The Dracula Chronicles: The Path To Decay

by Shane KP O'Neill

  He gritted his teeth and prodded his mount forward. “It is time to fight against me, Dracul. Let us see how long it is before the Fier Negru tastes defeat.”

  Only thirty of Dracul’s original number remained standing. The rest lay dead, or dying, on the frozen ground. Half of that thirty were cavalry. His very own three hundred was almost gone. The battle had been a bloody one.

  Mihail saw the Vlach horsemen withdrawing back up the slope, which allowed him plenty of gaps to ride into. He picked up a lone spear that stood in the ground. With it tight in his grasp, he rode hard in a straight line for Dracul.

  Dracul had just cut his twentieth victim in half when he caught sight of him. He braced himself as Mihail raised the spear to throw it.

  Mihail launched the spear his way, which the wily voivode only just managed to elude. He stooped down and hacked off the lower front leg of Mihail’s mount as it passed him.

  The horse came crashing down. Fortunate not to be crushed, Mihail hit the ground also, only inches away. He groaned at the pain in his back and battled to clear his head. The cries of his dying horse echoed in his ears.

  Dracul charged at him with the Fier Negru held high above his head. A horseman ran across his path to block Mihail’s certain death. It allowed his enemy the time he needed to get to his feet. A Vlach arrow crashed through the chest of the rider. Dracul negotiated a path around the dead man as he fell from his mount and sought Mihail once more.

  The arrows rained down on the advancing cavalry. When the long line of riders slowed and raised their shields to meet the hail of missiles, the Vlach charged at them. Dracul and Mihail found themselves left alone as they squared up to each other for the very first time.

  Dracul swung the Fier Negru. Mihail blocked the blow with his own sword in a deafening crunching of steel. The clash of blades knocked him back and the strength of the much older man surprised him. Still, he managed to keep his footing on the frosty ground.

  He countered quickly and struck back. For five whole minutes, the two men traded blows. After blocking the last strike from his enemy, Mihail could see him gasp for breath. Now that Dracul was beginning to tire, he launched a more fervent attack against him.

  The two men came together as their swords crossed once more. They stood face to face and, for a moment, glared into each other’s eyes. Each man could smell the sweat on the other.

  “This night is the last your blood shall rule,” Mihail vowed, as he turned his back into Dracul. “The bell tolls loud for you.”

  He drew a knife with his right hand and drove it hard into Dracul’s right thigh. Dracul screamed in pain and before he could move away, Mihail dragged the knife further up his leg. He tore a wound more than eight inches long.

  Mihail stepped forward, allowing him to drop to his knees. Dracul cried out as his injured limb crashed against the hard ground. He pushed himself up on his good leg just as Mihail brought his sword down on his head.

  Dracul tried to duck, but failed. The steel crashed into the side of his skull just above the ear. He staggered sideways and dropped the Fier Negru to the ground. A wound opened along the side of his head, spewing blood. The strength was all but gone from him.

  Suddenly the din of the battle was no more. No longer did he hear the cries of man and beast. A brilliant white light stung his eyes. All around him he could see nothing but white.

  “Maia!” he cried out, as he staggered forward.

  Mihail watched him drop to his knees, his arms outstretched. He watched him at close quarters, his sword poised to finish the job.

  “Maia!” Dracul called out again, tears filling his eyes.

  Then he saw her.

  Dracul reached out with both arms as she emerged from the light. He returned her smile and took both her hands in his. His soul stepped forward from his body and walked with her from the field.

  Mihail lurched forward to deliver a final and decisive blow. There was no need. The lifeless body of his foe slumped to the ground. The great Dracul was dead.

  WALLACHIA.

  THE BATTLEFIELD AT BALTENI.

  SOON AFTER DAWN. DECEMBER 12, 1447.

  Recover his body!” Rodrigul cried, seeing his voivode fall.

  It would not take long for those looking for trophies to strip Dracul down.

  Litovoi heard the call and broke from the fight. Samiu went with him, never one to leave his side on the field. They were edging the second part of the battle, though less than a dozen of Dracul’s men remained alive.

  The three men charged towards Dracul’s body. Mihail still stood over him, his sword dangling from both hands and dripping with blood. He turned and ran when he saw them coming. To stay would mean joining the dead Dracul on the ground.

  They cut down all who got in the way, friend or foe. Litovoi got there first and dismounted. He gathered up the body of his dead friend and threw it over the back of his horse. He then climbed back in the saddle and rode on up the slope.

  Samiu watched his back all the way up, swinging his sword at anyone who came near. They soon reached the summit. “Should we remain fighting, my Lord?” he asked. “The one we are here for is dead. His men are all dead too in the main.”

  Litovoi saw the logic in his words. “Very well,” he said, with a short nod. “Call the retreat. We shall leave this place.”

  Samiu sounded the retreat while Litovoi transferred Dracul’s body to a riderless horse, and secured it. The Red Hand tribe of the Vlach dissolved from the field. Like ghosts, they disappeared into the trees on three sides. They had lost no more than a dozen men in the whole battle.

  The men left on the field shouted in triumph.

