Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “So, you let him go?” Vlad said, astounded

  “He told me what he knew, so I thought we wouldn’t need him anymore,” Nestor said. “Besides, he’d jogged a long distance through the forest to bring the news and appeared half dead from hunger and fatigue. I gave him a coin to buy food and promised him I’d take his message to—er, the king. Well, I’ve done better than that, haven’t I? I brought it to you.”

  True, Father wouldn’t do anything about an unconvincing report like this. He’d point out that without knowledge of the raiders’ location, he’d have to search ten thousand square miles of forests, hills and swamps.

  But why was it any better the message came to Vlad? He couldn’t do what Father with all his soldiers couldn’t.

  “Well, it wasn’t meant to be,” Marcus said, resigned. “Even if we knew where the Turks were three days ago, they’d be close to the Danube by now and on the other side before we could catch up with them.”

  The mention of the great river triggered a new thought in Vlad. Once again hopeful, he turned to Nestor. “The man told you the Turks were traveling north. That’s away from the Danube, not toward it.”

  “So what?” Marcus said. “We still don’t know where they are.”

  Vlad’s mind raced and his heart pumped faster. “It can mean only one thing,” he said. “Three days ago, the Akincis hadn’t yet finished raiding and were still searching for victims in the north. If they intend to fill up their wagon with slaves, that’ll take them a few more days before they’ll turn back south.”

  “There you go, Cousin,” Nestor said. “I knew you’d figure it out somehow. All you’ve got to do now is hurry to Bucur’s Crossing and intercept the Akincis on their return to the Danube.”

  “I told you, Nestor,” Marcus said, red in the cheeks with wine, “my brother gets a lot of smarts from his books.” He threw an arm around Vlad’s shoulder, and said with fresh excitement, “You and me and our squires are going to surprise those sheep fuckers and make sausage out of them.”

  Vlad felt a vein throbbing in his left temple. Yes, this was going to be good. Holy Mother of God, let it not be too late for those little boys. He crossed himself.

  “Now that’s all settled, where do you want my observer to meet you?” Nestor said. “I imagine you’ll want to leave before curfew, to avoid running into castle guards making the evening rounds through the town.”

  Vlad and Marcus looked at each other, puzzled.

  Then Vlad understood why László had been included in the discussion. “You aren’t thinking of saddling us with this, er... this child as your observer, are you?”

  Nestor raised his shoulders and cocked his head, part helpless and part apologetic. Then he said to Vlad, “You can’t expect me to just take your word for whatever happens between you and the Turks.”

  The outrage Vlad felt at Nestor’s insult wiped out the goodwill he’d been trying to muster for him since he’d learned about the Akincis. Once again, all he could see in his cousin was a mouthful of yellow, slime-coated teeth. “Marcus will be there to witness on my behalf,” Vlad said, willing himself to sound calm. “And you’ll have the head of a Turk as proof.”

  “Take László with you, or my offer’s off the table,” Nestor said, spiteful.

  Nestor had failed to get the boy killed in the forest, and now he was foisting him on Vlad and Marcus, hoping the Akincis would finish the job?

  “Don’t give up your chance again on account of László, Brother,” Marcus said. “Anyway, he’ll be safer with us on the road than on his own around here. And when the fighting starts, we’ll tuck him somewhere out of the way, from where he can see without being seen.”

  If there was no way around it, László would come along. Vlad couldn’t say the prize wasn’t worth the price. “Get your horse and meet us by the abbey’s postern gate at sundown,” he said to László. “Don’t pack any supplies, so as not to raise suspicions. My servant will take care of your needs on the road.”

  When Vlad stood, Marcus jumped to his feet and gave him a hug. “Good decision, Brother.” Over Marcus’ shoulder, Vlad saw Nestor’s sardonic smile.

  With every step Vlad took away from the tavern, his mood soared higher. He thought back at the months of daydreaming about his secret test of manhood; of how much it hurt when his hopes were dashed in Eisenmarkt; of how he’d begun to fear that another chance wouldn’t emerge before he was too grown up for it to matter anymore. And now here the opportunity was, better than he could’ve imagined it. Not one enemy to confront, but four. Enemies that weren’t bound, or forced to fight with weapons and armor of someone else’s choosing. This was going to be a real clash of skill, strength, and cunning.

