Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  No, that was Cicero.

  The wolf nibbled at his food, dunking bits of fresh bread into the broth and studying them for long moments before finally taking a bite. He was a man lost. Completely defeated.

  Vlad wanted to get him alone, to ask him about Father. But Malik arrived, suddenly, with a scribe in tow, one of the Turkish ones brought from Edirne. He came armed with quill and parchment.

  “A scribe, as requested, your grace,” Malik said, falling into parade rest at the door. Clearly, he didn’t intend to excuse himself. And he looked at the wolves with undisguised curiosity.

  Vlad took a measured breath. “Yes, thank you.” To the scribe, who’d settled at the end of the table farthest from the smelly former prisoners: “I wish to send a letter to Vladislav. Prepare to take dictation.”

  “Yes, your grace.” The man settled, arranged his things, dipped the quill into ink.

  Vlad could have written his own letter, but that wasn’t done. Princes didn’t sully their hands with scribe business, and he meant to be a prince. So.

  “Dearest Father-Killer and Traitor,” he began.

  Fenrir paused in his eating, brows lifted. Malik resettled his feet at the door. But the scribe wrote immediately, in flawless, elegant Slavic.

  “I reach out to you now,” Vlad continued, “not as your countryman, but as the future deliverer of your death.”

  “Ooh, that’s good,” Fenrir said.

  “I write to you from your own stronghold in Tîrgovişte,” Vlad continued, “which is in fact my palace. Just as it was my father’s, before you murdered him. Know that you will answer for that. You and every turncoat boyar who helped with the execution.”

  The scribe paused, quill hovering above the parchment.

  Around him, silence. Helga had stopped combing; Fenrir had stopped eating; he was aware of Cicero’s one-eyed gaze against the side of his head.

  “Was that unclear?” Vlad asked.

  “No, your grace.” The scribe resumed writing.

  “By order of His Imperial Majesty, the Sultan of the Ottomans, I, Prince Vlad Dracula, do hereby assert my claim over Wallachia as its rightful leader. From this point forward, you, Vladislav II, are a murderer and war criminal, sentenced to death. Should you choose to return to Tîrgovişte, know that your life is forfeit. You may prepare now for your public execution.”

  The scribe finished off the letter with a few last scratches of his quill, and then silence reigned.

  “Will that be all?” the scribe finally asked, hesitant.

  “Yes. Have it sent to him. I’m sure he can be found beneath the same rock under which John Hunyadi is currently hiding.” He went to lend his signature, and his ring for the wax seal. After, the scribe secured the missive and left to see about sending it, bobbing a quick, but deep bow on his way.

  When he was gone, Vlad turned back to his people, all too aware of Malik’s presence, still lingering silent by the door.

  Fenrir and Cicero had left off eating, and stared at him. Helga paused in her combing, frazzled lock of her husband’s red hair held in one hand.

  “You’re gaping,” he informed them.

  Fenrir blinked, and then laughed, low and hearty, if a little rusty from disuse.

  Helga gave a wobbly smile. “It’s so good to have you home, your grace. A proper prince and head of the household pack.”

  Is that what he was now? The head of his household?

  He let out a deep breath, and hoped it sounded steady to the keen ears around him. Turned to Cicero. “When you’re finished eating, I’d like an audience with you in Father’s old study.”

  The wolf nodded, resolve setting his features in a way that improved his look of exhaustion. He’d always been someone who needed a task, a purpose. “I’m ready now, your grace.”

  Vlad shook his head. “No. Finish your meal.” He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” The wolf resumed eating, this time with something like enthusiasm.

  ~*~

  The study was still the study, only now the hearths were heaped with old ashes, and the desk was cluttered with sticky wine cups, greasy half-eaten bits of trencher, and a clutter of messages, maps, and melted candle stumps. The paperwork Vlad pushed aside to sort through later, on the off chance he might glean something useful. The rest of the clutter he dumped out the window once he’d opened the shutters.

