The Dracula Chronicles: The Path To Decay

by Shane KP O'Neill

  He turned and looked around again, his eyes fixed on the murky room. “I was told he awaited my return.”

  The landlord pointed to a dark corner. “He is over there.”

  The agent felt his heart thump in his chest. He was not a man who feared much, but now he was in the company of a true killer. A man who had ice in his veins, and a man who had him in his sights right now. He walked to where the landlord had directed him. The silhouette of a man stood out in the shadows. “Buzan?”

  “Sit down,” he said, his tone so cold it made the agent shiver.

  The agent did as instructed and set his ale down. He kept his gaze on the man in the shadows. Men such as this one hid away for a reason. He knew he could end up as his next victim, just for finding him.

  “I hear you are looking for me.”

  “If you are Buzan, yes.”

  A brief silence followed. “I am he.”

  “How do I know who you are? My first notion is that you are a back street hoodlum. And more so after that little ruse outside.”

  “I had nothing to do with those men. If I wanted your coin that much, I would have taken it myself.”

  The icy tone in the man’s voice unsettled the agent further. He spoke like a man who feared nothing, not even death. For the first time, the agent felt there might be some truth in the legends. If such things could be true of any man, it was this one. He drew this much just from the way the man spoke, and it sent shivers down his spine. In the short silence that passed between them, he began to feel a little afraid.

  He hid it as best as he could. This was the wrong time and the wrong place to show fear. “You are a difficult man to find.”

  “I am not in the habit of revealing my whereabouts.”

  “No, I imagine you are not,” the agent mused.

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I am told there is no better assassin than you for hire.”

  “Perhaps. I am an expert at what I do.”

  “Of course,” the agent said, careful not to show any disrespect. “I can only go by what I hear.”

  The man’s voice took on an even icier edge. “You doubt my word?”

  The agent felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and, in that moment, feared for his safety. “I need only be sure I have the right man. To know what I am paying for.”

  The man stood up in the blink of an eye. He leant forward and hurled a switchblade across the tavern. The agent fell back in his chair, fearing an assault. He heard a sickening crack and turned to see what it was. The landlord had just left the bar to clear some tables. He now lay flat on his back. The blade protruded from the bridge of his nose, blood running down both sides of his face.

  The killer sat back down. “Are you satisfied?”

  The agent was lost for words and took a moment to clear his throat. “Yes.”

  It was the first time he had managed a good look at the man. He stood about six feet tall with a powerful build. His hair was blonde and cut short. The most striking feature was that he was blind in one eye. A long scar trailed from his hairline, through the eye, down to the corner of his mouth. The eye was totally white, no sign of a cornea.

  The agent thought it strange that a man who had Turkish blood would have blonde hair. He was not going to make an issue of it though.

  “Who is paying for the contract with me?”

  The agent did not want to give a name. “Is that important?”

  The man leant forward to show that it was. “If I do not know who I am working for, then I am not for hire.”

  “My master is John Hunyadi.”

  The man fell back again into the shadows. “The target must be important then?”

  “Yes, of course. Lest I would not be here.”

  “And the name of the man you want me to kill?”

  “Vlad Dracula.”

  He did not respond at once. “He is an important man, with many friends.”

  The agent knew the man was hinting at the cost. “I have gold on my person to the value of two thousand ducats.”

  “It shall suffice.”

  The agent pulled out a hefty pouch from the inside of his coat. He dropped it down on the table with a heavy thud. “My master wants his head cut off and sent to him.”

  “When?”

  “By the end of the year.”

  “Where is Dracula’s most recent location that you know of?”

  “He is in Sibiu.”

  “Is he seen in many public places?”

  “He moves around a lot.”

  “Is he easy to approach? Does he have a guard with him?”

  “He is oft out in the city streets. I do not know of any guard.”

  “Good. What kind of company does he keep?”

  “He associates with certain boyars.”

  “I meant, does anyone accompany him on a regular basis?”

  “Only the one man.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “His cousin. Stephen Musatin of Moldavia.”

  “Another prince without a throne.”

  “You are familiar with him?”

  “I am familiar with any name worth knowing.”

  The agent nodded. “I know of no other that rides with them.”

  “How able is he with the sword?”

  “He is able enough. Not the equal of Dracula though.”

  “Is any man?”

  “I imagine not.”

  “It shall be done.”

  The agent got up and left the tavern. He mounted his horse and rode away with great haste, a cold sweat heavy on his brow.

  The man picked up the pouch and walked over to a partition close by. “Did you hear everything?”

  “Yes,” Buzan said, from behind it. “I heard it all.”

  TRANSYLVANIA.

  THE ROAD TO GIOAGIU, NEAR SIBIU.

  EARLY NOVEMBER, 1452.

  Dracula and Stephen managed to find shelter in Sibiu. They stayed with the brother of his father’s most trusted friend. George Rodrigul was a good man and never one to get involved in the politics of the day. He was happy to allow the young men to stay. No one would bother them while they were with him. He was a wealthy boyar, who had chosen a different career to his brother. A respected financier, both sides of the divide in the country looked upon him as a friend.

