“Your father,” he said at last, “was, I think, an honorable man. So are you, in your own way. That is why I’m sending you home.”
Vlad fought valiantly to keep from reacting to that statement. His nails bit through skin, and blood pearled against his fingertips. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, and a fang nicked the tender flesh.
“Nothing to say?”
“I don’t see how such a thing is possible, Your Majesty.” But his blood sang. Home. Revenge.
“Hmm.”
Coals hissed in the braziers. Cold wind whistled up high, at the edges of the window shutters.
In a low, even voice, Murat said, “I know who your father is, child.”
Vlad bristled. “You–”
A weathered, jeweled hand lifted, waving him to silence. “Did you forget who made my son immortal? I know of Romulus. And of Remus, who calls himself Vlad Dracul. Called,” he amended. “If what his former chancellor says is true, then his heart has been destroyed, and there is no hope of his regeneration.”
Vlad clenched his jaw against a curse.
“You may be immortal, but you are young. This is the way of the world, Vlad: strong men rule until stronger men come to cut them down and supplant them. One man’s god is another man’s devil.
“Your father lived a very long time, but he was killed by another man’s puppet. You shall have your revenge, and may it bring you peace. But only if you allow me to grant you the opportunity.”
“I…don’t understand.”
“I mean to free you. Completely. I will give you armor, and weapons, and a horse. Grant you your own cavalry regiment, and send you north with Mustafa Hassan and his infantrymen at your disposal. You will kill Vladislav, and take back Wallachia. It’s a vassal state of my empire, and I shall choose who sits on its throne. I choose you, Dracula, if you are man enough to set aside your hatred of me and take up this mantle.”
Help me kill them all, he’d prayed last night, while his brother cried.
God had a grand sense of humor, it seemed. Sometimes he sent you exactly what you wanted as a gift from someone else you wanted to kill.
For the first time in his nearly seven years of captivity, Vlad went to his knees. “Yes, Your Majesty. I will accept.”
~*~
Vlad was taken to meet with Mustafa Hassan, first, a competent military commander indifferent to Vlad. He was marching north anyway; he could spare men to help Vlad retake Tîrgovişte.
Vlad didn’t care. If those foot soldiers could help him accomplish his goal, that was all he needed.
Then he met the captain – destined to be his second in command – of the cavalry unit he was to take.
The first surprise was that the man was a janissary, and not a true Turk. The second was that he bore the dark, almond eyes, glossy black hair, and high cheekbones of someone born much farther to the east than Adrianople.
His name was Malik Bey, and the long scar at the outer edge of his left brow proved he’d seen battle.
“Vlad Dracula,” Vlad introduced himself. “Prince of Wallachia.”
“I know who you are,” Malik said in perfect Turkish, and clasped Vlad’s forearm in greeting. His voice was even, calm. Polite. Outwardly, he seemed disinterested. This was just another boy prince set to give him orders.
But Vlad sensed a certain interest in the man; the subtlest hint of curiosity. Janissaries fought valiantly and loyally for their Ottoman masters – but that didn’t always mean they wanted to.
“I hear we have a coup to plan.”
Vlad smiled, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done such a thing. “Yes. We do.”
24
THE CAMPAIGN
All that winter, Vlad spent his days running drills with his new cavalry, poring over maps, talking of strategy, honing his already-strong body into something beastly. The few glimpses Val caught of him on the palace grounds were shocking. His legs were still long, but no one could call him “lanky” now. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a trimly muscled waist: Vlad looked every inch the young warrior, his countenance ferocious; the sort of thing grown men would stagger back from.
Val grew as well. The sleeves of his kaftans became too short and his entire wardrobe was replaced. In the mirror, he could see the changes, the way baby softness was slowly fading into the long lines and sharp angles of adolescence. His face narrowed; he looked almost elfin. And he looked nothing like a warrior – which was what he needed to be if he had any hope of being sent back home with his brother.