  He stood a long moment behind his father’s chair, his hand on the back of it. The only times he’d ever sat here as a boy had been in Father’s lap. He drummed his fingertips on the smooth leather, and little metal studs that bordered the wooden frame. It was just a chair, but it had brought him up short and rendered him momentarily stupid, awash with memory, with useless emotion.

  “He would be proud of you,” Cicero spoke, voice hushed. Reverent.

  Vlad found that he couldn’t have possibly been here, in his father’s sacred space, with anyone beside the centuries-faithful wolf. He had to be strong for Mother; had to be forceful for Fen and Helga. But Cicero had known and loved Remus Vlad Dracul better than anyone, and Vlad felt his foundations waver; felt tears burn his sinuses, and clog his throat.

  He gripped the chair back until his knuckles popped, and swallowed hard, swallowed it all down. He lifted his head and saw Cicero looking thin and frail in the chair on the other side of the desk, his black, tangled beard and his wild hair. He’d always been upright, and clean-shaven, impeccably turned out in house colors and fine jewels and furs. A proud, proud, beloved Familiar. Reduced to a wretch, a shivering prisoner. But he gazed at Vlad with his one remaining eye as if he was a savior. As if this trembling boy of seventeen was his whole hope for the future.

  Vlad wet his lips. “If I sit here, then…” His voice shook, all his doubt and grief bleeding through. “Then that’s it. He’s really dead.” He’d never shown such emotion in all his days as a hostage; he’d thought he’d lost the ability to.

  “Oh, son,” Cicero said, achingly. “He’s already dead. And he wouldn’t want anyone else to sit there but you.”

  Vlad pulled the chair back and all but fell into it. “Tell me what happened.”

  Cicero didn’t need to ask for clarification. He linked his hands together in his lap and took a deep breath. “There had been rumblings. Some of the boyars came for audiences, asking your father to align with Vladislav. He said, and was correct, that he himself was not the enemy of Hunyadi and the rest of Romania. What did they hope to achieve by appealing to him? But we knew.” He shook his head. “There was unrest. They wanted a war with the Turks. And they didn’t – forgive me, your grace, they weren’t worried about you or your brother, not the way Dracul was.” His look was entreating. “He was your father, and he loved you, and he wanted to bring you home.”

  “But he couldn’t. He caved to pressure.”

  Cicero bowed his head. “We prepared. But. It was an ambush on the road. Vladislav’s troops…there were many. And five wolves. And a mage.”

  Five wolves, he’d started to exclaim, but was brought up short on mage. The word hit his brain like a spiked mace, scattering all other thoughts.

  “A mage? You’re sure?”

  “A woman,” Cicero said, nodding. “With pale hair. She held fire the way a man holds a weapon.” He cupped his hand around an imaginary flame. “I…have never seen anything like it.”

  Neither had Vlad, though his parents had described mage powers to him in detail. They’d spoken of them with shudders, and head shakes. Not natural, Mother always said. They’re not like wolves or vampires – we rely on our sight, and sense of smell, our strength and speed and our wits. But mages manipulate the natural world; they are not a part of it. They’re not predators…they’re tricksters. She’d thrown a joke about Loki in there somewhere, but her eyes had been distant and fearful.

  “She was powerful,” Cicero said, and in those simple words Vlad could see what had happened: the leaping flames, the wolves crashing out of the woods,
the screaming humans armed with swords and spears. “And we fought. We tried to get your father and brother inside the gates, but.” He drew a shuddering breath, head bowing. “I was struck a blow in the face, and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to…” His hands tightened to fists in his lap, and Vlad had the impression it was an effort not to reach for his ruined eye. “They had captured Fen,” he said. “The others, Caesar…” He shrank down into himself, shoulders slumping.

  “I’m sorry,” Vlad murmured.

  “As am I.”

  “Only the two of you survived? No others?”

  “Fen says Vali got away. But he hasn’t come back. Perhaps just a father’s hope.”

  “Perhaps.” Vlad would ride out and try to find him, though; see if there was a scent trail to follow. Locate the body, if nothing else, for a proper Norse pyre – if there was anything left to burn.

