by Will Hill
“Devil,” whispered the soldier, and spat a thick wad of congealing blood into Vlad’s face. The vampire recoiled, despite himself. A crimson pillar of outrage burst through his chest, and he grabbed for the man’s sword, which was lying on the ground beside him. He raised it above his shoulder, turned back to the soldier and found blank eyes staring up at him.
The soldier was dead, a final expression of satisfaction etched on his face for all eternity. Vlad stared down at the man, then slowly wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He hesitated for a second, staring at the dark smear on his skin, then raised his hand to his mouth and licked it clean. He threw back his head as a momentary wave of shuddering ecstasy flooded through him, then lifted himself back into the night air and resumed his course.
Four and a half miles to the west, a ragtag column of Wallachian soldiers made their slow, halting escape from the battlefield.
They numbered perhaps two hundred; all that remained of the army that had begun the battle four thousand strong. The majority were injured; men held bleeding arms tightly against their armour, dragged themselves forward on damaged legs, pressed dressings against running wounds. The small number who had survived the battle unscathed helped their fellow soldiers, hauling them onwards, towards a destination that was unknown. At the head of the groaning, staggering crowd, three men walked slowly side by side.
Valeri, the eldest of the Rusmanov brothers, walked in the middle. His General’s armour was dented and nicked, but he had sustained no injuries beyond a dislocated shoulder when his horse had been hacked from beneath him. He had killed the Turk that brought him down, then ordered the nearest Wallachian to pull the shoulder back into place. It had crunched into its socket with an audible pop, causing Valeri to grit his teeth momentarily. Then he had thrown himself back into the battle, without giving it another thought.
To Valeri’s left walked a nightmare. Alexandru Rusmanov strode easily along the dusty road, a wide smile on his face. He was covered in blood from head to toe, crimson spilled from the veins of innumerable Turkish soldiers; his armour gleamed red, his face ran with gore. His eyes were wide and shining, flickering with the madness lurking beneath the thin layer of humanity that Alexandru wore like an ill-fitting coat. The battle had found him in his element, free of even the mild veneer of civilised behaviour that was expected of him during peacetime. In battle, quarter was not expected, nor mercy either, and he was able to give himself over entirely to the animal that squatted inside him.
Alexandru had appeared to onlookers as nothing less than a blur of death; Turks had fallen to the ground in droves around him, hacked and slashed and sliced to bloody ribbons. There had never been the slightest concern that he might sustain injury; such a thing had never happened at any point in his violent, chaotic life, and it had not happened here either. Now he walked calmly beside his brother, his mind racing with blood and violence.
On the other side of Valeri, his expression unreadable, walked the youngest of the three Generals of the Wallachian Army. Valentin Rusmanov had also escaped injury, but his demeanour was nonetheless sombre. He did not share Alexandru’s visceral love of violence, or Valeri’s belief that the deaths of thousands of their soldiers constituted, at worst, an inconvenience.
No. The annihilation of their army had filled Valentin with disgust, and sorrow; he had left the bodies of men he considered friends behind as they fled, men who had fought bravely in the face of insurmountable odds. The battle could never have been won, and should never have been fought; it had been obvious to Valentin, and even to Valeri, although the older Rusmanov would never have admitted it, long before the first sword was swung in anger. It came down, as battles almost always did, to simple numbers, and those numbers had favoured the Turks by a wide margin. Occasionally, the numbers could be upset, by brilliant leadership or favourable geography, but this had not been one of those occasions; the rout had been fast, and merciless.
Valentin walked with his eyes fixed on the middle distance. To anyone watching it would have appeared that he was staring at nothing, but that was not the case. Beneath his outer calm he was, as always, assessing everything around him, searching for potential threats; beyond the dusty curves of the narrow road, within the thick rows of trees that ran on either side, and from the muttering crowd that was trudging along behind him and his brothers. His sharp ears could hear an increasing number of whispered voices beginning, inevitably, to question the circumstances that had seen them brought this low. Valentin knew that it would only be a matter of time before their search for answers led to the questioning of their officers, and, in particular, of their absent Prince.
It came even sooner than Valentin was expecting.
“Why has he abandoned us?” shouted a voice from within the crowd of soldiers, followed by a clatter of metal as a sword was thrown down in the road. The mass of men began to shift and draw back, revealing the man who had called out. His armour was filthy with blood and dust, and crimson was running steadily from his left arm, dripping from his fingers and pattering to the ground. His eyes blazed with anger as he stared at the brothers Rusmanov, who had turned towards the source of the commotion.
“Why are we creeping away like rats in the night?” asked the man. “When our brothers lie dying behind us, and our Prince has fled? The same Prince who promised us victory.”
Alexandru Rusmanov took a step towards the man, a look of anticipation on his blood-streaked face, but Valeri raised a hand, and he held his ground. Valeri stepped forward instead, eyeing the soldier as though he was a particularly interesting species of insect.
“What is this you say?” he asked, softly. “What manner of treason?”
“Is it treason to speak the truth?” demanded the soldier, who Valeri believed was named Florin. “Prince Vlad left us behind to die in his name. How could he do so? How could he turn his back on us in such a manner?”