When winter broke, and the mountain passes were clear, Vlad would head for Tîrgovişte with Murat’s blessing and manpower. Val meant to go with him.
Thus began his slow, careful campaign to win Mehmet over to the idea.
~*~
Val sat back on his heels, catching his breath, his hands still braced on the sultan’s open thighs.
Mehmet slumped back against the wall, hands twitching weakly where they lay on the cushions of the bench where he was sitting. His chest heaved, flushed where it was visible beneath his unlaced shirt. He breathed through an open mouth, lips still shaped around his last, deep groan, his eyes shut, his lashes dark fans on pinkened cheeks. If pressed at knifepoint, Val would admit that ecstasy was very becoming on the sultan.
“Your Majesty.” His voice sounded as raw as his throat felt. “I have a request.” He’d planned this carefully, waiting until Mehmet was well-satisfied; that was when he was at his most generous. He moved his fingertips in little circles, a delicate massage.
Mehmet cracked one eye open. “A request?” Curious, but still languid. Malleable. He cupped Val’s chin in one weak hand, traced a thumb over his shiny lower lip. “Ask and ye shall receive, beautiful one.”
My freedom, Val thought, wildly. But that was folly. He had to start small, and build up to it.
He forced a smile, lowered his lashes to a discreet angle, and said, “I was only thinking that it’s been a very long time since I’ve had any training like I used to. I haven’t sparred in such a long time.”
Mehmet seemed to return to himself a little, lifting his head up from the wall, gaze clearing. He flicked a lazy, though disbelieving smile. “You want to spar?”
“I should like to, yes,” he said, demure and hesitant. “I was in training to become a knight at one time. Before…”
Mehmet stilled; he held his breath and his thumb froze a moment, before pressing into the center of Val’s lower lip. When Val lifted a pleading gaze to him, he exhaled on a quiet laugh. “A knight? That’s what you want?” He fingered a lock of golden hair. “Why would you waste such beauty on a battlefield when you can be comfortable here?”
Will I not ever be allowed to be a man? Val wanted to scream. Can I have not one scrap of honor? Only your whore, and whores don’t wield swords.
He took a measured breath and fought to keep his voice low and soft. “You flatter me. It’s only…”
Mehmet sat forward, one elbow braced on his knee, the other hand winding into Val’s hair. Their faces were very close together now, close enough to kiss if Mehmet hadn’t minded the taste of his own come. “Only what?” Sultry, almost sweet, but Val had to tread so, so carefully.
Val wet his lips, and Mehmet’s gaze followed the quick pass of his tongue. “It’s only that I want to be…useful.” A muscle leaped in Mehmet’s jaw. “All the other boys at court are being groomed for leadership and I…want to do my part. For your empire.”
Mehmet held his gaze a long, tense moment. Then he laughed and sat back, petting lazily over Val’s head. “You do your part plenty, Radu. Don’t worry over that.”
~*~
Well, that was that, Val thought bitterly. So much for trying.
But a few days later, Arslan toted in a hamper that threatened to buckle his knees, setting it down gratefully with a sound of shifting metal from inside.
“What is this?” Val asked, climbing off the divan where he’d been reading.
“A gift fo
r you. The sultan had it all specially made.”
Val settled on his knees on the carpet, folded back the lid and found–
Armor. Lightweight, beautifully crafted steel, padded with red leather.
And beneath that, a sword.
Val sucked in a breath. He stared at it a long moment, resting there on a bed of silk, drinking in its long, clean lines and its elegant cross-guard and hilt, worked with gold and tiny sapphires. It was too fine a weapon for a common soldier; the sort of thing a king – or a sultan – carried both during battle, and ceremonies. Deadly, functional, but a beautiful showpiece, too, designed to project an image of power and opulence. No one wanted to be subjugated by a pauper; they wanted the jewels and the flashing of gold.
“This can’t be mine,” Val murmured, not daring to touch it. His hand opened and closed in the empty air above it.