  He took a deep breath, hands braced on the desk. The words he needed to say now scraped at his throat like broken glass, but he had to get them out. “Cicero, there’s something I have to do. When Vladislav receives word, he’ll march back, and we’ll have a battle on our hands. But before then, I have to…” Another breath; his lungs were tight. “I won’t ask this of you, not after all you’ve been through–”

  “Ask me.” The wolf lifted his head, sorrow giving way to resolve, gaze hardening. “Ask me anything, your grace.”

  Vlad hesitated. It didn’t seem fair – even if life wasn’t, if nothing was, it seemed that a prince should offer what fairness he could, when he was able.

  “Anything,” Cicero repeated. “I am yours.”

  He knew then, the sunlight catching in Cicero’s dark eye, that his father was dead, but he intended to go and see for himself anyway.

  ~*~

  Cazan had spoken truthfully. The grave was in the churchyard, just as he’d described. Vlad knelt and pressed his ear to the earth; a scattering of delicate grass stems already grew there, covering the freshly tilled patch of dirt. He could detect no heartbeat, no sign of life. He breathed deep and smelled decay and dirt and rot.

  He smelled death.

  In a shallow, unmarked grave beside it, he dug up a jar full of ashes. He dipped a finger in and set a few specks on his tongue: charred, but still recognizable as heart meat. As his father.

  Cicero whined softly, a lupine sound in the back of his throat.

  Vlad smoothed the dirt back into the now-empty hole and tucked the jar away in his saddlebag. He gathered his reins. “Where is Mircea?”

  ~*~

  It was a place Vlad recognized, a quiet glen screened from the road by pines and holly bushes. It smelled of fall: of turning leaves, and tree sap, ripening berries…

  He refused to acknowledge the last scent. The telling one.

  “Your grace,” Cicero said, quiet and careful.

  Vlad ignored him. He unslung the shovel from the back of his saddle and began to dig.

  Malik had offered to send men with him, to help with the digging. But Vlad had refused. Even Cicero’s gaze on him was almost too much to bear.

  So he dug alone. Until, despite the cool of the afternoon, the sweat began to pour down his body, soaking through the layers of confining fabric. He stripped off his kaftan, and his shirt; tied his hair back with a strip of leather. Dug, and dug, growling at Cicero when he tried to help, first with words – “you’re too weak” – and then with only with sounds, deep and desperate in his chest. And then he couldn’t even do that, could only dig, not protesting when Cicero shifted and put his great wolfen forepaws to use, dragging up dirt with his claws.

  Vlad’s fingers touched something hard, finally, smoother than rock. “Wait,” he said, and Cicero halted, up to his wolf shoulders in the pit they’d dug.

  Hand shaking, Vlad drew out a bone. Human. From the upper arm.

  His brother was bones.

  He kept digging.

  Cicero whined again, and leaned toward Vlad, prodding at him with his large wet nose.

  Vlad waved him away. “No. I’m going to do this.”

  He dug Mircea up, down to every little knuckle and toe bone, laid him out in the best order he could manage on the length of burlap he’d brought along, intending to use it for a litter if…but no. Mircea was – had been – a half-breed. He hadn’t survived the suffocation.

  He wiped the skull clean with a bit of cloth, only to smudge it again when he traced the empty eye sockets with dirt-caked fingertips. “Hello, brother.” He set it down gently, and then sat back on his heels, hands braced on his now-filthy riding leathers.

  Cicero came to curl up beside him, leaning into his side, warm, and solid, his fur soft against Vlad’s bare skin.

  Vlad smoothed a hand down his head and neck, laced dirty fingers in his ruff.

  He had to bury it. The awful, dark, choking bundle of anguish trying to claw its way up his throat. If he let it out, if he acknowledged it – there was no coming back from that. Not ever.

  He closed his eyes, and thought of bodies on spikes along a palace wall. Thought of boy princes with burned-out eyes. Thought of the scent of sex on his little brother. The taste of blood; the sound a man made when he died.

