The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood, Volume 1
Copyright © 2007, 2012, 2014 Shane KP O’Neill
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. To give validity to the story, I use real historical characters and set them within true historical events. Any other similarities to anyone living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Shane KP O’Neill has asserted his moral rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Published by
Shane KP O’Neill
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-0-9556701-5-2
ISBN-10: 0-9556701-5-2
This book is dedicated to
Dr. Peter Cutler,
who inspired me to write this book.
WALLACHIA. THE BATTLEFIELD AT SNAGOV.
DECEMBER 11, 1476.
Vlad Dracula tugged hard on the reins of his stallion. The beast struggled to keep its footing on the muddy slope; it snorted and shook its head. His bodyguard crowded around him on all sides with less than half their number still alive. The hundred men who had survived the epic struggle decided to hold back with the rumours of victory filtering through.
The stallion steadied itself at his prompt. Dracula released his grip on the reins and leaned forward in the saddle to relieve his aching limbs. Today was the day of his forty-fifth birthday, but he had not given it a thought. This had been a hard fight. With the end in sight, he had put many of his Turkish enemies to the sword.
The rain fell in a steady pattern for as far as he could see. Below him, a heavy mist cloaked the field. It currently obscured those who had not yet given up the fight, though it showed signs of lifting. Even so, Dracula could see little of the action. From his vantage point, the mist was still too thick. He knew, though, that the Turks were on the retreat. That, in itself, hinted to him that victory was his.
In days gone by, he would have been at the front. He always relished the final slaughter of his enemy. Nothing else could match the rush he felt inside, knowing victory was close. That seemed like an age ago, and he felt more than a little tired of the fight now.
For the whole of the last eighteen months, he had seen only war. From the very day King Matthias of Hungary released him from captivity, he had resumed it again. He had seen nothing of Ilona or his two sons. The struggle to regain his throne had been his only care.
Thoughts of his family soon passed as his mind drifted back to the war. He relived this new and glorious episode in his career. There were so many to speak of, and each added to his legend. It began with the liberation of Bosnia from the Turks. That campaign ended earlier in the year, and had seen a return of the fire in his blood.
The Christian alliance soon followed that had united him with Stephen once again. He thought back to his cousin for a moment. There was a time when he loved him more than a brother. Now, that had all changed, and Dracula hated him with a passion. They had agreed to set their old wounds aside for a time. To win back his throne, he had to do it.
Many others had joined his side. They included some great names of old, such as Stephen Báthory and a young Vuk Branković, of the famous Serbian Branković dynasty. Their united effort drove the Turks from Wallachia. With Mehmed’s armies defeated, they restored Dracula to the throne.
He wondered how long it might last now, in this, his third reign. The throne that had been his father’s before him, had brought nothing but pain and strife. He had always been brutal in power, as the struggle to remain there made it so. That was the lesson he had learned from his father’s demise. He vowed to never make the same mistakes and allow his enemies to prosper. Any man who stood against him had to either yield to him, or die by his sword.
It was the only way to rule, and he knew it well. The end justifies the means. The use of the same tactic saw him put an end to all crime in his country. Any who offended died the same way as his Turkish enemies. They soon came to learn that impalement was a slow and lingering death, a death that he gave to one and all.
The people remembered him for this, and feared him because of it. Some even loathed him. Their love was a luxury he could never enjoy. Yet he had never wanted the love of his people; just for them to be strong. All across Europe, people spoke of his cruelty. It was the excuse Matthias had used to keep him captive for thirteen long years.
But the spread of Islam put the fear of God into the nations of Europe. It was to counter this that the pope had called for a new crusade. His concerns saw the birth of a new union of Christian states. The pope wanted the Turks driven out once and for all, which aided Dracula’s cause. He knew this was why he had the support of his fellow princes. They would never see him back on the throne for any other reason except to be the first line of defence against any Ottoman invasion.
In his reign from 1456 to 1462, he had fought the Turks alone. Now that his allies had returned home, it meant he had to fight alone once more. They did not care that it left him brutally exposed.
A rare, grave error on his part compounded this. The chance had arisen in battle to kill his mortal enemy and cousin, Basarab Laiota. He had not taken it. Now, a month on, Laiota busily rallied support. He courted the Turkish commanders along the Danube frontier for their help.
Thirty days had passed, and in that time, Laiota raised a new army and marched with it to Snagov. His numbers doubled those of Dracula’s. Yet, despite these odds, Dracula prevailed once again with his genius on the battlefield. Now his army was routing what remained of Laiota’s forces.
The sound of hooves broke his train of thought. He lifted his head to see a rider galloping up the slope. It was Ivan Olescu.
Olescu was one of the boyars most loyal to his cause. The boyar raised his right hand in salute.
Dracula responded in kind. “You have news for me, good friend?”
“Yes, My Liege!” Olescu shouted.
