Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “Put the cape back in the coffer and go have a drink of water,” Elizabeth ordered the woman. Then, to Dracul, “The poor girl’s not used to the scent of ermine.” As she followed the chambermaid with her eyes, Elizabeth appeared to notice for the first time that Dracul hadn’t come alone.

  “Why, Lord Michael,” she cooed and stretched out her hand. “How great to see you’re still holding yourself upright like a young knight.”

  Michael touched a knee to the ground with difficulty and kissed her fingers. “Sometimes I can’t even remember what it meant to be young, Your Grace.”

  “Maybe so, dear friend, but I hear your mind’s as sharp as ever. How I could have used your advice for the past couple of years. Who knows? With your knowledge of Hunyadi’s character and your military genius, the war he waged against my son and me might’ve turned out differently. For you must know it was Hunyadi, not poor Norbert, who hunted and terrorized us for so long.”

  “I see you still don’t trust the governor enough to have taken chambers in his castle,” Dracul said. “But in fairness to Hunyadi, My Queen, it’s also he who initiated the truce and brought you and Norbert together.”

  “I’m not yet queen, Drache,” Elizabeth said, brusque, “nor shall I feel like one even after the wedding. Not until I banish that rapacious, impudent upstart Hunyadi to the farthest reaches of Lithuania. You just wait.”

  “As Norbert’s wife you’ll have nothing to fear from Hunyadi,” Dracul said.

  “And until then? The wedding’s not for another year. How safe do you think I am from Hunyadi now, here in his raven’s nest?”

  “You’ve got your cousin Ulrich’s five hundred knights keeping guard,” Dracul replied. “You also have King Brankovich’s three hundred guardsmen. And though I only have a few dozen men here myself, every one of us would die before we’d let any harm come to you.”

  “Me too,” Vlad heard himself say, and then felt embarrassed.

  “My sword’s at your service, Queen Elizabeth,” Marcus said, not at all inhibited.

  “What have we got here?” Elizabeth clapped her hands, delighted, and let out a tiny laugh that, to Vlad, sounded like a silver bell. “Would these be your sons, Drache?”

  When Vlad kissed Elizabeth’s hand he lingered over it against his will, inhaling her perfume and delighting in the silky smoothness of her skin. She gave his hand a squeeze and when he rose, her blue eyes looked deep into his. He stepped back, lightheaded and hot in the face.

  “Well, boys,” Dracul said, mischievous, as if he guessed his sons were no longer so eager to leave, “have you forgotten you’ve got some visiting in town to do?”

  Nestor and the Turkish prisoners, Vlad remembered with a start. How could he let himself be lulled by this vision?

  “Just stay away from that worthless cousin of yours,” Dracul said in Romanian, earnest.

  “But of course, Father,” Vlad and Marcus replied in unison.

  They found an enormous crowd assembled in the western bailey around a circular corral of rough oak planks. Tradesmen and serving women rubbed shoulders with soldiers and merchants, all craning their necks to see inside the enclosure. Marcus and Vlad elbowed their way to the corral’s gate and peered through the space between the boards. A couple dozen Turkish prisoners were squatting on the ground in torn, bloodstained clothes, chains around their ankles. The new hair growth on their bare heads told Vlad they’d stopped shaving their scalps about three months before, probably at the time they were taken. Half a dozen armed soldiers in Hunyadi’s colors stood guard around them.

  Though Vlad had anticipated this moment since the evening before in Nestor’s chambers, his first-ever sight of live Ottoman soldiers sent a violent tremor through his body. For months he’d been speculating about how it might feel to be close to a savage enemy, one he might overpower and kill. Or one who’d kill him. But nothing in his imagination came close to the feeling he experienced now. Vlad could smell the Turks’ unwashed bodies and hear them snort like horses in the barn; he could see their bloodshot eyes and their chapped lips; and he could almost read their thoughts as they regarded their captors with hateful eyes.

  “Nestor,” Marcus called out over the fence, “we’re here, Cousin.”

  Nestor wore a black wool mantle that trailed behind him in the dirt, and his limp hair clung to the sides of his face. He looked up from one of the prisoners he was examining. “I was beginning to think the two of you had changed your minds. László and I are just about done here.” He turned to a youth who stood among the Turks, two soldiers at his side, and called out in Hungarian, “My cousins did show up, after all, László.”