  He found Gruya and Lash waiting in front of his cell.

  “Do we have to take that imp with us?” Gruya asked, incredulous, when Vlad informed him of their impending departure. “After what happened to him in the forest?”

  “Get eight days’ worth of supplies,” Vlad said to Lash, “and tell the pantry steward Father’s sending me on a secret mission to Kronstadt. He’s not to mention it to anyone under strict penalty.”

  “That’s certain to make the steward gossip about it,” Gruya said.

  “I want him to,” Vlad said. “By the day after tomorrow Father will hear about it and send a platoon of his guards to chase after us on the road to Kronstadt. We’ll be halfway to Bucur’s Crossing in the opposite direction by then.”

  When Gruya and Lash left, Vlad ran down the colonnade to Gunther’s cell. Other than his squire and his servant, the monk was the only person with whom Vlad could share the secret of the Akincis.

  “I’ve got great news, Lala Gunther,” Vlad shouted in Turkish from the threshold, using the word that meant teacher, mentor, and guide, all at once. He was unconcerned with being overhead by the monks in the adjoining cells, who understood only Romanian and a bit of Latin. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he said, peering into the windowless cell. He struck a flint and lit the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  Gunther was slumped on the floor, hands pressed to his chest. In shock, Vlad kneeled next to him and saw pain etched on the old man’s face.

  “What wrong, my Lala?” Vlad said. “Should I call the abbot?”

  “It’s nothing but indigestion, my boy,” Gunther said, halting. “I was selecting the text for your next Persian lesson when I became dizzy and fell.”

  Could Vlad believe him? Gunther’s breathing was labored, his lips blue. Though the cell was cool, his mentor’s face was beaded with sweat. When old men look like that, surely death wasn’t far from their door. He felt a knot rise in his throat. He’d seen other monks sweat and complain of pains in their chests. Some hadn’t lived out the night. He knew the day would come for Gunther to pass, as it did for all men. But now, when that day seemed to be at hand, Vlad felt unprepared for it.

  “Just help me stretch on my cot and tell me your news. That will cheer me up.”

  Vlad lifted Gunther by the armpits and laid him on the cot. Then he glanced around the room and noticed hundreds of illustrated sheets of paper strewn about. He recognized them as the only things in the world Gunther possessed: leaves of Ferdowsi’s Book of Kings, the Shahnameh. Gunther treasured this five-hundred-year-old book as if it were a holy relic. He’d never take out more than three or four pages at a time from it to use for Vlad’s lessons. The rest of the unbound tome would remain always stowed under his pillow. And now those precious pages were scattered about like that much trash.

  “I feel better already,” Gunther said. “Quick, your news, then leave on your quest, before it gets dark.”

  “How could you know—?”

  “Oh, don’t make me sound like such a wizard, Vlad,” Gunther said with a soft chuckle. “Riding boots and mantle... dagger and sword... you weren’t planning to stay for your lesson, were you?”

  Gunther’s banter made Vlad feel better. Perhaps he wasn’t that ill, after all. He sat on the edge of the cot
and took Gunther’s hands into his. “Turkish raiders have been reported a short distance from here,” he said, barely able to finish the sentence from excitement. “Marcus and I, with our squires, are going after them.”

  Gunther watched Vlad for a long time in silence, with no trace of surprise. “I’m happy for you, Rostam,” he finally said, calling Vlad by the name of the Shahnameh hero they both admired. “You’ve been ready for a long time.”

  A rush of warmth flooded Vlad, and he squeezed Gunther’s hands. No other person understood him as well as Lala did.

  “Find the page where Rostam leaves for his first battle and read it to me,” Gunther said. “It’s my favorite story.”

  It was Vlad’s too. He searched on the floor among the scattered pages until he found the one where the fourteen-year-old son of King Zaal set off to kill his first enemy. When Vlad returned to Gunther, the old man appeared to have fallen asleep. He covered him with a blanket and sat on the floor to read Rostam’s adventure to himself.

