Vlad (39 page)

“Do I have a choice?”

Dracula, who had turned and beckoned Stoica forward, turned back, something else in his eyes. “A choice?” he said, handing the bird over. He looked up. “Do you remember, that time in Edirne, when I offered Ilona a choice?”

The name burned him. The fury, as ever, was instant. “What choice did she ever have?” he shouted.

“The same one we all have, Ion,” Dracula replied. “To stay or to go. The same one you have now.” The green eyes darkened. “That you took once before, remember?”

Her name, her fate, the memory Dracula drew up now of his treason. The reason for that betrayal ever between them.

Something shifted in him, rising in bile and blood, and he reached, grabbed the other man by the collar of his coat, jerked him close. Behind Dracula, Black Ilie stepped forward with an oath but the prince instantly halted him with a raised hand. “Wait!” he said, then looked straight into Ion’s eyes. “What is it,” he said softly. “What is it you want to say that you have always wanted to say?”

For a moment, Ion couldn’t speak. Then he did. “I vowed to you once that I would kill the man that ever hurt her. It is yet another oath I have broken. But I tell you now,
Vlad
…” He coughed, found his voice again. “Never…never speak of her to me again, you…fucking…whoreson,” he whispered. “Never talk of her, or try to claim you ever loved her. For if you do, I will leave you again. This time, forever!” He pressed his face even closer, till nose touched nose. “But before I go, I will watch you die!”

He threw Dracula back and he stumbled, Ilie moving to halt his fall. They hit the perch and the bird upon it lurched and began to scream, wings spread wide. Ion turned and ran from the stable, slamming the door. But it did not shut out the shriek of the hawk, nor block the green gaze that bored into his back.

The Last Stake

Ion stumbled up the hill, snow-blind. The storm, with winds that swirled now this way, now that, had taken most of his senses. His horse had refused to move; he’d had to blinker and lead her, one hand trailing on the bridle, the other flapping, feeling with a frozen hand for the smooth trunks of beeches, whose leafless limbs provided no shelter to the white onslaught. Sight was useless; he’d long since wound his scarf completely over his face from the helmet down. His only hope was that the trees still delineated the path that Dracula had brought him up on a clear, sunny, snow-free morning five days before to peep at the enemy camped on the opposite hill.

Laiota’s army had been there a week, obviously awaiting reinforcements before making the final push on Bucharest. Ion had been dispatched in one last attempt to rally reinforcements of their own. He’d failed. All he’d brought back was his frozen self.

And then his only other working sense warned him of danger. The crack of a stick and his own horse’s sudden snort had him drawing his sword. He’d been gone three days and the enemy could well have moved onto this hill as well. If they’d discovered he was there, Dracula did not have enough men to hold it.

He ripped the scarf clear, peered into whiteness. “Friend?” he called, but the wind shredded the soft word. Shrinking to place his back against a trunk, he tried it louder.

“Friend of whom?” came a deep-voiced reply and he started, wondered what to say. When he’d left the skies had been clear, the air warm for December. They had not thought to arrange words of recognition for the blind. Ion lowered himself to a squat, his blade raised in a square guard above his head. “Friend of the Dragon?” he said, wincing against a blow.

“
Logofat?
” It was a voice he recognized, a Moldavian called Roman, one of the two hundred Stephen cel Mare had deigned to leave.

“Yes. It is I,” Ion said, rising. “Is the Voivode still here?”

“I’ll take you to him. Give me your hand.”

He sheathed his sword, reached, clasped. With one hand stretched behind him still pulling his horse, he was led between the trees, up the hill. His sight cleared a little and he realized that here, higher up, there were pines among the beeches and they blocked some of the snow. Then the ground flattened suddenly and he stumbled to his knees, losing the guiding hand. Looking up, he saw the flicker of firelight.

“Come,
logofat
,” came the voice. “Dracula is within.”

It was a cave, a big one Ion could see straight away, for at least half a dozen fire-pits crackled into the distance and their flames reflected off walls at least twenty strides apart. The roof he could not see at all, only columns of smoke spiralling to some natural fissures or holes. A dozen paces in and his face was warm, the snow on his eyebrows melting. He realized, as he followed Roman deeper, that it was not just the fires that caused the heat. He had to watch where he placed his feet, such was the press of men lying on either side. He knew that the Wallachian army consisted of no more than five hundred. Most of them had to be crammed into this cavern. And there, on a raised shelf, like a dais above the cavern’s floor, before his own fire, crouched Dracula.

