Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “Next time you fall asleep at your post, I’ll strip you of your princely status,” Dracul’s voice boomed above Vlad. “Then I’ll send you to join the patrols on the Tartar border. And just to make sure that doesn’t feel more like a reward than a punishment, I’ll also burn all your precious manuscripts.”

  Vlad rose, feigning contrition. “It won’t happen again, Father.”

  CHAPTER 4: An Unwanted Trophy

  “This is a good-size herd,” Dracul said, leaning in the saddle to examine the hoofprints in the mud. “Passed through here about five hours ago. In the dark.”

  Vlad and his father had been riding up the eastern bank of the Argesh River for about an hour. The sun was just emerging above the forest on their right.

  “I count about twenty animals,” Dracul said. He sounded upbeat, but Vlad felt his father’s enthusiasm was forced. “Four of them are bulls, one old, three young. It’s the bulls we want.”

  Clearly, Father still reeled from Vlad’s stirring up his old memories. Vlad himself hadn’t yet recovered from last night’s excitement, but he wasn’t about to concede that he was shaken. “And the others?” he asked, faking interest. He knew his question was lame but couldn’t think of a better one.

  “Cows and calves born during the summer. Perhaps a couple of yearlings, too.”

  “Are they a family?”

  “Unlike wolves, bison don’t live in family herds,” Dracul said. “They come together during the mating season, then split up again.”

  “Should I be aiming to kill the old bull, or one of the young ones?” It made no difference to Vlad, but he knew it did to his father.

  “The old bull won’t let the young ones fuck the cows, and that makes them hornier than sailors locked out of the whorehouse.” The comparison seemed to bring his father an amusing recollection; he smiled for the first time that morning. “They’ll give you a better fight than the patriarch, who’s been working his balls off for the past few weeks.”

  Two hours later they came across fresh manure, and the king reined his horse to a stop. “Weapons check,” he said, dismounting. “You don’t want to draw any closer to the herd without holding your spear at the ready.” He took Vlad’s spear from its holder on Timur’s saddle and pulled off the leather sleeve covering the tip. He ran his thumb along the edge of the twenty-inch blade and nodded. Next, he tested the tightness of the spear socket to the six-foot hornbeam shaft. “Michael’s taught you well. No better weapons instructor than the old soldier.”

  Vlad was glad to notice how the talk about weapons and the best way to make the kill seemed to animate his father. “I’ve seen you thrust a spear into the side of a wild boar. Is that what I’m supposed to do with my bull?”

  “That would bring you too close to the bull. And if you fail to pierce his heart in one go, he’ll turn on you.” Dracul raised Vlad’s spear above his shoulder and pointed it at an imaginary target. “Best to throw it from a safe distance, and hope it sinks in deep.”

  Dracul checked his own spear. Then they mounted and continued to ride.

  “Most of the year the bison live deep in the forest,” Dracul said. “But during the rutting season, they’ll gather in meadows close to the water. There’s such a meadow just upstream from here. With a bit of luck, the herd will’ve stopped there.”

  Over the next mile the shore narrowed, squeezed between the river and a rocky wall with junipers growing out of it. The bison had moved along this narrow stretch in single file, with only the smaller calves stepping alongside their mothers now and then.

  A quarter-hour’s ride later, the wall ended and the shore spread out into a sizable meadow. The expanse was lined with poplars along the river, and butted against the forest on the other three sides.

  “There.” Dracul pointed at a lone tree in the middle of the meadow. “Your bull’s waiting for you. You’re on your own now.”

  Vlad saw the bison, brown splotches of color scattered against the golden background of autumn grass. He clicked his tongue and Timur began to walk in the direction of the herd. There were indeed four bulls; hairy, pendulous testicles dangled between their muscular legs. When he got closer he recognized the old bull. His hide was scarred from numerous encounters with challengers, and faded in color from years of exposure to the elements. The young bulls had unmarked coats, and proud bearings the old one lacked. Vlad chose as his quarry the tallest of the three youngsters. As if sensing something amiss, the animal raised his head and looked Vlad in the eye, defiant. With his broad chest, tall hump, and flaring nostrils, the young bull cut an imposing figure.

