Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  When the last mule disappeared to the right of the field, the trumpet blasted again, and Nestor stood to announce the arrival of the prisoners. “Forty-five hundred Azaps, light infantry; two hundred Sipahis, heavy cavalry; eighteen Janissaries, the sultan’s elite troops; one hundred and fifty Akincis, irregular cavalry.”

  The prisoners were dressed in their uniforms and had been allowed to put on turbans, for maximum effect. As they passed by, jangling their chains, the onlookers up and down the line jeered and pelted them with rocks and clumps of dirt.

  At the passing of the Sipahis, silence fell over the parade ground. Even dismounted, these soldiers with their cold, determined faces and martial bearing conveyed a deep menace that inhibited the crowd. Marcus stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. Vlad thought he heard him mumble a prayer, but couldn’t be certain. When he turned his eyes back to the field, they fell upon the last of the prisoners, a ragtag group of Akincis walking with jaunty steps as if they hadn’t a care. The memory of Satan’s Wrath came to Vlad like a blast of scorching air. The crowd went wild at the sight of these ruthless raiders who represented for them the worst of the Ottoman threat.

  A rock hit an Akinci in the eye just as he was making faces at the viewing stand. With his burst eyeball running down his cheek the man broke into insane laughter, and was soon joined by the other Akincis. The audience in the stand seemed to hold its breath. Vlad glanced at his father and saw no emotion. But Dracul’s jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth.

  Following the passage of the prisoners came a break in the procession, and attendants in Hunyadi’s livery brought food and beverages to the guests in the stand and the boxes. When they reached Brankovich’s box, he dismissed them with an impatient gesture. Vlad saw the Serbian king exchange meaningful looks with Elizabeth and Ulrich. They too declined Hunyadi’s offering.

  Vlad had no appetite. Marcus ate fried pork and drank wine, seemingly unconcerned with his imminent adventure. But Vlad observed the neck of Marcus’ shirt was wet with perspiration despite the cool spring air.

  A loud cheer broke out from the left and a dozen trumpets sounded Hunyadi’s battle call. A two-wheeled chariot drawn by four black stallions harnessed abreast emerged from under the arch. Hunyadi stood erect in the chariot, draped in a purple toga embroidered with gold. He wore an oak leaf crown on his head.

  Behind the chariot, a cavalry officer led Hunyadi’s warhorse by the reins. Draped across the saddle was Hunyadi’s battle armor, recognizable by the raven device stamped on the breastplate and shoulder guards. The armor was dented, punctured, and smeared with dried blood. As it passed in front of the viewing stand, people pointed at it and crossed themselves. “It’s a miracle the governor survived,” someone shouted.

  “It wasn’t Hunyadi who got the armor all beat up,” Brankovich said. “It was his best friend.”

  “Let me guess,” Dracul said. “The man was taken for Hunyadi and hacked to death by the Turks.”

  “Mezid Bey had put a prize on Hunyadi’s head, so he traded places with his friend.”

  “Not the first man to discover that being loved by Hunyadi’s a hazardous honor,” Dracul said.

  Vlad supposed maliciousness made Brankovich pass on such a slanderous remark at Hunyadi’s expense. Despite László’s cowardly behavior, he admired the boy’s father. Vain or not, Hunyadi fought the Turks with passion and success.

  Three men of Hunyadi’s bodyguard walked behind his horse. The one in the middle held up an unusual standard: boar’s tusks mounted in a brass fixture to form an upside-down crescent, from which hung the tail of a horse. A tuğ, Vlad recognized from Father Gunther’s description, in awe at this symbol of Ottoman authority. In comparison with the flashy standards of the Christians, rich in color and laden with heraldic devices, this standard appeared of disarming modesty. Oh, but the power and authority that simple horsetail represented: one tail for a marcher governor, such as Mezid Bey had been; two for the beglerbegs, or governors of Rumelia and Anatolia; three for the grand vizier; four for the sultan himself. What a thrill it must be to capture such a prize. No Christian had laid hands on a tuğ before Hunyadi.

  “Speaking of Mezid Bey,” Brankovich said, “there goes he and his son.” The men walking besides the tuğ’s carrier held pikes, each topped with a severed head.

  The governor’s chariot stopped, and Hunyadi greeted the royal boxes by pounding his chest with his fist. King Norbert rose and acknowledged his captain’s obeisance with an imperceptible nod.

