Vampire Impaler (The Immortal Knight Chronicles Book 6)

by Dan Davis

  “Beware gunners in front!” I shouted to my men but before the words were out of my mouth their weapons fired and my men and their horses were lashed by a hundred deadly shots. My men fell in their dozens, their lances thrown down as they fell. Some that were hit were wounded rather than dead but even those would bleed to death and expire without blood to heal them. And we lost many horses. Some horses could survive multiple wounds and continue to function but still they were mortal, and they collapsed under the onslaught.

  The next two rows of Janissaries advanced beyond their front lines and they brought up their guns and lifted their sticks with the smouldering tapers to the firing holes.

  “What do we do?” one of my men was shouting. “What do we do?”

  Hesitation and uncertainty are the worst possible things at such times and so I made a snap decision. It was my default decision with regards to problems and which has caused me more trouble in my life than just about anything else.

  “Charge!” I shouted. “Come on, charge them now!”

  Perhaps I should have waited. Two hundred years later I might have ordered my men to dismount and to lie flat while the enemy fired but I did not yet have extensive experience with firearms. I imagined that if they saw three hundred charging cavalry they would be panicked enough to miss their shots or even to break altogether, seeing that they were without polearms in the front lines.

  But they were far too disciplined for that. And all I succeeded in doing was ordering a partial charge from men who were not prepared that brought them closer to the guns that were shooting them.

  Dozens of us were hit again.

  As was I.

  The flashes of the fire and the crashing of the weapons filled my eyes and ears. An impact hit me in the chest with such force it was like being kicked by a destrier. I found myself tumbling along with my horse who collapsed under me having himself been shot in the head and chest.

  I smacked into the ground, the sound of my armour crunching filled my ears, and rolled until I was lying on my back, struggling for breath. Above, all I saw was darkness and the sparks from a hundred huge fires spraying up into it like the souls departing the dying.

  Hooves drummed on the ground and men shouted and I rolled to my feet. My sword still in my hand, I looked about to get my bearings. It was hard to breathe and I instinctively touched my chest only to feel the metal of my breastplate. Whatever the damage was, it would have to wait. Bellowing horsemen rode past me at a gallop and crashed into the Blood Janissaries with an almighty crash of bodies and steel.

  I hurried forward on foot to join them, feeling a mass of wounds all over me. I needed a horse but I could not see one spare and so I ran on toward the sluji. Our charge had ground to a halt by the density of the Janissary formation. We were better armoured and on sturdy horses but the hand-gunners were dead or had retreated and now they fought back with their long polearms. We could not break through.

  Through the press of men, at their rear, I caught a glimpse of a large man on a large horse, directing his men.

  It was William.

  I looked around for my captains or any senior man and took a deep breath to shout for my companions to push on and kill my brother.

  But the breath I took caught halfway through and instead of a shout I coughed out a mouthful of blood. I felt my breastplate again and found two holes had been shot through it, both in the upper chest near to my heart. A chill went through me. Would it be fatal? Would I be strong enough to escape from the enemy camp?

  Pushing those unworthy thoughts aside, I looked for assistance.

  Where are my bastard bodyguards? I snarled to myself before I remembered. I made them charge to their deaths.

  A riderless horse nearby struggled to free itself from the press of men and I reached it just as another one of my sluji did.

  “My lord!” he said. “Are you wounded? Where are your men?”

  I tried to answer him and instead, blood welled from my mouth.

  “Christ save us,” he said and he helped me to mount and offered up his lance which I took with some difficulty. It hurt just to hold it but I had to try something, anything, to reach William. He was so close.

  Walt’s angry shouting reached me. “There you are, you daft bastard!”

  He rode to my side along with Rob, both covered in blood and on exhausted or wounded horses. I pointed my lance, the point shaking with the exertion of doing so, at William where he sat behind his Janissaries. Both of my men shouted their understanding and their approval and they called in the others around us.

  I waved a hand at Walt who hesitated just for a moment, no doubt concerned about my condition, before he ordered the charge. It was so clear to me in that moment. We would push through ten lines of immortal Janissaries and strike down my brother.

  He saw me, I am certain. Through the darkness and the boiling smoke and the flickering radiance of the burning camp all around, he saw me.

  I will kill you, I thought as I looked at him. I will kill you.

  It was a mad risk but still I might have ended it right there. All those later centuries of death and horror inflicted by William could have been avoided. I myself might have been killed but at least William would have fallen also.

  Instead, a thousand Janissaries dressed in white advanced out of the shadows on our flank.

  “Watch out!” my men cried. “Look to the flank!”

  They were in a wide formation, their white robes and long hats seeming to glow orange in the firelight. Already, they were prepared to fire. There was no time to react, no time to move.

  The Janissaries took aim and fired.

  We were cut down. The sluji were blasted, raked, from one side and all our men there were riddled. Their armour providing no protection and only their immortality preserving the lives of some. Had I been on that flank rather than the centre, already wounded as I was, I would certainly have been killed. As it was, only the presence of Walt and Rob beside me served to shield me from the attack. Even so, my horse was killed and Rob and Walt were shot. As we climbed, dazed and in pain, to our feet, we found the Blood Janissaries advancing in front and their mortal compatriots rushing on the flank.

