volatile a combination might have been expected to engender. A huge suckling pig was provided for the Hungarians and Rumanians in attendance, and the Voivode offered the Moslems a spicy stew of uncertain contents that he assured his guests was not pork.

At last Kemal Pasha had reached the limits of his patience. As the torches began to flicker low in the cool night sky, the Turkish envoy turned to the Voivode and demanded, "We have had our meal, Vlad, and social propriety has been observed. Now I insist that you answer the question that I have been sent here to ask you."

"And what question is that?" Duke Stephan asked casually, sipping wine from a golden goblet.

"Be still, Magyar dog!" the pasha spat. Stephan smiled calmly at him.

"The problem, my dear Stephan," the Voivode said, "is that for some reason or other, the tribute that I send to the sultan each year has not yet arrived."

"It has not been sent, Voivode!" the pasha shouted. "My master is patient and long-suffering, but he will not await the payment of the tribute much longer!"

"Yes, yes," Vlad said seriously, nodding in concern and frowning in consternation. "But that's the problem, you see, my dear Pasha. I have no intention of paying it."

Kemal began to grow red in the face. "You young idiot . . . you disloyal, ungrateful . . ." he sputtered. "What do you mean by this!"

Vlad heard Torghuz Beg laughing softly, and he said to him, "I believe that the beg knows. Why don't you explain it to your uncle?"

The younger Turk sighed and smiled. "It has been obvious since the moment we arrived, Uncle. The Voivode has turned from the sultan to the king of Hungary. He is making common cause with the Christian princes against us, and we here in this castle are all dead men."

Kemal Pasha stared at his nephew in astonishment. "We are the special emissaries of the sultan himself! Our persons are inviolate!"

Torghuz Beg nodded in agreement. "Yes, to be sure. That is the reason why we are to be killed. It will make the Voivode's point all the better."

"Excellently reasoned, Beg," the Voivode said, liking the Turk enormously. "But for someone facing death, you are quite calm and unconcerned!"

The beg shrugged. "If I am to die, then I am to die. Becoming upset would merely have interfered with enjoying my dinner."

"By God, you are a man, Torghuz Beg!" The Voivode laughed. "But apparently you did
not
enjoy your dinner. I watched, and you ate very little."

Torghuz Beg reached out and took a goblet of wine. He ignored his uncle's angry protests at his violation of Islamic law and drank deeply of the sweet Rumanian vintage. "It was the meat, Voivode. I disliked the taste."

"Enough of this!" Kemal Pasha shouted, jumping to his feet. His movement was emulated by the guards who had accompanied him, and they rose from their table and drew their swords. "Voivode, in the name of the Beloved of Allah, Mohammed II, I depose you!"

The Voivode snapped his fingers, and the hundreds of soldiers who had been standing silently along the walls throughout the night disarmed the handful of Turkish guards in a matter of minutes. The Voivode smiled at the pasha. "I think not, Illustrious One." He nodded at one of his officers, and a detachment of soldiers sprang up to the dais and dragged Kemal from his place. They grabbed Torghuz Beg as well, but the Voivode said sharply, "Not him. Leave him where he is."

A slight glimmer of relief flickered in the beg's eyes, but he masked it with amused bravado. "I trust that this reprieve may someday become a pardon, Voivode?"

"Indeed," Vlad replied, smiling. "I need someone to take a message to the sultan. I have chosen you to do so."

This time the relief was evident. "May Allah bless you, Voivode."

"Allah can keep his blessings," the Voivode said. "I cast off the Moslem faith with the Moslem yoke." He stepped down from the dais and approached the pasha, held by two burly Serbs. "I am sorry about this, my dear Pasha," he said, smiling with total insincerity. "But this is, after all, war."

"You will not dare to harm me!" the pasha screamed. "The sultan will avenge me! My sons will avenge me!"

"Your sons!" the Voivode replied. "But your youngest is here, and will die with you."

"My eldest, Orkhan . . . !"

"Ah, yes, Orkhan. Now that I think about it, he did indeed come here a short while ago."

The pasha blanched. "What . . . ? Where . . . ? What have you done to him? Where is he?"

The Voivode leaned forward, stared the pasha directly in the eyes, and smiled sweetly. "I put him in the stew. All I had to serve you for meat was that delicious pig, and I did not wish to offend your religious sensitivities." He turned and nodded curtly to one of his officers, and the executions began.

The feast continued for many hours, its background music the agonized screams of dozens of Turks, their mutilated bodies skewered upon dozens of long wooden stakes, their dripping blood making slick and shiny the cold gray stone of the courtyard. Kemal Pasha died the moment the roughhewn tip was thrust into his aged frame, but many of his guards lingered on for hours.

Upon the dais, Voivode Vlad IV of Wallachia smiled. He had noticed the nauseated pallor that had spread over the face of Duke Stephan as the executions began, and he was slightly annoyed at the Hungarian's lack of fortitude. Torghuz Beg, on the other hand, seemed almost to be enjoying
himself, though his cheer may very well have been a result of his presence upon a chair and not upon a stake.

"You will inform the sultan of the events of this night," the Voivode commanded.