  László raised his hand in a gesture that said, “Don’t interrupt me.” Then he pointed at one of the prisoners. The soldiers grabbed the man by the armpits and dragged him away from the group, then deposited him near the fence, where seven other Turks squatted.

  Followed by Marcus, Vlad opened the gate and entered the corral. “What have you decided about us, Cousin?” Vlad said, thinking it was best not to irk Nestor again with a reference to László’s authority in the matter.

  Nestor watched Vlad and Marcus at length with a pained look. Vlad realized what that meant for Marcus and him, and a heavy weight settled in his stomach. They weren’t going to let Vlad and his brother fight. It was too much to have hoped for.

  But then Nestor’s face broke into a grin and he said, “It wasn’t easy to convince László, but—”

  Vlad watched Nestor’s lips move but didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, since his ears rang with a shrill buzz. At that moment he loved his cousin despite his repugnant teeth. “We’re on,” he shouted in his mind, tasting a mixture of gratitude, joy, and fright. He recalled a similar feeling from the time he was about eight years old. He’d been badgering Michael for weeks to let him jump off a cliff into the river, the way the older boys were doing it. Michael finally caved in and Vlad scrambled to the cliff top without hesitation. Only there, toes curled around the lip of the rocky ledge and facing the dizzying height, did he realize how unprepared he was to plunge. But it was too late to turn back. The same way, now was too late to back out of the deadly melee. Tomorrow, one of these Sipahis would help Vlad show the crowd of thousands just what kind of a man he was... or wasn’t.

  “Well, do you or don’t you?” Vlad heard László’s shout into his ear. He looked around, still dazed by Nestor’s good news. László, arrogant and smirking, stood next to him. He was as tall as Vlad but slight of build. His face, framed in wavy blond hair, was long and narrow, resembling that of a horse’s. Vlad thought László’s eyes were too close to each other.

  “I’m letting you choose your adversary for tomorrow,” László said. “Your brother’s picked his already. Don’t you want to do it too?”

  “What adversary are you speaking of?” Vlad said, confused. “In a melee you don’t know who you’re going to fight. Any one of the opposing party can come at you.”

  “Sounds like the words of a coward to me.”

  László’s insult struck Vlad like the quarrel of a crossbow. He looked at Marcus, who pursed his lips and shook his head. “Don’t fuck it up for us, Brother,” his eyes said. Vlad bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent.

  “Well, it’s better if I choose your opponent myself, anyway,” László said. “That way, we know he’s not going to be the runt of the litter.”

  László waded through the huddle of prisoners, stepping carelessly on their bare feet. He stopped in front of a large man and yanked hard at a tuft of hair growing from the crown of his head. “What’s your name, slave? Stand up when I address you.”

  The prisoner didn’t react. László drew his dagger and cut off his hair, together with a patch of the man’s scalp. The prisoner gave no sign he felt pain, even as a stream of blood ran down the back of his head.

  “Someone tell me his name or I’ll cut off his ears next,” László said, looking over his shoulder at Nestor, proud.


  “Büyük,” a prisoner shouted, betraying his understanding of Hungarian as he gave the Turkish word for huge.

  “He wants you to stand up,” Vlad said in Turkish to Büyük, hesitating; outside his lessons with Father Gunther, it was the first time he addressed someone in the language. When the man looked up at him with understanding, Vlad felt a sharp thrill.

  “All the little shit had to do was ask,” Büyük said, grinning. He stood and wiped the blood off his nape with a hand the size of László’s head.

  Gasps rose from the onlookers outside the fence. The man stood nearly seven feet tall and had arm muscles thick as church-bell ropes.

  “Is this fighter strong enough for you?” László said to Vlad, mocking. “Get him next to the others,” he ordered the soldiers.

  Before the men could grab Büyük, he snatched László’s dagger with agility surprising for a man his size. The next moment, he lifted László up with one hand and squished him against his chest; with the other he shoved the tip of the dagger under László’s chin. The boy’s legs dangled a foot off the ground, while his face turned into a livid mask. For a few seconds the bailey was plunged into unnatural silence. Then a roar, punctuated by women’s shrieks, filled the yard.