  “His Royal Highness, King Norbert,” Nestor shouted through his cornet, “by the grace of God King of Poland, Hungary, Dalmatia, and the lands of Krakow, Sandomierz, Sieradz, and Kuyavia, Supreme Prince of Lithuania, Lord and Heir of Pomerania and Ruthenia.” He took a deep breath. “The king congratulates Lord Hunyadi, Governor of Transylvania and Count of Temeschwar, on his victory over the Governor of Vidin, Mezid Bey. His Majesty expresses admiration for Lord Hunyadi’s bravery, and gratitude for his sacrifice.”

  Nestor spoke in Hungarian. Though Norbert couldn’t understand the lavish praise attributed to him, he seemed indifferent to the fact. He just smiled in a detached way when he recognized the names of the countries he ruled. The crowd showed their pride in Hunyadi, the hero of the moment, by frenzied applause. As his chariot resumed its slow progress, Hunyadi acknowledged his admirers by waving at them with the dignity of a Roman general.

  A convoy of forty wagons followed, laden with captured standards, weapons, armor, tents, carpets, clothes, and sundry other goods. For the spectators on the ground, the sight of the war booty proved irresistible. Thousands trampled the ropes holding them in line and rushed onto the field. They crowded around the carts, yelling and shoving each other to get a closer look at Hunyadi’s plunder. Only the intervention of soldiers with drawn swords prevented people’s curiosity from degenerating into a riot. In the stand and boxes above, however, the show had lost its draw; the nobles, tired of sitting still so long, began to walk about and chat among themselves.

  Marcus took advantage of the commotion to climb unobserved over the back of the stand and scamper to the ground.

  “For the last time, Marcus,” Vlad hissed after him, “you can have anything if you let me—”

  “I think I’ve got everything already, Brother,” Marcus said, with a happy grin.

  For a second, spite made Vlad wish his brother ill. Then a sudden fear for his safety overtook him. Marcus just wasn’t as good a fighter as a melee might call for.

  Over the next few minutes, the parade ground was transformed. A column of pikemen, two across, marched onto it on the double. Their procession cut a swath lengthwise through the unruly crowd, and at the sound of a whistle the column split in two. Each half began to sweep the field of people, moving toward the edges with the tips of their pikes lowered. Then they formed a rectangle, like the one Vlad had seen in Nestor’s model.

  A drumroll sounded, and the pikemen at the right end of the rectangle fell back to make an opening in the line. A pack of ten riders galloped onto the field, shaking above their heads javelins with Hunyadi’s pennons. The crowd on the ground roared and the noblemen in the stand applauded.

  The riders wore identical suits of plate and chain mail armor that hid them from the spectators’ view. Their mounts were barded down to their knees. Vlad feared he wouldn’t recognize Marcus’ horse. But, when the riders spread out to round the battlefield, he saw that all but one of the horses had chestnut or gray-colored legs. Marcus’ stallion had black legs. Vlad’s eyes remained fastened on his brother’s horse until the riders returned to the point of entry and lined up facing the center of the field.

  Nestor’s model was coming to life, bit by bit.

  Wind instruments and drums began to play a Turkish march and this time the pikemen at the left end of the field opened their line. A phalanx of armed guards escorted ten mounted Sipahis onto the field, then withdrew. This time the crowd screamed obscenities, while the noblemen remained silent.r />
  The Sipahis wore pointed helmets decorated with black plumes, and carried small leather shields. They brandished curved sabers, javelins, axes, and maces, which gave them a fierce look. But Vlad noticed with dismay their body armor was scant. All they had was circular breastplates strapped over unpadded cotton tunics. The rest of their bodies, down to their soft leather boots, remained unprotected. To make things worse, the Sipahis’ horses weren’t barded. Hunyadi would give people the show he’d promised, but leave the Turks no chance for survival.

  Vlad felt relieved that Marcus wasn’t going to face the Sipahis at their deadliest. But the thought crept into his mind that if he himself were in the melee he’d want his opponents fully equipped. Otherwise, what was the point?

  Instead of parading around the field, the Sipahis huddled together and appeared to listen to a leader among them. After a few moments, they also formed a line facing the center of the field.

  That moment, Nestor’s model became reality.