  Instead of warming up to the prospect of bringing down such a stately animal, Vlad felt saddened. The old bull’s probably tired of fucking cows by now, but you haven’t even started yet. And here I am, ready to end your life and hang your head on a wall. Just to prove I’m not afraid of you. What a waste!

  Needled by futility and self-loathing, Vlad turned in the saddle and looked at his father. It wasn’t too late to turn back. But yes, it was. Dracul waved his hand, as if to say “Get on with it. Don’t be afraid.”

  Vlad turned back to the bison. He’d come too far. He crossed himself and kicked Timur, sending him dashing toward the herd.

  As soon as Timur’s hoofbeats shook the ground, the old bull snorted and, without turning to see what the threat was, took off in the direction of the forest. The entire herd followed. Vlad overtook it and cut in front of the old bull, forcing the herd to turn left. He slowed Timur a fraction, and when his bull passed by he rode alongside him, keeping at a distance of about five yards. He raised the spear and, aiming for the front of the bull’s ribcage, let it fly.

  The blade penetrated a third of its length in the space between two ribs. Aghast, Vlad realized that wasn’t deep enough. He let Timur fall back to safety, while the bull veered left and right, not slowing its run. At first, the spear shaft wobbled up and down with every step the animal took; then it flew high in the air and landed on the grass. Freed from his painful encumbrance, the bull turned and charged Vlad, snout to the ground. Yellowish foam poured from its mouth, forming a ragged beard from which clumps broke off and flew in the wind.

  “Get away!” Dracul shouted from somewhere behind Vlad. “I’ll take him down myself.”

  Saved by Father, so Marcus could laugh at Vlad for the rest of his life? No!

  “It’s on me to finish him off,” Vlad shouted. He spurred Timur out of the bull’s path, then took off in a wide circle around the lone tree. The bull followed, but lost ground to Timur’s fast pace. Vlad headed to the place where his spear lay, and without slowing Timur, slid down the right side of the saddle and plucked his weapon off the ground. Then he turned Timur around and pulled up short to face the charging bull.

  “Hit him hard this time,” Dracul yelled.

  When the bull was barely ten feet in front of him, Vlad made Timur skip sideways, narrowly missing the collision. Before the bull realized his target had vanished, Vlad wheeled Timur around and brought him close to the bull’s right flank. Leaning over the saddle, he thrust his spear with both hands into the animal’s bleeding wound. This time the blade sank all the way, and a spray of red foam erupted around the spear’s shaft.

  “You’ve done it, Son,” Dracul exclaimed, pulling his horse next to Vlad’s. His lips twisted in a proud smile. The two of them watched the bull gallop toward the forest. Vlad expected to see its knees buckle any moment.

  “Looks like you missed his heart,” Dracul said when the bull gave no sign of weakening. “Don’t worry though, with that blade cutting into his lungs every step he takes, he’s not long on his hooves. We’ll follow him till he drops dead, and take his head.”

  Vlad couldn’t share the triumph in his father’s voice. Some trophy. The head of a dumb animal, that threatened Vlad not at all until he attacked it. A cloud passed over the sun, and he realized the temperature had plummeted since they first spotted the herd. Above the mountains to the north, the dark purple sky promi
sed rain and snow. He and his father rode into the forest, following the hoofprints left in the loamy soil by the bull. For a few minutes they could hear him snort while he crashed through the undergrowth, but soon the forest’s silence returned. The ground rose rapidly, forcing them to dismount and lead their horses by the reins.

  Dracul stopped to mop his brow with a handkerchief. “Let’s hope he’s too exhausted from blood loss to keep up this race much longer.”

  Vlad nurtured hope the bull’s wound wasn’t deadly, that the great beast might yet elude them and recover. He’d heard stories about bears living for years with a broken spear shaft in their hides.

  In two hours of climbing, they didn’t catch a single glimpse of the wounded animal. The only evidence they hadn’t strayed from his trail was the bull’s hoofprints and an occasional blood splatter. They were about to give up the pursuit when a massive hulk appeared ahead. It was the bull, dead, kneeling on all fours in the narrow space between two tree trunks.