  “Listen to those fools,” Samiu said. “They think they have defeated us. It makes me want to go back and rout them.”

  “No,” Litovoi said, his tone as stern as the look he gave Samiu. “There is no need for the Vlach to be there any longer. I would not risk the life of a single man to appease the pride of another.”

  “What shall we do with the body?”

  “We must take him back to his camp and await the return of his son.”

  The wolves waited in the trees at the top of the slope. They followed when Litovoi and his men headed north.

  VLAD feared he would be too late to aid his father. He rode his men hard to try and make it back in time. They passed Poaresti on the way and caught sight of soldiers entering the small town. “Should we give chase?” he asked Kazic.

  “I would recommend it, my Lord,” Kazic advised. “In the event your father is successful in battle, it would prove wise to kill any of the enemy that are left.”

  “Good. Sound the order to your men and follow me.”

  Vlad raced after the enemy soldiers with Natalia still lying across the saddle. She vomited twice on the way to Poaresti and passed out. The constant pressure on her stomach was too much to bear. He stopped and tied her securely to a tree outside the town. Then he rode on with his men at his side.

  The attack on Poaresti proved more vicious than that on Oltenita. Vlad’s thirst for blood reached even newer heights. He had everyone that moved cut down and killed. Like Oltenita, he burned it to the ground.

  He tried to justify his actions to Kazic. “I shall burn down every town loyal to Basarab. He should soon realise there is no haven for him in my country.”

  Kazic carried out his every order without question. He did not care about Vlad’s motives. His task was to serve the young prince and that is exactly what he did.

  Vlad retrieved Natalia and allowed her this time to sit upright behind him. Her body ached all over and the first bruising had appeared on her arms and stomach. She already despised this man, this son of Dracul.

  They turned north for his father’s camp. He could not wait to tell him of his exploits. The sacking of Poaresti meant there were no enemy soldiers left to the south of Bucharest.

  AT the camp, Litovoi waited patiently for him to return. He laid the body out in Dracul’s tent where his men paid homag
e to their fallen voivode one at a time.

  Rodrigul stood with him, unable to hold back the tears for his friend. He was the only man from Dracul’s army to survive the battle. The two men stood quietly side by side. The loss of Dracul touched them both in a most profound way. Even though the mighty Vlach warrior did not shed any tears, he still felt the loss of the only man he looked up to.

  Litovoi spoke first, putting one of his great arms around Rodrigul’s shoulder. “At least his head shall not fashion any spike for the enemy’s amusement. He can be buried with the honour befitting a Voivode.”

  “Thank you, my friend. It is as much as he deserves.”

  For Rodrigul an era had come to an end. He had spent his life in the service of this one man. Now Dracul and his kingdom were gone.

  “What might you do when you leave here?” Litovoi asked him.

  “I do not know. What can I do? Other than to support Vlad in his bid to take the throne, I have no purpose.”

  “That would be a noble commission.”

  “Well, it is his birthright. He is the heir of the great Dracul. I am all that he has left to connect him with his father. Everything else is gone.”

  “Yes,” Litovoi agreed, his mood forlorn over all that had come to pass. “I shall be there at your side should you ever need my help.”

  “Thank you, my friend. I know it well.”

  VLAD and his men passed through the battlefield at Balteni four hours after the fight had ended. All around he saw the ground littered with the dead. There must have been a thousand bodies at least.

  “Well, the battle was fought,” Kazic said, stating the obvious.

  There were no signs to indicate who had won. No one from the winning side lingered around the field. Only the dead remained, frozen on the ground. It was so cold even the crows had not ventured out for their pickings.

  Vlad walked his horse through the mass of bodies. Fear raced through his heart in case his father had fallen. He issued the order to his men to search the field for either he or Rodrigul, faces they should recognise from being in the camp most of the day.

  They carried out an extensive search. Vlad sighed with relief when no one reported finding the body of either man.

  “We should ride back to your father’s camp,” Kazic suggested. “Your father knows you shall come looking for him and it is likely he is there.”

  “Yes, you are right. We should make haste.”

  They left the slope and continued north for the camp.

  SAMIU walked into Dracul’s tent. There, he found his master seated quietly in a corner. “My Lord, I think Dracul’s son has returned.”

  The men stepped outside where they heard the sound of cavalry close by.

  “Have you no sense?” Litovoi admonished him. “That could be Mihail Basarab approaching. Why are you not armed and ready?”

  “It is not he,” one of his men said. “I have already cast my eye over them.”

  He grunted and waited for Vlad to arrive, his wolves at his feet. “Go and lie down, men,” he ordered them.

  Vlad rode into the camp and climbed down from his horse. He was amazed when the Vlach warriors all dropped to one knee. Rodrigul did the same.

  “What is this?” he asked, his confused look clear to one and all.

  “We are bowing to our new Voivode,” Litovoi told him.

  “What do you mean? Where is my father?”

  “He fell in battle,” Rodrigul said, fighting back the tears.

  “Where is he?”

  “He is laid out inside the tent.”

  Vlad entered the tent alone. He stood beside his father’s body and touched his fingers against the wound on the side of his head, eyeing the blackness all around it. Then his strength deserted him and he dropped to his knees and cried.

