Vlad rode with eyes fastened to a point in the distance, embarrassed at the unwanted attention.
Three hours out of town, the convoy entered the great forest that extended for hundreds of miles east and west, so vast it required three days to traverse north-to-south. Long ago, when there were no roads across the forest, people named it the Devil’s Belt, for being dark, impenetrable, and endless. Many would-be invaders, bent on making Wallachia their own, were swallowed by this forest and littered its paths with their bones.
Even nowadays, when forest roads made it hard to get lost, Devil’s Belt lived up to its reputation as a dangerous place. But the danger came this time from robbers. Lately they’d infested the forest and made it unsafe to travel except under armed escort. Even with the castle guards on watch around the king’s camp at night, one or two hands would be found murdered each morning, the goods they were in charge of stolen.
Upon clearing the forest on the evening of the third day, the king’s party came onto the Baragan Plain. This field stretched from the forest’s southern edge to the Danube River, a mere long day’s ride away. For Vlad, the sight of the Baragan conjured visions of countless battles, fought by the Wallachians over the centuries to keep their land out of the hands of strangers. Now, with the Ottoman Empire a rapacious neighbor just across the river, how much longer would his land remain free? His gorge rose at the question.
Notified ahead of time, the Royal Verderer and his game wardens had prepared fire pits over which boar, venison, and rabbits already sizzled. While grooms looked after the animals and servants pitched the tents, the king and his councilors sipped wine, waiting for supper to be ready. Marcus, he too a member of the royal council now that he’d become a man, did his best to keep up with his elders. Tongues loosened, they all recounted hunting stories, ever adorned with fanciful exaggerations.
Vlad sat by the fire, next to the king, looking disinterested from one speaker to another. Too much talk: grown men wasting time on idle chat about animals. He let his mind drift to more meaningful stories, heard from Michael in his childhood. Stories of wars against the Turks, in which Vlad’s grandfather, King Justus, was always the hero. Lady Mathilda Novak, Michael’s wife, objected to her husband’s favorite subject, saying, “If Vlad’s mother were alive she’d cut out your tongue for putting these ideas into the boy’s head.” As Vlad’s governess, Mathilda felt compelled to feed him a healthier fare. She tried her own tales on the child, as an antidote, but Vlad would have none of Mathilda’s fairies, elves, and trolls.
“It seems our young prince is scared of what’s in store for him,” Vlad heard someone say. He recognized the mocking voice of Lord Dan Alba, the king’s treasurer. “The child hasn’t said a word since he’s sat down next to his papa.”
At forty, Alba was three years younger than the king, but didn’t show it. His gangly frame was crooked and stiff with joint swellings, giving the treasurer the look of an old man. Dirty-blond hair, a squinty left eye, and paper-thin lips added the appearance of cruelty to that of premature aging.
Dracul shook his head, showing displeasure at Alba’s barb. “Thank you for reminding us why we’re here, Dan. We’ve been too taken with your hunter’s lies to remember.” He signaled to one of the attendants, and the man disappeared behind a supply wagon and returned with a cask of wine.
“I drink to my second son’s coming-of-age,” Dracul proclaimed in a resonant voice that carried throughout the camp. He raised the cask above his head and tipped a stream of red wine into his mouth through the open bunghole. The councilors cheered.
Marcus stood, and the king passed the cask to him.
“And I drink to my brother’s not hanging on my shirttails anymore and starting his own damn adventures,” Marcus said. He tried to imitate his father’s manner of drinking, but all he managed was to spill wine on his tunic. This time the councilors guffawed.
“Let Baba Novak show you how it’s done, My Prince,” roared a mountain of a man with a luxuriant black beard. He took the cask from Marcus’ hands and lifted it above his head as if it were weightless. “In my days, coming-of-age meant drinking an entire cask of wine in one draft, then making love to a wench, while galloping bareback on a horse.”
The audience burst into laughter. Michael stood and silenced the revelers with raised hands. “My son’s imagination is sharper than his memory. What I remember of his special day is not a cask drunk in one draft, but a stolen wineskin. It cost me the price of a sheep to ransom Baba from an outraged vintner.”
