Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  "He has refused to say anything for two hours," the captain blurted, standing at his side. He had regained his breath, an incredulous look upon his swarthy face. "He grinds his teeth, screams, moans, cries out for God, but other than that, says nothing . . . even through this." He shook his head, perplexed. "Just when I begin to think he will take any information he possesses to his grave, all of a sudden he asks for you, Commander."

  Stefan drew closer to the cot, studying the once handsome face. Frederick's breathing was very shallow, and it appeared he had lost consciousness.

  The captain seemed to have the same thought. With a callousness born of practice, he grabbed a bucket of cold water near the cot and threw it in the prisoner's face.

  Frederick gasped, his body jerking spasmodically. His eyelids were so swollen and puffy, he could not open them. He turned his head, his lips cracked and bloodied, his rasping voice barely above a whisper.

  "H-has he come? Count von . . . Furstenberg. Has he come?"

  Stefan knelt on one knee next to the cot, the captain hovering over his shoulder. He glanced up, annoyed. "I can assure you, Captain, if the prisoner says anything of importance, you will soon know it. For now, stand back."

  The captain's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly complied by retreating to the entrance to the tent.

  Stefan turned once again to Frederick. "I am here, Count Althann," he murmured. "The captain says you want to speak with me."

  "Kassandra . . ." Frederick moaned. "Kassandra . . ."

  Stefan blanched. For a moment he said nothing . . . could say nothing. His eyes bored into Frederick, the same unsettling chill he had felt earlier racing through his body.

  What rantings were these? Had the man gone mad from the pain, his mind dredging up memories from the past as his life streaked before him? Why, Frederick had not seen Kassandra since . . . since Prince Eugene's gala. Had he been summoned only for these lunatic mutterings?

  "Kassandra," Frederick repeated, his voice cracking and breaking, yet stronger this time.

  Stefan reached out and gripped his shoulder, regretting his action when Frederick groaned hideously. He drew back, restraining himself, not knowing what to do, feeling as if he were the one going mad.

  "Why do you say her name?" he asked, his breath jagged, his face taut and drawn. "Why?"

  "First . . . you must promise me."

  Stefan started. "Promise you . . . promise you what?"

  Frederick tried to lean forward, struggling against his bonds, but he fell back, the wasted effort shattering his body with wrenching pain.

  "Promise me . . . I will . . . die swiftly. N-not . . . impalement. Please . . . promise me, Count Stefan . . ." he whispered, tears oozing through his swollen eyelids and streaking down his ashen face. "S-swear it."

  Stefan swallowed hard. He was certain this condemned man knew something about Kassandra. And he was bargaining, even now! He nodded quickly, his throat constricted, then remembered Frederick could not see his assent. "Yes. Yes, I swear it," he agreed. "I swear, on my life. Now tell me. What do you know of Kassandra?"

  Frederick turned toward the tented ceiling, a great shuddering sigh expelling from his body. "She lives," he murmured simply. "She lives."

  Stefan's heart stopped. God in heaven, what was this man saying? Kassandra was alive? He leaned closer to Frederick's ear, his voice a desperate plea. "Where?"

  Frederick's parched lips began to move rapidly, whispered words spilling forth in rasping succession, punctuated by moans, sighs, curses, as he spun the sordid tale of treachery, deceit, and murder. Stefan listened silently, wracked by tumultuous emotions, one woman's name searing into his mind. Sophia. You have done this to me, to Kassandra. Sophia . . .

  When Frederick could speak no more, his face twisted in agony, tears spilling down his cheeks, trailing through blood and sweat, Stefan laid his hand upon the tortured brow and stroked it gently, his hand shaking.

  They remained so for a long time, until Stefan at last rose to his feet, swaying ever so slightly.

  "You . . . have sworn," Frederick gasped, sensing his movement.

  "I have sworn," Stefan murmured. "Your death shall be swift, Count Frederick Althann." He turned from the cot, the captain rushing over to him at once.

  "What did he say—"

  "Torture him no further," Stefan ordered as he strode toward the entrance. "And cut that other man down."

