A filing cabinet in a capacious office held records on many different families and people. Ryan had compiled the data over the years, but right now he looked for a specific address. After keeping tabs on the Crystan family for so long, he knew the most appropriate person to send the letter to would be Nicolas Jack Crystan, who lived alone and would hopefully open the envelope with no one around.
Ryan wrote in one messy block:
Nicolas,
I’m writing this so that you might understand what I’m about to do, and if I somehow get arrested, then I want someone else to have this knowledge. I’ve worked for Aldrich for over ten years and have had to put up with him talking about the past. All the time. I mostly ignored him because he didn’t make sense, or because I had no idea what he was going on about. There was one story I couldn’t ignore though. He told me that in the 16th century, he was living in Germany. While there, some stupid god he believed in ordered him to come to Lansin Island. I don’t believe this god exists … Moluk? (I’m not sure how it’s spelt, never asked.) Anyway, Aldrich’s orders were to come to the island and use his mind power to kill a group of witches that lived here. I always thought the history never added up. How did such a small population get paranoid enough to burn almost 150 people? And why no trials? Why build stone platforms? Why go through so much effort? It was Aldrich who put it in their minds, selecting people with the most influence, then leaving them to spread fear. Maybe he was behind other witch burnings across Europe too. He would sometimes take me to The Burning Grounds at night. He used his trick to get access to the grounds, getting what he needed from people who work there—a key for the staff entrance and the security codes for the cameras. He liked to go there and reminisce, to remember what it was like to watch thirty people at a time burn alive. You can take this letter in any way you like, but it’s what Aldrich told me, and I think it’s the truth. I’ve cleared up the evidence of you ever being at the manor. This letter should be your only connection to Aldrich that is left. I suggest you dispose of it. I have nothing more to say, apart from thank you again to you and your brothers for freeing me from him.
Ryan.
He took the letter out to his car and put it in the glove compartment, where he also placed a key. Over the next long hours, he scoured the manor for flammable substances. There were extra cans of petrol stored for him, which was handy. Halfway through gathering items, he took a quick side mission and grabbed a large bed sheet, then placed it on top of the fridge that held the corpse.
Once he had an adequate collection, he waited. And waited. When it was 10:00 p.m., he began. He started with the bathrooms and sprayed deodorant over every surface, into every crevice and nook. When that was depleted, he used shaving cream, flour, alcohol, moving on to the other rooms of the manor. He poured petrol into the toilets and didn’t flush. He was clever in his approach, ensuring he wouldn’t have to backtrack or walk over petrol and flour on the floor.
In the entry hall, he made certain the area he’d urinated on was soaked in flammable substances. And in the office, he emptied the contents of the filing cabinet and doused them in furniture polish.
Done. Now to the corpse. When he opened the refrigerator, the smell crept up to his nose steadily. It wasn’t as dire as he’d expected, although the wrapped body had new stains: sticky brown, red and purple, gloopy black, yellow. He spread the bed sheet he’d picked out earlier onto the floor and then toppled the refrigerator over with enough force to vomit the body out. With a drift of stench, the corpse went splat on top of the blanket.
Ryan spritzed Dead-Aldrich with air freshener, then repeated the Christmas cracker process, wrapping and tying him up tightly until he was ready for manoeuvring. He dragged the body out of the back door and around to his car. As he hauled it along, his body ached; the same muscles he’d exerted on Monday evening began to protest. He forced the corpse into the boot with a lot of difficulty—the vehicle had clearly not been designed with transporting a dead body in mind.
Earlier today, Ryan had placed thick rope and chunks of firewood in the car. The sky was clear outside and the night dark, with only hazy light from the full moon. Ryan’s clothes stank. He stripped naked, threw his old attire through an open window into the manor, then changed into fresh garments he’d brought with him.
He circled the building, lighting matches and dropping them through the front door, the back, and as many windows as possible. Each time, the air thwumped, biting back with hungry flames. The fire spread faster than he ever imagined it would. A shiver of childish excitement ran over him: a sick pleasure, a thrill, like the boyish gratification of tearing off a spider’s legs, one by one.
He ran to the car, a safe distance from the thunderous, crackling structure. Small explosions went off inside, like little pocket-blasts. They were loud but not deafening, though the noises were steadily growing in intensity.
It began to smell heavily of smoke. The nearest house was over two miles away. Ryan hoped the surrounding hills would stop anyone from noticing the blaze for a while, and that the echoing explosions would be passed off as fireworks.
Grendel Manor was a bulky stone golem with blazing window-eyes of fire. It spewed black toxic breath from its gaping mouths while its rocky organs creaked and moaned under the pressure of fiery heartburn.
Anxious for his next move, Ryan scrambled into his car and drove up the steep private road. In his rear-view mirror, the orange glow was almost blinding, but it shrunk as he zoomed away.
