The Dracula Chronicles: The Path To Decay

by Shane KP O'Neill

  “What shall we do with the dead, my Lord?”

  “String them up along the road to the city. Let all who have ideas to oppose me see what shall become of them if they do. Leave the horses for the peasants.”

  He drew his sword and stood level with Bogdan’s left shoulder. Closing his eyes, he raised it high above his head. “This is it, brother,” he said, all his hate coming to the surface as he brought it down on him.

  The men heard the crunch of steel as the blade hit a stone in the earthen road. A spray of blood coated his hands and feet. Bogdan’s head rolled away from his corpse. Petru reached down and grabbed it by the hair. When he raised it aloft, his men cheered long and loud.

  He threw it to the man who had led the attack. “Find a basket for it. Then you can send it to the city with a message. Say the old Voivode and his heir are dead. Tell them they have until I arrive at the city gates to surrender it to me.”

  “What about his body, my Lord?”

  “Burn it. It is already beginning to stink.”

  Petru took a moment to gather his thoughts. It had all been so easy. He had taken the throne and lost as few as ten men. With his brother dead, he would not have to lead an assault on the capital. There were men within the walls who had already come over to his side.

  One of the men found a basket for the severed head. Another of them wrote the message they were to send to Suceava. When he finished he placed the scroll inside. He then gave the basket to a rider to take to the city. Other than that no one spoke. The only sound Petru could hear was that of his men taking away the dead.

  He thought about this and eyed each of the men close by. It was clear to him that all was not well. Then he thought back to one of the last things he had said. Say the Voivode and his heir are dead. That had to be it. “The heir. Where is he?”

  The men remained silent. None of them wanted to be the one to incur his wrath.

  Petru still had his sword in hand. He waved it in their faces as his temper boiled, Bogdan’s blood still dripping from the tip. “Where is he? I want to see his body!”

  The man who had led the attack was the only one with the courage to speak. He tried to ignore the sword that had missed his eyes by inches. “He escaped the attack, my Lord.”

  Petru threw the weapon to the ground in temper. He then launched at the man with both fists. “What! He escaped with his life? Pray tell me how?”

  The man sighed with relief, even though he took a few blows to the face. A fist was better than a sword. “The son of Dracul was at his side, my Lord. We have all heard it said how able he is in battle. They managed to break through our lines and ride off. But our men are hunting for them even as we speak.”

  Petru eased off with the assault. “It is of no consequence. He poses no threat to me. I have oft heard it said he was attached to his mother’s skirts.”

  A few of the men laughed at his quip. It was as much to lighten his mood as anything else. They all knew he had killed his own men before when in a rage.

  “I still want to see his head on a stake. And the son of Dracul with him. He is a different breed, and dangerous. Do what you must, but find them!”

  It took an hour for his men to string up the hundred dead soldiers. Each one attracted a half a dozen crows. They tore at the faces of the dead to pluck out their eyes. When the job was finished, Petru led his force along the road to the capital. In all, they numbered two and a half thousand. As soon as they left, the villagers began to strip the dead horses of their meat.

  The rider arrived at the gates of the city well ahead of them. He placed the basket down and took his mount back a hundred paces. A sentry came out to collect it. Others alerted Dragan Ionu, the captain of the guard.

  Ionu had been Bogdan’s trusted captain for many years. He was talking with Oltea when one of his sentries brought him the grim news.

  She did not hear what was said, but saw his expression change at once. “What is it, Dragan? Is something the matter?”

  He did not know how to tell her. Only when she pressed him did he find the words. “There was an ambush ten miles to the south,” was all he could say.

  She put a hand to her face. “Oh no. Bogdan? My son? Please tell me they are safe and well.”

  When he did not answer, she broke down. He dived forward to catch her as her legs gave way. “Easy, my Lady,” he said, helping her into a chair.

  She gathered her composure despite her tears. “Are they dead?”

  “Yes, my Lady. I regret to say it is so.”

  She felt the worst pain in her heart. Her tears turned into an agonising sob. He tried his best to comfort her, but she could not bear to be touched. With the little strength she had, she pushed him away.

  “The city could come under attack at any moment, my Lady. I should like to take you to a place where you would be safe.”

  “Is there any such place? My husband’s enemies shall surely see me dead.”

  “The convent by the church, my Lady. No one shall harm you there.”

  Two of his guards escorted her there while he headed straight for the gates. All of Bogdan’s most trusted officers awaited him there. Each of them was ready to lead his men into battle. None of them was really sure what was going on. They had heard rumours, but nothing more.

  Ionu ignored them to a man. He only cared to see the package that had arrived. With his own eyes he had to know it was true. He breathed hard when he saw the head in the basket. It was his voivode. Of that there could be no doubt. He opened the bloodied scroll and read its message.

  Vlad Mitu was the only man present who outranked him. “What does it say?” he urged. “I demand to know what is happening here!”

  Ionu grabbed the severed head and held it out for all to see. “Bogdan is dead!”

  While the others gazed at it in shock, Mitu was ready to act. “We must prepare to go into battle!” he shouted. “No doubt the message is a demand to surrender.”