  "But, Commander, I have my orders," the captain blurted. "Until they give me information—"

  "The information has been given to me," Stefan shouted, his gray eyes ablaze as he wheeled sharply. "You will receive like orders from Prince Eugene within the quarter hour. Now, see that the prisoners are bathed. Make their last hours as comfortable as possible. Give them brandy to dull the pain, and warm broth. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Commander." The captain nodded, shrinking back from this outburst.

  Stefan did not stop until he passed through the guarded entrance, drawing in great breaths of air as if he himself had just been released from prison. He set off toward Prince Eugene's tent, Frederick's words roiling in his mind.

  Kassandra was alive! It was just as he had believed since the day she disappeared, just as his instincts had told him! And she was here, had been here, for weeks . . . so close, so close. Yet his incredible happiness was tempered by abject despair, the two emotions crashing together, leaving only the harsh light of cold reality.

  Kassandra was in the hands of Halil Pasha, had been given to him as a gift that very night. God help her! It was not so much that she could be in the grand vizier's arms at that very moment, but that she faced certain death in the morning if Prince Eugene won the battle, as he must!

  A ragged sigh tore from Stefan's throat as he recalled the previous summer's campaign, the decisive victory at Peterwardein, Hungary. He and his soldiers had been among the first to enter the slain grand vizier's tent after the battle.

  They were greeted by a gruesome sight, a sight that haunted him still. The women in the harem had been brutally murdered for fear they would fall into the hands of the infidels. He had never seen such a slaughter of innocents . . . They had been beheaded or strangled, their silk-clad bodies lying where they had fallen in pools of blood.

  Stefan broke into a run, his lungs burning with exertion. Somehow, somehow, Prince Eugene must position the cavalry so that the attack against the Ottoman lines would not only be swift and deadly, but also so that he might make it to the grand vizier's tent in time to stop the senseless massacre. It was Kassandra's only chance . . .

  Chapter 42

  Prince Eugene sat astride his white stallion, his dark gaze piercing the swiftly receding fog. His army was spread out before him, poised just to the south of the Ottoman camp, farther than he could see in the murky predawn light.

  But he knew they were there. The Imperial forces had silently crossed the Danube in ordered precision to assemble on the immense eastern plateau overlooking Belgrade. Row upon row they stood bravely, infantry at the center, bayonets fixed and ready, flanked by the cavalry, colors flying and drums silent, all hushed and waiting for the signal that would strike up the cadence and sound the march.

  Prince Eugene drew in a long, steady breath. He knew that the moment he gave the command to advance, the Turks would hear their drums. Suddenly alerted to their position and the imminent attack, they would swing their heavy cannon to the south, and the bombardment would begin.

  So be it, he thought grimly. The moment had come.

  "Sound the advance!" Prince Eugene shouted, his words echoed by other voices as his commanders took up the chorus, the drums beating fiercely in measured response, the great army moving forward. "To the glory of the emperor, and the Holy Roman Empire!"

  "To the emperor!" Stefan cried, wheeling Brand in front of the left flank of cavalry, his hands firm on the reins. Prince Eugene's words of last night rang in his ears, burning like a firebrand into his mind.

  "Use your best judgment, Cou
nt Stefan. As soon as you sense the enemy is routed and in retreat, take your men and make straight for the grand vizier's tent. If you're in time to save your lady, only God may determine."

  Please, let it be so, Stefan prayed fervently, Brand lunging forward beneath him. Let it be so . . .

  ***

  Kassandra lay huddled on a soft mattress spread upon the silk-carpeted floor, her hands tucked under her chin, her gaze fixed in front of her. She took little notice of the oriental luxury of the small antechamber, strewn with brocade pillows embroidered in gold thread, a carved chest inlaid with ivory set near the tented wall, the fringed carpets three deep beneath her mattress. It could have been a rat-infested prison, damp and dark, for all she cared.

  Her shimmering silk-gauze chemise and trousers of vivid rose might as well have been cut from coarse woolen cloth. They seemed to chafe at her skin, the transparent fabric clinging to her nakedness.

