One of his men agreed. “I wager he can hear all we are saying.”
“Be on your guard at all times!” Petrescu warned. “A rat is never more dangerous than when it is cornered.”
Varkal grimaced at the slur and wished he could get Petrescu alone. He would not be so bold then. Such an opportunity was not likely. Petrescu was correct in what he had said and would ensure he had plenty of men around him at all times.
The soldiers dispersed to begin a thorough search of the area. The one whose horse had almost trodden on Varkal’s head called the attention of his comrades. “Wait! What is this?”
Petrescu and some others walked over. On the leaves near the fallen oak, they saw fresh blood. He put a finger to his lips as they neared him. They believed they had found their man. When enough of them had gathered there, he gave the nod. The group began beating the bushes with their swords.
Varkal knew the game was up and sprang from his hiding place. The soldier who had made the discovery stood nearest to him. Varkal swung with his sword and slashed him the length of his face.
The man screamed in horror before Varkal crashed into him and knocked him down. The captain tried to take advantage of the surprise on their faces and made a dash for his horse. But a second man stood in his way to block his escape. They clashed swords, Varkal fending the oncoming blow aimed at his head.
He prepared to deliver one of his own when he felt a searing pain in his thigh that forced him down onto one leg. A length of cold steel lay wedged in the other. He cried out and looked up to see Petrescu standing over him.
Another of the men beat a stick against his fighting arm. He dropped his sword to the ground, and, before he could react, Petrescu kicked him to the side of the head. He fell down hard on the arm Anton had injured earlier. When he hit the ground, several of them joined in the assault. It left him broken and bleeding.
“Put him in restraints! The boyar is waiting to see him.”
Two of the soldiers kept him pinned down. Another bound his hands tight behind his back. He then turned Varkal over and spat full in his face. “How does it feel to be the one who is naked and bound?”
Petrescu grabbed the hilt of his sword. With great deliberation, he yanked it from Varkal’s thigh. Varkal screamed out loud in agony, and it took every ounce of strength he had left to remain conscious. The men then stood him up. With his head cloudy, Varkal struggled to keep his weight off the badly injured leg.
The soldiers took real delight in his pain. They hated him with a passion. This was even more so since the grim discovery at the shack.
“It does not feel so good, does it?” Petrescu sneered. “I only wish I could cause you even half the misery you dealt those poor women.”
The officer struck him twice to the face while the others held him firm. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. He looked Petrescu straight in the eye to show he was not afraid.
Petrescu hoped he might beg for his life, and it agitated him when he did not. “Even when you know you are going to die, you act so brazen. That shall soon change.” He turned to his men. “Put him on a horse! And show some haste. We do not want him to bleed to death before we have the chance to see him hanged.”
The men hoisted him sideways onto his horse. He cried out as they moved him, the pain in his thigh excruciating. Someone cut the bonds behind his back. Then, laying him across his stomach on his mount, they tied his hands and feet underneath the animal. He groaned hard as they pulled on his leg, and overwhelmed with the pain, he finally passed out.
They led him back to the scene of his crime. Victor Florescu awaited their return outside the old shack. Already, his men had secured a noose to a strong tree for Varkal’s execution. They each held torches so they could all see his hanging.
“Cut him down!” the boyar ordered.
One of the soldiers cut him loose from the horse, though his hands and feet remained tied. Four of them picked him up and threw him into the pool to revive him.
The cold water sent a shock through his whole system. He opened his eyes at once, choking for air when he broke the surface. The four men watched him go under a second time, enjoying his suffering. Some of them had waited a long time for such a moment. Varkal tried to kick to push himself upwards, but with the restraints and his injuries, he was unable to do so.
“I would let the bastard drown,” one of them said.
“Haul him out,” Florescu told them. “His noose is waiting.”
Coughing and spluttering, they dragged him from the pool. They sat him upright on his horse and secured the noose around his neck.
The sun had set fully now and darkness had closed in. The torches of the soldiers offered the only source of light. The boyar climbed back onto his own horse and rode up alongside him. He delivered a short speech denouncing the captain for his crimes. It ended with a condemnation of death.
Florescu looked at him. “Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”
Varkal shrugged and grinned at the boyar despite his pain and his predicament. “Only the one thing,” he said through bloodied teeth.
Florescu was not sure he wanted to hear it. “And what might that be?”
“She was a hump worth dying for.”
With that, he spat full in Florescu’s face. The boyar wiped away the mix of spittle and blood with a hand. With fire in his eyes, he looked at the condemned man, and saw another of those sickening grins etched across his face.
In that moment, nothing could give him more pleasure than to see Varkal dead. “Carry out the sentence,” he said, raising an arm.
One of the soldiers raised the whip to strike Varkal’s horse. He held it there when he heard a strange voice, loud and true, to all around the tree.
“Who wants to be the first to die?” it said.
The boyar turned to see who had interrupted the execution. At first, he thought his eyes had deceived him. Then his blood turned cold. He realised he was looking at the man whose family his had feuded with for generations. “Vlad Dracula!”