  “You’ve killed him, after all, Son,” Dracul exclaimed, and slapped Vlad on the back, jubilant. “Your spear shaft got him jammed between those trees. None too soon, seeing what kind of weather’s approaching.”

  Vlad felt only revulsion at what he’d accomplished.

  They climbed to a plateau that extended along the crest of the hill, just beyond the place where the bison had expired, a spot blanketed with knee-high blueberry shrubs. At the summit’s far side, they came upon a sheer drop of about twenty feet. Straight ahead, a wide vista opened into the valley below.

  “Had he made it to this level ground, he might have escaped,” Vlad said, morose.

  “Or he would’ve tumbled down these rocks,” Dracul said, “blind with pain as he was.”

  At the top of the hill was no trace of the warmth and sunshine they’d enjoyed all morning. Now the sky was dark, and a cold wind bent the treetops.

  “By Saint Peter’s winter cloak,” Dracul said, frowning, “old Michael put the curse on us, talking of bad weather. We’d better finish our work here and head for lower ground before the storm hits—”

  A bloodcurdling howl rose from somewhere nearby. The horses neighed and stampeded down the forest slope while Dracul swore and threw himself to the ground, dragging Vlad with him.

  CHAPTER 5: A Surprising Discovery

  “We’ve got no weapons,” Dracul whispered into Vlad’s ear. “It’ll be tough to fight the wolf just with our small knives.”

  Vlad heard dread in his father’s voice. His own fear, suppressed during the hunt, burst inside his veins now like hot venom. Damn. Who’d have thought the horses would run away with their swords holstered in the saddles? Father’s spear too. And Vlad’s spear stuck in the bull.

  “I’ve got my bow,” he whispered back. “I was planning to shoot something for supper—”

  “That toy?” Dracul scoffed. But then he seemed to change his mind. “Get it ready. But make no sound, or we’ll end up being supper ourselves. The wolf might not have smelled us yet, with the wind blowing our way. But he’ll hear us.”

  “I thought wolves didn’t attack unprovoked,” Vlad said.

  “That was a howl of warning, not anger. This one seems to feel threatened by something.”

  Vlad rolled slowly onto his side. Then he pulled the bow over his head, felt for an arrow in his belt, and nocked it against the bowstring. One of his teachers, Father Gunther, told stories of Janissaries’ prowess with the bow from any position. Recalling this made Vlad feel inadequate. “I can’t shoot from a lying position like the Turks can. Probably even a Turkish girl can outshoot me, blindfolded—”

  “Hell, I can’t shoot at all,” Dracul said. “I haven’t held a bow since I was your age. So stop whining and get on with it. Loose the arrow as soon as you stand. If the wolf charges, you won’t get a second chance.”

  Unwilling to let go of either bow or arrow to free up his hands, Vlad blessed himself by making the sign of the cross with his tongue. That made him aware his mouth was dry and his throat tight. Summoning his strength, he heaved himself to a kneeling position and aimed the arrow in the direction from which the howl had come. Dracul jumped to his feet at the same time, drawing his dagger.

  With a shock that traveled like lightning through him, Vlad found himself looking into the eyes of a wolf, standing no more than ten feet away. As he aimed at its chest, he was struck by the intelligent, amber-colored eyes that seemed to say, “This is my home. Just go away and I won’t kill you.” This animal was truly beautiful. Unaware he did so, Vlad let his aim drift to the side.

  “Shoot already, goddammit!” Dracul screamed, and the wolf’s eyes shifted to him. Next instant it charged, snarling. Dracul and the wolf disappeared over the rocky ledge before Vlad could grasp what happened.

  “Father!” He dashed to the edge of the plateau, almost tumbling into the precipice himself. He saw Dracul spread eagle on the scree below, motionless, splattered with blood. Next to him, equally still, lay the wolf. Vlad scrambled down the nearly vertical wall, indifferent to cuts and scrapes to his hands, while a burning fluid rose to his throat. “You’ve killed him,” a voice shrieked in his head. “You’ve killed your father!”