  The Chief Eunuch had forced her to put them on the night before in place of her torn garments, then had allowed the ladies of the harem to peek in on her. They had laughed, pointed, and tittered, babbling in many different languages, none of which she understood. She had merely ignored them. Finally the Chief Eunuch had sent the curious women scurrying away with a simple gesture, his amusement thwarted by her silent indifference.

  Kassandra sighed deeply, rolling onto her back. It seemed that indifference had become her last defense against whatever her fate might be.

  For some reason, Halil Pasha had spared her life, and she could well imagine why. Her attack had obviously not daunted him. More likely, she thought, shuddering as she recalled his black gaze upon her when she had been dragged away, it had encouraged him. If she was to survive, she would have to seal off her inner self, her emotions, in a layer of feigned passivity. He might ravage her body, but she would never allow him to break her spirit. No matter what happened, she must sustain her will to escape.

  Escape. A brave thought, yet how distant it seemed, she thought dully. She had never felt so desolate, so devoid of hope.

  Even the numbing comfort of sleep had evaded her through much of the night. She had dozed fitfully, perhaps five minutes here, or a quarter hour there, always waking whenever the Chief Eunuch silently entered the antechamber to check on her. The artillery fire, which had suddenly increased tenfold less than an hour ago, had not helped either. The ground was shaking from the constant barrage. She could feel it through her mattress.

  Kassandra dosed her eyes, her head drifting to one side as sheer exhaustion overwhelmed her. Perhaps finally she could sleep, despite the rumbling. She needed her strength, and sharpened wits, to endure what lay ahead . . .

  A thunderous explosion suddenly shattered her fleeting slumber, its violent force rocking the ground. Then came another, and another, five explosions in rapid succession, each one closer than the last.

  "What?" Kassandra gasped, sitting bolt upright, clutching a pillow to her breast. She had slept only a moment, but she was completely dazed, as if she had been sleeping for hours. Another explosion rocked the earth, and she jumped up with a startled cry, dropping the pillow and clapping her hands over her ears.

  What was happening? It sounded like the Turks had turned their own cannon upon themselves!

  Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. No, that was absurd. There could only be one explanation. The Ottoman camp was under attack . . . Yes, that had to be it! The Imperialists were attacking! Stefan!

  Renewed hope flaring brightly within her, she drew fresh courage at the thought that Stefan might be close by, perhaps even in the camp. She ran over to the tented wall and pressed her ear against it. She knew the antechamber was within a larger tent, but she could swear she heard the muffled sounds of running feet, men shouting, muskets firing, the ring of sword against sword—hand-to-hand combat!— and the screams . . . horrid, agonizing screams of wounded and dying men.

  Fully awake, Kassandra willed herself to be calm, despite the excited thoughts that were skittering about in her mind. She had to think clearly, carefully.

  Perhaps in the confusion she could attempt an escape. She would have to flee through the harem, but this might be her only chance. There was no other way out, at least not that she knew. Sweet Lord, it was worth a try!

  She crept quietly toward the entrance, her hand trembling as she gently moved aside the swaying brocade curtains. She was surprised that the eunuch guard who had been keeping a constant vigil in the short corridor leading to the vast outer chamber was not there. She couldn't believe her good fortune!

  Kassandra stole into the corridor, her heart beating so hard against her ribs that she thought for sure it would give her away. She was almost to the outer set of curtains, reaching out to draw them apart, when she heard a high, piercing scream of sheer terror, unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was coming from the harem.

  It raised the hair on her scalp, sent flickers of fear streaking through her body. Her hand froze in midair.

  What was happening? she wondered wildly, as a keening wail broke just beyond the curtains, a mourning lament, followed by wild, terrified shrieks from a chorus of female voices.

  Kassandra braced herself against the tented wall, afraid to move, yet afraid to linger. The unnatural voices of eunuch guards sounded above the terrible cacophony, like lunatic ravings. She heard the unmistakable swoosh of scimitars slicing the air, dull thuds striking the carpeted floor, pitiful pleas in a dizzying array of languages, punctuated by tearful sobbing, rising to a fever pitch, then suddenly cut off . . . dead silence, until another female voice screamed in hysterical supplication, chilling desperation . . . silence.