“If I were to say I am flattered that you remember me so well, I would be lying.”
“You are a dead man.”
“I am not nearly as dead a man as you, Florescu.”
“You were killed at Snagov years ago.”
“You should not believe every story you hear. Of course, you were not there. No Florescu ever shows his face in times of battle.”
The boyar turned to his men. “What is this? Has someone here fixed this to have a jest at my expense?”
“It is no jest, you cur. You know who I am. Release my son before I kill every last one of you.”
“Your son?” Florescu said in disbelief.
If he was surprised, then Varkal was even more so. They had all heard tales of Vlad Dracula. He was a legend for what he had achieved in battle in trying to save the country from the Turks. That, and his prowess with the sword, was fuel for many stories. Many men thought he was the most skilled to have ever lived.
Many more of those sprouted from his death. The events of that night in Snagov remained shrouded in mystery. The most popular tale claimed he had emerged from the chapel as a demon. All rational men dismissed it as myth and claimed a lot of the soldiers had bellies full of ale from celebrating their great victory. The fact that many had drowned in the lake, added to the grief at losing their hero and leader, is what had led to the story. Even so, others still spoke of it around fires at night.
Stories also grew about the disappearance of Dracula’s wife. Many of the boyars had known her father well. The soldiers at the palace in Buda swore by what they had seen. They said a man who bore the image of Dracula flew with her in his arms from a window. No one had seen her again. It was the night of her husband’s birthday. Most believed she had thrown herself into the Danube in despair. It was a likely scenario as Dracula’s first wife had committed suicide in the exact same way.
And now, here they stood, Dracula and his wife. Florescu had once
visited the palace at Buda, and knew their faces. “He is the son of Gabrul. Everyone knows that.”
“Gabrul watched over him for me. Varkal is my son.”
Florescu’s initial fear had subsided now. “That would explain much. Most of all, why he is a murdering bastard.”
“You would know enough of such things. It was your father who murdered my mother and brother.”
Florescu smiled. “Yes, he has oft spoken of it.”
Dracula had to fight the urge to snap his neck there and then. “When I am done with your family, your father shall stir in his grave. He shall wish he had chosen his enemies with a little more care.”
“If he were dead, I might tend to agree with you.”
His men laughed out loud.
“It should be a good day when the last of the Draculestis is gone. Carry out the sentence!”
One of his men drove a sword into the horse. The beast cried out, and its legs buckled before it collapsed to the ground. Varkal caught his breath and strained the muscles in his neck. The noose tightened around them as his legs dangled free.
Ilona flew into the air and caught him in her arms. Florescu watched in disbelief as she snapped the rope and carried him away to safety.
The presence of the vampires terrified the horses. Those that had riders threw them to the ground. Others trampled the soldiers in their need to get away.
Florescu did not see Dracula as the vampire pounced on him. The boyar cried out when he felt something sharp cut into his neck.
Dracula only drank a little from him. He withdrew his fangs and held his enemy up in the air by his hair. “Anyone who attempts to flee, shall die!” he shouted so they could all hear.
The soldiers stopped on his command. They stood there and watched when he drove his fingers through their boyar’s chest. Florescu gasped as the assault punctured his lung. He hung there, helpless, as Dracula continued on and ripped out his heart. Frozen with fear, the soldiers looked on. Dracula let the lifeless body drop to the ground. He stuffed the heart into his mouth, and once his saliva had broken it down, he swallowed it whole.
No one dared to move. Dracula strolled amongst them, smelling their fear. Their blood called out to him to take it. He savoured the moment as he continued to walk, letting his thirst grow. Ilona felt it too and longed to attack. She was not yet as accomplished as he in controlling her urges.
She exchanged glances with her husband. When he gave her the signal to go ahead, she jumped on the man nearest to her. In her eagerness to get at his jugular, she almost ripped his head off.
In the same moment, Dracula gripped one of the men in a bear hug and snapped his spine. Taking the sword that belonged to the dead man, he beheaded a second. The blood of the headless man sprayed Varkal’s naked body and many of the others who stood around. It turned his stomach. He watched in fear as Ilona attacked her second victim and held firmly on to a third.
Some of the men fought back in desperation, but Dracula cut them down with ease. He revelled in his dazzling speed and skill.
Three others attempted to flee to the trees, but did not even make it half way. Ilona released the man she was drinking from and knocked them all down. One of them let out a muffled cry as she pinned him to the ground, her strength far superior to his. He whimpered like a scared puppy while she held him there. She looked into his eyes, scanning the inner recesses of his mind. His eyes focused on her mouth, where blood dripped from her lower lip and down onto her chin.
“That is not very becoming of you, soldier,” she said. “I see not only are you a killer of men, but you are a violator of women. So why do you fear me? Do you not want to do the same to me as you did that poor girl in Sibiu?”
The man felt alarm at her words. How can she know of that? But what limits are there to what a demon can do?
“Yes,” she whispered. “Take a good look. This is how a demon would appear to your like.”
She stretched her jaws wide and bared her fangs.
