Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  At least, in front of others. He let his guard down in his own private tent, around Val.

  He drained his cup and reached to refill it himself, since Arslan was kneeling down on the pallet at Val’s hip, offering him his own cup.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Val said with a tired smile. His hand shook, and he raised the drink to his mouth, fangs already long in anticipation.

  “Don’t use pet names with the boy,” Mehmet said. He went to his desk and slumped down in the ornate folding chair in front of it; Mehmet the half-Greek had employed Greek furniture for this expedition. “You coddle him too much.”

  Val took a restorative sip of wine, and some of the shaking began to subside. “I’ve found that a little kindness and familiarity goes much farther than treating a person like property and barking orders at them.”

  “Hmph. It never worked for you.”

  “You’re a wealth of comedy, Your Majesty.”

  Mehmet hooked a leg over the arm of the chair. “What are you still doing in bed anyway?”

  Val had projected a polished image of himself into Constantine’s study, kaftan buttoned up to his chin, hair braided, boots polished. In reality, he was naked, hair tangled over his shoulders, covers pooled around his waist. He glanced down and saw fading marks on his chest, the impressions of teeth.

  “You tired me out this morning,” he said, and sipped more wine. “Arslan, will you–”

  But the boy was already in motion, fetching his robe and slippers from his trunk, a brush clenched in one hand.

  “What’s got you out of sorts?” Val asked, standing as his slave returned. He wobbled a little; incentive to drain his cup and let the blood do its work. It was warm and fresh, horse blood, but it didn’t work as quickly or effectively as wolf blood would have.

  Mehmet blew out a breath. “The janissaries want an increase in salary. Have demanded one. Can you believe such a thing?”

  “I can, actually.” He slid his arms through the sleeves Arslan offered to him, the silk cool and lovely against his bare skin. When he had the robe belted, he went to sit in the chair opposite the sultan, and Arslan set to work on his hair with a gentle, deft touch. “They’re your crack troops. The rest of the army is just boys with sticks. The janissaries are the ones who keep you alive and win you battles. They deserve to be paid handsomely for that.”

  Not to mention, he didn’t add, they’re essentially slaves. He thought they deserved some recompense for the displacement. He himself had learned to feel nothing but enjoyment when it came to rich fabrics, and dazzling jewels, and hot baths in copper tubs.

  “I hate it when you speak logically,” Mehmet muttered into his cup. “I should have your mouth sewn shut.”

  Val sent him a sharp smile. “Ah. But then how would I suck your royal cock?”

  “Stop talking.”

  “No. Someone has to offer you council, and you’ve frightened all your own people away.”

  “I’ve done no such thing.”

  “Darling, you impaled a man yesterday morning before breakfast.”

  A smile plucked at the corners of the sultan’s mouth. “You might have a point there.”

  “I always have a point. You’d be lost without me.”

  Mehmet hummed an agreeing sound and sat upright. It was then that Val noticed there was a large set of building plans laid out on the desk between them, all of it labeled carefully in a precise hand.

  Mehmet tapped the edge of the paper. “What do you think of the fortress?”

  The blood and wine turned over in Val’s belly. He fought to keep his expression one of vague interest as he sat forward and scanned the architect’s drawings. “It’s…”

  “Beautiful,” Mehmet said. “I know.”

  Val would have gone with terrifying.

  “Incredible progress is already being made. It should be finished by spring.”

  “Spring?” Val nearly choked on the word. That sort of speed in building was unheard of.

  “I’m sparing no expense. Not in materials, nor in manpower. This fortress will be the place from which I launch my assault.”

  Val felt dizzy again, and this time it had nothing to do with dream-walking. “You’re serious, then. About laying siege to Constantinople.”

  His brows went up. “You thought I wasn’t?”

  “Well, no.” He’d just hoped that one of the many viziers who had the sultan’s ear would have pointed out the sheer folly of the notion by now. “It’s only that I don’t understand why you’re so fixated on this.”

