Vampire Impaler (The Immortal Knight Chronicles Book 6)

by Dan Davis

  “Overcome?”

  “I need your help, sir,” he said. “I cannot do it alone.”

  “Do what, Vlad?”

  Dracula stood and looked up at me, his face in shadow. “I will kill him, Richard. If it is the last thing I do, I shall kill my maker, William de Ferrers.”

  10. Vlad and William

  1458

  It was after Dracula massacred the boyars at Târgoviște that people began calling him Vlad Țepeș which meant Impaler in the Wallachian tongue.

  The children of the boyars were indeed spared impalement. Instead, they were manacled and chained together in a horrific procession and were marched, hard, for two days up the River to the construction site of Poenari Castle. Those children were made to carry bricks up the dangerous slopes and steps to build the towers and the walls, and one by one they were worked to their eventual deaths through exhaustion and accidents.

  With the massacre of their parents, the core of the ancient boyar class of Wallachia was smashed. Even many of those of the old families who had been spared an invitation to the feast decided to flee to Transylvania. Some even fled to the Turks, which certainly lent weight to Dracula’s argument that the boyars were infested with traitors.

  All the deaths and voluntary exiles meant that enormous tracts of land were now in need of new lords and Dracula offered those confiscated domains to new men, many of whom were of astonishingly low birth. It was quite clever of him to do so because those commoners now owed everything to their prince and their fortune was tied entirely to his fate.

  He also set about rearranging his state and created a new body to be set above the grand council of the boyars, called the arma. In theory, the arma was designed to administer and carry out the policies decided by the grand council of boyars but everyone understood that it in fact would simply do the bidding of the prince.

  The arma was set above the boyars, who had never had anyone above them before other than the prince himself. The arma was made up from many of the new, loyal boyars but Dracula installed other men also, such as peasants elevated to officers in his new army and even a handful of foreign mercenaries.

  In fact, he named me as a member of the arma. My duties would be to attend these meetings and offer my opinion on matters and to then carry out the tasks assigned to me.

  It was not only the civil administration of the state that Dracula set about reforming. He needed to pay swift and drastic attention to the organisation of the army, such as it was, and so he created an officer class called the viteji. The viteji were drawn from the free peasants who had proved themselves extremely capable in battle and they were intended to form a leadership role over the peasantry who the prince intended to call to war.

  “You have been busy, my lord,” I said to Dracula as we rode away from his latest batch of viteji who were undergoing military training in the valley beneath Poenari Castle.

  “Not busy enough. We have much work to do and I cannot wait any longer.”

  Our horses walked at a steady pace along the track. It was a warm day and Vlad had spent it all sweating in his fine clothes, giving a steady stream of observations and orders to the men organising the training of his new officers. He knew precisely what he wanted. Efficiency, consistency, and obedience.

  “You wish to rush to make war on the Turks?”

  “We are not yet ready for that. No, there are more enemies within my borders who require bringing to heel before we can turn our attention to our common foe.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He frowned at my tone. “You will hear when I am ready to speak of it.”

  Vlad cultivated an air of supreme confidence and calmness, especially in physical confrontations and when arguing with another. But I had seen his mask slip when he was defied. I sensed also that he was more unsure of himself around me than he wanted to let on. I decided to push him by allowing more of my true self to come out. I was his superior in arms, in years, in ability, in strength. We had continued to play our parts in the days since his admission that he wanted to kill William but I could not wait patiently for ever to know more. I wanted to hear it now.

  “You must tell me about William, Vlad,” I said. “It is time. You have avoided the question long enough.”

  He scowled. “You cannot speak to me in that manner. Do you forget that I am a prince?”

  I shrugged and spoke lightly. “Do you forget who I am, my lord?”

  Vlad scoffed. “And who are you, Richard?”

  “I am pretending to be a mercenary who is pretending to be a crusader. But you know who I am. You know what I am. And I want to know what my brother told you about me.”

  Dracula almost smiled. “Everywhere I go there are ears listening. We shall make our way to a paddock in the next village.”

  “A paddock?”

  “I would very much like to test my skill against yours, Richard. And I shall not ask your permission, for I am the prince and you are one of my loyal men, are you not?”

  I did not answer him, and he seemed content to let his jibe rest.

  The village ahead was disbursed over half the width of the valley, on either side of the river. Each house had a large kitchen garden and pens for pigs, which were numerous, and tethered goats that stared at us as we rode by.

  The villagers came in across the fields where they worked and out of their small houses as our party approached, calling out praise and blessings to Vlad Dracula. He smiled and blessed them in turn, flicking small coins to this man or that who caught them out of the air or stooped, laughing, to pick them out of the dust. The chief man of the village escorted us to his house, bowing repeatedly and babbling constantly until his wife shushed him and drove him into the house.

  “He fought with me years ago when I was with my cousin Stephen in Moldavia. A good soldier, though getting a little long in the tooth to serve in the viteji.”

  “Oh? I would have thought experienced older men were a good counter to the young ones. If you breed two hot-blooded horses you may find yourself on an uncontrollable beast. Sometimes it is better to temper the hot blood with the cool and so steady the animal.”