“No!” he cried. “Move away from me!”
Her face returned to normal. “I want to see the weapon you used in your greatest conquest,” she said, her tone tinged with bitterness. She ripped off his breeches to expose him.
He trembled with fear, and his penis shrivelled to almost nothing. His embarrassment grew worse when she glanced down at it and frowned. “Is that what you impaled her with, soldier? It does not appear such a dangerous weapon to me. Here, let me assist you.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt utterly humiliated as she rubbed him with her hand. When he tried to look away, she squeezed on his testes. “Look at me!” she warned. “Lest I shall crush them to powder.”
Terrified, he met her gaze once more.
“You have every right to feel shame,” she said. “You are no better than my husband’s bastard son. Yet you would see him dead.”
He glanced briefly at Varkal. Then his eyes reverted back to her when he slowly began to grow in her hand.
“Am I exciting you, soldier?” she asked, her voice taunting him. “Do you like me playing with your lance?”
She ran her tongue along his length. He trembled all over, fearing she would bite him at any moment. “Do not worry,” she said. “I hate to disappoint.”
The soldier screamed when she bit into his sac. He clawed at her hair in vain before she tore out both testicles with her teeth.
“Mmm, delicious,” she said, dribbling a mixture of fluids as she chewed.
He wavered on the brink of consciousness. Before he passed out, she stooped down again. Holding both his wrists in her hands, she drank him dry from the wound between his legs. When she returned to her husband’s side, all but one of the soldiers was dead. He lay face-down at the feet of the startled Varkal.
“This one is for you, Varkal,” Dracula said. He felt a little annoyed at the revulsion he detected in his son. “It is time for you to join me at last.”
Chapter 19
TRANSYLVANIA. THE RESIDENCE OF
VINTILA FLORESCU AT BRASOV.
NOVEMBER, 1494.
The events of the previous month cast a dark shadow over the house of Florescu. Victor and his son had both died in the forests near to the city. Men from the garrison found his body with the heart ripped out and his head missing. Strewn all around were the bodies of over a dozen of his men.
Each body showed signs of a bitter end. Some looked emaciated and devoid of blood. Others had died by the sword, while a few had also had their heads lopped off. Of those, they had only failed to recover the head of his son.
Rumours were rife as to what could have happened. In all, they found twenty dead bodies around a shack in the forest. This number included those of a woman and child. The woman died in a way they had seen all too often. She was the latest of a dozen they had found in the last two years. The scene showed signs of a rape before her killer had strangled her.
Florescu received a report in full detail. Victor was his only living son. Anton, whom they also found dead, was his only grandchild. His other son, Yallin, had died many years before. The son of Vlad Dracul had captured him in Bucharest, where he had him beaten and then impaled in the city square. His only daughter, Maria Despina, had married Radu, the youngest of the Draculas, and they had not had any children.
It left him all alone in the world. Victor left no other children and so there was no natural heir to his estates. He had a nephew to a sister, but hated him with a passion. Now, well past his eightieth birthday, he had nothing left.
He missed the glory days of nearly fifty years ago. In 1447, he had helped to remove the great Vlad Dracul from power. He thought back to that time often. They were heady days. With Victor and Anton gone, it had all amounted to nothing. There was no one left to carry on his legacy.
Most of his men had deserted him, and the servants too. The slaughter in the forest scared many of them off. How long might it be before the rest of them suffered the same fate? That was the reason for leaving that most of them ga
ve. And then, a messenger delivered Victor’s head. Very few had stayed after that, even the most loyal of the men.
The stories started up again about the undead Dracula. Many thought he had returned from the grave to exact his revenge on his old enemy. People began to believe if they stayed, they too would become targets of that vengeance.
Florescu walked to a window. Outside, he could hear his sentries talking.
“You are out of your mind to want to remain here, Alin.”
“Florescu is my master,” he replied. “Where would I go? Besides, Aurel, I do not believe so easily in fiction, as you do.”
“You do not believe in the stories of Dracula?”
“Of course not. They are a nonsense.”
“But many saw what happened at Snagov. Even one or two you call friend.”
“Who knows what happened there?”
“It is as the story suggests.”
“What, that he emerged from the chapel a demon? I think not.”
“You are a sceptic, Alin. You have always been the same way. For as long as I can remember.”
“No, I am practical. I believe in what my own eye tells me.”
“It is a wonder you even believe in our Lord, Jesus Christ. I cannot imagine you witnessed the Crucifixion.”
Alin did not appreciate the remark. “Shall I tell you what happened at Snagov?”
“Go on. I can see you are so compelled.”
“His own men killed him.”
“What? He had men most loyal to his cause.”
“The man was a brute. He killed untold numbers of his own people. You cannot hope to do that on such a scale and not suffer retribution.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes, he was wounded in battle.”
“That is common knowledge. It is a wonder you believe that, though, when you believe no more of what was said of it all.”
“His men laid him down in the chapel. Seeing his weakened state, one of them seized upon the chance to kill him.”
“But why would they do that?”
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