  “The Voivode is dead. He is not here to lead our army. There shall be no battle.”

  “I shall lead them! Go and organise our defences or step aside!”

  Ionu drew his sword and drove it hard into Mitu’s stomach. Mitu clutched the blade in both hands and gazed into his eyes. “Traitor,” he gasped, before he fell.

  More than fifty men drew their weapons. The members of the Guard surrounded Ionu to protect him. They did it out of instinct, as he was their commanding officer.

  “Stand down!” Ionu ordered those who opposed him. “Lest you all die.”

  None of them were prepared to do so. They fired a series of questions and accusations his way. These saw him called a murderer and a traitor.

  “I am neither,” he said in his defence. “I act only in the best interests of my country. We could never hold off a full assault from Petru Aaron. He has both Hunyadi and Basarab on his side. Bogdan’s time was at an end. Accept it or die with him. The choice is yours.”

  “His heir lives,” one of them argued. “We cannot stand aside while he does.”

  “Stephen is dead! No man could have survived the attack.”

  “Then where is his head? Would that not have been in the basket too?”

  “That I cannot say. But I can assure you he breathes no more.”

  “You were privy to this all the while, Ionu? You shall burn for this, you cur!”

  No sooner had the officer uttered his condemnation, a crossbow bolt struck him in the head. He dropped down dead at the feet of Ionu.

  “Stand down,” Ionu said again. “Petru’s army is close to the city. Join his side while you can. If you do not, then you shall die.”

  “They have arrived!” a sentry shouted from the gates.

  Ionu stood firm and fixed his gaze on them one at a time. They knew it was futile to oppose him. For that reason alone they sheathed their swords. The moment they did this, he ordered their arrest. Each of them cursed him as his men led them away.

  The army marched through the open gates with Pe
tru at its head. He had control of the city without the shedding of blood. Never could he have envisioned such an outcome, but here he was. Ionu took the reins of his horse as he climbed down.

  He was voivode now in all but name. All that was left for them to do was place the crown on his head. But that could wait. He had only one thing on his mind as he came face to face with Ionu. “Take me to her.”

  Ionu led him on the long walk to the convent. A heavy guard flanked him on all sides. All the way there he did not speak. His every thought was of Oltea. She had haunted him his whole life. Her father promised her to him many years ago. In spite of that, she chose to wed his brother. It was what had driven him all these years to take the throne.

  The group stopped outside the small chapel that led into the convent. He opened the door and entered alone. A woman knelt below the altar, deep in prayer. She stood up when she heard the door open. Her blood turned cold when she saw him.

  He stared at her for a time, his eyes burning into hers. Then, as she put her hand to her mouth, he set out towards her.

  MOLDAVIA.

  A MOUNTAIN TRAIL IN

  THE TRANSYLVANIAN ALPS.

  OCTOBER 17, 1451. LATE EVENING.

  We should continue on foot,” Dracula said, as the trail narrowed.

  When Stephen did not answer he checked on him, and saw his cousin slumped over in the saddle. A nasty gash on his thigh soaked his clothes and his horse with blood.

  He grabbed his cousin’s hand and tugged on it. “Stephen? Are you well?”

  Stephen stirred and opened his eyes. “What is it?” he groaned.

  “You are hurt. Why did you not tell me?”

  It was a struggle for him to keep his eyes open. “I did not know.”

  “Come. We must find shelter so I can deal with that wound.”

  It worried him. He could see his cousin had lost a lot of blood. If they did not find shelter soon, he knew Stephen could die.

  The mist began to lift a little. Up ahead he saw an opening in the rocks. It was a cave. His heart raced as he led both horses inside. It was just big enough to house them all. He looked up to the heavens and smiled. This was the stroke of luck they had needed.

  “I must start a fire,” he said to his cousin. “You need to lie down and rest. Keep your weight off that leg.”

  Stephen lay down in the cave while Dracula hunted for the materials to start a fire. Finally, he gathered everything he needed together and, after a struggle, he got a fire going just inside the cave.

  Dracula gave the few rations he had in his saddle to his cousin. He then stripped away the clothing around the wound. It was deep and continued to bleed slowly. Dracula knew he would have to take drastic measures and rested his sword against the hot coals. “I will have to seal the wound,” he told Stephen, who appeared gaunt and pale.

  “I know,” Stephen said, his voice weak. “We shall soon see how much of a man I am.”

  Dracula admired his cousin’s attempt at humour at such a time. He took the Fier Negru from the fire and blew against the tip, which glowed red. He handed Stephen a stick to bite on. “Take a hold of my left arm. And make sure you bite on that stick. Give me a nod when you are set.”

  Stephen placed the stick between his teeth and looked at the Fier Negru fearfully. He took a long deep breath and then nodded slowly.

  His cousin took a deep breath too, and then pressed the red-hot blade against the wound. It hissed as it burned into the soft flesh. Stephen screamed and dug his fingers so hard into Dracula’s arm that he drew blood. He finally let go and passed out. With his task completed, Dracula rested the Fier Negru against the wall of the cave. He examined his handiwork and was satisfied that he had sealed the wound. His cousin, he hoped, would be all right.