  “Fixated?” His tone, edged with offense, carried a warning. Val could be bold, could speak his mind most of the time…but only because Mehmet allowed it. “You’re beautiful, but I know you’re not stupid. You know that the only way to rule effectively is through shows of strength. Giving your people an outside enemy to conquer so they don’t turn their malaise and dissatisfaction on their king. Taking Rum expands my empire, it rallies my people, and it hamstrings the Westerners who’d see me dead.”

  Val swallowed – with difficulty, because his throat had gone dry. A cup set down at his elbow; Arslan, sensing his need, bringing him more wine. The boy was a blessing.

  “Constantinople is un-sackable,” Val argued. “You know this. Those sea walls, the boom across the channel – no one’s breached its perimeter since the Fourth Crusade. And those were Crusaders themselves, who could at least claim the element of surprise. That’s one sack in the city’s history, Mehmet; only one since 300 B.C.”

  “Then I’ll go down in history, won’t I?”

  Val threw up his hands. “How many times have we had this same conversation?”

  “We have this conversation only because I allow it. You’re foolish to keep seeking it out.” He aimed a finger at Val, voice hard now. “Leave it, Radu.”

  Val picked up his cup and drowned a sudden swell of rage with sweet red wine. In moments like this, he allowed himself a familiar fantasy: a blade in his hands, Mehmet’s blood on the carpet. At times, he managed to convince himself that they were friends of a sort. Almost equals. That, maybe, as he grew older, and the sultan’s touch began to kindle a physical desire beneath his skin, that he’d developed a softness for the man.

  But then there were moments like now. When he knew an urge to violence so intense he thought it might choke him. Moments when he remembered that he was related to Vlad after all, and that he wanted to crack Mehmet’s skull against the edge of a table like a fresh egg.

  He drained his cup and dabbed at his lips with his fingers. Arslan resumed brushing his hair, long, sure strokes to bring out its shine. “When do we break camp?” he asked, to change the subject, and quiet the rage inside him.

  “An hour. Will that give you time to beautify yourself?”

  “Barely.” Val turned his head to the side, glancing across the lavish tent. Mehmet loved it when he acted prissy. Easier to pretend he was a woman then, he supposed.

  As expected, the sultan chuckled, and pushed to his feet. He moved around the desk, and Val tensed, hands balling into fists in his lap.

  Mehmet cupped his chin and turned his head back and up, so they faced one another. Ran his thumb over Val’s wine-stained lower lip, expression cycling from admiration, to lust…to something harder.

  “Don’t test me, Radu. That never ends well.”

  Gently, Val took the tip of his thumb between his teeth.

  Mehmet grinned, and leaned down to kiss him, quickly, before he withdrew. “Wear the blue coat I got you,” he said over his shoulder as he left the tent.

  Val gave a little wave of his fingers to signal he’d heard.

  Arslan began separating his hair into bunches for an elaborate braid.

  Val sighed. “God. I hate blue.”

  ~*~

  Returning to Edirne didn’t feel like a homecoming – his heart didn’t fill with gladness, because this was the place where he lived, but not his home – but Val relaxed when he was within the familiar palace walls again
. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed again, and not to march constantly, forever saddle-sore and covered in road dust.

  It was morning, bitterly cold, steam rising off the thick crust of frost that coated the grass. Val wore his hair loose to cover his ears, a thick, dark brown fur made of bear pelt wrapped around his shoulders and neck. He felt well-rested and energized today; Mehmet had been paying visits to his wives since their return, taking them gifts, fulfilling his husbandly duties toward producing an heir. It had given Val time to himself, dinners eaten alone, long, uninterrupted baths; a bit of reading by candlelight before bed. Sleeping, blessed, all by his lonesome, stretching out his arms and legs to the far reaches of the mattress.

  Today, he was to supervise a new batch of young janissaries, singling out the ones best suited for Mehmet’s personal corps of guards. Mehmet would of course have the final say-so, but Val felt something like pride to have been given this responsibility.

  He felt pride where he could.