  The two cousins were aware of the ill feeling towards them in the city. They had to exercise great caution any time they left the safety of his home. The lessons learned in Brasov stayed with them.

  They spent much of their time canvassing the support of friendly boyars. But they also found time for recreation. Two beautiful peasant girls in the nearby village of Gioagiu had won their hearts. Every evening they rode there to see them.

  Buzan had been in Sibiu for more than a week now. His people went to each of the taverns in the city. It was their task to gather as much information about his target as they could. They bought ale for any man who would talk about Dracula. Buzan wanted to know every last detail of his life there. By the end of that week, he knew in depth Dracula’s routines.

  Two elderly peasants found the agent dead early one morning. His body floated in a fountain in Brasov with his throat cut. The tavern on the outskirts of the city burned to the ground. Buzan knew if one man could find him, then so could those who might want to kill him. For that reason, he removed any trace of his ever being there.

  Buzan chose the second week of November for the hit. He and his Saxon sidekick tailed their target out of the city. They rode behind at a safe distance when the cousins set off for Gioagiu.

  Dracula had no idea they were tailing him. These days his head remained in the clouds. Milia seemed to him like a dream. The way he felt when he saw her told him she was the one for him.

  “You look to me like a man in love,” Stephen said with a smile, though not making fun of him.

  “I think you may be right. It is a strange, but wonderful feeling I have inside.”

  “Have y
ou told her yet?”

  “No, I dare not.”

  “Why? Is that a faint heart that beats inside your breast?”

  “I might frighten her away. Then what would I do?”

  “I hardly think so, Vlad. Milia adores you. Of that there can be no doubt.”

  He thought about it a moment. “How I hope you are right.”

  “Of course I am. Romina told me so.”

  Dracula’s heart missed several beats. His tongue tied as he tried to speak. “She did?” he blurted. “What more did she say?”

  Stephen laughed out loud. “You sound like a man in love.”

  Dracula turned red-faced and quiet.

  Stephen saw this. “I am sorry, cousin,” he said. “I did not mean to embarrass you. It is good to see you happy.”

  “It feels good,” came a grunted reply.

  “Then let us hope it lasts.”

  “I know I shall always feel this way. I am sure of it.”

  “Then you should tell her how you feel. Such an opportunity you could lose in a moment, but the regret will stay with you for always.”

  “I shall some time.”

  “A faint heart never won a fair maiden. Not that it applies to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Dracula asked, puzzled.

  “You have already won the maiden.”

  They rode on in silence. Dracula’s mind drifted back to the day he met Milia. He and Stephen had come to Gioagiu to visit the sword smith there. Word had it that he was better than any in Sibiu.

  Stephen hoped to buy a new and better sword. Dracula accompanied him, but made it clear nothing in the world could better the Fier Negru. On top of that, he doubted he could ever wield another.

  They had a good visit. Stephen hired the smith to fashion him a new blade. Dracula purchased a pair of daggers he could not take his eyes from. He had to concede he had never seen any finer.

  He tied one to his thigh and the other to his left wrist. Stephen stepped aside to negotiate a price for his new sword. At the same time, Dracula practised with the blades to grow familiar with them.

  “You do that like a true expert,” the smith pointed out.

  “That is because he is,” Stephen assured him.

  The smith nodded. “They suit you well, my Lord. I pray you find them a worthy purchase.”

  They left soon after.

  “I am hungry,” Stephen said, rubbing a hand over his stomach.

  “The market is over there,” Dracula pointed out. His eyes fell on the crowd of people on the piata. “Why not go and buy some bread?”

  “That is a good idea,” he agreed. “I think I shall.”

  They walked to where the stalls stood in a line. Dracula soon realised that his cousin was not at his side. He turned to see him a little further back. Stephen was peering over the heads of the village folk.

  “What are you doing? The bread is on sale over this way.”

  Stephen did not answer. He looked at his cousin and motioned with his hand for Dracula to join him.

  He did, keen to see what had caught his eye. “What is it?”

  Stephen put a finger to his lips. “Look over there,” he whispered.

  Dracula looked, but just saw an array of stalls. “I see honest folk spending the little coin they have.”

  “No,” Stephen said, a little annoyed. “Look there.”

  Dracula followed the line of his finger. It was then he saw them. He stopped for a moment to eye up the two girls selling their baskets. “Is there any chance you might ever change?” he said, with a resigned sigh.

  Stephen looked at him and laughed. “Not while I can still draw breath. Come on! Let us go and say hello.”

  “Wait!” Dracula shouted after him, not as keen to go.

  Stephen ignored him and barged his way through the crowd. He stopped on the stall of a fruit vendor. His eyes still remained glued to the girls selling the baskets on the next stall.

  “Are you looking to buy some fruit?” the vendor asked him.

  Stephen gave the man a blank look, his mind on the two girls.

  “I have apples, pears and plums fresh in this morning. You can have two for the cost of one.”