  There was King Zaal, not much different from Vlad’s father, telling his son, “The enemies are too strong and you’re too young. Your head craves the pleasure of a soft pillow and your belly that of a sweet drink.” Vlad chuckled as he read Rostam’s reply, though he already knew it by heart. “Such pleasures are for girls, Father. A rock can be my pillow and murky water my drink. All I ask God is to send enemies onto my path.”

  An illustration showed Zaal’s retainers trying to prevent Rostam from leaving on his quest for enemies. “Rostam bit the back of his hand in anger then gave a fierce roar,” Vlad read, and felt Rostam’s indignation. In the next illustration, Rostam’s horse Rakhsh was leaping over the frightened men blocking his path. Vlad felt the rush of wind as Rakhsh landed on the far side of the crowd, and heard Rostam shout his promise at Zaal, “I’ll bring you the head of an enemy as a trophy from my first day of battle.”

  Over the centuries and the thousands of miles that separated them, Vlad felt a kinship with Rostam and all the other heroes of Shahnameh who pursued their villains without fear or thought of reward. Anticipation overtook him, as if the door to a magic chamber was about to open in front of him. It was Vlad’s turn now.

  Reassured that Gunther’s breathing sounded normal, Vlad blew out the lamp and left the cell. He walked across the courtyard and into the vestibule of the church. From inside the nave the chant of Vespers flowed melodious and soothing. After he venerated the icons on both sides of the door, Vlad lit three candles and said three Paternosters, one for Oma’s soul, one for Gunther’s health, and one for the success of his own adventure. Then, imitating Rostam, he said with fervor, “God, please send enemies onto my path.”

  Vlad found Gruya, Lash and László outside the postern gate, their horses’ saddlebags bulging with provisions for the road. A baggage horse carried blankets and sacks of horse feed.

  The sun had just set and the light over the hills in the west began to turn from pink to purple. In the orchard, fifty yards away, the apple trees appeared to swim in a smoky haze. Vlad hoped Marcus didn’t tarry; they had only an hour of light left.

  “Horses are approaching,” Lash said. Then, after a moment of concentration he said, “One only.”

  “My brother’s coming alone?” Vlad said, dejected. “No squire, no servant? We need them all.”

  Marcus came into view the next moment, rounding the corner of the abbey wall.

  Vlad watched with dismay as his brother approached at a leisurely trot. He could tell from the distance that Marcus’ saddlebags were empty, and he had no blanket roll behind his saddle.

  “You’re doing what?” Vlad said when he heard his brother’s explanation. “Canceling our expedition because Father wants to make you regent?” He felt as if he’d just been thrown off his horse and had the breath knocked out of him.

  “I couldn’t say no to Father, could I?” Marcus said, sheepish. He dismounted and held his hand out to Vlad. “Sorry, Brother. I know how much this meant to you but—”

  “Well, if you do then come along, regent or not,” Vlad said, furious, refusing Marcus’ handshake.

  “Father needs me in his great council tomorrow, when he’s going to ask the boyars to elect me regent.”

  “Nestor predicted you’d have a change of heart,” László said, “once you considered the danger involved.” Though he didn’t understand the conversation between Vlad and Marcus, he’d gathered the trip was off.

  “The only change of heart concerns you, László,” Vlad said, and, walking over to the boy’s horse, slapped it with the flat of his sword across the rump. The horse screamed with surprise and took off at a run toward the orchard. “I’ve decided I don’t need a witness, after all.”

  Vlad leaped on Timur’s saddle, but before he could take off Marcus grabbed the reins with both hands.

  “Don’t even think of it,” Marcus cried. “There are four Turks, and you can’t take them down with Gruya alone.”

  “We’ll catch them when they’re asleep,” Vlad said, making Timur walk backward, dragging Marcus with him.

  “There will be other chances, Vlad,” Marcus said, straining to control Timur. “Why must it be this one?”

  “You forget the children they’ve taken. They won’t be getting another chance.”

  “I didn’t want to say this, Vlad,” Marcus shouted, hanging onto the reins with all his weight, “but you aren’t ready yet. You’re too young.”