"As you wish," the beg replied.

"And you, my dear Duke," he said, turning to the Hungarian, "make certain, if you please, that King Matthias knows that I have cemented my alliance with him with the blood of Turks."

"I shall do so, Voivode," Duke Stephan agreed. "And I shall tell him of the horror of your vengeance against your enemies."

The Voivode shrugged. "These poor men are not my enemies, Your Grace. They are pawns, nothing more. And this is not vengeance." He sat back upon his chair and smiled malevolently. "This is pleasure. . . ."

And the mist swept the scene away and the years passed in fluid silence. Images of battle and victory and defeat floated past Malcolm's consciousness. He watched as he, Vlad, knelt before a bearded Orthodox patriarch and repented of his apostasy. He heard the frenzied cheers of crowds of Carpathian nobles as they hailed him as their savior, as the man destined by God to restore the Byzantine Empire. He watched as the year 1462
arrived and he led a host across the Danube in an invasion of the territories held under the Ottoman scepter. He watched as the banners bearing the bloodred dragon rode into combat against the crescent and the star, and he saw his armies slaughtered by the Turkish hosts under the command of Torghuz Beg.

He saw himself fleeing once more, fleeing from Wallachia even as he had done after losing his throne the first time so many years before, fleeing to the presumed safety of the protection of the Hungarian king; and he saw himself betrayed by the Magyars, imprisoned by King Matthias Corvinus, imprisoned for his failure, for his barbarism, for his lust for death; imprisoned as a heretic, an apostate, a sorcerer, and most importantly, as a hostage, an expendable pawn in the ongoing chess game between the king of Hungary and the sultan of the Ottoman Empire. The king cared little for him one way or the other. The sultan wanted very much to torture him to death.

He was bitter and angry, and he was filled with frustration and hatred. He grew even colder than he had been, and his cruelty grew apace. And as the years passed he remained a prisoner of the Hungarians.

And then there was screaming and the sensation of a fist striking his cheek. Malcolm Harker found himself once again standing upon the cobblestones of the alleyway in Rome. He was confused and disoriented, but another blow to his face brought him back to awareness.

He found himself struggling violently with the young prostitute. He had nipped her on the throat, and he could taste the bittersweet blood upon his lips. The girl was screaming and beating his face with her fists. He relaxed his grip instantly, but the terrified girl continued to flail away at him.

Malcolm ran from the alleyway, pushing his way through the crowd that was gathering to investigate the cries. He ran on as fast as his legs could carry him, without direction, without looking back to see if he was being pursued. He ran for block after block, as if he were attempting to escape from himself.

Christ help me!
he thought as he ran.
Christ help me! I can't control it! The memories, the power of the blood—I can't control either of them! The dust is hundreds of miles away from here, but that doesn't matter, because the blood is awake! The blood is awake!
He felt filthy and polluted and diseased.

He ran until he came to a small church—one of the thousands of small churches that proliferate in Rome, dwarfed by the basilicas and largely unfrequented by tourists. He stopped suddenly in front of the church, panting and breathing hard. He heard one weak voice chanting within, and his nostrils detected the faint aroma of incense.

Mass!
he thought.
They are saying mass!

It was true, what Lucy Westenra had told him. His body was polluted with unholy blood, and only the regular infusion of the exact opposite could hold the power of the blood in check. He remembered the excruciating pain he had experienced when he went to communion a short while before, back home in Forest Hills, and he braced himself for what he knew he had to do.

I have to burn this pollution away. I don't care about the pain, I don't care about the agony. Only the blood of Christ can help me. Only the blood of Christ . . .

Malcolm knew that he was not thinking clearly, but he also knew that what he planned to do was necessary. He noticed as he entered the dimly lighted church that no one was in attendance other than an old priest and a rather tired-looking altar boy. Roman Catholic doctrine taught that the mass is more than a worship service; it is an ongoing sacrifice and must be held even if only the priest is present.

Malcolm strode with a mad, intense determination up the central aisle of the little church. The priest saw him coming and he smiled, assuming that Malcolm had come in to receive the sacrament.

The priest's smile faded into a look of anger, then confusion, then fear, as Malcolm ran up the steps, past the altar railing, and into the very chancel itself. He pushed the priest away from the altar and sent the altar boy running from the church with a sharp kick to the rump. Malcolm grabbed the chalice of consecrated wine from the altar and drained it with one draught, pouring the sacred liquid down his throat. It burned like fire, it ate into him, but he did not care, he welcomed the pain as a wounded man might welcome the cauterizing pain of the hot iron. He dropped the chalice to the floor and then grabbed the host from the small silver plate upon which it lay, and he stuffed it into his mouth, muttering, "Heal me, save me, forgive me . . .
"
and then screamed at the agony. He grabbed the small silver vessel in which additional wine was held for the Eucharist and he raised it to his lips. "Jesus, help me, help me!" he cried, then poured the wine into his mouth. The pain so intense that he doubled over, he reached out mindlessly to grab anything that he might hold on to. His hands grasped the crucifix which stood upon the altar, and the last thing he noticed before sinking into unconsciousness was the smell of the flesh of his hands sizzling.