He rose. “Welcome,” he said, then held up his hand when Ion made to speak. “No words yet. Sit, eat, drink. Get warm.”

Gratefully, Ion sank down. Stoica came forward with two bowls, dipping one into each of the small cauldrons that swung from the metal trellis. He handed the first across and Ion gulped hot wine, choked, gulped more. The second bowl contained some kind of game stew, and Ion swallowed it with a sigh. “My prince…” he began, but Dracula raised his hand, halting the words.

“Eat. Drink. Get warm,” he repeated.

Gradually, the rest of him thawed and he was able to use fingers that worked again to unclasp his cloak, undo his helmet, lay both down beside him. When his bowls were empty, Dracula hushed him with a finger, then rose, beckoning him to follow. They withdrew
beyond the circle of firelight, to crouch under the sloping walls at the furthest extremity of the cave. A draught came down here from one of the hidden fissures and Ion started shivering again.

It was simply, swiftly told. Dracula nodded. “And so not one of my
boyars
will come.” It was not a question.

“They send messages that they will, Prince. They even make a show of mustering, it is said. But none had ridden from their halls when I left Bucharest.” Ion sighed. “And with this foul storm, our messengers may not even have caught up with the Hungarians, nor yet have made the court at Suceava.”

“The storm is passing with the night,” said Dracula. “Can’t you smell it?” He raised his nose, sniffed. “And we are on our own, as ever.” He looked back into the cavern. “Good.”

Ion followed the gaze. “You do not think to fight?”

A low laugh came. “I never think of anything else.”

Ion turned back. “But if they get their reinforcements—”

“They already have. Two thousand more Turks crossed the Danube two days ago. We caught a few, killed a few. Most made it here, to their rendezvous. They will set out today, for Bucharest.”

“And we?” said Ion faintly, already knowing.

“We will stop them.”

It was probably useless but he had to try. “Prince, they have five thousand men now. We have five hundred…”

“Four hundred and ninety-nine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Black Ilie’s gone.”

“Dead?”

“Deserted.”

“Ilie?” Ion stopped. The big Transylvanian was the first of the
vitesji
, he and Stoica. And the last. He was the standard bearer, had stayed through it all, through the worst of everything. Ion looked at Dracula. “What did you do to him?”

“I gave him a choice. Stay and die. Go back to his wife in Pest and live. He chose life.”

Ion looked back towards the fire, to the small, silent man. “And Stoica?”

“Stoica has no one to go to. But you do.” Dracula leaned in. “You should do the same.”

Before Ion could reply, Dracula stood. “See who comes.”

It was the younger Dracula who was hurrying towards them, his cloak and helm covered in melting snow. “You asked to be told.”

“Yes?”

“The enemy have started to break camp. And the storm’s clearing.” He flicked slush from his brow, smiled. “Do we attack, Father?”

“We shall go and take a look at them. Tell my captains to rouse the men.” A salute and he was gone, calling loudly, excitedly.

“He is mad,” Ion said.

“Of course,” said Dracula, striding away. “It’s in the blood.”

—

They stood just inside the forest’s fringe, shadows within its shadows. The dawn sky loured gray, full of the snow to come, the snow it had given shrouding every bush and tree stump on the slope to the valley floor. There, the enemy were assembling for their march:
akinci
, the Tartar ravagers, wrapped in camel hide, their heads huge globes of wool;
sipahis
, armored but with thick quilted coats over their plate and mail. Yet most of the men who gathered on the snow-concealed Bucharest road were not Turk. Bulgars, Serbs, Montenegrins, Croats—and Wallachians, dressed like the Wallachians who watched them, with wool, leather and cloth thrust into any gap that might admit the wind flowing from the distant, frozen Danube.

Ion looked from below to their own men and suddenly remembered another tree-line, a very different time, men who would have ridden naked to ease the terrible heat were it not for the blades they rode against. But that day, in the Vlasia forest, just before they stormed Mehmet’s camp, he had been unable to see to the end of the crusader ranks, just knew that four thousand men awaited the command. Here he could see the end of the single rank clearly, even in this dawn’s dirty light. A mere five hundred waited there. Fewer, as had been pointed out; even fewer now, as he saw some of those on the very end slip back, heard the muffled crack of stick beneath snow as some men fled between the trees.

He looked again, impatiently, at the two men beside him, the Draculesti, father and son, in their matching black armor. But where the younger one was shivering hard and muttering curses, the elder was immobile, silent. An icicle had started to form at the tip of his long nose.