  In Hunyadi’s box Nestor raised a flag and the trumpets blared Hunyadi’s assembly call. A herald, draped in a blue tabard embroidered with ravens, rode onto the field, where he faced the stand and signaled the riders to approach. The Sipahis trotted in perfect formation and lined up at the herald’s right. Hunyadi’s riders spurred their horses and galloped riotous around the herald with hoots and hollers, before settling into an irregular row at his left. Another trumpet signal, and all the fighters raised their javelins in a salute to the stand.

  “Honored noble guests, citizens of Eisenmarkt,” Nestor bellowed through his cornet, “our beloved governor, Lord Hunyadi, dedicates this armed combat to Her Grace Regent Elizabeth on the occasion of her betrothal to His Majesty King Norbert.”

  Hunyadi stood and bowed to Elizabeth. She responded with a curtsy in his direction. Then she sneezed, and everyone around her wished her good health. Elizabeth’s sneezing continued, and it reminded Vlad of her chambermaid’s sneezing the day before; the regent might be used to the scent of ermine no more than her servant. When Elizabeth’s fit wouldn’t cease, she was led away by her ladies-in-waiting, red in the face and almost breathless.

  “This isn’t a show for women, anyway,” Cardinal Cesarini said to King Norbert, without feeling.

  Norbert nodded, dignified, but Vlad could tell the young man was worried and disappointed.

  “On one side you have ten of the best Christian fighters in Europe,” Nestor resumed his announcement. “They’ve been selected from among hundreds of volunteers to entertain you with their martial skills today.” Nestor waited until his words were passed from mouth to mouth around the field. “On the other side, you have ten of the strongest Sipahi from among the prisoners.” Pause. “You won’t be surprised to learn they didn’t volunteer for this event.” Laughter started at the bottom of the stand and rippled around the rectangle. “So far, you may think of this tournament as an ordinary one, of the type some of you have already seen.”

  Now would come the surprise, Vlad knew. Father was going to give him one of his “I told you so” looks when he learned what Nestor was up to. Vlad stepped forward in the box so his father wouldn’t have to turn his head all the way, and notice Marcus’ absence.

  “You’ve seen contests of arms,” Nestor continued, “where the weapons are blunted and the most that can happen to combatants is a few bruises and a broken bone or two.” Another pause. This time a murmur rose from the crowd. “But today, for the first time in more than four decades in the Kingdom of Hungary, here in front of you—” Nestor waited for his words to make the circuit, while the murmur became a loud din.

  “Oh, Lord’s mercy, man,” Brankovich shouted, “get on with it before we die of constipation.”

  “— there will take place a fight TO— THE— DEATH!”

  The din turned into a howl. Vlad looked at his father, and as he expected, received a silent, “I told you Nestor’s not to be trusted.”

  Nestor raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “The battle will continue until there are no fighters able to ride in one of the groups. The other group will then be declared the winner. Should the winners be the Sipahis—” The rest of Nestor’s statement was drowned in laughter. He waited, unperturbed, for the noise to die down, then said, “The governor has promised he’ll set the survivors free.” Then he gestured to the herald to let the fight begin.

  The herald wheeled his horse around and pointed with both hands to the ends of the field. The riders broke formation and returned to their start position. There they drew their swords, sending flashes of light across the field.

  All eyes appeared fixed on the herald as he extracted a flag from a holster on his saddle, and raised it above his head. Silence, viscous with anticipation, settled over the crowd. Not inside Vlad’s head, however, where a distant tumult began to rumble into a heart-clutching crescendo. Within seconds steel would clash with steel, flesh would rip open, bones would crack. Oh, to be down there, knees squeezing the sides of his horse, fist gripping his sword’s hilt. To look the Angel of Death in the eye, spit in his face, and shout, “Not me. Not now. Today’s my day to kill.”

  The herald dropped his flag arm, and savage shrieks of “Allah!” and “Christ!” at opposite ends of the battlefield shattered the silence.

  CHAPTER 14: Death in Eisenmarkt

  Vlad held his breath and dug his nails into his palms when he saw Marcus peel off from his group and charge in the direction of the Sipahis. The other nine riders followed, forming a wedge behind Marcus. Vlad glanced at his left and saw the Turks bunched together, motionless, as if paralyzed with fear. Mocking calls from the crowd anticipating their imminent annihilation drowned the sound of hoofbeats. “Don’t be fooled, Marcus, they’re waiting for you,” Vlad whispered, tense. “Don’t go for the center of the pack.... Slow down, break into wings, take them from the sides.”