  “Perhaps you are right. And if he cannot keep up with our pace, I can always have him dismissed. I shall speak with him once we are done.”

  The man’s servants led the sturdy ponies out of their paddock and away toward the village.

  Vlad declined the offered wine and food but did so with politeness. The man and his wife went away smiling at each other while I opened the paddock gate. Their children peered out of the open door, their eyes wide and round.

  The bodyguards and servants distributed themselves around the village, accepting offered food and drink, while Vlad’s squires provided wooden practice swords to each of us before retiring to beyond the wooden perimeter of the paddock and closing the gate.

  “It has been some time since I used one of these,” Vlad said, hefting his wooden weapon.

  “Oh? I ensure my men utilise them regularly. There is nothing quite like being thumped by a length of timber to let you know you made a mistake.”

  “Not as true to life as using blunted swords,” Vlad replied. “And I often use sharpened blades when I spar with my men. It adds true danger to one’s practice that cannot be achieved through these sticks.”

  I shrugged. “When training in full armour, I might agree but otherwise a man will always pull his cuts a little short for fear of hurting his opponent.”

  Vlad smirked. “Not my men.”

  “Yes, your men,” I said. “Especially your men. Your men most of all. If they killed you in practice it would mean their death and so they are careful to fight below their true abilities. You do yourself a disservice by using sharp weapons. Perhaps you are not as skilled as you believe yourself to be.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I do not think so.”

  I shrugged again, as I had no care either way. “We shall see.”

  “Keep away!” Vlad snapped at two of his men who had dri
fted to the edge of the paddock to watch us. “I do not perform for your entertainment, you dogs. Turn your backs and move away.”

  They did as they were ordered, slumping off chastened.

  He was irritated by my tone, I am sure, as no one had spoken to him with anything but deference for years. Perhaps it reminded him of his past, when he had been no more than a hostage. Perhaps my tone reminded him of my brother. I decided to push him further and the next time I spoke, I used French. He spoke it perfectly, but it was another passively aggressive way to anger him.

  “Your bodyguards are afraid you will be hurt but they are too afraid of your wrath to tell you so. That is a mistake. A lord needs men courageous enough to draw their master back from acts that are a danger to him.”

  “Enough talk,” Vlad said and lunged at me.

  He was quick but after my gentle goading I had fully expected him to make a sudden attack.

  Instead of feeling out my ability by a series of noncommittal exchanges, he instead continued to advance and attack with a flurry of cuts, feints, thrusts from all angles, changing directions and speed as he did so.

  Our wooden blades clacked at a furious rhythm and our shoes stomped on the dry, short-clipped grass underfoot.

  There were many styles of swordplay and it varied from place to place, with one kingdom adopting a certain style while a neighbour would develop another. Different masters had their own methods and practices which they would teach and this one or that would find favour with a monarch or with a series of powerful lords and their influence would spread across regions and down generations. And the practice had changed over the centuries as weapons and armour developed. Some men still liked to use shields or bucklers in practice or on the field but most that fought in plate armour had little use for them and so two-handed swords and polearms had become standard. As experience developed down through the years, certain tricks and their counters were developed and became established and new ones were introduced until duelling and sword practice had taken on a sophistication it had not had in my youth.

  But I had kept up with it all. It was my business and my life depended on it. Indeed, it could not be avoided. My lifespan meant I was more experienced than any mortal man and most of the immortal ones also and my strength and speed meant I was essentially unbeatable in a one-on-one duel.

  And yet there were gifted fighters. Men who were born with natural abilities beyond their fellows, who excelled at their chosen martial art, whether it be jousting, or sword and buckler, or spear fighting. Amongst many thousands of professional soldiers, I would find one every now and then who was a true master.

  To my surprise, Vlad III Dracula was one such man.

  I had seen his exceptional horsemanship on display before, and indeed he was known for it, and I had seen him thrash Vladislaus in a duel to the death. But I had not known what skill he possessed in the sword.

  He came at me with such expertise that I had to leap out of my sense of complacency to avoid being thrashed by him. And when I stepped up my defence, he likewise adjusted and improved his attacks. Again and again, I moved to shut him down and he ramped up his skill and speed.

  It was clear that he meant to beat me. With everything that he had. And yet his expression remained impassive, even when he began taking heaving breaths and the sweat streamed down his face, sticking his sodden black hair to his forehead.

  His wooden sword snapped above the handle, sending the blade part spinning through the air so far that it landed beyond the paddock, causing the bodyguards there to duck as it bounced between them.

  We stood, breathing heavily, with scores of Dracula’s men staring at us from two sides of the paddock.

  Vlad straightened up and lifted his hat. After wiping the sweat from his face he clamped it down on his head again and looked at me through his thick eyebrows.

  “You are almost as fast as your brother.”

  Almost.

  “You fought William?”

  “Could you have beaten me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Easily?”

  “You are as gifted a swordsman as I ever met. But yes.” He stared at me, still breathing hard. “You should not feel too disheartened, Vlad. How old are you?”