It was nearly midnight by the time he reached his destination. He parked in an unconventional spot, away from cameras, and made his way to the staff entrance. In case he was spotted, he wore the dust mask and had tightened the string of his hood to cover his face. He used Aldrich’s key to gain access, and once inside, he entered the security passwords to shut down the cameras.
The only ways in were through the staff entrance or the main gate for tourists, which was locked shut at night and too high to scale.
Ryan made trips back and forth, bringing the rope, petrol cans, and a lot of wood, and on his final trip, he lugged the corpse out to The Burning Grounds.
The milky light of the moon licked the edges of each stone platform. In a playful sense, it looked like a giant sheet of bubble wrap with needles poked into each air-filled hemisphere: The circular platforms were the blisters, but flat-topped, and the wooden stakes were the needles. The sight of all thirty death-discs at night was enough to make the average human cringe.
Ryan wasn’t fazed.
He yanked the body up onto the nearest disc and propped it against the pole. A foul smell occasionally wheezed out, but Ryan ploughed on. He secured Dead-Aldrich with the rope and then piled the blocks of wood around him, before soaking everything in petrol.
One piece of wood was more like a long branch. He took it, dipped the end in fuel and set it alight. Taking a few steps back, he threw the torch underarm onto the platform.
An implosion sound brought on the flames. A wall of heat slapped outwards. Ryan looked at the vertical orange victim and tried to imagine thirty of them all at once. ‘I wish you were alive to feel this, Aldrich,’ he said in a muffled voice.
Sitting in the calm night sky, the full moon watched the spectacle indifferently: the burning body, the fierce fire, like a red-orange dragon dancing too fast to track.
In Ryan’s eyes the reflection of the roaring blaze flickered and the icy moon hovered above. Crooked teeth smiled under the dust mask; his skin wriggled with delight.
###
Join the newsletter to learn more about Andrew Butcher's books:
http://www.andrew-butcher.com/newsletter.html
More from Andrew Butcher:
http://www.andrew-butcher.com/bookspurchase.html
BOUND BY BLOOD
The Dracula Chronicles Book Six
Shane KP O’Neill
The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood, Volume 1
Copyright © 2007, 2012, 2014 Shane KP O’Neill
&n
bsp; All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. To give validity to the story, I use real historical characters and set them within true historical events. Any other similarities to anyone living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Shane KP O’Neill has asserted his moral rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Published by
Shane KP O’Neill
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-0-9556701-5-2
ISBN-10: 0-9556701-5-2
This book is dedicated to
Dr. Peter Cutler,
who inspired me to write this book.
Chapter 1
WALLACHIA. THE BATTLEFIELD AT SNAGOV.
DECEMBER 11, 1476.
Vlad Dracula tugged hard on the reins of his stallion. The beast struggled to keep its footing on the muddy slope; it snorted and shook its head. His bodyguard crowded around him on all sides with less than half their number still alive. The hundred men who had survived the epic struggle decided to hold back with the rumours of victory filtering through.
The stallion steadied itself at his prompt. Dracula released his grip on the reins and leaned forward in the saddle to relieve his aching limbs. Today was the day of his forty-fifth birthday, but he had not given it a thought. This had been a hard fight. With the end in sight, he had put many of his Turkish enemies to the sword.
The rain fell in a steady pattern for as far as he could see. Below him, a heavy mist cloaked the field. It currently obscured those who had not yet given up the fight, though it showed signs of lifting. Even so, Dracula could see little of the action. From his vantage point, the mist was still too thick. He knew, though, that the Turks were on the retreat. That, in itself, hinted to him that victory was his.
In days gone by, he would have been at the front. He always relished the final slaughter of his enemy. Nothing else could match the rush he felt inside, knowing victory was close. That seemed like an age ago, and he felt more than a little tired of the fight now.
For the whole of the last eighteen months, he had seen only war. From the very day King Matthias of Hungary released him from captivity, he had resumed it again. He had seen nothing of Ilona or his two sons. The struggle to regain his throne had been his only care.
Thoughts of his family soon passed as his mind drifted back to the war. He relived this new and glorious episode in his career. There were so many to speak of, and each added to his legend. It began with the liberation of Bosnia from the Turks. That campaign ended earlier in the year, and had seen a return of the fire in his blood.
The Christian alliance soon followed that had united him with Stephen once again. He thought back to his cousin for a moment. There was a time when he loved him more than a brother. Now, that had all changed, and Dracula hated him with a passion. They had agreed to set their old wounds aside for a time. To win back his throne, he had to do it.
Many others had joined his side. They included some great names of old, such as Stephen Báthory and a young Vuk Branković, of the famous Serbian Branković dynasty. Their united effort drove the Turks from Wallachia. With Mehmed’s armies defeated, they restored Dracula to the throne.
He wondered how long it might last now, in this, his third reign. The throne that had been his father’s before him, had brought nothing but pain and strife. He had always been brutal in power, as the struggle to remain there made it so. That was the lesson he had learned from his father’s demise. He vowed to never make the same mistakes and allow his enemies to prosper. Any man who stood against him had to either yield to him, or die by his sword.