  “Gentlemen,” he called as he paced along behind the tidy row of potential recruits. “Today you will demonstrate your proficiency with the bow, with the spear, and with the sword. You will–”

  “A moment, your grace!” Grand Vizier Halil Pasha’s wheedling voice called across the practice grounds, and Val bit back an unhappy sound.

  He turned to meet the man’s approach, already frowning, and froze.

  Wolf.

  He smelled a wolf.

  The Grand Vizier walked toward him with his usual short strides, his gait impeded by the length, thickness, and weight of embroidery on his kaftan and overcoat. Behind him marched a line of able-bodied young janissary recruits.

  Once, they’d belonged to the far reaches of the world. Val spotted black skin, and brown. The almond eyes of the Orient, and round blue eyes. Hair a finer gold than his own.

  One of them was a wolf.

  He took a deep breath, to be sure, and, yes, he was positive. There was no concealing the distinctive musk of a werewolf, even when he walked on two legs instead of four. He picked him out of the line: a clean-shaven boy with pale skin and dark hair, slighter of build than some of the others, but that would make no difference on the battlefield. Wolves were ungodly strong.

  Halil Pasha finally drew to a halt in front of Val, puffing and red-faced from his walk through the cold. “These recruits are to be considered for the sultan’s private guard,” he said, motioning toward them with a limp hand. He pressed the fingers to the base of his throat afterward, over his visibly fluttering pulse. “Test them with the others.”

  Val’s fangs elongated a fraction in his mouth. With Halil Pasha, the honorific “your grace” was used sparingly, only when absolutely necessary. And he gave orders as if Val were a slave boy.

  “Of course,” Val said, tone chilly. He smiled, and let the man see his fangs.

  As hoped, Halil Pasha took a hasty step back, scowling. “They’re green. Test them rigorously.”

  “Of course,” Val repeated.

  The Grand Vizier turned to the recruits. The wolf boy stood staring down at the toes of his boots, lashes flickering against his cheeks as he blinked. Tears? A reaction to the biting cold? He smelled of nervousness and stress.

  “This is Prince Radu,” Halil Pasha told the boys. “He is a knight, and an expert marksman.” Ah, a rare compliment. “He is beloved of the sultan as if he were his brother.” Brother, yes, Val thought. That’s a lovely word for it. “You would do well to impress him today.”

  He departed with a warning glance thrown over his shoulder at Val – though what he was warning against Val had no idea. The man liked to sound in charge of things.

  “Alright, you lot,” Val said, clapping his hands together. “Fall in line with the others.”

  They moved to do so. And as they filed past, Val saw the wolf boy’s nostrils flare. He’d caught the scent of vampire. He darted a quick glance up at Val as he passed, sideways and furtive. Amber eyes.

  For the first time since he’d arrived in Edirne, there was a wolf inside the palace walls. Val didn’t intend to let him slip away.

  ~*~

  All of his recruits were green – but they were athletic, sharp, and eager to please. Archery would take some time to master, but many were already proficient with spear and blade. And they followed orders quickly and without backtalk.

  Val was impressed.

  And then there was the wolf.

  The boy was by far the least capable with the weaponry. He tried gamely, and was clearly strong, but he lacked a natural born fighter’s grace and ease.

  Val finally called for a break when the sun was at its zenith and the day had warmed a fraction. The recruits had long since stripped off cloaks and kaftans, and their bare arms steamed in the afternoon light.

  The wolf sat apart from the others, on one of the low benches against the palace wall, waiting his turn to seek the water pails and ladles currently being mobbed by the others.

  Val took his own waterskin and went to sit beside the boy.

  He startled violently, and nearly fell off the bench.

  “Easy,” Val said, chuckling, and offered the skin. “I only came to offer you a drink.”

  The boy regarded him a long, unblinking moment, body poised, tense, on the edge of the bench. Fear-sweat bloomed, immediate and pungent. With his eyes wide, it was easy to see that his pupils had narrowed to a shape less than human. Val bet that, if he were to touch the boy’s neck, he would feel the prickle of hair emerging along his ruff.