It is time, Ion thought. Time to follow the example of the wisest men furthest from the center and retreat quietly through the forest.

“My prince?”

Dracula stirred, his eyes focusing. He reached up to wipe away the icicle. “Is it time?” he muttered, still staring down.

“Yes. If we circle ahead of them we can take the road to the city first. Collect the garrison, move on to…”

He stopped. There was something in that bone-white face, in those green eyes, that stopped him. Then Dracula spoke. “It is not time to retreat, Ion,” he said softly. “It is time to attack.”

“No, my prince.” He gestured to the hill opposite. “There are too many.”

“Up there, yes. But down there…” He leaned slightly forward. “Infidels to kill.” He turned to his son. “Whisper the order: arrows first, from here. Then swords.”

“Wait!” Ion reached forward, seizing the younger man’s arm. He looked back at the elder. “Do not do this now. A few more dead, it will make no difference.” The eyes did not change. “Prince, think of your country, under the usurper again. Think of your family…”

“I do.” Dracula’s voice was ice. “I think of my father, decapitated by traitors. I think of one brother, his eyes gouged out, buried alive. Of another brother, his face eaten by a disease given to him by a sultan.” He pointed. “Down there, I can avenge all that, again and again. Down there, Turks and traitors will die.” He reached, jerked Ion’s hand from his son’s arm, repeated, “Give the word. Arrows, then swords.”

The younger Dracula moved away, whispering. The first man nodded, headed the other way, did the same. Men began to pull bows from leather covers.

Ion shook his head. “Why do this?”

“Because it is a time of choice, Ion. For all of us.” Dracula leaned in. “I have chosen. Have you? Do you ride?”

Ion swallowed. “To our deaths?”

“We are riding to them every day. Maybe yours is down there. Maybe mine. Both.” His green eyes moved between Ion’s, seeking. “So choose.”

“I…” Ion paused. And in the pause, the world shifted.

“Too late.” Dracula leaned back, looked away. “I have chosen for you. I dismiss you from my service. Go to your wife, your daughters. Die in your bed.”

“N…no,” Ion stuttered. “I will…”

“Do you not understand?” Dracula turned back, certainty in his eyes now, fury, too. “I do not want you here. Why should I let a known traitor ride at my side?”

Ion gasped. “That was—”

“Because of Ilona. The name I must not speak. You left because of your love of Ilona.” His voice turned to a sneer. “And I will tell you now of Ilona, what you have refused to hear. How…”

“Do not…”

“…how I killed her…”

“I…know…”

“No, you have heard what I did. You glimpsed the result before you ran sobbing to my enemies. But how I did it…” He laughed. “I stuck my dagger point into one of her exquisite breasts. The right one, actually. And then I…”

“Stop it!” Ion tried to turn away, his voice rising, but Dracula stepped close, one arm wrapping around Ion’s chest, one hand going over his mouth. Ion could have fought him, could have burst free perhaps. But the eyes held him, the green eyes, glowing now, that voice, coming in a whisper.

“I ripped it across, breast to breast, then placed the point at her chin, ripped down, down…”

“Stop it,” Ion pleaded from beneath the hand.

But grip and voice and eyes were unrelenting. “And when I’d done, I laughed. Because it was no different from when we made love. I enjoyed hurting her. She enjoyed being hurt. Being hurt by me.”

The groan came, denying. Still he could not break free.

“It is true. Haven’t we always spoken of choice? Well, that was hers. To stay with me, be hurt by me, when she could have married you, been loved by you. She chose me, chose pain. How I laughed as I hurt her! Again and again, and never more than when I finally reached the place of betrayal, where my bastards had slithered out, half-formed…”

“No!”

Ion broke the bonds then, of hand, eyes and voice. But the prince reached and lifted him easily, slammed him onto the ground, then bent till their noses touched. The terrible whisper came again. “It is over, Ion Tremblac. All love, all loyalty, all truth. There is only death. Ilona’s, the Infidel’s. Mine. I go to it. I embrace it as I once did my lover. I will die now, if God wills it.”

“God?” Ion hissed. “He will have nothing to do with you. You, of all men, will burn in hell forever.”

“Well.” The green eyes didn’t waver. “Then I will await you in the flames.”

Dracula surged up, lifting Ion, shoving him back towards his horse, turning away. Cursing, sobbing, Ion fumbled beneath the blankets for his sword, undid the ties, drew it, took a step back. But he had to pause to wipe water from his eyes and when they were clear, he saw that Dracula had already mounted, and was heeling his horse
beyond the tree-line.