  Marcus’ words seared Vlad, and a wall of rage closed in on him. “Rostam bit the back of his hand in anger,” flashed through Vlad’s mind, “then gave a fierce roar.”

  On impulse he bit his left hand, drawing blood. Then he stood in his stirrups and roared. Marcus dropped the reins, disconcerted, and fell backward. Vlad spurred Timur, and the horse leaped over Marcus, knocking him to the ground. Next moment, he took off at a desperate gallop.

  “I’ll bring you the head of an Akinci, Regent Marcus,” Vlad shouted over his shoulder as blood pounded in his temples.

  CHAPTER 21: The Faces of Lust

  “Lord Alba,” the young chambermaid said in a timid tone from the doorway, “Lady Helena’s sent me to tell you she’s on her way here with important news.”

  Alba hated his wife’s visits to his work chamber. It was one place in his mansion where he could think unimpeded, one place where he felt free of her pitiless domination. More important, it was the only place where he could indulge undetected his insatiable appetite for young girls. Alba knew Helena suspected all of this and looked tirelessly for pretexts to assail his privacy. News, gossip, petty complaints, all served as worthy siege weapons in Helena’s quest for control over her husband’s mind and body.

  “What’s your name, girl?” Alba said, trying to remember if he’d seen her before. No, he couldn’t have. A pretty face like hers he wouldn’t forget.

  “Florica. I’m new in Her Ladyship’s service, Master.”

  The vicious woman sent the girl to him as a dare. To tease him, then swoop down upon him and chase the girl away. “Come in and close the door, Florica.”

  The girl hesitated, but when Alba gave her a kind smile she seemed reassured and stepped into the room.

  “You must be about thirteen, no?”

  Florica shook her head.

  “Twelve?”

  She nodded, then lowered her eyes.

  “You’re tall for your age,” he said, and felt a familiar excitement beginning to rise. “Come closer. I won’t hurt you.”

  Florica took three tiny steps forward, then stopped; her upper lip began to quiver. Alba noticed long, upturned lashes shaded her brown eyes. He walked over to the girl and swiveled her by the shoulders to face the door. Then he stood behind her and, in a flash, placed a hand over her mouth while squeezing her to his chest with the other. She tried to bite, and when she failed, her body went rigid. He leaned over her shoulder and saw her eyes made huge by surprise and fear; his excitement leaped higher. “When my wife comes through that door a few mo
ments from now you’re free to go,” he whispered, and Florica relaxed a bit. Ah, so she understood he wouldn’t be raping her.

  Footsteps resounded somewhere on the ground floor, then the stairs leading to the second floor creaked. Alba worked his right hand under the girl’s blouse and pinched her breasts. They were tiny, hard, and pointy, reminding him of unripe peaches he’d eaten as a boy. Florica squirmed ineffectually in his strong embrace, and tried again to bite the hand covering her mouth. The footsteps now sounded closer, near the top of the stairs, and Alba could hear Helena conversing with his valet. He slid his hand under Florica’s skirt, finding the cleft between her legs and probing it with greedy fingers. This time she managed to sink her teeth into the heel of his left hand. Pain brought his excitement to near climax.

  “Has anyone poked inside your nest yet?” he said, pressing his middle finger against Florica’s hymen on the word “nest.” She shook her head in vigorous protest. “Good. Don’t you let that happen before I get a chance to.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Now get out of here,” he said, and shoved her forward. She screamed and collided with the valet, who’d opened the door that very moment.

  Florica scurried away and Helena barged into the room with a rustle of silk. She had on a strong perfume Alba loathed. It would linger on in his chamber long after she was gone, and ruin his mood for the rest of the evening.

  “Didn’t you get my message that I’m busy tonight?” he said. “It’s already quite late and I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

  “Too busy to learn of an important state secret, but not too busy to fuck my chambermaid?” Helena said, calm. She walked over to him and slapped him hard across the face. He reeled from the impact but didn’t say anything. The pleasure he’d felt at fondling Florica with his wife on the other side of the door was worth this mild retaliation.

  Helena sat at his desk, imperious, and held out an empty goblet to him. He poured her wine from a carafe on the cupboard.

  “The king’s preparing to go on a trip,” Helena said, and watched him with icy eyes.