  Whatever is happening, you can't stay here, Kassandra's inner voice warned her. You can't stay here! She moved once again toward the curtains, her hands shaking as she drew them aside, her knees quaking in fear. She nearly fainted from the horror that greeted her, her eyes wide, uncomprehending.

  There was blood . . . pools of bright red blood everywhere, splashed on the tented walls of the harem, streaming from beheaded bodies lying where they fell on the silk carpets, staining the flashing scimitars wielded by eunuch guards.

  And there was motion . . . women running in desperate, futile flight, screaming, crying, being cut down, one by one, while others fought, and clawed at their own necks crumpling to the floor as silken cords quickly strangled the life from their bodies. As will happen to you, Kassandra, if you stand here. Run . . . run! She lurched forward as if shoved by an invisible hand, one thought in her mind: flee, or die in this place.

  She skipped over blood-soaked torsos, barely evading eunuch guards who lunged for her, her eyes fixed upon the unguarded entrance to the tent as she dashed across the vast chamber. Her breaths tore at her throat, her lungs were on fire, but she ran as she had never run before, every fiber in her body straining with the effort.

  Heaven protect her, she was almost there! She could almost reach out and touch the swaying curtains—

  Suddenly a massive form stepped in her way, blocking the entrance. She ran right into him, headlong, a silken cord whipping about her neck as she fell heavily to her knees.

  Kassandra gasped in disbelief, the breath wrung from her body as the cord tightened cruelly across her throat. She looked up, tears stinging her eyes, straight into the broad face of the Chief Eunuch. He bent over her, smiling, a twisted smile, a grimace of death . . .

  She shook her head, her mouth gaping in a silent scream, her fingers prying frantically at the cord. Wheezing and gasping for air, she dropped her hands limply to her sides. Her eyes closed, blackness swirled around her . . .

  A deafening roar sounded in her ears, twice, three times. An immense weight crumpled on top of her. But she felt nothing, only a strange peace settling over her . . . It was so restful, so quiet. No more struggle, no more heartrending pain . . . no thoughts. Only peace.

  "You there, help me! We have to get him off her!" Stefan shouted to several of the soldiers who had accom
panied him to the harem tent, while the others moved swiftly through the vast interior, rounding up the eunuch guards at bayonet point and saving what women they could.

  The two men threw aside their pistols, heaving together with Stefan to shove the black eunuch from Kassandra's prostrate form. Yet even as they rolled him to one side, the corpse clung tightly to the twisted cord around her neck, his huge, clawlike hands frozen in death.

  Stefan sank to his knees beside her, gritting his teeth as he forced open the eunuch's lifeless hands, loosening the cord from her throat. Dear God, if he was too late! He gathered her in his arms, stroking her fiery hair. She was so deathly pale, scarcely breathing . . . Surely she would not be taken from him after what they had both suffered!

  Stefan held her against his heart, kissing her as if he could breathe life back into her body. "Kassandra . . ." he whispered against her lips, his voice jagged, breaking. "Kassandra, my love . . . my love."

  Kassandra heard a familiar voice, deep, rough-edged, calling her name, echoing to her from some distant place, calling her back from her nether sleep.

  It sounded so much like Stefan . . . What a cruel trick for someone to play on her. But it grew louder, more insistent, demanding she answer . . . demanding she return. And she wanted to answer. Oh, how she wanted to answer!

  Stefan sharply drew in his breath as Kassandra's eyelids quivered and fluttered open, her amethyst eyes staring up at him. But there was no expression reflected there, no recognition, only a glassy emptiness. He bent and kissed her again, desperately, yet so tenderly, drawing her back to him, pulling away at last to search her eyes, his heart thundering in his chest.

  Kassandra blinked, her body convulsing in a single spasm as sensation flooded her limbs, sweet breath filling her lungs, chasing away the darkness, the swirling mists. She looked up, her gaze full of wonder.