  Unable to speak, I signalled as best as I could that we should retreat. I need not have tried. Not a man among the sluji was fool enough to think we could stand against such an onslaught.

  There was no way forward, only back.

  We fell into a desperate retreat, fighting any who came too close and fleeing as fast as our legs would carry us.

  A group of our brave sluji rode up, threw themselves off their horses and helped me and Walt and Rob into their saddles while they stood and covered our retreat. Those Wallachian soldiers saved our lives that night at the cost of their own. I do not remember their names.

  We soon rode amongst thousands of mortal Wallachian horsemen who had also turned to flee. Our raid was finished and I could not speak to ask what had happened. All I could do was try to stay conscious as I coughed up masses of blood and spat it off into the darkness. We fell back and enemy cavalry pursued us into the hills even after sunrise.

  All I wanted to ask was whether Dracula had killed Mehmed. And whether Dracula himself was still alive. But all that came from my throat was more blood.

  It was hours before we were clear of the enemy and by then the day had turned hot. My blood caked inside my ruined armour and I was stiff as a board, sweat and blood mixed and ran into my eyes. All I could think was that I had failed. William was still alive.

  We returned on exhausted horses with thousands of tired and wounded men to the camps we had prepared.

  Eva stood waiting, her face twisted in aguish as she ran to my horse. Stephen was everywhere shouting commands to the servants. My men had to help me dismount and I could not speak a single word of command though they knew what I needed. They took me to my tents where some of my servants removed my armour and others bled themselves into cups that I might drink. This I did, greedily, and at once b
egan to feel as if I might just avoid death, though I could still barely take a breath. After undoing the straps and removing my plate, they cut the blood-soaked clothes from my body and washed my skin.

  I had been shot three times in the chest. One of the balls had passed right through me and I had a corresponding wound in my back that they claimed was big enough to fit a fist inside, with shattered bones poking out. The other two shots had entered my rib cage but had not come out.

  One shoulder had been torn up by another ball and I had a long gash on my thigh that could have been caused by anything but I assumed was the result of being shot also, as my armour had been penetrated but remained in place.

  “You did not find William,” Eva said. “I can tell it from your face.”

  I gestured for more blood and guzzled down as much as they could give me. The pain was excruciating and I faded between wakefulness and unconsciousness as they tended to me. I felt an intense itching in my chest and looked down to see first one and then another piece of flattened lead, shining with blood, emerge from the wounds in my body and drop onto my lap and from there to the ground. A servant picked them up and stared, mouth open, at them.

  “Blood,” I said. “More blood.”

  A short time later I was cleaned and dressed and had a belly full of servant’s blood and fresh wine. Still bruised and exhausted, I knew I would live.

  “What happened?” Eva asked, stroking my hair.

  “We came close,” I muttered. “Not close enough.”

  “You lived. You can try again.”

  “What happened with the rest of the attack?” I asked.

  “You will have to ask someone who was there. I know we lost many men. Perhaps too many lost to win the war. You shall have to speak to Dracula.”

  “He lives?”

  “Ask Walt.”

  I got up to do just that but Eva placed a hand on my chest, looking me in the eye and then all over. She slipped her arms around me and held me tight for a moment before letting me go.

  Walt was already up and walking around the camp, taking stock, checking on his company. My surviving men were being treated and were drinking every drop of blood and wine that they could get. They watched me with the grim faces of defeated men.

  “Walt,” I said. “Where is Rob?”

  “In there,” he said, nodding at a tent. “Shot to bits. He’ll live, probably.”

  “Is this all there is?”

  Walt sighed, placing his hands on his hips and looking around. “Ain’t finished counting but looks like we have a hundred and thirty men here. Worst of all is that Jan died, poor sod. Garcia lives. And Claudin is still with us, sadly. But most of the rest of the Company of Saint George didn’t make it back. Reckon a few more will come in today. But not many.”

  “A hundred and thirty? Out of four hundred and eighteen?” I felt sick to my stomach. “We lost two hundred and ninety immortals? And we did not kill William.”

  Walt shrugged. “Near enough wiped out his red bastards, though.”

  “We did?”

  “Did you not see? Easily half of them, probably more. If it hadn’t been for those mortal Janissaries coming up then.” He shook his head. “We nearly had the bastard, didn’t we. Still, come out about even, I would say. Our lads are a wee bit disheartened, though. Reckon some of them are realising that being immortal doesn’t mean you ain’t ever going to die. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word. Me and Rob will sort them out.”

  “What of Mehmed? What of Dracula?”

  Walt looked up the hill toward the rest of the camp. “Dracula lives. I reckon Mehmed does, too, or else them lads wouldn’t be looking so heartsick.”

  “I am sorry, Walt.”

  He nodded, looking the men over. “I been thinking, Richard. I been thinking that it might be we should get ourselves some of those hand-guns after all. Pretty useful, it turns out.”