Against renewed laughter, Baba threw his head back and let the wine pour into his mouth until it was all gone. “Well, perhaps not exactly an entire cask,” he said, and gave his father a sham glower.
“And perhaps not quite a galloping horse,” Dracul added.
More laughter all around.
“And now that we know about the sheep, perhaps it wasn’t a wench you made love to either,” Alba said, his acid tone devoid of humor.
The laughter faded, and everyone’s eyes turned to Baba. He leaped at Alba, grabbed him by the neck and crotch, and lifted him above his head like a twig.
“Did someone say we needed another log on the fire?” Baba held Alba over the flames and shook him hard. Next moment he set him back on his feet and smoothed out his rumpled clothes with mock courtesy. “No, Dan, I didn’t fuck a sheep on my special day, nor any time since. See, my carnal tastes lack your refinement.”
“You’re drunk, Baba,” Alba said, his face twisted with hatred, “and you’ll forget this outrage by morning. But I never will.” He pushed Baba to the side and stalked away, followed by his servants.
Vlad took advantage of the commotion to slip into the shadows. Behind him the raucous conversation resumed. From the camp’s outer edge he saw the dark mass of the horses grazing in the mid distance. He rolled his tongue and produced a brief, sharp whistle. A horse detached itself from the team and trotted in his direction.
“Come, Timur, let’s see how ready you are for the hunt.” Vlad massaged his gelding’s ears and the horse responded affectionately, dancing in place. “Now stand still for a moment,” he whispered in the horse’s ear. “You’re prancing like someone who’s sat on a hornets’ nest.” Timur froze, head low. Vlad lifted one of the horse’s legs and probed the hoof with his fingers. He found it free of cracks or embedded stones. The shoe was firmly attached, all nails in place. The other hooves proved the same. “You are fit, boy. Now go and have your fill of grass. Tomorrow—”
“—is your last day of childhood.”
“Uncle Michael!” Vlad exclaimed, turning with a jolt. “You shouldn’t be sneaking up on me like that. I might’ve have gotten spooked and stabbed you.”
“You’ve let your guard down, Vlad. If I were an enemy it’d be too late for you to hurt me.”
The criticism stung, but Vlad knew his tutor was right. “I’ve stopped being a child long ago. You’ve said so yourself.”
“So I did. Now soon, others will see just what kind of man you’ve become while they weren’t watching.”
“If a dead cow’s what will open their eyes, I’ll give them one. But I’m ready for more than killing animals.”
“I know what you’ve got in mind, and I don’t like it.”
Vlad observed Michael to see if he was baiting him, or knew something indeed. The only person he’d confided his secret to was Marcus. What a mistake. “Did my brother shoot off his mouth?”
“Don’t be in such a hurry to kill men, Vlad. The world’s not about to run out of evildoers worthy of your steel.”
“You’ve never told me how old you were when you killed your first enemy.”
“Haven’t I had enough trouble from my lady for just talking with you about war?” Michael said, and chuckled.
“Fourteen?”
Michael shook his head.
“Fifteen?”
A nod.
This heartened Vlad. Father didn’t do it until seventeen, and Marcus was still a virgin in
the matter of killing enemies. There was time for Vlad to beat them all.
“I was a slow starter,” Michael said. “Your grandfather wouldn’t let me accompany him to battle until I was fifteen. That’s when Sultan Beyazid invaded Wallachia, and I—”
“Was it a Turk you killed? Were you scared?”
“Out of my mind,” Michael said, glancing over his shoulder. “Not something I care to admit to this company, mind you. But everyone was afraid, including your grandfather.”
“My opa afraid? That’s impossible.” Michael’s candor took Vlad by surprise. He felt a vague shame to learn both his opa and his mentor could have such feelings in front of the enemy. “I wouldn’t have been afraid,” he said.
“Don’t mistake fear for lack of courage,” Michael mused. “Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid when his army numbers ten thousand, while that of his enemy forty.” In the moonlight, Michael’s eyes held a faraway look. “Of course, no one would admit fear, or he’d be left behind with the womenfolk.”