  Kill them, kill them, kill them all.

  “Alright.” He opened his eyes. “Let’s go home.”

  ~*~

  Taking over a palace was, to put it bluntly, a lot of work. He dictated a dozen messages, ones to inform surrounding nobles of said takeover, ones to request audiences, and one he took special joy in: a renunciation of Vladislav and all his prince-killing boyar cronies that he sent off to John Hunyadi. That one began I will kill your man, you know.

  “Quite savage, your grace,” Malik said, voice bland, brows lifting in a way that might have been approving.

  “I intend to be the most savage prince any of these fools have ever seen.”

  Then it was getting the household in order. He had several of his men round up all the servants and inspected them. All of them were holdovers from his father’s days, all of them frightened, shaking, but dissolving quickly into shock when he informed them of his identity.

  “You served my father loyally for years. Are you prepared to serve me as well?”

  A chorus of “yes, your grace,” and a round of bows and curtsies.

  Vladislav had left a single steward behind, a middle-aged man in a ripped coat and the kind of dignity born of terrified defiance. He was, Vlad thought, the easiest sort of person to break. Two of Vlad’s men held him up by the arms, though he didn’t struggle, and he met Vlad’s gaze bravely when Vlad came to stand in front of him.

  “Is there anything useful you might tell me of your master?” Vlad asked.

  The steward spit on the floor at Vlad’s feet. Several droplets spattered across his dirty boots. “Turkish swine.”

  The soldiers tightened their hold, but Vlad stayed them with a gesture. He smiled at the steward. “In your time in the dungeon before your execution, I ask you to think on this: you’re the one who helped a man bent on selling this entire principality to the Hungarian throne. So who’s really the turncoat between us?” He tapped the man in the chest with one finger. “If anything important comes to mind, send for me. Otherwise, make your peace with God.”

  He retired then to his father’s – to his – study, and began sorting through the stacks of paper chaff that Vladislav had left behind. Some of it was scrolls, others dashed-off notes on parchment scraps. He found several journals, half-full, the handwriting so slovenly it was nearly indecipherable. He wondered if Vladislav had written any of it himself, or if it was the work of the steward currently being chained up in the dungeon.

  “Tell me about him,” he said, distracted, squinting at what appeared to be a list of either favorite dishes, or an order for the chefs on their way to market.

  Eira sat beside him in a second chair, chin propped on her hands, touching the paper Vlad passed her with only the tips of her fingers, nose wrinkled delicately, as if she didn’t want to tou
ch the same parchment that Vladislav had touched. “He is both small and narrow minded,” she said. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but now I know better.”

  Vlad snorted as he paged through one of the journals. “I know what kind of man he is.” He had a sack of bones and a jar of heart ashes to tell him that much. “I mean what is his routine; what are his habits. I want to know how best to manipulate him when I finally get him in front of me.”

  Eira scoffed. “You might be a man now, but you’ve been a hostage all these years, my son, and not among Romanians. You’d do well to listen.” Like all her reprimands from his youth, her voice was light, her words strong. She had a way about her.

  He sighed. “Yes, fine. Tell me what I should know, then.”

  She nodded. “He is–”

  A knock sounded at the door, and it swung inward before he could inquire. That was something he’d need to address soon.

  The intruder proved to be Helga, bearing a tray of bread, fresh soft cheese, grapes, wine, and, by its scent, blood. She carried it in with the gait he remembered from childhood, her hips swaying beneath her skirts and tidy apron, her face set with motherly concern. He felt a boy again, for a moment.

  “You need to eat something to keep your strength up, your grace, my lady. It’s getting late, and you can’t stay up all night on an empty stomach.”

  Vlad turned to the window as she set the tray on the edge of the desk and began unloading platters and cups in front of them. The sun had slipped below the tree line, the sky a dusky rose. There was hardly any light left in the room; he hadn’t even realized he’d been squinting to read.

  “Yes, well, thank you.” He eyed the two small cups of blood as Eira moved to light the room’s candles. “This smells like wolf blood, Helga.”