  He shook the waterskin. “Here. You must be thirsty.”

  Slowly, as cautious as a fawn, and not the wolf that he actually was, the boy took the skin with a soft “thank you.” His accent was thick. He hesitated, skin poised at his lips, but when he finally drank, he did so desperately, eyes closing, throat working as he gulped all of the chilled water down. He splashed some onto his shirtfront, his skin, and didn’t seem to care.

  Finally, he lowered it with a gasp, and his eyes widened again. “Oh. I. I’m sorry.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and he looked sheepishly down at the now-empty skin. “I didn’t mean to–”

  “It’s alright,” Val assured. “There’s no shortage of water here. The wells are deep. Would you like some more?”

  “No. No, no, I’m sorry, your grace.” He passed the skin back with shaking hands.

  “What’s your name?” Val asked.

  The boy ducked his head, a frightened sort of deference. “Nestor, your grace. Or, um, rather, Iskander.”

  “Nestor-Iskander, then. And where are you from? Your accent is familiar.”

  Flatly, he said, “I am a janissary of His Majesty’s–”

  “No, dear. Where are you from?”

  A whisper: “Russia, your grace.”

  “Ah! I thought that was it,” Val said, in Russian. “I speak many languages, and that is one of them. Though I worry my accent isn’t very good. What do you think?”

  Nestor lifted his head, expression broken open by surprise. “You speak Russian?” he asked in that language, and the words came much easier in his native tongue. “But you are…”

  “What? You thought me Turkish? With this hair?” He tossed it over one shoulder with a chuckle. “I’m Romanian, originally. I always wanted to travel to Russia someday. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

  Nestor snorted. “Right now it’s nothing but snow. Up to your neck in places.” He touched his own in indication. He brightened. “Romania? I was trained in artillery with a unit in Moldavia before I came here. That’s where I was…” And he dimmed. “Taken.”

  Val frowned. “How does a Russian end up in Moldavia?” Inwardly, his heart pounded. Last he’d heard, Vlad was in Moldavia.

  “I was in the employ of a group of monks. Studying with them, training to join their order someday. We encountered a checkpoint on the road, and.” He shrugged, and looked down at his dusty boots.

  “So you are literate.”

  “Quite.”
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  “Which languages can you read and write?”

  “Russian, of course. Also Slavic, Romanian, French, and Turkish – though that isn’t very strong yet.”

  An idea began to form in Val’s mind.

  But first…

  He lowered his voice, so soft that even the most enterprising of mortal eavesdroppers wouldn’t be able to hear them. “Nestor. Do you know what you are?”

  Nestor stilled. Slowly, he lifted his head, and the fear was back, all the blood drained from his face. “Your grace?”

  “It’s alright,” Val assured. “If you do, then surely you can tell what I am. Can’t you?”

  His gaze darted, out to the yard, across the resting soldiers, finally back to Val. He wet his lips. “I…”

  “You’re not frightened of me, are you?” The idea disappointed him. He’d missed the company of Familiars desperately. This boy wasn’t Fenrir, huge and boisterous and unbeatable, nor Cicero, stern and protective. But there was a comfort in being near a wolf, an instinctual quieting.

  Nestor swallowed with obvious difficulty. “No. No, your grace, I’m not frightened. It’s only that – I’ve never met a…anyone like you.”

  “But you have heard of us, yes?”

  He nodded. “My parents told me stories, when I was very young. They were both…the same as me.”

  “They were wolves?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you were born instead of turned?” His voice lifted on the end, and he reined it in. But this was exciting! “That is a rare thing, Nestor.”

  “So they said.” He fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “The village where we lived…the people there…when they found out…”

  “Oh,” Val said, understanding, heart twinging with sympathy.

  “They thought it witchcraft. A curse of some sort. My parents tried to explain to them, but they’d seen me shift, and they…” He drew a ragged breath, blinking hard. “My parents were killed. The monks took me in.”