And as the memories crystallized, he understood everything. He knew that it was the year 1440. He knew that the little boy whose hand he was holding was his little brother Radu, age five. He knew that the fat man with the silken robes and the insincere smile and the shiny, oil-smeared skin was the Beloved of Allah, Murad II, the master of the Ottoman Turks, the Sultan at whose name the Christian princes of the Balkans trembled. He knew that the other man, the tall, slender man with the easy smile and the flashing eyes, was his father, Vlad II, the Voivode of Wallachia, often called Dracul, the Dragon, by his adoring subjects.
And he knew that he was nine years old, that he was in the city of Smyrna near the Aegean coast, that he was his father's second son. His older brother Mircea would be Vlad II's heir, but it was to his second son that the voivode had bequeathed his own name. The boy was already being called Vlad the Little Dragon, Mad Dracula, by the people of Wallachia and the members of the sultan's court.
His father knelt down before his two little sons and said smoothly, "Vlad and Radu, I want you to make me proud of you. Mircea and I are returning to Bucharest, but we have been able to get our sublime friend's permission for the two of you to remain here and represent us." The voivode smiled. "It is a great honor and a great responsibility, my boys. For as long as you are here in Smyrna, you will be representing me and our principality. You must behave yourselves and be good guests."
Radu nodded obediently. "Yes, Father."
Vlad nodded also, saying, "We shall be good, Father. And I trust that you will be faithful in your duties." He said this knowingly, without a hint of arrogance or disrespect.
The voivode's heart swelled with silent pride at the astuteness of his middle son. Unlike Radu, Vlad knew that the two children were not guests, but hostages.
All the realms of the Balkans were in flux in 1440. The primitive principality of Wallachia, a vassal state of the Kingdom of Hungary until a scant fifty years ago, was now a tributary dependency of the Ottoman Empire. Moldavia to the north had enjoyed a brief period of independence from the Hungarians, then had fallen under Lithuanian rule, and was now as closely tied to the Turks as was Wallachia. Of the Rumanian principalities, only Transylvania to the west was still firmly in Hungarian hands, and this fact particularly rankled, for it was in the little Transylvanian city of Sighisoara that Vlad Dracula had been born in 1431, the same city in which his father Vlad Dracul had been born three decades earlier.
But neither Voivode Vlad II nor his sons could spare much time lamenting the alien rule over their birthplace. The Carpathian lords followed rising stars, not setting ones, and it was clear that the Ottoman Turks were destined to be the masters of the Balkans, if not all Europe. And so Vlad II had switched his allegiance from Budapest to the Ottomans. The Turks had been content, at first, to give their new vassal a long and loose leash.
That was before 1437, before the attempt on the part of Sultan Murad II to overrun Hungary was thwarted by the Magyar patriot John Hunyadi; that was before 1440, when the thrones of Hungary and Poland were united in the person of King Vladislav I and VI, of Hungary and Poland respectively. Now the destiny of the Ottoman dynasty seemed less than certain. Now it seemed wise to Murad to keep the children of his vassals close at hand, pledges of the continued loyalty of their fathers.
Little Vlad Dracula understood this, even if little Radu did not. And the Voivode Vlad II was pleased and proud at his son's intelligence.
"Either Mircea or I will return to Smyrna next spring to visit you," the voivode said. "Until then, be good boys, and obey our illustrious friend."
"Yes, Father," Vlad said quietly.
"Oh, please, you come, Father," Radu whined, "not Mircea! I hate Mircea! He calls me names and—" Vlad punched Radu in the side as covertly as possible.
"We shall await your return, Father," Vlad said, his voice a calm, guarded monotone. "Please tell our dear brother that we will remember you both in our prayers."
"Good, my boy, good," the voivode said, rising to his feet and then the surroundings seemed to fade away into the billowing mists. Malcolm realized that the memories were drifting to the surface selectively, as if those events and incidents that had made the deepest impression upon the mind of the long-dead Rumanian nobleman were the ones that emerged foremost and strongest, as the memories in the blood struggled to integrate themselves into a living mind.