Arslan made a strange sound – when Val lifted his head, he found that the boy was laughing. He’d never heard such a thing from him before. When he did, his eyes danced, and his smile broke white and straight across his face.
“What?”
“Of course it’s for you,” the slave said. “It was commissioned just for you. For your size. See? It’s too small for a regular soldier.”
Finally, breath held, Val reached in and pulled the sword out. Sunlight winked down the length of it, blinding. When he held it upright in front of him, distorted reflection staring back, wide-eyed, he saw that Arslan was right: it was a short sword, narrow and light. Built for a boy who was not quite a man.
“Why did he have this made for me?”
Arslan shrugged. “He said to bring it to you. That you would know why.”
Because he’d asked to spar.
Val shivered…and for the first time in a long time, not from fear or pain.
~*~
The next day, Mehmet turned up just after lunch dressed in simple, worn clothes, his own sword on his hip. He grinned rakishly. “You wanted to practice, oh great golden knight?”
Val raced to throw on his own humble clothes and gather up his new sword, its jewel-studded scabbard belted tight around his slim waist.
They didn’t go to the regular training yard where the other boys at court practiced. Instead, a short walk from Mehmet’s chambers found them in a circular, hedge-lined room in his own private area of the garden, shaded with grape-laden bowers and cherry trees, the footing a loose, small gravel that crunched underfoot. A water jug and ladle waited, as well as an array of other weapons, laid out on layers of leather and silk on one of the decorative benches.
“It’s just us?” Val asked, apprehension blooming sudden and tight in his belly. He didn’t know why he was worried; they were alone together all the time. He slept in the man’s bed, gave of his body every night. But unease crawled across his skin, itchy as a rash.
Mehmet crossed to the bench and reached for a set of leather bracers there. “The privilege of being a sultan: privacy. Here, come help me with these.”
Val went to do up the complicated laces on the bracers, Mehmet holding out each forearm in turn.
“You know,” he mused, as Val’s fingers made quick work of the task, “when you first mentioned this, I admit that I was offended. Here I’ve been heaping you with luxuries, and yet you wanted to spar. You were bathing in rose oil, wearing all the most lavish silks and jewels, living like a prince for the first time in your life, and yet you wanted to get sweaty and dirty in the training yard. What was I to make of that?”
Val wisely didn’t answer.
“But then I thought about it a little more,” Mehmet continued, “and I decided it sounded like a fun way to spend the afternoon. Treaty negotiations have been giving me a headache all week.” Val finished, stepped back, and the sultan flexed his hand into a fist, smiling down at the way the leather bracer tightened against his wrist. “Let’s have a go, then.”
They stripped off their scabbards and set them aside on the bench; faced off from one another in the center of the circle. Val’s sword was light, yes, but he could feel keenly, already, what months of being a lapdog had earned him; his arms quivered, the muscles soft and weak. He would tire quickly, he realized, and struggle on his follow-through.
Damn. Perhaps this had been a poor idea after all.
But no. He had to get stronger so that he could be of use to Vlad. The only way to improve upon weakness was to work.
Mehmet, by contrast, looked fit and lithe, balanced on the balls of his feet, sword held casually, as if it weighed nothing. It was a larger blade than Val’s, longer and heftier.
Val’s was no match for it.
It was the same here as it was in all other areas.
“Ready?” Mehmet asked, grinning. He waved the tip of his sword through the air, a showy little twirl.
Val took a breath and let it out hard through his mouth. “Ready.”
In all the ways that swordsmanship was like dancing, Val excelled. Light on his feet, quick, agile, downright graceful. He could remember his proper footwork, and keep his balance effortlessly, focusing on his opponent and not his own steps.
But his swings didn’t have as much power as other boys; bigger boys. His blocks were less steady. Quickness would get him by at first, but once he tired…
No. He had to practice. Had to improve.