  At first, he was certain he had; Dracul wasn’t breathing. Vlad’s panic pounded in his forehead and made his hands tremble. He touched his father’s neck, and when he discovered a vein pulsing faintly he collapsed with relief. “Thank you, Holy Virgin, wake up, Father!” Vlad said as he crouched next to Dracul and probed under the breast of his tunic for an injury. Not finding one, he concluded his father must have fallen onto the wolf then bounced off. Vlad turned to the animal and saw that a pool of blood had formed alongside its body. The hilt of his father’s dagger protruded from the wolf’s chest.

  “What the fuck happened?” Dracul moaned. “Why’s my leg burning so?”

  Vlad jerked his head back around. Dracul’s jaw hung open, as if speaking had exhausted him.

  Vlad stammered out, “Good news, Father. We’ve escaped becoming supper for the wolf.”

  “Don’t tell me the bad news. I... need a moment... catch my breath.”

  “You’re shivering.” Vlad took off his coat and spread it over Dracul. He felt cold too, especially on his back where his shirt was soaked with sweat. “Can you stand? We can’t spend the night here or you’ll—”

  “Check to see what’s wrong with my right leg. It feels as if Satan’s pissed fire on it.”

  Vlad ran his hand over his father’s thigh and felt nothing unusual. Then he lifted the leg by the boot. “Jeeesus!” Dracul cried.

  Vlad put his hand under his father’s knee and felt the trouser leg wet above the boot top. When he pulled his hand back, it was bloody. “I... I think it’s broken somewhere below the knee,” he said, fighting to sound composed. “The bone must have cut through the flesh, but the boot’s holding it in place.” He lowered Dracul’s leg to the ground and stood. “I’ve got to get help.”

  “Forget help. There’s no one around for thirty miles.” The king’s teeth chattered. “Get a fire going for the night, or we’ll both die of cold.”

  Vlad looked around. It had begun to snow, and the boulders around them now held a silvery coat of crystals. “A fire... my flint’s in the saddlebag and—”

  Dracul heaved a sigh. “Bad luck all around.”

  They remained silent for a few minutes. Vlad listened with mounting apprehension as tiny ice pellets slammed onto the rock wall behind him, making the sound of rice falling on a slate floor. The valley below had disappeared into a cottony fog. He scanned the area for anything that would shelter them from the wind and snow, but all he saw was the barren talus sloping down into the fog. And it would be dark within the hour.

  “Skin the wolf and make us a shelter from its hide.” Dracul’s voice was weak and halting. “In the morning you can climb out of here and look for our horses.”

  Vlad knelt by the wolf’s head and passed his hand over it. The intelligence had drained out of the
golden eyes, leaving them sleepy-looking. There was no time to think, only act, but he found himself fascinated with the creature’s coat. The fur on the head and back was black. On its flanks it turned gradually gray, tinged with copper; then it trailed into pure white on the belly and legs. The top hair was coarse, but when Vlad thrust his fingers deeper into it, he felt soft and fluffy underfur. The wolf had its winter coat on. He hated skinning it, but without a warm cover Father wouldn’t make it.

  He rolled the body over, away from the puddle of blood, and pulled the dagger from the wolf’s chest. “It’s a she-wolf,” he exclaimed when his hand fell upon the animal’s belly, feeling for a place to stick his knife in. “Looks like she was still nursing.”

  “That explains why she was so bent on killing us. We must’ve gotten too close to her den.”

  “What will happen to her pups?”

  “That’s what you care about now?” Dracul let out an agonized groan. “Just get the fucking skin before I freeze.” Then he seemed to regret his harshness. “Other females in the pack will nurse the orphans.”

  Vlad turned to his task, but when he tried to cut into the wolf’s skin his hand disobeyed him.

  “Don’t be squeamish, Son. You’ve skinned deer before, haven’t you?” Dracul’s teeth chattered. “It’s the same thing.”

  A wolf was no deer. It was a noble animal, not a rat with horns. Vlad averted his eyes and bit his lip, then slipped the tip of the blade into the base of the wolf’s belly. He made a long, clean incision, not stopping until he reached her throat. From then on he worked fast, keeping his mind off the pups and their unfortunate mother, concentrating only on not nicking the skin while he pried it loose from the flesh.

  “The damage done by lightning to the tower must be repaired before the winter,” Dracul said, in an official tone, as if addressing his council.

  Startled, Vlad turned to see him struggling to sit up. “Don’t move, Father.”