The Dracula Chronicles: The Path To Decay

by Shane KP O'Neill

  “I have to contend with the now first, and the problem of Dracula. What do you suggest I do about him?”

  “I know you would like to have him killed, but that is not the answer.”

  “You are right, as much as I hate to admit it. He has friends and many of them. We cannot afford to have them turn against us. But I cannot allow him to take root in Brasov either.”

  “Then send a letter to the mayor. Threaten him into action. Have him apprehend Dracula and drive him out of the country. Then we need worry about him no more.”

  Hunyadi took some time to think about it. “Very well. Pick up your quill. I shall dictate a letter at once.”

  TRANSYLVANIA.

  THE ESTATES OF ION DANCU TO

  THE NORTH OF BRASOV.

  LATE SEPTEMBER, 1452.

  Dracula caught wind of this letter when it arrived. He turned to Ion Dancu, a boyar with estates north of Brasov. Dancu had long been a friend of his father. He allowed Dracula and Stephen to hide away on his estate for the next seven months.

  It was in late September that Dancu brought them the news on everyone’s tongues in Brasov. “I thought you might like to know,” he said to them together.

  “Know what?” they said in the very same breath.

  “That Hunyadi and Basarab are now openly hostile to each other.”

  Stephen smiled. “It took long enough for them to fall out.”

  “What has happened, Ion?” Dracula pressed him.

  “The word is that Basarab is in bed with Mehmed.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “He has shown no regard for his friendship with Hunyadi and made a formal treaty with the Turks.”

  “He has realised the same thing as my father no doubt.”

  Dancu nodded. “I still think your father’s hand was forced. He would not have done it if Murad had not taken you and your brother.”

  “Yes, Papa was not one to sell his soul.”

  Dancu carried on with his story. “Hunyadi has reacted to it. He moved his troops into Fagaras and Amlas and has taken them from Basarab.”

  Dracula laughed out loud and waved a fist in triumph. “That should make the pot boil.”

  “Yes it has. He is threatening to go to war with Hunyadi unless he withdraws.”

  Fagaras and Amlas were the two duchies in Transylvania that belonged to Wallachia. Basarab, as voivode, held sovereignty over them.

  “What are you thinking, cousin?”

  Dracula broke from his train of thought. “I am not certain yet.”

  “You must have a hundred ideas racing through your head,” Dancu said, as curious as Stephen to hear his thoughts.

  “I am thinking that I have an opportunity to stoke the fires. And test how hot they really are.”

  “Well this is what we have been hoping for,” Stephen reminded him.

  “Yes, I know. I felt the rift would come. Basarab was courting Murad even before I had left Anatolia.”

  “I hope you know there are still many boyars here who would take up arms for you,” Dancu said.

  Dracula felt a slight heave in his chest. It filled him with pride that men who had stood by his father were willing to do the same for him. “Yes, but I am a long way from being able to go to war with Basarab.”

  “Not if you had an alliance with Hunyadi.”

  Dracula gave Dancu a stern look. “Are you mad? He is the man who took everything from me.”

  “Yes, Vlad, but things change. You have to view your situation for what it is. Where is your direction or your purpose? You have nothing that is your own and no way to bring yourself up again. Both men are your enemies. When your enemies stand toe to toe it is always best to choose sides.”

  “Or wait for them to destroy each other and then step in.”

  “You must have a power base to do that, and an army. Hunyadi is the best chance of you having that.”

  “He is right, Vlad,” Stephen said.

  Dracula did not want to even consider it. “How could I ever ally myself with that murderer? I cannot. Not after what he did to my family.”

  “It is the best course to follow,” Dancu advised. “In this position, I am sure your father would have done it. You have to take risks in order to achieve and succeed.”

  “How can you know what my father would have done?”

  “I knew your father well. He thought with his head, not his heart. It is worth giving it thought. It could be the way back into the fold for you.”

  “I cannot be seen to be making advances towards him. What message would that give to those willing to support me still?”

  “Then let him come to you. If you manage to build a power base here in Brasov, I am sure he shall. That is if he allows it.”

  “You seem very sure, Ion.”

  “My young friend,” Dancu smiled, “the world is changing. Hunyadi has lost much of his power since his last defeat. He needs friends as much as the next man. The Ottomans are growing stronger by the day. I know Constantinople lives in real fear of them.”

  “Constantinople shall not fall. The city is impenetrable.”

  “Do not be so naive, Vlad. In this new age of the cannon any city can fall.”

  “Let us see what happens then.”

  Dancu was pleased that his young friend was seeing sense. “Try to keep an open mind. It is a time of opportunity.”

  Dracula and Stephen returned once again to the public eye. They wasted no time in seeking the support of the boyars in and around Brasov. But even with his father’s friends joining his side he was not strong enough.

  His presence was the cause of much unrest again. It boiled over into a serious incident one night early in October. A fight broke out between his friends and the boyars loyal to Mihail Basarab. Petru Aaron had lost his throne early in the year and stayed now with him in his fortress. The moment he knew Stephen was in the town he wanted a fight. Several of Dracula’s allies lost their lives. It left him with no choice but to flee the city for Sibiu. It was that or be killed.