  “I have almost thirty years.”

  “And I have almost three hundred.”

  He jabbed the broken stump of his sword toward me. “Perhaps in three hundred years, I shall have you.”

  I smiled. The courtly thing to do would have been to accept his attempt at saving face. “In three hundred years, Vlad, I shall be six hundred years old and you still will not beat me.”

  He scoffed. “Perhaps you will be dead. And then I will be the greatest swordsman.”

  “Perhaps I will be. But then we would never know who was the best, would we?”

  Vlad tossed his broken sword to the side and turned back to his watching men. “Attend to your duties. I will not repeat my order again.”

  I could see why they had drifted over, in spite of themselves. The sounds of the fight must have drawn glances and the speed of our movements must have moved their feet close out of astonishment.

  “Have you told your men what you are?” I asked.

  “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “You are their prince. They have sworn themselves to you. They have committed mass impalements for you.”

  “Not enough. They must do more and so I cannot afford doubt from them. Look at yourself, Richard. Ever since you came to Hungary, years ago, there have been rumours about blood drinking where you and your closest companions are concerned.”

  I shrugged. “We used to make extraordinary efforts to conceal it. Once, when I was in the east many years ago, I used only mute slaves who could not tell others about our bloodletting. They were rather difficult to procure. One slaver was particularly adept at procuring these mutes and after a while it became clear he was cutting out their tongues before selling them to us in order to raise the price. Later, we brought in servants from foreign lands who did not speak the local languages but you can imagine the difficulties that brought as far as their duties were concerned. Soon, we would change any servant we suspected of spreading the tales. But servants talk. They always talk. And word always gets out.”

  “And you have them killed?”

  “Why? When one or two in the next batch would talk, also. Word always gets out, Vlad. No matter what we tried, there would always be the rumours of our bloodletting and what we did with the blood we took. Blood magic, dark magic, communing with the Devil.”

  “And blood drinking.”

  “Of course. What secret does any man hold alone who has servants in his house? In London, our house was often swamped in rumour. Some merchants would stop doing business with us or one or more of us might be expelled from a guild.”

  “I would have such men killed. Quietly, of course.”

  “That is one way. But pay a man a few coins and it is often enough to buy his silence. Or there are other secrets he might hold himself that he does not wish to be made public. We grew rather adept at bringing powerful men into our net and using them to discover even more secrets.”

  “You have been doing the same here,” Vlad said. “Your man named Stephen and the woman who shares your bed. They are drinkers of your blood also? They have been made by you into one such as I am.”

  I considered holding back, suspecting that he was seeking to extract information that he intended to use against us. But sometimes one must throw away caution and embrace uncertainty.

  “What did my brother tell you?”

  “That you have a small and pathetic company of useless commoners that you drag behind you through the centuries.”

  How does William know that? He has not seen me for two hundred years.

  I smiled. “Ah, you truly have spoken to him. Please, Vlad. Will you tell me about it?”

  He stared through me and then up at the wooded hills, the rocky peaks and the blue sky beyond, shielding h
is eyes. Vlad nodded slowly, almost absentmindedly, and ambled to the far edge of the paddock which looked out at a field of green wheat and the river beyond. I followed and watched him from the corner of my eye as he locked the fingers of both hands together, rested his forearms on the top of the paddock fence and leaned on it. Were it not for his ornate clothing and muscular build, he would have looked for all the world like a peasant surveying his land.

  “We were young when he first came to us. My brother Radu and I were almost alone there. The servants sent over with us had been stripped away, one by one, for spurious reasons. We were instructed in Turkish and Arabic. Taught to ride their horses, in their saddles. We ate their food and listened to sermons about their Prophet and their God. And then he came to us, big and loud and filled with movement and passions, speaking French and Latin and Greek, to talk about Christ and knights and jousting and bedding beautiful women. He brought us gifts of familiar horses and the saddles in which we had first learned to ride. This food makes me sick, he would say, come and dine with me and we will eat stews with sausages of pork. But do not tell the Turks about this, for such things go against their law and their God, it is a special thing just for us good Christians who are alone together in this strange land.”

  “He has always been a snake.”

  “It is so clear now that it shames me. How easy it was for him to make us love him. As easy as breathing. Mere child's play. But we were children and we were so desperate for home and for our father and so, yes, we loved him. Rejoicing at his visits. When he was absent it was as though we simply counted the days until the sudden brightness and joy of his presence.”

  “You are not the first he has charmed.”

  “Charm, yes. We were enchanted by him. And yet I knew something was wrong with him. The servants, the guards, our instructors and tutors, the behaviour of every other man changed when in his presence and it took some time before I recognised it for what it was. Fear. I rationalised that they were fearful of his power as a pasha of the Sultan but in fact it was something deeper than that, something deep inside them. It was terror. A terror one might feel when trapped in a cage with a hungry lion. Or the terror of finding yourself before God with a heart full of unrepentant sin. And I noticed that Zaganos Pasha enjoyed their terror. Revelled in it. He was amused by it and would draw it out further by engaging them in conversation.”