  Nestor took shelter behind the nearest guard. When it became clear none of the other Turks would rebel against his captors, Nestor resumed his confident stance—at a safe distance. “Let the boy down or I’ll have you cut to pieces,” he hollered, pointing his sword at Büyük.

  Not letting go of László, the Turk slid his left hand down and squeezed his testicles. László gave an ear-piercing shriek, then fainted.

  Vlad stepped up to the colossus, holding his empty hands in front of him to show he presented no threat. “If you harm the boy, they’ll kill you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to lose,” Büyük answered, calm. His voice sounded like stone grating on stone. “I’m dead, either way.”

  “Do as you wish, but if you kill the governor’s son, tomorrow’s fight will be cancelled. That means none of your companions will have the chance to earn his freedom. They’ve got something to lose.”

  Büyük swiveled his head and took in the Turks who’d been selected for the melee. “And you believe they’ll be freed?” he said, doubtful.

  “Governor Hunyadi’s given his word.”

  With a resigned grunt, Büyük let László fall to the ground and tossed the dagger at Vlad’s feet.

  Two of the guards rushed at Büyük and immobilized him by pointing their spear tips at his throat. A third one shackled the Turk’s hands behind him. Büyük didn’t resist. László came to and scrambled to his feet, red in the face, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Get my dagger,” he ordered Vlad. “Come, don’t be afraid,” he added when Vlad failed to move. “The Turk’s no danger anymore.”

  When Vlad still didn’t budge, a soldier picked up the knife and gave it to László. The boy walked over to Büyük and, without pausing, planted the dagger deep into the man’s belly. “This is how you kill a Turk,” he declared, pirouetting on his heels so all could see his triumphant smile and the bloody weapon in his hand.

  A few in the crowd of onlookers cheered. Büyük stood motionless, a mocking smile on his dark lips. Seeing his victim didn’t collapse, frenzy took possession of László. He began to stab the man at random in the stomach and chest, again and again. Finally, the knife must’ve severed a major blood vessel, for Büyük gave a big sigh and crumpled to the ground.

  “Congratulations, László,” Nestor said, and rushed over to embrace László. “You’ve killed your first Turk.”

  “How could you do such a thing?” Vlad said, overcome by revulsion. “You’ve just killed a man who let you live, when he could’ve squashed you.”

  “Get me another one,” László ordered the soldiers. “That one there... yes, the one who understands Hungarian. He’s probably a renegade Christian anyway.”

  A soldier dragged the prisoner out to the open space and forced him to his knees in front of László. The man had a saber gash on his scalp that had become infected. He tried to put on an indifferent face, as Büyük had done, but the beads of sweat on his brow betrayed his terror.

  László took a mace from one of the soldiers and extended it to Vlad. “Here, you kill him. Show us you aren’t a coward.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with this,” Vlad said, and shrank from contact with the weapon, nauseated.

  “Kill him, or I won’t let you in the melee tomorrow,” László said.

  Vlad looked at Nestor, anxious, hoping for his intervention.

  Nestor shrugged, indifferent, and said, “Get a kill in the melee tomorrow. If you survive, I promise you a commanding post in Lord Hunyadi’s crusade next year. I imagine a prince of the blood like you would rather lead men in battle than be an ordinary foot soldier. So, decide what you want to be.”

  An officer’s commission in the crusade? Was there anything in the world Vlad wouldn’t give to have one? Everything, but his honor. Face burning with rage for being made to choose in this manner, Vlad headed for the gate. Before he could open it he heard a sickening, slushy thud, and when he turned to look he saw the prisoner lying in the dirt. The top of his head was a red glob of brains and bone. László held the mace high and watched the blood drip off it.

  If killing a wild animal wasn’t the key to manhood, neither was the murder of an unarmed man. Vlad had no doubt he’d acted properly in walking away. But the sense of loss he felt at the missed opportunity was crushing him.

  CHAPTER 13: A Parade of Winners and Losers

  “You can’t skip the parade, Vlad,” Marcus said, adamant.

  Prior to the incident in the bailey Vlad had been looking forward to the parade, which promised to display Hunyadi’s booty from his fight with Mezid Bey. Now the notion depressed him. “I’ll be there when the melee starts. I won’t miss seeing you fight.”