They circled one another, gravel crunching, feinting and feeling one another out. Val had never sparred with Mehmet before, and he moved differently than Vlad and the boys back home, more like the other hostages.
Then Mehmet moved in, one long step, and moved to strike. It was slow, almost gentle. Like he was aiming at a child. He laughed as Val blocked it with his new blade, the steel chiming like bells.
“Good. Now you move into me,” Mehmet said, backing away, giving Val leave to advance.
Val hesitated, worrying his lip with his teeth, sword held suspended in a defensive position, still. Swing at the sultan? That seemed…ill-advised. Shit, this was a terrible idea. He should have found a pair of practice swords and begged Arslan to go to the training yard with him.
(He hadn’t because he’d feared that the sight of a eunuch slave holding a sword might result in one more impaled body on the palace walls.)
“You wanted to spar,” Mehmet prodded. “So come on.”
So he did. A timid swing that Mehmet batted away without effort.
“That was pathetic. Put your weight behind it next time.”
He tried again, more forcefully, and Mehmet laughed when he met his blade with a block. “Better! We’ll work on it.”
It wasn’t like any lesson he’d had from a swordmaster back home, nor the ones he’d had here, in previous years, before his irrevocable change of status. Mehmet was relaxed and cheerful, not barking orders and smacking at Val’s shoulders and shins with the flat of his blade the way he was used to. In that sense, it was almost…fun. He began to feel lighter; found himself smiling. For a few precious minutes, they were no longer master and slave, not sultan and hostage, but two boys playing.
Val knew something like joy.
For a time.
But then.
Tired, sweating, his blood thrumming, Val lost himself. He lunged in, too close, too wild, his tiredness making him sluggish, clumsy. He went a half-step too far, and when he tried to correct, he reached too far. His brand new sword, sharp-edged, struck Mehmet’s arm. Tore cloth, drew blood.
For a breathless second, all was still. Val gaped, sword still extended, wavering.
An accident. But.
A fun afternoon of practice between two young men. But.
Val felt the growl that built in Mehmet’s chest, the leashed thunder of it reverberating through the air between them. When he looked to Mehmet’s face, he saw slitted pupils and lowered brows, extended fangs.
An automatic reaction, his instincts told him. A vampire, especially a dominant one, a leader of men, would react with immediate violence if his blood was drawn.
But Val remembered t
hat first night, the heft of the unfamiliar sword in his hand, the blooming of bright blood on Mehmet’s rich feastday kaftan. Remembered the growl, remembered running, remembered the rough bark of the tree he clung to all night. And then he finally relented, and his face was pressed into the pillow, and rough hands shoved his legs apart, and, and–
Terror unfolded inside him, a spark to powder. Violent, painful. And with it, anger.
Mehmet lifted his sword and took a retaliatory swing at him – clumsy, something Val was meant to duck and roll away from, come up stammering an apology.
But Val braced his feet and parried. Steel met steel not with the soft chime of bells, but with the clang and screech of a true battle.
Mehmet growled again, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What are – are you – do you defy me?”
Val felt his own fangs grow long in his mouth; felt something come alive inside him, some well of strength previously untapped. He was slender, and golden – but he was Vlad’s brother, and Remus’s son, and he was destined for something besides whoredom.
He growled back. “Yes.”
And then, suddenly, they were fighting for real. Wild swings that crashed together with shrill sounds; panting, growling, lunging, sliding on the gravel when they tried to brace their feet.
In the back of his mind, Val knew they were making too much noise. Someone would hear, even if it was just a pair of curious gardeners, and come to see what was happening. Once they realized that the sultan’s pet had lost his mind, guards would be called, and the best Val could hope for would be a good clubbing on the back of the head from a spear butt.
But Val had never felt like this. Had never been rippling with energy and aggression, bloodlust roaring like a second pulse in his ears. He wanted to set his teeth in Mehmet’s neck, and destroy him. His growl was low and constant, a rippling echo like thunder.
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 30