  I ordered my servants to fill Rob with blood and to take care of him as if it were me and I moved to speak to my men. There was hardly a man who was not wounded in some way. And all of them had seen their friends die or had been forced to leave them behind in the enemy camp as they died. I said whatever I could and perhaps my words helped to lift their spirits a fraction, even though they no doubt felt angry at me for having led them to such a crushing defeat. The Company of Saint George was almost entirely wiped out and the sluji, after so much promise, had been reduced by seven tenths.

  Making my way slowly up the hill to Dracula’s tent, I felt every one of my three hundred years.

  “I did not kill him,” Dracula said when I was admitted into the inner part of his large tent. He, too, had been wounded and was drinking wine mixed with fresh blood. “I did not kill him.”

  “You were shot?” I asked.

  Dracula sneered. “It is nothing. My men were killed. My friends. And Mehmed lives.”

  “As does William.”

  Dracula nodded. “And Radu. That bastard Gale did not break through on the other side of the camp. We were two thousand men fewer than we should have been and it is Gale’s fault. I shall have him impaled the moment he shows his face.”

  “You will do as you must. But perhaps he has his reasons.”

  “Gale is no friend to you. Why do you defend him?”

  I shrugged. “If he is at fault through incompetence or cowardice, then I would gladly see him punished. But it was a difficult task. Impossible, or near enough. Even so, we came close to victory.”

  Dracula turned his face up, squeezing his eyes closed. “I saw Mehmed. My men wounded him before the Janissaries attacked. We were a hair’s breadth from killing him.”

  “He was wounded?” I said. “How badly?”

  “Not badly enough. What of William?”

  “We killed at least half of the Blood Janissaries. But I lost almost three hundred of the sluji. Perhaps more will yet return but it was a bloody exchange. I suppose our immortal armies came out with somewhat even losses.”

  Dracula scoffed. “You failed. And Gale failed.” He stared at me, as if daring me to speak. The words hung in the air between us before Vlad sighed and spoke them aloud. “And I failed. I most of all.”

  “How many men did we lose?”

  “Perhaps as many as five thousand, including men surrounded and taken prisoner as we retreated. We are in no better a position than we were. In fact, we have only lost by this raid.”

  “How many of the enemy did we kill?”

  “I do not know. A great many. Twenty thousand? Thirty? Not enough. Not nearly enough. There will be no way to stop them from reaching Târgoviște. All we can do now is prepare the way for them.”

  The Turks advanced on Târgoviște. Vlad Dracula had spent his years as voivode building the defences of the city, at great expense and using vast numbers of slaves to carry out the hardest of the labour. And so the walls and the gates and gatehouses had been strengthened mightily in preparation for the assault that he knew would come.

  Their advance cavalry came first toward the city while we stayed back in the hills to watch. We could not stop them by force of arms, we knew that, it was just a question of whether the force of Dracula’s spirit would be enough.

  For the final two miles along the road to Târgoviște, Vlad Dracula had impaled twenty thousand Turks.

  There were dozens of rotting, impaled Turkish for every single pace the advancing army had to take and the closer they got to the centre the more there were. It was a crescent of impaled soldiers, growing to be half a mile wide at the centre, so that they walked through a forest of their dead comrades.

  Highest of them all were still the rotten corpses of the treacherous Hamza Pasha and his Greek Thomas Catavolinos.

  The advancing Turkish cavalry, thousands of them, faltered during their passage through the twenty-thousand impaled men and their hearts and stomachs were not strong enough to get them to the gates of the city.

  They turned tail and fled back to the rest of the army.

  South of
the forest of the dead, they made their camp for the final time.

  And in the morning, they retreated south.

  What force of arms could not achieve was done through breaking the will of the enemy. On the Danube, the Turkish fleet ferried their broken army back across to Bulgaria. Their rearguard spread out to protect the army while it did so and this we attacked and defeated near Buzău.

  While we won that final small victory, the main army burned Brila and departed Wallachia, heading back to Edirne.

  However, not all the army fled so far.

  A detachment was left close to the border. This force of exiled Wallachian boyars and Turkish cavalry was commanded by Radu Dracula.

  And he at once began agitating to take Vlad’s throne.

  14. The Throne

  1467

  “My kingdom is broken,” Vlad said. “And I am the one who has broken it.”

  The great hall in Târgoviște was empty but for the two of us and Vlad’s guards and servants. Dracula drank off his goblet of wine and commanded that it be refilled. He gulped down half of that and leaned back in his throne.

  “It was the Turks that broke it. You defended your people.”

  “I did. And at what cost? My people struggled and won and they are exhausted. So many crops and stores were burnt. Countless wells poisoned and all the while we fought the land has been untilled. There will be famine. Half of my best soldiers are dead or will fight no more. The bravest and strongest of the peasants who fought for me have been killed. Everywhere I go in my lands there are sons without fathers and wives without husbands. And worst of all, I have no allies.”

  “Your cousin Stephen of Moldavia will—”

  Vlad chopped a hand down. “Stephen will do what is best for Moldavia. As he should. It is right and proper that he should. The Turks will turn on him soon enough.”

  “Perhaps if we go to Mattias Corvinus and—”

  “Ha!” Vlad smiled but his eyes were filled with bitterness. “He considers me an enemy and always will. As do the Saxons. And half of the ancient families in my kingdom.”