  “No,” Stephen blurted. “But I thank you.”

  Dracula stood beside him. When the fruit vendor saw him, he offered the same deal. The young prince smiled and bought two of the apples. He then handed one to his cousin and moved away from the stall.

  Stephen bit into his apple and stepped aside. He grabbed Dracula by the arm and led him to the stall the girls worked. “Good day,” he smiled at the taller of the two.

  “Good day, sir,” she smiled. “Are you looking to buy a basket?”

  He nodded with real enthusiasm. “Yes, I am indeed.”

  The shorter and younger of the two girls laughed. “No, you are not.”

  “Why else would I be here if not to purchase one of your fine creations?”

  “I do wonder,” she said, trying not to laugh at him.

  “How much are you asking?”

  “It depends which you want.”

  “Well, quote me a figure.”

  “These ones here are fifty ban. But those there are a whole ducat.”

  Stephen put a hand to his mouth. “A whole ducat you say?” He turned to his cousin. “What do you think?”

  Dracula sighed out loud and looked up to the sky.

  “Does your friend have a tongue?”

  “He does,” Stephen said, with his usual grin, “the last I knew.”

  “I have yet to hear him speak,” she said, eyeing Dracula with a coy look in her eyes.

  “It would need to be of the finest quality,” he mused. “For me to part with a whole ducat.”

  “We sell the best baskets for many a mile,” her sister remarked.

  “I must agree,” Stephen said. “I do not think I have seen any as fine before.”

  “Who is the master craftsman?” Dracula asked. “I do not see him about.”

  “You are looking to offend me, sir?” the younger girl said.

  Stephen was quick to jump to his defence, but he did not want to lose favour with the girls. “My cousin is a little slow. You must forgive him. He did not realise it was your hand that crafted them.”

  “You made them?” Dracula asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “My sister and I, yes.”

  “Where did you learn such a noble trade? And with such fine quality?”

  “It was our father’s business. He taught us all we know.”

  “Then he did it well. I must commend him.”

  “What are your names?” Stephen cut in.

  “What sort of a gentleman would ask a girl her name? And so soon on meeting her?” the elder sister asked.

  “He is clearly a rogue of sorts,” the other said.

  “It is not every day a man has such good fortune. To encounter not one, but two, so kind and fair of face.”

  “Oh, you are quite the charmer.”

  An old lady stepped between the two cousins. “You have to be careful of those two,” she said, pointing to the girls.

  “Why is that?” Dracula asked her.

  “They make the finest baskets in all the land,” she said, with a toothless grin. “If you buy one, you might come back for another.”

  “Surely if the baskets are of such quality then another would not be required?”

  “You have much to learn, young sir,” the old lady said.

  “I thank you for the advice,” he said, giving her a slight bow.

  The old lady hobbled off with a chuckle. She left Dracula and the younger girl gazing at each other.

  “Well?” the elder sister asked. “Shall you be buying a basket or not? You are affecting our custom by standing there.”

  “If you tell me your name I shall buy one,” Stephen said, grinning directly at her.

  The sisters looked at each other and laughed. “If you buy one I might tell you my name,” the elder girl teased.

/>   He delved in his pockets for the ducat he needed. His face turned red as he looked at her, unable to produce one.

  She laughed at him again. “You dress like a noble and yet you have no coin?”

  “Aid me here, cousin.”

  Dracula reached for his money pouch. “A ducat you say?”

  “Yes,” the girl affirmed with a slow nod. “One whole ducat.”

  He tossed the coin to her, which she caught in both hands. She studied it for a moment. “It bears the head of Vlad Dracul. I have not seen one for some time.”

  “They shall soon be gone,” her sister commented.

  Stephen looked to his cousin. He noticed a slight change in his mood and was quick to change the subject. “So? My basket? And your name?”

  The girl handed him one of her finer baskets. “I said I might tell you my name.”

  He sighed loud enough for her to hear. “Well, you cannot hold me to account for trying.”

  “My name is Romina,” she said. “What is yours?”

  “I am Stephen,” he said, his grin returning in an instant. “And this is Vlad.”

  Dracula bowed to acknowledge the fact. He looked to the younger sister in the hope that she might offer hers.

  The girl’s face turned a light shade of red. “You want my name too?”

  He nodded. “It is only fair.”

  “Very well. I shall make you a promise.”

  “And that is?”

  “Come again on the morrow and visit me. Then I shall tell you my name.”

  “The morrow it is then.”

  He bowed to the girls and dragged Stephen away. They walked back to the smith’s where they had left their horses in his care.

  “What should I do with this basket?”

  Dracula saw a beggar sat on the corner. He did not like vagrants, but in this moment the old man suited his purpose. “Give it to him. I am sure he has a greater need for it than you.”

  Stephen handed it to the old man before they rode off. “I see you took a fancy to the younger sister?”

  “I like her, yes.”

  “She likes you too.”

  “Who is to know?”

  “Well she has invited you back. Shall you return on the morrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Stephen laughed out loud. “You are no different than I.”