“Stand at my side! Bow to me to as your one true lord! I can give you power beyond your dreams! I can take away all your pain.”
The young man looked past those he loved. His eyes fell on his great enemy. The skies turned ever darker and a strong wind blew about the hill. It was such that the people clung to their robes. The Romans too moved away to find shelter from it. As they did the first drops of rain began to fall.
Balthasar stood firm. The change in the weather did not faze him as it did the others. He knew at last the reason this land had drawn him back. It was his task to speak for the young man on the Cross. “Your words are wasted. You are the false prophet; the Prince of Lies. His power far exceeds yours.”
The young man squinted hard, but kept his eyes trained on the Dark One. As a man he did not have the strength to speak. Yet he wanted Lucifer to know that the old man spoke for him. He would never give in, despite his mortal pain.
Lucifer knew he was losing this battle and was close to despairing. “Look around you!” he implored him. “They are not worth a single drop of your blood! For all you are doing for them, they still spit on you! Man is a cur! Let him die! It is as much as he deserves!”
Balthasar walked right up to him. At once Lucifer noticed a change in the old man. The one who would ruin his work was indeed about to speak.
“It is time that you left,” the old man said.
Lucifer shot him a sharp glance. The voice he spoke with was that of the young man on the Cross. It was rare that he ever felt unsettled, but this was such a time. The Son of God had thrown down the gauntlet.
His temper got the better of him. As hard as he had tried he could hold it back no longer. He shot across to where the Romans had crouched down. Their eyes remained fixed on the one they had crucified. More than ever they wished he would die. They did not want to spend another moment on this hill.
He cast his eye over the group to select the right one for his purpose. Once he had chosen the man he wanted he jumped into his body. The Roman stood up, no longer bothered by the wind and rain. His fingers closed around the spear he held in his hand.
“What are you doing?” one of the others asked, when he moved away.
The legionary ignored his comrade. He walked around the small clusters of people to find the perfect spot. The young man knew what was to come. He looked the Roman right in the eye to show his resolve would not break.
The others got up too to follow him when he did not respond to the question. They feared he might do something foolish. His actions could then spark a riot. Such an event would not please Pilate, the governor.
The centurion worried about this most of all. He did not need this now. All he wanted was for this to end so they could return to barracks. But if it did happen he needed his men to be on their guard. “Stand down!” he shouted to his soldier. “I command you!”
The Roman did not look around and he did not obey the command. Even the sound of the centurion drawing his gladius did not deter him. He carried on until he stood right in front of the young man. They stared each other out for a moment. The young man tried to ignore his pain. A fresh flow of blood trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He wanted an end to this too and gazed at the Roman, as if daring him to throw his spear.
The people standing around saw it too. Those loyal to the young man ran to try and stop the soldier. With a shove of his hand he knocked two of them down. He then gripped the spear hard and hurled it through the air.
Time seemed to stand still. Everyone on the hill stopped and waited with bated breath. Their eyes turned from the Roman to the man on the Cross. The young man cried out as the spear ripped through his left side. That and the loud thud of iron on wood broke the brief lull. Blood gushed from his new wound and down his thigh, some of it dripping in a torrent onto the ground below from where the leg bent at the knee.
His mother fell down, distraught at the image before her. “No!” she wailed. “Why do you do this to him?”
John tried again to comfort her. Other than that no one moved. The Roman looked on as the young man dropped his head. Even now, he was not yet dead though all could see the moment was close.
The sky turned completely black. With that the wind and rain picked up at an alarming pace. The Roman walked right up to the Cross. Blood trailed down the young man’s thigh and knee and splattered off his chest armour. He grinned as he looked up. “If you want so much to die, then die you shall!”
He reached up and with both hands and the use of all his weight, he pulled the spear out. The young man screamed this time, the horror of the moment draining the very last of his strength. His body stiffened again from the shock and his vision grew cloudy. He felt the last remnants of his life begin to ebb away.
A brilliant white light shot down from above. It filled the Roman with fear and forced him to step back. He dropped to his knees as Lucifer left his body, all the energy sucked from his limbs.
The beam of light fell on the dying man. He took one last breath and raised his eyes. “Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit.”
His head dropped for the very last time. Those who loved him knew he was gone. As one they broke down and cried, some of them choking in their grief.
The soldiers tried to run to the aid of their comrade. Suddenly the whole of the hill began to shake. The ground opened up between the young man and those who had witnessed his death. Each of the Romans fell down and lay on the ground fearing their own deaths were close at hand.
Lucifer still lingered not too far away. He stood at the back again to watch events unfold. The death of Jesus had erased the sins of man. Countless souls were lost to him and it weighed him down as though he were wearing a coat made of lead. When the ground began to shake even more violently he saw these same souls rising from the earth and ascending to the heavens. It left him with nothing; all his hard work undone. He would have to start over.
But in that moment he did not care. He had struck out at God’s beloved son, his one great act of defiance. The people around him screamed as the earth tossed them about. Still he waited there. He had to see if God would strike back.
