He got to his feet, swaying slightly upon his tired, rubbery legs, and he inhaled deeply of the sweet smell of blood that she exuded. She continued to speak to him in her soft, seductive voice as she ran her fingers enticingly over his body, seeking his wallet. He ignored her hands, he ignored her voice. All he was aware of was the smell of the young woman, a smell of food. He gazed at her for a few moments as the predatory urge welled up in him with overpowering force. He fought against the urge. He resisted it. And then be surrendered to it.
And he felt himself swept up and away once again by the enveloping mists of time, and the sense of emptiness returned as he was cast into the black maelstrom of evil remembrance. Malcolm shook his head and rubbed his face, grateful that he had feeling and presence of mind; but then he noticed that his hair was much thicker and much longer than it should have been; that his upper lip was covered by a thick mustache; that he was wearing chain-mail armor over a caftan of purest silk; that he was standing alone in the dark, silent room, his left hand resting upon the hilt of the sword which hung from the leather belt that encircled his waist. He knew that it was the year 1459, and that he, Vlad Tepes, Voivode of Wallachia, was about to take a dangerous gamble, one which might lead to his death—or to more power than he had ever dreamed of possessing. if he failed, the sultan would have him skinned and raise his hide from a flagpole above the citadel at Stambul; if he succeeded, he would have the armies of the Hapsburgs and their European allies beside him in a war to destroy the Turks; and if that enterprise were to prosper, he, Vlad IV of Wallachia, might well become Vlad I, Emperor of a restored Byzantine realm.
"Ordogh," he whispered. "Come to me."
A few long moments passed, then the voice said, "I am here, Little Dragon."
"I need your advice, Ordogh," the Voivode said. "Do you know of my intentions?"
"They are obvious, Little Dragon. I see a great feast beginning in the courtyard of your fortress. I see fifty sharpened stakes implanted in a large circle around the tables. I see the banners of Corvinus, the Hungarian king, flying from the poles above the battlements, and I see no banners bearing the crescent of the Turks."
The Voivode laughed, but there was no amusement in his laughter. "I do not need you to tell me that which any ignorant peasant can surmise, Ordogh. I need you to tell me if the path I am turning toward will lead me to imperial purple or to a traitor's death. You can pierce the veil of the future, Ordogh, this I know. Tell me what is to be."
The voice seemed to sigh as it replied, "And have you been my servant for so long and yet do not understand, Little Dragon? I am no Gypsy fortune-teller. Turn down whatever path you choose. All paths of all men lead to the grave and the dust of death."
"Yes," the Voivode said irritably, "but one may die tomorrow or in fifty years. Time is meaningless to you, Ordogh, but not to me."
"And would you have it be meaningless to you also, Little Dragon?" the voice asked. "Would you like to be as unconcerned about the turning of the wheel of time as I?"
The Voivode frowned. "What are you talking about, Ordogh?"
The voice did not reply at first. After a long silence, it said, "No, Little Dragon, the time is not yet. Later, many years from now, we shall discuss this again."
"Many years from now?" the Voivode asked, smiling. "Then I shall triumph, shall I not, Ordogh?"
"That have I not said, Little Dragon," the voice replied. "But I can tell you that, win or lose, this risk will not lead to death."
The Voivode paused, reflecting upon this. "A man may risk all, knowing that death does not await him. Only death can make a man irresolute." He laughed. "I thank you, Ordogh, for your speech. I go now unto my allies and my enemies."
"You please me greatly, Little Dragon," the voice said, fading away even as it whispered in his ear. "I await the cries of agony and the howls of pain." And then the voice was gone.
The Voivode strode out of the dark, silent room and walked in contemplative silence through the corridors of the castle, making his way toward the huge oaken doors which led to the great courtyard without. I shall not see death because of this, he thought. Then it is worth the risk.