“How did you manage to beat the Turks if you were afraid of them?”
Michael chuckled softly. “Fear makes you a better planner. It’s the underdog’s secret weapon.”
“This weather’s a hunter’s dream,” Dracul said, squinting into the rising sun while his horse was being saddled. He glanced toward Vlad, who listened but without interest. “We should get our trophy and be back in less than a week.”
“Weather’s like a beautiful woman, Your Grace,” Michael said. He shaded his eyes toward the mountains far to the north. “She’ll promise you anything, but just when you’ve abandoned hearth and home to follow her, she’ll turn her back on you.”
“Aren’t you full of wisdom this morning, my dear philosopher?” Dracul gave his old retainer a friendly punch in the shoulder. “What you’re trying to say is we should pack foul-weather gear, in case this beautiful woman dumps a bucket of slops on our heads.”
“Yes indeed, My King. Pack some oilskins and extra blankets. I’d also send a game warden ahead, to track down the bison herd so you won’t waste your time.” Michael glanced at a group of servants gawking idly nearby. “And take one of these lazy footmen along to catch you birds and rabbits for supper.”
“And perhaps the archbishop to bless our meals?” They both laughed, and the group of courtiers gathered around them joined in.
“No, Michael, weather doesn’t scare me. As for the rest,” Dracul placed his arm around Vlad’s shoulder, “I’ve got all I need right here. I hear this boy of mine can out-fish and out-snare anyone for seven districts. And he can shoe a horse better than my farrier. All he’s got left to prove is that he can bring down a bison.”
Michael looked at Vlad. “True, Vlad’s big and strong for his age, but a horny bull might prove too much for him.”
Vlad was annoyed at his tutor’s coddling, especially in front of the royal council and his brother. He gave him a reproachful look. You’re starting to sound like Aunt Mathilda.
Michael averted his eyes from Vlad. “I beg Your Grace, stay close to the prince at all times.”
“My father killed his first bison at thirteen with no one’s assistance, and so did I. Now, God willing, Vlad will do the same.” Dracul vaulted onto the saddle of his mare. “Your Graces, return to Targoviste and to your duties,” he said, addressing his councilors. Then he turned to the officer of the guards. “I expect to find you and your men in this camp when I return, Captain. Don’t follow us. From here on it’s just my son and I.”
CHAPTER 3: Satan’s Wrath
Vlad and Dracul rode west at a fast pace, stopping now and then to rest their mounts for a few minutes and to refresh themselves with drafts of water. They kept away from the caravan road, to avoid meeting travelers who’d slow them down. Instead they followed a narrow lane that skirted the forest, used mostly by game wardens who patrolled the royal domains, which extended west to the Olt River.
In the early afternoon, Dracul slowed his horse to a walk. “I want you to ride ahead alone and find us a campsite for the night,” he told Vlad. “In two, three hours, you’ll be close to the Argesh River. That’d be a good place to stop.”
“You want a place the two of us can defend against—”
“Marauders? I don’t expect any, but good thinking.” Dracul gave Vlad a broad smile.
“Will you be safe alone?” Vlad asked, but didn’t wait for the answer. He knew his father meant to test both his courage in riding by himself so close to Devil’s Belt, and his skill at choosing an appropriate campsite. He set Timur to a fast trot and within minutes lost sight of his father. The forest at his right followed him unbroken, but the flatness of the plain soon yielded to rolling hills. The sun’s movement across the cloudless sky told him the passage of time. When two hours had elapsed, he rode to the top of a barren hill and surveyed the land ahead of him. In the distance the ground leveled off again, and he caught sight of flocks of birds that told him he was close to the wetlands fringing the Argesh River. Hard to be surprised by marauders in the middle of the swamp. A patch of dry land surrounded by a sea of reeds. Without doubt, that was what Father had in mind.
Vlad put heels to Timur’s flanks and the horse trotted downhill. That moment he caught sight of something that broke the monotony of the forest green at his right. He reined Timur in to take a second look, but the horse had already reached the bottom of the hill and Vlad could no longer see above the tree line.