The spear he had thrown now glowed a fiery red. It lifted into the air and came straight at him. He dived to one side just in time, the air feeling heavy around him. The spear hit a rock behind him and split it in two.
Balthasar stood over him. He gazed down with eyes that were no longer blind. “Get from this place!” the voice inside him advised. “Whilst you still can.”
Lucifer got to his feet. There was nothing else here for him now. He gave the old man one last icy stare and then disappeared into the night.
Vlad Dracul rode at pace through the streets where snow an inch thick already covered the road. His unit of sixty riders flanked him on either side and to the rear, weary from a whole day’s ride back from the border to the south.
“Yah!” he shouted, slapping his horse across the side of the neck.
“Come on!” one of his men urged. “The weather is turning!”
The hour was late. Few of the city dwellers remained on the streets. The earlier snow showed signs of frosting over with the cold. It made the group of horsemen eager to return home. For them that was the garrison in the centre of the city fortress. Looking up, many of them sensed more heavy snow to come.
All sixty men wore their familiar black. Their capes flowed freely in a wind that was slowly gaining in strength. The light of the moon caused the odd flash of metal as it fell on the hilts of their swords.
His captain eyed the garrison up ahead. “It is good to be back, my Lord.”
He looked at his good friend, Rodrigul. “Yes it is that.”
“It shall be good to take off these boots and rest.”
“You are fortunate that you have that luxury.”
Dracul, once known as Vladislav Basarab, dressed the same as his men. He differed only by the insignia of the Dragon on the back of his cape. A gold medallion hung around his neck and d
own over his vest. It felt heavy and icy from the cold. He looked forward to the moment he was home and he could remove it.
They had just returned from an expedition along the border with Wallachia to the south. Dracul had heard rumours of a secret meeting there between several boyars and his half-brother. At that time Alexandru ruled in Wallachia. The whispers spoke of an alliance between him and the said boyars with the Turks.
As commander of the frontier guard this was of much concern to him. If the rumour was substantiated it meant an invasion of Transylvania was a distinct possibility. Dracul loathed his half-brother. He envied him holding the throne that had been their father’s for thirty-two years.
Approaching the gates his mind drifted back to the trip.
“THERE IS NO SIGN OF them in the village, my Lord,” Rodrigul advised.
“The information we received was good. I know it.”
Ion Dancu rode up to the two men. “I thought so too, my Lord.”
“Then keep looking. All is not as it seems here.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Empty every house! Perhaps the cold might loosen a few tongues around here!”
One by one his men emptied them all. They herded the people out into the small square in the centre of the village. Every man, woman and child stood there shivering from the cold.
Dracul waited a short time. He wanted the icy air to bite into the exposed fingers and toes of those before him. It did not take long for some of the children to begin to grizzle and cry. This drew a few angry glances from the women. It made the men anxious to see them return inside to their warm beds.
His own men surrounded the group. Their torches lit up the entire area and tall shadows covered the ground. They added to the eerie atmosphere in the village.
“Why have you brought us out from our beds?” the village elder asked him.
Dracul looked down on the man. He ignored the question and turned to Ion Dancu instead. “Are they all out?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Good.” He turned to the elder. “Unless you speak and tell us what we want to know, you shall all remain here. If that means the whole night, then so be it.”
“Speak of what? What do you want from us?”
Rodrigul raised his fist to the old man. He glared at him to show his intent. “You show respect when you address the great Dracul.”
The elder met his gaze and cowered a little. “Forgive me, my Lord.”
Dracul had not finished. His voice took on a more serious edge. “If it means you all freeze then you shall all freeze. And that means the children too. I want you to be very clear on that point.”
“My Lord, I beseech you. Pray tell me what you want to know.”
“I want the names of the men who met here in this village in recent days.”
The elder fell silent. It told Dracul and his officers much. They could see he had the answers they wanted.
Rodrigul aimed a fist his way again. “You had better answer Lord Dracul. If you protect these men then you too become an enemy of this state.”
“Their names!” Dancu shouted. “Their names and where we can find them!”
The political climate in Wallachia had changed. Primo-geniture no longer determined succession to the throne. The eldest son did not just assume power as in the days of old. Now the boyars elected the new prince. This led to much fighting and strife. Dracul’s father, Mircea the Old, had brought peace and stability to the country in his reign. That existed no more.
The throne had changed hands over a dozen times since his death in 1418. This owed to a split in the Basarab dynasty to which he belonged. The House had broken into two factions. They were the Danesti and the Draculesti.
The Danestis were descended from Mircea’s brother, Prince Dan. They now had the support and favour of mighty Hungary. Dracul’s own branch of the family was the Draculesti line and directly descended from Mircea. Hungary was the all-powerful nation in the Balkan region. For that reason the balance of power lay with the other side of his family. Sponsored by John Hunyadi, who was the Protector of Hungary, Alexandru assumed the Wallachian throne.