The others trained their eyes on him. Each was eager to hear what he had to say.
“Victory is yours, great lord!”
Dracula could not hide a grin. At last, he had secured the throne. His victory meant all who opposed him were either dead or too weak to fight on.
Olescu continued with his report. “We have routed the Turks, My Liege. Those who have not yet escaped the field are being put to the sword.”
“Do you know how many have managed to flee?”
“A good number, My Liege, but not enough to pose a threat to us.”
His entourage had struck camp near the lake at Snagov, in view of the monastery on the island. He thought it a good time to retire to camp and await any further reports there.
“Very well then,” he said, looking around and then gazing farther up the slope. He pointed towards the gap between the two hills to his left. “We should ride back to camp. Let us take the route through the pass to avoid any further incident.”
“We have not sent any scouts to check the way, My Liege,” one of his men pointed out.
“It matters not. Our enemies are fleeing for their lives. At first light, we can hunt for survivors. Spread the word.”
Olescu drew his sword and held it high above his head. “Hail Dracula!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Hail Dracula! Voivode of all Wallachia!”
His men repeated the salute. Some of the other boyars rode up to hear the news. When they saw their com
rades cheer Dracula’s name, they joined in and raised their swords high in the air.
Dracula turned his horse towards the pass, and dug his heels into its ribs to prompt it forward. The others spurred their mounts into a trot too, and rode either behind or flanking their leader. At the top of the pass, the trail narrowed. They rode on in single file, with Dracula at the front.
He noticed one of his servants up ahead at the entrance to the pass, and grew annoyed to see the man there. The unruly scoundrel should have been with the rest of the entourage preparing the camp for the return of his army. Dracula had never been one to allow such a break from protocol and decided to make an example of the man. The horse’s ribs bore the brunt of his frustration. It snorted and picked up the pace. The servant, he assumed, had hidden in the hills away from the heat of battle.
The gap between them quickly closed. Dracula leaned to one side and raised his fist to strike the man down. To his surprise, the miscreant grabbed ahold of the stallion’s halter in an attempt to knock his lord from his mount.
Dracula put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it, the servant drove a dagger into him. The man was no amateur, and knew exactly where to thrust the blade. It ripped into Dracula’s lower abdomen below the armour plating.
The man shouted in triumph at his success. The light padding there offered little or no defence. He felt the warmth of Dracula’s blood ooze down onto his hand. It did not seem to matter to him that his own death would surely follow.
A deep groan escaped the lips of the mighty warrior. The cold steel pushed into his left side, just above the kidney. Angled upwards, it scraped against Dracula’s lower rib. He slumped forward a little as the man withdrew the blade and stepped back to allow himself the room to strike again.
The stallion caught the fresh scent of blood and surged forward, its sudden action causing the man to lose his footing on the frosty ground.
Dracula used this respite to draw his sword. He raised it high into the air and met the despairing gaze of his enemy. Then, he brought it down hard against the side of his attacker’s head.
The man died in an instant, the razor-sharp edge slicing through his skull. It punctured both his eyeballs before exiting on the other side. His body swayed for a moment, and then collapsed. The top of his skull fell against the ground beside him.
It all happened in seconds. The mounts nearest Dracula shied away from the spray of blood. They collided with other horses and caused several riders to fall.
Dracula worried more about the ambush he sensed he was riding into. The man he had just killed was an assassin. Of that, he had no doubt. And where there was one, there were sure to be others. It angered him that such a man could infiltrate his camp. He should have seen it coming, and prepared for it. The fact that he had not, upset him even more.
He touched his hand against his wound. Looking down, he saw the blood that coated the fingers of his glove. He turned his mount around to go back. “Move away from the pass!” he shouted. “We must return to the open ground!”
A hundred horses bunched up together. Those that did not have riders jostled about as the others pushed them back. The men on the ground scrambled around on hands and knees to avoid having their skulls crushed by stamping hooves. Some of those at the back of the group were unaware of the situation at hand. They blocked the path of their comrades who now turned their mounts around.
“Go back!” they heard the order repeated.
“What is wrong?” one of them asked.
“There is an ambush!” another shouted. “The voivode is hurt!”
Dracula saw at once the situation was hopeless. His men blocked any chance of riding back down the open slope. Those around him struggled to control their panicked mounts. It left him with only one option. He would have to ride on through the pass at speed. If he remained here, then he knew he would surely die.
Why did I not send scouts on ahead? When have I ever been so remiss before? This is the price one pays for acting without due care. Ignoring the numbing pain in his side, he leant as far forward in the saddle as he could. He dug his heels hard into the stallion to urge it into action.
A hail of arrows whistled by, barely missing his head. Many of them found targets close behind, and the ensuing mayhem saw him separated from his men. A number of them found a way through the carnage of dead comrades and horseflesh. Still, there was already too great a distance between them and their leader.