Malcolm felt, briefly, the cold stone floor of the ruined castle press against his bruised cheek, but the mist carried him away again, and now he was standing in an ornately furnished private chamber, his trembling child's hands holding a small white kitten. He kept his eyes lowered, neither wishing nor daring to look up at the fat, oily sultan who stood before him, smiling malevolently.
"Do you like the kitten, Little Dragon?" Murad asked smoothly.
"Yes, Sublime One," Vlad muttered. "Thank you very much."
The sultan shrugged casually, dismissing the thanks. "It is a trifle, my dear one, a trifle. I have many gifts for you, many, many nice gifts." The chubby fingers of the sultan reached out and gently caressed Vlad's smooth, close-cropped black hair. "We are always kind and generous to people who are kind and generous to us, Little Dragon."
Vlad did not raise his eyes. "Yes, Sublime One," he repeated. The little boy gritted his teeth behind his tightly shut lips and attempted to maintain a stoic calm as the fat, scented arms enfolded him and drew him close to the hairy bovine belly of the lord of the Turks.
And then the mist descended again and rose again, as if the memory that had been awakened was one which was so painful that the disjointed yet stirring mind of the long-dead nobleman was fleeing from it. When the mist cleared, he found himself sitting in great discomfort, in great pain, upon a large cushion in the chambers that had been designated for him and his little brother. Radu was standing in front of him, his face a study in shock and fear. Vlad tasted something salty, then realized that a few unbidden tears were rolling down from his reddened eyes and dripping upon his lips.
"I would die!" Radu was saying in a hoarse whisper. "I would take my own life before I would allow—"
"You would not," Vlad spat, shifting his weight in an attempt to ease the pain upon which he sat. "You would do what you must, until Father can free us from these pig-eaters."
"No." Little Radu shook his head obstinately. "I would never let the sultan lay his hands upon me! Never!"
Vlad laughed grimly. "And do you think he will ask for your permission, you little idiot?" Radu began to protest again, and Vlad silenced him with a brusque, "Oh, Radu, get out of here. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace."
Radu's lower lip thrust out angrily and he spun about on his heels, leaving his older brother sitting in quiet solitude upon the cushion. Vlad made no sound and did not stir, and yet a burning rage was seething within him. A seed of violence and hatred had been planted in soil already made fertile by insecurity and fear, by abandonment and loneliness, by the almost instinctive bravado of noble birth and the natural timidity of a frightened child.
Pig-eater, Vlad thought bitterly. You fat, disgusting animal. I'll have my revenge upon you, someday, somehow, Turkish slime. I only pray to God that you live long enough for me to grow old enough to . . . to . . .
"To do what, Little Dragon?" a soft, intimate voice asked. "Tell me, what would you like to do to Murad?"
Vlad looked around the room, startled by the sudden intrusion, but he did not move from the soft cushion. "Radu?" he snapped. "Is that you?"
Gentle laughter seemed to float about his ears. "I am not Radu, Little Dragon."
"Who are you, then?" Vlad asked, frightened yet attempting to mask his fear. His blanching face and trembling hands belied his poise. "Show yourself this instant!"
"Ah, but I cannot show myself, Little Dragon," the voice said. "I am sorry, but I have no body to show."
Vlad leaned back upon the cushion, wincing as the cool silk rubbed against the sores. "What manner of trickery is this?" He allowed his eyes to mov
e carefully over the interior of his private chamber. "Is this supposed to be an amusement? Are you Turks in such dire need of diversion that you resort to such silly games?"
Again the voice laughed. "I am not a Turk, Little Dragon. I am not a man."
Vlad repressed a smile. Having persuaded himself that this was all some pig-eater prank, he relaxed somewhat. "Not a man! You have not a woman's voice."
"Nor am I a woman," the gentle voice said. "1 am merely your friend, Little Dragon."
"So great is my fortune," he said, laughing, "to have invisible friends." Suddenly serious, and attempting to infuse his voice with imperious hauteur, he snapped, "Now show yourself to me at once! I am not some little Bulgarian shepherd, to be impressed with your tricks! Present yourself, or begone!"