Valeri forced himself to remain calm. “If Prince Vlad left the field of battle,” he said, as evenly as he was able, “his reasons will have been sound. It is not for the likes of you to speculate about them.”
“The likes of me?” cried Florin. “What are the likes of me? Good enough to die at the end of a Turkish scimitar, but not good enough to ask where my Prince was when we were down to our last? Not good enough to—”
The rest of the soldier’s sentence would go forever unheard.
Valeri stepped forward, drawing his sword as he did so, and plunged the blade into Florin’s throat.
The man’s eyes bulged, so widely that Valeri wondered for a split second whether they were about to tumble from their sockets. Florin made an awful gurgling noise, and slowly raised his hands to the blade, gripping it with what strength he had left. Valeri noted the man’s resilience admiringly, then pushed the blade forward again, sending the soldier’s severed fingers tumbling to the dusty earth. He felt the blade connect with the man’s spine, and gave a final heavy shove. The spinal cord broke with a dry crunch, and the tip of Valeri’s sword burst through the skin at the back of Florin’s neck. His eyes rolled back, and his body went limp. Valeri’s sword was suddenly the only thing holding the man up, and he withdrew it. The soldier crumpled to the floor, blood gushing out of the gaping hole in his throat.
“For heaven’s sake, brother,” said Valentin, mildly.
Valeri shook the blade clear of Florin’s blood, but did not place it back in its sheath. Instead, he held it out towards the remaining survivors.
“Anybody else?” he bellowed. “Is there anybody else here who would speak against their Prince?” He stepped forward and levelled his sword at the nearest soldier, who took half a step backwards. “You?” asked Valeri, then swung his blade towards the next man in line. “You?” The soldier shook his head violently, his eyes wide and terrified. “Good,” said Valeri, and finally sheathed his weapon. “Then let that be the last of such talk. You are soldiers, regardless of whether the battle is over or not, and you will remember your places
or I will make you. Is that clear?”
“I believe they understand, General,” said a voice from behind Valeri. The Rusmanov brothers and the frightened, angry mass of soldiers turned as one towards it, and let out a loud communal gasp.
Standing calmly in the middle of the road was Vlad Tepes.
The former Prince of Wallachia’s royal armour was gone; he was standing in the cool night air in his chain mail, his billowing tunic and his leather trousers and boots. He wore a thin smile on his narrow face, and his eyes flickered with what almost appeared to be red in their very corners. He stood easily on the flattened dirt of the road, looking at his men.
Valeri was the first to react, dropping sharply to one knee and bowing his head. “My lord,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ground. Alexandru and Valentin quickly followed their brother’s lead, with the ragged group of soldiers close behind.
“Rise, my faithful subjects,” said Vlad, walking forward. “Rise and attend to me one last time.”
The crowd of men hauled themselves back to their feet and looked at their Prince. Valeri’s face furrowed with concern as he considered his master’s words.
One last time?
Vlad walked between the Rusmanov brothers, favouring them with brief nods of his head as he passed, then stopped in front of the remains of his army. The three Generals turned and stood silently behind their Prince.
“My loyal soldiers,” said Vlad, casting his gaze across them. “I could have asked no more from you than you gave on the field of battle. The day may have been lost, but our honour remains unbroken, and for that you should be proud.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said one of the soldiers, dipping his head deferentially, and a murmur of assent rose from the crowd.
“I cannot tell you what the future holds for Wallachia, or for myself,” Vlad continued. “But I can tell you the future of each man standing before me; the answer is that it will hold whatever you can make of it. I hereby release each of you from your oaths of service, and I wish you all the best of fortune. A chapter closed today, men, and a new one began, and from this point forward, our paths must diverge. So go, and live well. You are all dismissed.”
Not a single soldier moved. Shock stood out on every face; mouths hung open in gaping expressions of surprise. Vlad stared at them for a long moment, then his eyes suddenly clouded a terrible red, and his mouth twisted open in a snarl.
“You are dismissed!” he roared. “Do you not hear me? Go now, before I regret my generosity!”
The paralysis among the soldiers broke, and they scattered, screams and shouted prayers rising from them as they did so. A small number turned and ran back in the direction they had come, towards the orange glow on the horizon that marked the location of the battlefield, but the majority simply fled into the dark woods on either side of the road, melting quickly into the darkness between the ancient trees. Vlad watched them go, able to do so for far longer than any of the fleeing men would have believed was possible, then turned to face his Generals, his eyes returned to normal, the thin smile back in place.
“My lord,” said Valeri, his face the deep purple of outrage. “I must—”
“You must do nothing, Valeri,” interrupted Vlad. “None of us must again do anything beyond what we wish to do. My friends, this day I have been favoured by a great gift, a gift that it is my intention to share equally among us. Set camp, and I will explain all.”
“You wish to make camp here, my lord?” asked Valentin. “In the middle of the road?”
“Do not worry, Valentin,” replied Vlad, his smile widening. “Nothing will approach without my knowledge, I assure you.”