  But the Christian formation stampeded toward the Sipahis, unbroken. With less than thirty yards remaining between the two camps, the Turks sprung forward as one, aiming for the tip of the wedge. Seconds later, when it seemed a collision was inevitable, the leading Sipahi veered to his right and the rest of the Turks fell behind him in single file. The Christians blasted past them, their unarmed left flank exposed. Switching weapons to their left hands, the Turks banged in passing with axes and maces at the Christians’ faces, raising a harsh clangor that silenced the crowd. When the sound of metal on metal died off, four of Hunyadi’s riders lay on the ground. Their still-mounted companions scrambled to avoid smashing into the pikemen. Around the rectangle people groaned, appalled. In the stand and loges, viewers shot to their feet with cries of surprise and anger. Then a tense silence returned over the battlefield.

  For long, anguished moments Vlad couldn’t tell if Marcus was among the fallen. The Sipahis didn’t allow Hunyadi’s men breathing time before they attacked them from the rear. A javelin, launched from close range at one of the Christians, entered somewhere under his helmet and came out through his visor. The rider slid off the horse and the animal, freed of its burden, took off frightened and galloped around the field. Vlad only had time to note that its legs were gray before his attention was drawn back to the battle.

  The remaining five Christians managed to regroup and launch a counterattack, with shouts of “Christ!” and “Hunyadi!” Vlad saw Marcus’ horse among them and crossed himself, grateful. The Sipahis answered with “Allah!” and held their ground at first. But under the pressure of the Hungarian warhorses clad in heavy barding they began to fall back, step by step. A Sipahi lost his balance when his horse took a javelin in the neck and bucked. One of Hunyadi’s fighters lopped off the man’s head. The crowd came back to life. Another Sipahi’s arm fell to the ground when a Christian’s ax slammed sideways into him. Before the wounded man could escape, the same ax finished him off with a chop to the face.

  With both ranks now depleted, Vlad hoped to spot Marcus easier in the swirling mass of riders. There he was, just emerging from a tight clutch of T
urkish horses. “Watch out!” Vlad screamed when a Sipahi snuck behind Marcus and aimed a javelin at his neck. As if he heard the warning, Marcus swiveled in the saddle and blasted his longsword into the Turk’s side. Over the roar of thousands of voices, Vlad imagined he heard the cracking of ribs as the Sipahi’s torso caved in under the impact of the blade. He dashed headlong to the banister of the viewing stand, still screaming. Just as he got there he saw a Sipahi land his mace on the back of Marcus’ helmet. His brother’s feet slipped out of his stirrups and he fell forward on the horse’s neck, clutching at its mane for purchase. Marcus’ attacker returned, mace raised. Before he could land his weapon again, one of the Christians took off his arm with most of the shoulder.

  Marcus slid off the horse. Blackness passed over Vlad’s eyes and his knees buckled. “No, God,” he shouted, clutching at the banister, desperate. But his voice was spent and only a hoarse whispered prayer escaped his throat. “Don’t let Marcus die. It’s my fault that I wasn’t there for him.” His eyes misted and by the time he rubbed them clear, the knot of fighters had drifted to the right and another Turk was just falling off his horse. Marcus lay facedown on the grass, motionless.

  Then a miracle happened: Marcus moved a leg. Vlad’s heart fluttered. Then Marcus moved his arms, and Vlad could see he was trying to push himself off the ground to a kneeling position. He felt as if an invisible claw that had been crushing him till that moment just opened and let him slip free.

  Two attendants rushed onto the field and dragged Marcus away. By the time they were back to the safety of the pikemen’s cordon, Marcus was walking on his own. Vlad resolved to sneak away and help him.

  Then he became aware of a hush that had settled around him. From the right end of the field, where the Sipahis had retreated, came screams of pain from men and horses. Disheartened, Vlad registered that the six remaining Sipahis had managed to surround the four surviving Christians. The Turks had forced their opponents to bunch together so tight, they could no longer wield their weapons. Finding vulnerable points in the Christians’ armor with the tips of their javelins and sabers, the Sipahis finished them off in a frenzy of thrusts and slashes. Then, bleeding from gashes on their faces and limbs, they formed a line and approached the stand.