Dracula spurred his mount on, his heart racing as it sprinted through the pass. This rush of adrenaline was what he had lived for since his release from Buda, and it brought back instant memories of days long ago. He reached the crest at the end of it and came out on the wider downward slope that looked down on the lake in the distance.
Three men jumped at him from a rocky height to his left. They made contact and pulled him from his mount. He crashed down hard to the firm ground, the fall opening his wound still further. Blood now trickled in a steady flow down his left thigh. Despite the pain, he was on his feet in an instant. He swiftly took off the head of the man nearest to him with a horizontal sweep of his sword.
Dracula still possessed the blinding speed and agility that set him apart from other men. He ran his sword through the second man, and hacked an arm off the other. The third man dropped down to his knees, and then fell onto his back. Blood gushed from his severed limb as he lay there screaming, clutching it with his remaining hand.
He took a moment to survey the scene. The ambush comprised an infantry unit of some fifty men; fifty to his one. Behind them, he saw as many as a dozen archers.
Time seemed to freeze for a moment. His enemies eyed him with a mixture of fear and awe. Here before them stood the man they heard spoken of in legends. The same man who had impaled an army of twenty-two thousand Turks many years before, all in a single day.
The moment was soon shattered. Dozens of Dracula’s bodyguard burst through the top of the pass. His very own Maglak warriors led the way. The Moldavian soldiers that Stephen had left there in his stead, followed close behind.
Chaos erupted all around him. The deafening sound of steel on steel, mingled with the cries of both horse and man, stung his ears.
Dracula’s men fought savagely to protect him. They killed the enemy soldiers without mercy, or delay. But few could avoid the arrows that found targets in many of them. The Turks dragged others from their mounts to meet with a brutal end. Still, they fought on and managed to form a strong circle around their leader. Any time the cordon was broken, Dracula fought his attacker and prevailed, but with each effort, his strength slowly began to ebb away.
A quartet of foot soldiers forced their way through, finding a gap created for them by their archers. Dracula felt his heartbeat quicken. He had rarely ever known fear before, but as these men faced him, it made his pulse race. They circled him slowly, ready to finish their task.
His nerves affected him for only a moment, and he squared up to the four men. With his sword at the ready, a grin extended across his face. “You think you can defeat me?” he taunted them, in their native tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula. No man alive can better me in combat.”
Even four to his one, they feared him. They each wondered what it would take to kill this man. Their eyes fell on his famed sword. He clasped the hilt of the mighty Fier Negru in both hands, its blade stained red with the blood of those he had already killed.
“Take a good look at it,” he goaded them. “You shall feel its bite soon enough.”
The men hesitated a moment. None of them had the courage to make the first move. They all knew of his speed of hand and foot. The soldiers they served with spoke of it often, as some had ridden with him in the old days. Although they were enemies now, the respect they felt for him had never gone away.
A sharp pain tugged at his side. The men looked down at it when he winced and touched his wound. They all saw the blood oozing from the padding below his armour. It gave them hope, and like a hungry pack of wolve
s, they circled him again, ready for the kill.
Dracula did not wait for any of them to make the first strike. He called on the lightning speed that had not yet deserted him. Lunging forward, he raised the Fier Negru behind his head. He brought it down in an arc against the neck of the nearest of the four.
The Turk screamed out loud as the blade sliced through his collarbone and split his sternum down the middle. It sheared muscle and bone and the arteries around his heart. They exploded in a gush of crimson.
The blood poured out all over the man’s padded shirt. He was dead even before Dracula had removed his sword. In the same movement, Dracula spun around one hundred and eighty degrees. Lowering to a crouched position, he ran the tip of the blade across the belly of a second.
He dazzled them with his speed. Dracula was on his feet again before either man had hit the ground. The first man fell flat on his face, dragged by the movement of the sword. The second dropped to his knees and clutched at his stomach. His eyes bulged and watered, both in disbelief and from the pain. Gasping, he tried to hold the contents of his stomach in. He tumbled forward and fell against his shoulder. When he did, his intestines spilled out in a heap in front of him. With them, the foulest stench filled the air.
Dracula grinned at the other two, his sword at the ready to mete out more of the same. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins enabled him to almost forget the pain in his stomach. They branched off to either side, well aware of the risk of standing in front of him. He stood with his sword poised, waiting. As soon as they made their move, he would cut them down.
He knew they shared the same thought. “Do you still possess the courage?” he asked them. “Are either of you man enough for me?”
Just then, an arrow plunged into his left thigh. He gasped in shock and pain. The force from the missile knocked him off his feet and dropped him onto his right knee.
Seeing this prompted the Turks into action, and they closed in on him from both sides. On his right, one of them swung their sword. Aiming for Dracula’s neck, the soldier threw all his weight behind the blow.
The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood Page 1