  “Not good enough. If Father doesn’t see both of us in the stand from the beginning, he’ll smell something and send Baba to investigate. Baba starts nosing around, and he might uncover my plan.”

  By the time Marcus and Vlad climbed the steps to the viewers’ stand and sat on a bench behind Dracul and Michael, the guests of honor had already taken their seats. Their father’s box stood at the upper level, between that of King Norbert and King George Brankovich of Serbia. Norbert’s box was filled with boisterous Polish revelers with big pouches and ruddy complexions. Although it wasn’t noon yet, they appeared drunk. Brankovich’s box overflowed with soldiers armed as for battle, swarthy men with drooping black moustaches and charcoal eyes, decidedly sober. Vlad had heard his father tell Michael about the Serb’s distrust of Hunyadi, that Brankovich went nowhere in Eisenmarkt unless accompanied by twenty men of his bodyguard. “George won’t even touch Hunyadi’s food or drink,” Father said. “Nor will Elizabeth and Ulrich. They all brought their own cooks and pantries to Eisenmarkt.”

  Vlad took in the view of the rows below them and felt a pleasurable tug on seeing Elizabeth, who was seated between Cardinal Cesarini and a young man he assumed was Count Ulrich. She and the count were whispering, and casting glances now and then up in Norbert’s direction. Elizabeth was wrapped in her ermine cloak, but Vlad’s mind peeled it open and exposed her enticing décolletage. Norbert kept aloof from his companions and had his eyes fastened on Elizabeth, adoring.

  Governor Hunyadi’s box was perched at the low edge of the stand, just above the benches reserved for the Hungarian magnates and their retinues. Though smaller in size than the boxes occupied by the kings, Hunyadi’s loge was decorated in a way that left no doubt who was supposed to be the center of attention this day. It had a high canopy of Anatolian silk drapes in floral designs, and low walls hung with Turkish prayer rugs. Dozens of pennons with the raven and its golden ring completed the garish design. László and Nestor presided there in Hunyadi’s absence. The governor himself was expected to make his appearance in the parade, then join his guests at
the tournament’s start.

  “How will I recognize you in the field, once you’re suited for the fight?” Vlad asked Marcus. “You’ll be wearing armor like all the others.”

  “You’ll know my horse. That’s one thing I won’t borrow from Hunyadi’s steward.”

  Marcus betrayed no nervousness, and Vlad felt both envy and pride for him. He knew there was no chance his brother would trade places with him, but couldn’t help asking, “What could I give you to let me go in your place?”

  Marcus laughed so loud, Dracul and Michael turned their heads to see what was going on. “You’ll get your turn one day, Vlad,” he whispered. “And you’ve got nothing I covet, anyway.”

  “I’ve got some rare manuscripts.”

  “You’re joking. You know I can’t read.”

  “My horse? He’s far better than yours.”

  “You had your chance but chose principles over adventure. Don’t cry on my shoulder—”

  A trumpet blared and everyone’s attention was drawn to the left side of the field. A camel train driven by men in leg irons appeared there, and began advancing under an arch built from the wood of captured baggage wagons. At their sight Vlad’s heartbeat quickened. It was becoming real now: the parade of the trophies, the captives, then the fight he could have been part of. He replayed the incident with László in his mind and asked himself if he’d done the right thing. No, murdering a prisoner wasn’t something he’d ever consider. But perhaps he should’ve found a way around provoking László’s anger.

  “My lords, my ladies, citizens of Eisenmarkt,” Nestor intoned through a brass cornet, “behold the trophies acquired in battle by Lord Hunyadi.” He took a sheet of paper from a table next to him and began to read. “Eight hundred and seventy-five camels, four hundred and thirty-three oxen, nine hundred mules. Two hundred camel drivers, eighty-four oxen drivers, and three hundred eighty-five muleteers.”

  The slow procession of animals and their handlers lasted for nearly two hours. Vlad took in the interminable column, asking himself how a minor marcher lord like Mezid Bey could muster such a number of draft animals for a winter raid of little consequence to the empire. How big would Sultan Murad’s baggage train be when he launched a real campaign?