  Things were no better there. The German Saxons in the town had not forgotten the campaign of 1438. In that year Murad, with Vlad Dracul, had attacked and seriously looted many towns and cities in southern Transylvania. Sibiu was one of these. The people there still despised the Draculesti name. The mayor wrote at once to Hunyadi to complain.

  Hunyadi’s vice-governor, Nicolae of Ocna, found him with Laszlo, when he passed on the news. “My Lord, Dracula has re-surfaced.”

  The White Knight broke off from the conversation with his son, visibly annoyed. “He has? Where?”

  “In Brasov at first, but he has moved on to Sibiu.”

  “I wonder who was hiding him,” Laszlo said, a wide grin extending across his face.

  “You think this is amusing?” his father snapped at him. “I was led to believe he was gone.”

  “That is what we all thought, my Lord.”

  “Dracula is hardly a problem for you, father. Six months with no word. He shall leave again when he sees there is nothing in Sibiu for him.”

  “His very existence is a problem.”

  “Why? We have gone over this before. He cannot hurt us. He is nothing in the scheme of things.”

  “While he breathes he can hurt us.”

  Laszlo shrugged. “If you think so, father. What do I know of anything?”

  “He bears the Draculesti name and crest. He shall always be able to rely on that for support.”

  “But from whom? His father is long dead.”

  “His father had enough friends. Those friends have long memories.”

  “What should we do, my Lord?” Nicolae asked.

  “That would depend. What degree of support does he have?”

  Nicolae named the boyars in Brasov who had died in the fight with Mihail Basarab’s men.

  Laszlo let out a low whistle. “He is not without friends then.”

  Hunyadi’s face turned dark red. “This is what I have been saying. We have t
o deal with him before he sways any more of them to his side.”

  Nicolae was in full agreement. “Should he rebel in the same moment you are in conflict with Basarab then we might lose our ability to defend Belgrade.”

  Hunyadi had the very same thought. It was a real dilemma for him. He had to act now to get rid of Dracula before he became too popular.

  “Make an alliance with him,” Laszlo suggested. “That should solve all our problems. Then he can deal with Basarab for us.”

  “Make an alliance with a Draculesti? Do you have any sense about you, boy?”

  Laszlo defended his idea. “It seems like a perfect solution to me.”

  “No, I do not want him getting his foot in the door again.”

  “Then shall I go to Sibiu and arrest him?” Laszlo said.

  “No, I need you here with me. We must think of another way.”

  “Not that he has broken any laws here, that I am aware.”

  Nicolae took his cue. “What would you say to an assassin?” He had the notion in his head before he had even entered the room. That was the only outcome that suited him.

  Laszlo laughed at him. “You are so eager for blood, Nicolae. How is it you were never a soldier? Of course, then you would have to soil your hands.”

  Nicolae offered him a blank stare.

  “Enough,” Hunyadi said. He turned back to Nicolae. “An assassin sounds like a feasible solution. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Of course he does,” Laszlo said, getting up from his seat. “He had this all planned out already.”

  “This is what I pay him to do. It helps sometimes when you have someone to do your thinking for you, and not makes jests of it all.”

  “Well,” Laszlo said, with a dismissive shrug, “my suggestions do not even bear consideration. I need not even be here. Make your peace with him and get him on our side. That is best.”

  “You are a soldier, not a politician.”

  “Do I not need to be both if I am to follow you?”

  “There is someone, my Lord,” Nicolae interrupted.

  They could clearly see that Nicolae wanted Dracula dead. He was not about to let Laszlo ruin any chance of that.

  “Who do you have in mind?” Hunyadi asked.

  “Buzan.”

  Laszlo laughed out loud. “You really do want him dead. Buzan indeed?”

  “Yes,” Nicolae said, ignoring the taunt in Laszlo’s tone. “There is no one better.”

  “Buzan is a myth. Is he not?”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Well, Dracula shall certainly be dead. There is no doubting that,” Laszlo said. “How are you hoping to find him?”

  “Our agents shall find him.”

  “How much is it to cost me?” Hunyadi asked.

  “As much as two thousand ducats. I hear that is his price.”

  Hunyadi frowned. “You think I have money to throw around?”

  “Dracula shall be gone from your life forever, my Lord. The problem shall be solved once and for all.”

  He gave Laszlo one last look as his son left the room. “Very well. Do it.”

  TRANSYLVANIA.

  A QUIET TAVERN ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF BRASOV.

  LATE OCTOBER, 1452.

  The streets were quiet in Brasov in late October. The people sensed trouble in the air and stayed in their homes well out of the way.

  For three weeks, Nicolae’s agent searched through the towns and cities in the south of the country. He sought the man they called Buzan.

  No one knew much about him, but for his ability to kill. Some people thought he did not exist at all, but enough legends did. The most famous of these said he was born outside the Gates of Hell. And that he learned his trade from the Devil himself. Another version claimed he was born on the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year. This one added that his mother pushed him out under a blood red moon. By its light she could see the Devil’s mark on him, the three sixes. She went mad and killed herself soon after. It left him to a life of misery where his Turkish father sold him as a slave.