He was about to ride on, when curiosity held him back. Peering between the tree trunks, he led Timur into the forest. The ground was level at first, then rose gradually. A hundred yards in, he began to see ruins he recognized as those of a church. As he got closer he could distinguish the brick-and-stone wall of a bell tower. “That’s what I saw,” he whispered, then dismounted and listened for suspicious sounds. But nothing other than birds’ chirping disturbed the silence of the woods.
“You wait here,” he said to his horse, “and be ready for a quick getaway.” He unsheathed his sword and walked the remaining few yards toward the ruin, trying not to step on dry twigs that would betray his presence.
The church was small and built in the rectangular shape priests ascribed to Noah’s Ark. It had been ravaged by a fire long ago, but the sturdy structure had survived; only the top layer of bricks had tumbled onto the nave’s floor when the roof collapsed. Vlad stepped through an opening that had been the main door and came into view of blackened walls still showing traces of colorful frescoes. Images of saints with suffering eyes and faded halos added a forlorn air to an already depressing place. Even You couldn’t save this place, could You?
Looking through the eyes of a would-be defender, Vlad observed that the windows were narrow, and placed high enough to present no threat of intruders. The only opening in need of defending was the main entrance. Room enough for horses too, he reflected.
Father would be pleased with his finding. After glancing over the glade that surrounded the church and seeing nothing unusual, Vlad returned to Timur and rode back to the lane. He didn’t have to wait long before his father appeared.
“Damn!” Dracul shouted when he heard of Vlad’s idea. “Of all places on earth, you should choose a ruined church for a campsite.”
“I think it’s quite suitable, Lord Father—”
“You can just call me Father, now that you’re practically a man,” Dracul said, red in the face with a vexation Vlad couldn’t account for. “And no, the place isn’t suitable at all.”
Dracul spurred his horse and took off at a gallop toward the river. Vlad followed, seething at his father’s rejection. By the time he reached the river wetlands, Dracul had disappeared among the tall reeds. It took Vlad a while to track him to a hummock of willow trees surrounded on three sides by swamp, a hundred yards off the path.
“This is what I call suitable, Son.”
“It seems you knew all along we’d be camping here,” Vlad said, and looked away, resentful. “Don’t know why you made me search for a pl
ace.”
“I’ll water the horses and start a fire,” Dracul said. “Go find us something to eat before it gets dark.”
Vlad strung his bow in silence. Then he stuck an arrow in his sash and took off.
“Take a few more arrows with you, Son. I’ve set my heart on bacon-stuffed duck for supper.”
“It only takes one arrow to bring down a bird,” Vlad said over his shoulder, sullen.
“Showoff,” Dracul said and chuckled.
Half an hour later Vlad returned with two ducks. “The first bird fell on dry land so I got to reuse my arrow,” he said, before his father had a chance to question him.
“And if it had fallen in the middle of the swamp?”
“We’d have to settle for bacon-stuffed bacon, I suppose.”
Dracul laughed, and Vlad felt his anger subside. He gutted the birds and washed them with water from his flask. Next he sprinkled salt and herbs inside their chest cavities and stuffed them with chunks of bacon. Finally he sewed their bellies shut with a needle and hemp string. Without plucking their feathers he impaled the birds on iron spits he’d brought in his saddlebag.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Vlad. It wasn’t your fault you stumbled upon that accursed place.”
“You knew that church?” Vlad said, taking a step back. He tripped on his saddle and dropped one of the ducks, almost falling himself. “You didn’t say that back there.” He saw his father’s face darken and decided to leave the matter alone, despite being intrigued. He resumed supper preparations by digging a hole and kneading the clay he took out of it with water from the swamp. When the clay reached the consistency of dough, he plastered the ducks with it until they resembled two loaves of bread ready for the oven.
In the meantime the firewood had turned into embers that gave off intense heat. Vlad suspended the two spits over the fire pit on crutches he fashioned out of willow branches. Then he washed his hands and sat crossed-legged next to his father.
Son of the Dragon Page 3