  Stephen slept a troubled sleep right through the night. He tossed and turned and cried out at regular intervals. His cousin found water and used it to apply wet cloths to his forehead in an attempt to break the fever that took hold of him. This ritual he repeated hundreds of times over the next three days.

  Dracula feared his best friend would not open his eyes again. He checked and cleaned the wound regularly on his leg. It looked to be healing, but still Stephen burned with a fever and did not wake. For the first time since he was a child, Dracula dropped to his knees and prayed to God to deliver Stephen to him again.

  On the fourth day, Stephen opened his eyes. When he awoke, he found Dracula already cooking breakfast. An early hunt that morning had yielded two rabbits shot with his bow. They cooked now on a makeshift spit, which he turned with his hand.

  “Can a sick man have a drink?” Stephen said, his throat parched and sore.

  Dracula spun around and smiled. He poured some water into the cup he used on his travels and gave it to his cousin. “How are you feeling?”

  “I ache from head to toe, but I think I may live.”

  The words brought a smile. “Good. That is all that matters.”

  He then saw the tears in Stephen’s eyes and running down his cheeks. It was certain he was thinking of his father again. “Try not to think of it.”

  “How can I not? I saw my father die right before my very eyes.”

  “I know, cousin. I am sorry.”

  “At least you were spared that much.”

  “Yes, but it does not make it any easier. I still lost him.”

  “It means we have even more in common,” Stephen whispered, gazing into the fire. “We are the sons of murdered men. Heirs without kingdoms.”

  Dracula looked at him, but did not answer. He prodded the meat with a knife to see if it was cooked.

  “The night we met, you spoke of something your father said. Do you recall that?”

  “I remember it. I said the path we walk is the path to decay. For all that we have due to our birthrights, to keep it we have to suffer.”

  “He was a wise man, your father.”

  “He was that. His words ring true day after day and year after year. He told me he would have been happy for me to lead a quiet life, away from all this pain and strife.”

  “There is much to be said for that. But you cannot live that way, and neither can I. The need for revenge shall drive me on ‘til I draw my final breath.”

  “Revenge is as close a companion for me as you are. Those that killed my family shall all feel my retribution.”

  “We must swear an oath to each other,” Stephen said, sitting up a little.

  “What oath?”

  “To assist each other in winning back our kingdoms. The same as true brothers would.”

  Dracula nodded. “Yes, we should. You are my brother.”

  Stephen pulled out his knife and cut a gash into the palm of his hand. He winced at the pain, but held his bleeding hand up for his cousin to do the same.

  “You have lost your mind,” Dracula said, though with a half smile. “Do you not think you have lost enough blood without the need to shed more?”

  “Do it. It is the only way to make the oath binding.”

  Dracula cut his own palm and clasped his hand against the one offered to him.

  “Brothers ‘til we die!” Stephen said, looking his cousin straight in the eye.

  “Brothers ‘til we die,” his cousin repeated.

  Dracula returned to the two rabbits. He decided that they had cooked well enough to eat. “Give me your knife.”

  Stephen handed him the knife and he drove it into one of the two cooked rabbits. Handing it back to his cousin he said, “Be silent and eat.”

  They ate in silence for a time, both deep in thought. Stephen could think only of his dead father and what might have become of his other family members in Suceava. Dracula thought about Lucy. He had not seen her in more than two years. In his heart he felt certain she had warned him prior to the attack in the village, an action that probably saved his life.

  “Do you think Suceava has fallen?” Stephen asked at last.

  “Yes, I would think so. With your father gone, the boyars are n
ot likely to stand against Petru. He is probably sitting with his feet up in Suceava as we speak.”

  The thought turned Stephen’s stomach. In the same way his cousin hated Vladislav Basarab and John Hunyadi, he hated Petru Aaron. He made a silent vow to one day kill his uncle. “What is it with brothers that they must kill each other?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well Basarab was your father’s half-brother, was he not?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “The same as your father, mine was killed by a brother to steal his throne.”

  “I do not know why it is. Perhaps it is a phenomenon unique to the Romanias. I know I loved my brother, Mircea.”

  “No, that is not true. Many brothers have done this before in other countries in pursuit of the throne. In France and England it has happened too. Even the Bible talks of such things.”

  “Then it must be the pursuit of power. I imagine having power, or the need for it, changes men. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

  “It is as well that I do not have any brothers then.”

  Dracula looked down at his bleeding hand. “Then what was this all for?”

  Stephen grinned at him. “I stand corrected.”

  “I do know what you are saying, yes. I would never have raised a sword against Mircea. Our father raised us to love each other. And I thank him for that.”

  “Then what of Radu? There is no love there.”

  “Radu is an enigma to me, more Turkish than Romanian. He is Mehmed’s little puppet. We share the same blood, but not much else.”

  “Do you think you shall ever fight him over the Wallachian throne?”

  “Who is to say? That day could come. But I must have the throne first.”

  “You shall have it. We shall both become our country’s greatest ever rulers.”

  Dracula looked at him and laughed. “I admire your optimism. We can only hope.”

  “Remember our oath to each other and it shall be so.”

  “I shall remember it.”

  Stephen’s mood seemed to sour again almost at once.