  “My brother, my mother and now my father,” he said, between sobs.

  He rested his head against his father’s chest and cried for a time. “I shall avenge you, Papa. I vow this in your name.”

  Litovoi noticed the woman sitting on the back of Vlad’s horse. “What do we have here? Does our new Voivode have a prisoner?”

  Rodrigul knew her face from long ago. “Perhaps we should ask her.”

  “Who are you?” Litovoi asked her, once he had lifted her down from the horse.

  She did not respond. Nervous of him and the men around her, she shied away towards the shadows. Her beauty captivated them all.

  “Did he cut the tongue from your head?”

  Litovoi stepped up to her and touched her arm in an effort to get her to talk. She pulled it away and glared at him in anger. Her reaction made him laugh. “Oh we have a real feisty wench here.”

  “Who are you calling a wench?” she shouted, her words delivered with real venom and not hiding her contempt. “I should not expect any better from such an obvious miscreant as you!”

  “I did ask you politely the first time,” he reminded her, not caring to be insulted.

  “You expect me to be sweet? I have seen half my family butchered this night!”

  “Butchered by whom?”

  “That murdering bastard you all bowed your heads to!”

  “You have a sharp tongue,” Rodrigul cautioned her. “It shall be removed if you do not mind your tone. The one you call bastard is the heir to the throne.”

  “That is strange. He does not look like the heir to me.”

  “And what would you know of it?” Litovoi asked, talking down to her.

  “I hear my brother is the Voivode. It stands I should know a lot.”

  “Your brother?” Litovoi said out loud. He turned to the others. “Does anyone know of the great Dracul having a sister?”

  “Yes, Vladislav Basarab.”

  The men went quiet for a moment.

  Rodrigul stared at her hard. “That is not something you would want to boast of too much around here,” he warned.

  She shrugged to show she did not fear him. “Why?”

  “You could be strung up from the nearest tree.”

  The woman fell silent. She knew the threat was not an idle one.

  Vlad emerged from the tent a moment later. He looked clearly devastated. “I need some time alone,” he said to the men.

  “Your father needs to be buried.”

  “Would you do it for me?” he asked. “I do not think I can watch him being put into the ground.”

  Litovoi nodded that he would.

  “Where is the nearest monastery to here?”

  “Snagov,” Rodrigul said. “Though I feel he would have preferred to be buried at Dealul near Tirgoviste.”

  “See to it then, if you will.”

  “What about your prisoner?”

  “Would you watch over her, Alin, until I return?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  With that Vlad rode off into the gloom, the afternoon sky growing ever darker.

  Later in the day, as darkness fell, the Vlach retrieved the bodies of their men that had fallen. Mihail’s army had returned to the field again. They came to bury the dead that littered it from both sides. The two forces eyed each other, but did not speak or interact in any way. Mihail allowed the Vlach to collect their dead and leave.

  They rode north to Dealul to bury Dracul. Litovoi buried his own dead there also. Kazic decided he would wait for a couple of days at the camp with Rodrigul for Vlad to return.

  Vlad rode north and away from Balteni. He thought long and hard about what to do. Is the throne worth all this pain? If he did succeed in winning it back then he would be warring constantly to keep it. A solution would not come to him. He rode on to Tirgoviste in the hope he might find the answer there.

  WALLACHIA.

  THE RUINS AT TIRGOVISTE.

  DECEMBER 13, 1447.

  The city lay in ruins. Hunyadi and his army had not totally destroyed it, but little of any use remained. Vlad combed the streets where the buildings still smouldered, though not dismounting at any time. Some of the people had returned wit
h nowhere to go. If nothing else, the hot embers offered a little warmth from the cold.

  The answer he sought was not there. This ruin held nothing for him, but memories of long ago. Vlad finished up on the piata where the decomposing body of a woman hung from the gallows. He looked up at her, wondering who she was, imagining the torment she had endured. Thoughts of Lucy entered his head and he wished she were here now.

  A familiar voice spoke up from behind him. “You should bury her. She was someone very special.”

  He turned to see Lucy standing there. “It seems I only have to wish for you and you are here.”

  She smiled. “I only come when you need me. Why do you look so forlorn?”

  “You are not real,” he said out loud. “Not if I can wish you into appearing.”

  “Touch me,” she said, offering her hands to him. “Am I not real?”

  “You are a mirage. A trick of the mind.”

  She looked disappointed at his words and stepped away from him. “It must be because of that other woman you have with you, that you say such hurtful things.”

  “What woman?”

  “Oh, Vlad, must you insult me so? The one you took from Oltenita.”

  “Is there anything about me you do not know?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “No, there is not. I like to know all there is to know about you.”

  “She is a prisoner, the sister of my mortal enemy.”

  “Ah yes, Basarab.”

  “Yes, that is he.”

  “You need not worry over him too much.”

  “I need not worry? My father is dead. Basarab has his throne, the throne that belongs to me.”

  “He is scared half to death of you already.”

  “Yes,” Vlad said, resisting the urge to mock her remark. “All men fear me.”

  “Do you doubt my word?”

  “No, I do not doubt your word. I am surprised, that is all.”