The voice seemed to lose some of its friendliness. "I shall be your companion and your ally, Little Dragon, but I shall not be your servant. If you desire my friendship, it is yours for the taking; but friendship with me is based upon service."
Vlad lay down upon the cushion, weary and growing annoyed. "Such impressive magic, Turk! Where are you? Behind the tapestry? Is there a hidden chamber behind the walls?"
There was a long stillness in the room, and then the voice said, "You received a present this day from Murad the Sultan, did you not?"
"Yes," he said bitterly. "A gift from the goodness of his heart."
"Where is the cat?" the voice asked.
Vlad looked around irritably and saw the little white kitten sleeping peacefully upon Radu's mat near the large eastern window. "There," he said casually. "Over there."
"Watch the cat, Little Dragon," the voice said. "Watch it carefully."
Despite his irritation, Vlad looked at the small animal and noticed that it was suddenly awake and visibly discomforted. The kitten rubbed its face with its forepaws, trembled, whined, and then leaped in confusion and pain. It rushed over toward him, its little face contorted in terror. And then Vlad noticed that the face was not truly contorted; it was changing, shifting its shape, melting into a visage utterly unfeline. In a moment a miniature head of the sultan stared up at him from the shaking body of the little cat.
"Here is a token of my friendship, Little Dragon," the voice said. "I have other plans for our friend Murad, but for your pleasure I shall allow you to enjoy some small vengeance upon his image."
Vlad gulped and tried to speak, but no words issued forth from his mouth. He continued to stare at the monstrosity that sat upon the marble floor in front of him, the diminutive Turkish head perched atop the white kitten's frame. The Murad face moved its small lips but managed only to hiss a cry of uncomprehending terror.
At last Vlad was able to force himself to ask, "Are you God?"
The voice laughed. "No, Little Dragon, far from that. And yet He and I are associates of long standing."
"Are you an angel, or a saint?"
"Perhaps I should not have said 'associates,' Little Dragon. God and I are adversaries, we are enemies."
Vlad finally understood. "Ordogh!" he whispered, addressing the voice after the manner of his people. "Ordogh!" The Devil.
"At your service," the voice said. "Take my gift to you, Little Dragon. Let us be friends. Let us help each other. Take my gift."
Vlad stared back down at the misshapen creature, and it seemed that the Murad face twisted its lips into a self-satisfied smile, gazing back up at him smugly. A wave of uncontrollable rage swept over the boy, and he grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and yanked it up into the air. His trembling hands closed around the neck of the creature, and he began to strangle it madly. The eyes of the Murad-face bugged out and the mouth opened in a silent cry of agony. Vlad relaxed his grip just slightly, then looked over to the ornamental spears that had been hung on either side of the doorway of his chamber. He kept the cat firmly in his grasp as he rose painfully from the cushion and stumbled over to the wall. He took one of the spears from its holder and held it tightly in his left hand, bracing the shaft in the crook of his armpit, pressing it tightly against his body. Then he put the cat creature on the floor, never releasing his tight grip upon the fatty neck folds, and placed the spear tip against the animal's abdomen.
Vlad smiled to himself, then thrust the spear into the creature's body. The sharp blade tore through the fur and the fat and the muscles, causing the animal to writhe in mute agony as Vlad lifted the spear upward toward the high ceiling of the chamber. The boy smiled as the Murad-face wept and screamed silently, as the blood began to pour from the Murad-mouth and the icy glaze of death spread over the Murad-eyes. The writhing body shuddered and then was still. The boy threw the spear away from him, watching as the dead animal slid across the marble floor upon a slick of its own blood.
He stared at the dead form as the Murad-face slowly shifted back to the face of a cat, and then he laughed softly. "I thank you, Ordogh. That was a great pleasure."
"It pleases me to please you, Little Dragon," the voice said.
"And what am I to give in exchange for your gift?"
The voice laughed again. "Only that which you will give of your own free will, Little Dragon. I have chosen you because I know you. You are like unto a dancing girl who strips away layer after layer of silk to reveal only more silk beneath. None can see the flesh that is masked by the garments, none but I. All others see you and know you not, but I see you and know you well. You shall serve me well, Little Dragon. You shall write your name in blood, and I shall give you pen and parchment for the writing."