“Very well,” said Valentin. “We will see to the tents.” The three brothers began to walk towards the packs abandoned by the fleeing soldiers, in which lay the materials for making camp.
“You stay, Valeri,” said Prince Vlad. “I would speak to you for a moment.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Valeri. He could not keep the pleasure out of his voice. His status as the Prince’s favourite was a position he had always guarded with great jealousy.
While Valentin and Alexandru got to work, hiding their scowls from their lord, Prince Vlad led Valeri away, over the brow of a low hill. Soon, they were far enough away that the others would not hear them, beside a small grove of trees.
“I used to rise with the dawn,” Vlad mused, considering the sky to the east, which grew pale. “I considered each new day a gift. Now the coming light seems to me a curse.”
“Why so, my lord?” asked Valeri, in a low voice.
“It matters not,” replied Vlad.
“My lord, this is far from the end, for either of us,” said Valeri, fiercely. “Today was a frustration, nothing more. In time, we will restore your rightful position, I swear it.”
Vlad stared blankly at his faithful servant for a long moment, then laughed.
“You speak of the battle,” he said. “Of the throne of Wallachia. Of course you do. You do not yet see how little they matter.”
Valeri’s brow furrowed. “How little they matter, my lord?”
“Yes, Valeri. How little anything matters. How unimportant everything has become. But I will show you. I will show you how the world has changed. Approach me.”
“As you wish, my lord,” replied Valeri, and walked towards his master. “What is it…”
But before he could finish the question, his master was upon him. Vlad’s eyes blazed a terrible unnatural red, and his lips were peeled back in an expression that looked close to lustful. His hand closed round Valeri’s throat and he pressed his oldest servant to the cold ground. Even as his master’s fingers sank into the flesh at his throat, even as he looked up into the swirling red of Vlad’s eyes, Valeri’s first instinct was still not to resist; he stared with bulging eyes, until his master spoke to him in a low voice.
“Do you trust me, Valeri?” hissed Vlad. “You swore that you would follow me until death. Will you follow me beyond it?”
Valeri took a shallow breath between the bands of pressure caused by his master’s fingers. His answer required no thought whatsoever, even through his pain and confusion.
“I will… follow you… to the ends of the earth… my lord.”
Vlad smiled, an expression robbed of all levity by the roiling crimson of his eyes. “Then give me your arm,” he said.
Valeri raised his trembling left arm before him. Vlad gripped it with his free hand, and Valeri watched, uncomprehending, as his master opened his mouth to reveal two pointed white fangs emerging from beneath his upper lip. Then the mouth closed over his arm, and Valeri felt pain, for the briefest second, as they punctured his skin. A thin trickle of blood ran round his arm as Vlad closed his eyes. Valeri felt an awful moment of suction, and then it passed. His master threw back his head for a long moment, then looked back down at his servant, his eyes returned to their usual pale blue.
“It is done,” Vlad breathed. “Dress your arm, then go to your brothers. Tell them I would see them.”
Valeri sat up, and looked at his arm. Two small round holes stood out on his flesh, neat and barely bleeding. He pressed his other hand over it, then regarded his master with confusion in his eyes.
“My lord,” he said, in a trembling voice. “I apologise. I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Vlad. “I do. Go to Alexandru and Valentin, and remember what you said. To the ends of the earth, my most loyal friend. To the ends of the earth.”
89 DAYS TILL ZERO HOUR
17
FAMILY TIES
Kate Randall woke up with no idea of where she was.
Before she even opened her eyes, she knew she was somewhere unfamiliar; the bed beneath her body was different, as was the feel of the covers against her skin and the smell of the air around her.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling above her. For a moment, she resisted raising her head and solving the mystery; the ceiling above her was white an
d featureless, and there was no discernible sound. She knew she was probably in the Loop, or somewhere similar, because the ceiling had a featureless, utilitarian quality to it, and the absence of noise led her to conclude she was somewhere safe, somewhere secure. Then the events in the shipyard, temporarily lost in the fog of just-waking and the after-effects of sedatives, crawled into her mind, and she realised she was in the infirmary.
Kate had only been in the wide, white room once before, the day after she accepted her commission into Blacklight. Jamie had wanted her to see the teenage boy who had been down here – Matt, his name was Matt – but they had found the door to the room in which he was lying guarded by Operators from the Security Division. They would not explain why they were there, or why Jamie and Kate were not allowed to see him, and they had been forced to leave, disappointed. They had later heard along with everyone else in the Loop that the boy had woken up from his coma with no memory. As a result, he had been placed under the strictest quarantine, to prevent him learning anything about where he was, or what had happened to him; it was a precaution that might mean he was able to return home and pick up his life where it had left off.
“How are you feeling?” asked a familiar voice.
She turned her head to one side, and saw Larissa sitting in the chair beside her bed, a worried look on her face. Kate gave her a smile that she hoped was encouraging, and pushed herself up against her pillows.
“Not bad,” she replied, hearing the croak in her voice. She reached for the glass of water standing on the bedside table, drank half of it and felt instantly better. “Not too bad at all, considering.”
“That’s good,” said Larissa, and smiled. “You’re completely clear of infection. The transfusion was a complete success.”