  The agent did not know how much of this was true. What he did know was that Buzan was a deadly killer. The real facts remained few. People said he never failed a mission, and with just cause. If Buzan came after you, it was only a matter of time before you were dead. He had killed many and always left his trademark on the body, a cross carved on the victim’s forehead. Every job he did he took on as a personal vendetta. To that end, he liked to do the deed up close.

  Many of the trees were already bare and the brown leaves cluttered the quiet streets. After the rain, they made the surface tricky for a horse’s hoof and filled the air with a pungent, rotten smell.

  The trail led him to a quiet tavern on the outskirts of the city. It had been an exhaustive search. A good number of people he met on the way would not talk about Buzan. The ones that did, just added another story to his legend. He hoped now he had the right information after so many false leads.

  He walked into the tavern and took the time to look around. It was quiet inside with only a few tables occupied. One man eyed him suspiciously for a moment before returning to his tankard of ale.

  The landlord looked him over the same way. “What do you want to drink?”

  “I am looking for someone, a man.”

  “Take a look around you. Do you see anyone here?”

  The agent threw a gold ducat down against the bar. “I am looking for one man in particular. I was told I could find him here.”

  He picked up the coin and bit it with rotted teeth. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Buzan.”

  The landlord stopped and eyed him with real suspicion. He threw the gold ducat back down on the bar. “There is no one by that name in here. Be on your way.”

  The agent picked up the coin and flicked it into the air with his thumb. He caught it and returned it to an inside pocket. “I thank you for your time.” He then turned and left.

  Once he had walked out, the landlord nodded to the few men in the room. They left their tables and followed the stranger outside.

  The agent had sensed danger while in the tavern. A first glance on entry told him he would have trouble. He wanted to face it outside where he had room to move about. Even before the three men came out after him, he had his sword in hand.

  One of them grinned at him with real menace. He rubbed a hand against his unshaven jaw as he moved closer. His companions both brandished knives. “Give me your coin,” he said, his voice cold and threatening.

  “Go to Hell,” the agent told him.

  “It is where you shall be going if you do not throw it here.”

  The agent smiled at the threat. He brandished his sword for the man to see. “It is yours, if you can take it from me.”

  It was a situation he had faced before. Men like these always had an eye out for another with money. They were happy to rob or kill to get it. The agent saw it as part of the job. He was well able with a sword. Hazards such as these he could deal with without too much trouble. He would show them no mercy.

  The man took out his own blade while his companions branched off to either side of the agent. The agent readied himself, knowing he had to be on his toes. One lapse could result in death.

  “I see you are eager to meet your maker,” the man said. “Then I shall be happy to help you on your way.”

  The agent took guard. “It is not I who shall be seeking his mercy this night.”

  One of his assailants approached him to his right. He swung his sword deftly, but missed his target. The man in front grinned, encouraged by this.

  The three of them lunged at him together. He stepped back with quick feet and swung his sword at the same man again to his right. This time, the blade found its mark and cut a deep groove to the side of the man’s head. He dropped to his knees, barely conscious. The agent shoved him with his foot and knocked him to the ground.

  The two other men stalked him like wild dogs. He kept his focus,
not allowing either to leave his sight. He charged the one to his left and brought his sword down in a straight line for the centre of his head. The man managed to move a fraction to his right and the blade sliced off his left ear. It continued on and opened a deep wound in his shoulder.

  He screamed and fell down. Still, he kept his wits about him and as soon as the agent removed the sword, he crawled away slowly on his knees and his one good hand. This left the man who did all the talking, by himself.

  The agent grinned at him. “You do not look so brave without your friends.”

  The man inched back slowly and looked for a chance to get away. When he finally turned to run, the agent was upon him and drove the sword into his lower back. He screamed and dropped to his knees, screaming again when the agent withdrew the blade.

  “It would appear my gold remains with me,” he said, his lips curling into a snarl.

  He walked to the man’s side when the man fell against his hands. The bandit presented an easy target now that he was down and on all fours. The agent watched a pool form around his knees as the man lost control of his bladder. In one swift movement, the agent brought his sword down and took off his head.

  He wiped the blade and returned to his horse. Before he could re-mount, a voice called from the shadows. “Wait!”

  The agent turned, but saw no one. “Who is there?” he called out.

  “The one you seek is in the tavern,” the voice whispered.

  The agent looked at the tavern door. To go inside again did not feel like a good idea. He did not doubt the landlord had set these men on him. There could be more of them waiting for him. But he did not want to fail with his mission, and had no choice but to go back in.

  He poked his head in the door and looked around. The landlord remained behind the bar. He saw no one else inside who looked remotely like a paid killer.

  The landlord dumped a tankard of ale on the bar, froth spilling over the top. “There,” he said. “The ale is free.”

  The agent walked up to him. He examined the dirty-looking tankard, but took a sip anyway. The ale was cool and felt good as it passed down his gullet.