Final preparations for the feast had been finished as he stood in the empty room communing with the dark spirit, and his wives, Magda and Katarina, who had supervised the arrangements, curtsied to him as he walked out into the courtyard. He shot each a curt bow. They withdrew as soon as he entered the courtyard, for the feast was to be for men alone. He took his seat in the large chair upon the dais and nodded to his chamberlain.
As his servant went to summon the guests, the Voivode sat back and surveyed the scene before him. His soldiers, clad in full battle gear, stood in tightly packed lines against all four walls enclosing the courtyard. The long rectangular tables, some thirty in number, were set with golden plates and golden wine goblets, bowls of fruit and generous hunks of bread and cheese. The roasts would be brought in by the servants once his guests were seated. In the center of the courtyard, a fire was burning upon an iron platform designed for the purpose, and torches flickered from their holders along the walls.
And fluttering above the battlements of the castle were the banners bearing the crimson dragon that was the heraldic symbol of his house, and the two-headed eagle of the King of Hungary Matthias Corvinus. The star and crescent of the Sultan Mohammed II, the Voivode's supposed master, were nowhere to be seen.
His guests, their retainers, and their pitiful handful of personal guards entered the courtyard warily. Leading the entering procession was Kemal Pasha, the cousin of the Sultan. The pasha was a wiry; olive-skinned man with eyes of an oriental cast. His scarred face and slight limp proclaimed him a fearsome warrior, not a soft sycophant from Istanbul. With him was his youngest son, Mustafa, and behind them came his guards, each attired in Ottoman battle gear, each with his hand nervously clasping the hilt of his scimitar.
"Voivode!" Kemal Pasha shouted as he strode imperiously forward. "I demand a reply! I'll not feast and make merry with you until you declare yourself and remove those insulting banners!"
The Voivode rose and made an obsequious bow. "Beloved of Allah, I beg that you have patience! I did not know that the Magyar king would send his esteemed representatives to me at the same time that your illustrious self chose to honor me with your presence!"
"You lie, Voivode!" the pasha said bitterly. The soldiers glanced at each other with amusement, knowing that it was not safe to speak thus to the Voivode in his own fortress. "My eldest son, Orkhan, came to you two weeks ago and told you I would be here on this day!"
"And yet he did not arrive, Illustrious One," the Voivode replied, his voice dripping with honest concern. "Nor did any messengers from Corvinus! It was a surprise to me—a great honor, but a surprise—when you arrived in the morning and Duke Stephan arrived in the afternoon. My women have been all the day trying to make ready the … ah"—he paused—"here is Duke Stephan now." The Voivode bowed low to the Hungarian nobleman, the trusted adviser to King Matthias Corvinus the Just.
Duke Stephan was only slightly older than the Voivode, for Vlad had not yet reached thirty and Stephan had only recently passed it. Stephan could not accurately be described as a dandy—for no such creature would have survived life among the warrior aristocracy—but there was an air of precision about him. His beard was just a bit too carefully clipped, boot thongs just a bit too carefully tied, fingernails just slightly too long. Kemal Pasha despised him for his appearance, his nationality, and his religion; and he deeply resented the presence of an ally of Corvinus here in the fortress of a vassal of the sultan.
"Hail, Vlad, My Lord," Stephan said cheerfully as he walked forward and clasped the Voivode's hand fraternally. He ignored Kemal completely.
"Your Grace," the Voivode said with equal good humor. "Allow me to present to you Kemal Pasha, trusted servant of His Islamic Majesty."
Duke Stephan and Kemal Pasha exchanged curt bows. The Turk then turned to the Voivode and said, "Enough of this, V
oivode. I demand an answer and an explanation."
The Voivode raised his hand and said, "Please, Illustrious One! The amenities! We must dine. All will be made clear."
Kemal Pasha would have protested further, but everyone began to take seats at the tables. Amid the loud bustle of voices that ensued, he thought the better of it. He sat down disgruntledly at the table beside the Voivode, noticing with irritation that the Hungarian seated himself on the other side of the sultan's mercurial vassal.
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 fortitud
e. 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.
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