Dracul himself was not without friends or influence. He was the protégé of Sigismund of Luxembourg. Sigismund was King of Hungary and since 1410 the Holy Roman Emperor. He had taken Dracul under his wing as a boy. From that time forward he oversaw Dracul’s education in Buda and in the German states. Here he received schooling in the best military traditions.
The result saw the young Dracul grow into an intelligent and assured diplomat. He also earned acclaim as a fine soldier. This he showed while defending Hungary against Ottoman expansion into the Balkans. It was why Sigismund summoned him to Nurnberg in February.
“String him up!” Dracul ordered. “If he shall not speak then he can die.”
His men grabbed the elder and dragged him to the nearest tree. Many of the women cried out in anguish. Their men looked on powerless to do anything. They knew if they interfered they might well endure the same.
“Tell them what they need to know!” one of the women screamed.
Dracul prodded his mount towards her. “You know something?”
The woman looked to her husband. He tried to tell her with a grimace to shut up.
“Arrest this man as well,” he told Dancu. “Our enemies have more friends than we first realised.”
“No! Please!” the woman cried. “My husband’s silence is out of fear for me and our children!”
“Why? What has he to fear?”
“These men vowed to come back and kill us all if we ever spoke a word.”
“I am the commander of this frontier. You all fall under my protection.”
The man struggled against his captors. “You were not here to protect us any time before,” he argued. “Any time scavengers crossed the border to take whatever they wanted.”
“I am here before you. This is the one chance I shall give you to speak.”
“They were here this day and for the last five,” the woman told them.
“Who was here?” Dracul asked. “I need to know their names.”
“There were several,” the man replied.
“I need to hear names.”
“More than any other I saw Mihail Basarab.”
Dracul looked to Dancu at the mention of his much younger half-brother. He was one of four that had defected to the Danesti side.
“What of his brothers? Were they here also?” Dancu asked.
Another villager spoke up. “Yes they were here also. I saw two of them at least.”
“And that would be Vladislav and Alexandru?”
The same villager nodded his head.
“Then it is true,” Rodrigul said. “They must have had good reason to meet here.”
“To invade I should say,” Dancu suggested, clenching his fist.
“Mihail Basarab has much power and influence in Brasov,” Mihail Dobrul added. “His being here would suggest that Ion is right.”
Dracul had long respected the opinion of this man. But this time he was not so sure. “Mihail is barely a man. I do not feel threatened by him.”
“He has a lot of power,” Dobrul argued. “It is not wise to ignore it.”
“I have taken it into account,” Dracul assured him. He turned his attention once again to the villagers. “Who else was here with them?”
They revealed a host of names. Boyars such as Georghe Silvu, Albu Taxaba and Adrian Pirvu all received a mention.
“This is not good,” Dancu said. “That group of men could do a lot of damage. It is good that we acted on the information we had.”
Dracul again addressed the husband of the first woman to speak. “Your wife said they were here this day?”
“Yes, my Lord. That they were.”
“When did they leave?”
“It was not long before you arrived.”
“Did you hear where they were going?”
The man shook his head. “We
were not privy to much that they discussed.”
“They spent most of their time in the tavern outside the village,” the woman said.
“Alin, send some men to check the tavern,” he told his captain.
“But you knew their faces?” Dancu asked.
“Yes,” the man affirmed, nodding his head slowly. “We have seen them before. They are familiar faces in this part of the world.”
“Set the old man free,” Dracul ordered. “I know what I came here to find out.”
In that moment a series of sickening noises filled the night air. Dracul felt the legs buckle beneath his horse. He crashed to the ground with it falling beside him. It landed on his trailing leg, causing him to cry out.
Several of his men dropped down around the small square. For each man the crossbow bolts found their target. More bolts sought out the elder and the two men standing close to him.
Dancu was quick to react and jumped clear of his horse. “My Lord!” he cried out, seeing Dracul go down.
Rodrigul acted fast too, but to the threat around them. “To the trees!” he shouted.
Two dozen of the men followed the direction of his sword and headed for the trees. It was there the enemy soldiers had set up the ambush. The rest followed him as he rode off for the tavern, his speed of thought preventing a second wave of the deadly bolts raining in on them.
The enemy soldiers saw the advance of his men and ran for the dark interior of the woods. There they hoped to make good their escape.
Dracul’s men chased them with great fervour. Once in the trees they dismounted and continued the pursuit on foot. These men had not come to fight. Theirs was a hit and run attack, the aim to take him down.
One of them saw the great Dracul fall. He grinned with satisfaction and sloped off, content that he had completed his task.
His men caught them one by one and slew them in the trees. Their cries filled the night air as each man met a merciless end. Dracul’s men either ran them through or cut their throats. They left the bodies where they fell to rot.
The villagers ran for the safety of their homes amid the confusion. One or two of them had stood in the path of the deadly bolts. A woman dropped to her knees screaming. In her arms she clutched the lifeless body of her child.
The Dracula Chronicles: The Lamb Of God Page 2