It was the only way to rule, and he knew it well. The end justifies the means. The use of the same tactic saw him put an end to all crime in his country. Any who offended died the same way as his Turkish enemies. They soon came to learn that impalement was a slow and lingering death, a death that he gave to one and all.
The people remembered him for this, and feared him because of it. Some even loathed him. Their love was a luxury he could never enjoy. Yet he had never wanted the love of his people; just for them to be strong. All across Europe, people spoke of his cruelty. It was the excuse Matthias had used to keep him captive for thirteen long years.
But the spread of Islam put the fear of God into the nations of Europe. It was to counter this that the pope had called for a new crusade. His concerns saw the birth of a new union of Christian states. The pope wanted the Turks driven out once and for all, which aided Dracula’s cause. He knew this was why he had the support of his fellow princes. They would never see him back on the throne for any other reason except to be the first line of defence against any Ottoman invasion.
In his reign from 1456 to 1462, he had fought the Turks alone. Now that his allies had returned home, it meant he had to fight alone once more. They did not care that it left him brutally exposed.
A rare, grave error on his part compounded this. The chance had arisen in battle to kill his mortal enemy and cousin, Basarab Laiota. He had not taken it. Now, a month on, Laiota busily rallied support. He courted the Turkish commanders along the Danube frontier for their help.
Thirty days had passed, and in that time, Laiota raised a new army and marched with it to Snagov. His numbers doubled those of Dracula’s. Yet, despite these odds, Dracula prevailed once again with his genius on the battlefield. Now his army was routing what remained of Laiota’s forces.
The sound of hooves broke his train of thought. He lifted his head to see a rider galloping up the slope. It was Ivan Olescu.
Olescu was one of the boyars most loyal to his cause. The boyar raised his right hand in salute.
Dracula responded in kind. “You have news for me, good friend?”
“Yes, My Liege!” Olescu shouted.
The others trained their eyes on him. Each was eager to hear what he had to say.
“Victory is yours, great lord!”
Dracula could not hide a grin. At last, he had secured the throne. His victory meant all who opposed him were either dead or too weak to fight on.
Olescu continued with his report. “We have routed the Turks, My Liege. Those who have not yet escaped the field are being put to the sword.”
“Do you know how many have managed to flee?”
“A good number, My Liege, but not enough to pose a threat to us.”
His entourage had struck camp near the lake at Snagov, in view of the monastery on the island. He thought it a good time to retire to camp and await any further reports there.
“Very well then,” he said, looking around and then gazing farther up the slope. He pointed towards the gap between the two hills to his left. “We should ride back to camp. Let us take the route through the pass to avoid any further incident.”
“We have not sent any scouts to check the way, My Liege,” one of his men pointed out.
“It matters not. Our enemies are fleeing for their lives. At first light, we can hunt for survivors. Spread the word.”
Olescu drew his sword and held it high above his head. “Hail Dracula!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Hail Dracula! Voivode of all Wallachia!”
His men repeated the salute. Some of the other boyars rode up to hear the news. When they saw their comrades cheer Dracula’s name, they joined in and raised their swords high in the air.
Dracula turned his horse towards the pass, and dug his heels into its ribs to prompt it forward. The others spurred their mounts into a trot too, and rode either behind or flanking their leader. At the top of the pass, the trail narrowed. They rode on in single file, with Dracula at the front.
He noticed one of his servants up ahead at the entrance to the
pass, and grew annoyed to see the man there. The unruly scoundrel should have been with the rest of the entourage preparing the camp for the return of his army. Dracula had never been one to allow such a break from protocol and decided to make an example of the man. The horse’s ribs bore the brunt of his frustration. It snorted and picked up the pace. The servant, he assumed, had hidden in the hills away from the heat of battle.
The gap between them quickly closed. Dracula leaned to one side and raised his fist to strike the man down. To his surprise, the miscreant grabbed ahold of the stallion’s halter in an attempt to knock his lord from his mount.
Dracula put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it, the servant drove a dagger into him. The man was no amateur, and knew exactly where to thrust the blade. It ripped into Dracula’s lower abdomen below the armour plating.
The man shouted in triumph at his success. The light padding there offered little or no defence. He felt the warmth of Dracula’s blood ooze down onto his hand. It did not seem to matter to him that his own death would surely follow.
A deep groan escaped the lips of the mighty warrior. The cold steel pushed into his left side, just above the kidney. Angled upwards, it scraped against Dracula’s lower rib. He slumped forward a little as the man withdrew the blade and stepped back to allow himself the room to strike again.
The stallion caught the fresh scent of blood and surged forward, its sudden action causing the man to lose his footing on the frosty ground.
Dracula used this respite to draw his sword. He raised it high into the air and met the despairing gaze of his enemy. Then, he brought it down hard against the side of his attacker’s head.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 142