Little Vlad did not respond immediately. When he did, he said carefully, "We are told that God loves us and forgives us our sins. We are told that God's victory over Ordogh is certain and preordained. Why then should I serve you?"
"Because it is your will to serve me, Little Dragon. You shall serve me because it shall please you to serve me. You shall serve me because I shall give you power for a time, and pleasure and wealth. You shall serve me because your heart is black and your soul is as predestined for damnation as I." The voice paused and then said, "Hear me well, Little Dragon. Never again shall you see your father or your brother Mircea. You shall be Voivode of Wallachia, and you shall inflict much suffering and shall in your turn suffer much. Your life shall be hard and bitter and brief, and yet shall you serve me with devotion. You shall experience ecstasy such as few ever experience, and such misery as few ever suffer, and yet shall you serve me."
Vlad shook his head. "I do not like your words, Ordogh. If you offer me a cup of sweet and bitter wine, why should I drink it? If you offer me a short life, uncertain rule, and suffering—"
"I do not offer these things to you," the voice said. "I tell what must be, what shall be, regardless. I do not control this world, Little Dragon, I can only influence it. But some things I can do. I can see to it that you become voivode, and not Radu. I can see to it that while you rule, however brief that may be, you will be able to use your power for your own pleasure. I can see to it that whatever anger you have, whatever bitterness or sorrow, whatever misery you suffer, will be balanced by as much pleasure, power, wealth, and renown. The former are your destiny, Little Dragon. The pleasure, power, wealth, and renown are mine to give."
Vlad gazed over at the mutilated body of the cat and thought for a moment. "I want you to give me Murad."
The voice did not respond.
"I want to kill him, myself, with my own hands. I want him, not a beast with his face. I want him!"
At last the voice spoke. "The lives of all men follow predestined courses, Little Dragon; but even the flow of the river can be diverted for a little time. The day of Murad's death is fixed and cannot be altered. But the manner of his death . . ."
The voice ceased to speak to him, and Vlad surmised that Ordogh was thinking. He waited patiently, and after a long while the voice said, "It shall be as you wish, Little Dragon."
The mist descended upon the world and the years floated by him, scenes and incidents and events seeming to merge with one another as he g
rew from childhood to young manhood in the Ottoman court. As Malcolm Harker lay in cold paralysis upon the moist floor of the ruined castle, his mind's eye saw the events of that other life—buried deep in the polluted blood that coursed through his veins—drift past him. He saw the year 1447 come and go, watched himself, a thin but vigorous boy of sixteen being informed by Murad's vizier Khalil that the Hungarians had captured and beheaded his father and elder brother. He watched himself depart from Smyrna at the head of a small host of Turkish foot soldiers early the next year, the good wishes and promises of support from Sultan Murad following upon the heels of his small but well-trained army. He saw himself enter Bucharest with his sword drawn, easily overcoming the small force that the Hungarians had left to guard the provincial capital, saw himself proclaimed voivode by the aged Orthodox prelate, heard himself publicly avow his loyalty to the sultan, felt himself repress the urge to bite off his own tongue as he voiced the words of vassalage directed toward the man whom he hated with such passionate intensity.
He watched as the year 1448 drew to an end, as the Wallachian nobles rejected his claim to his father's throne. He saw himself defeated in a pitched battle against the proud boyars of his homeland. He saw himself flee for his life into the Carpathian hills.
It was 1453 when the mist lifted again.
He was sitting easily upon a low-cut tree stump, surveying the little domain which was all he had to call his own. He had spent the past five years as little better than a bandit, roaming the Balkans with his little band of marauders, looting without discrimination the settlements of Turks and Greeks, Bulgars and Serbs, Macedonians and Moldavians, Wallachians and Transylvanians. His host—how dare he call this assemblage of thieves and murderers a host?—consisted-of a few hundred Gypsies and renegades, Turks who loved the fruit of the vine more than they loved Allah, Slavs fleeing from rapacious landlords, homeless Magyars, uprooted Jews, vengeful Greeks.
Blood of the Impaler Page 19
