Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  Outside the campsite, László stayed close to Vlad, casting frantic glances all around him. When the sound of a broken branch came from the hillside, László shrieked and ducked behind Vlad.

  “I spotted three riders and a wagon,” Lash said, emerging from the wood. “One’s riding about a hundred yards ahead. The other two are trailing a few yards behind.”

  “The fourth one’s probably riding in the driver’s seat,” Vlad said. “It must be our Akincis.”

  “We’ve got to get away now,” László said, and took a few steps toward the forest.

  “I give them two hours to make it here,” Lash said, ignoring him.

  “Just in time for their afternoon prayer,” Vlad said.

  “What do we do?” Gruya said.

  “We run away, of course,” László said, in a tone more furious than scared. “Are you insane? If we all don’t get killed on sight, we’ll end up spending the rest of our lives digging for copper in some Anatolian mine.”

  “Why the fuck did you have to come with us?” Gruya said, exasperated.

  “Certainly not out of a death wish,” László said. “I want to get as far away from here as possible.”

  “Too late for that now,” Vlad said, “unless you’re ready to brave the forest road back on your own.”

  “And what do I do if—er, not if but when you all get killed?” Without waiting for an answer, László took off at a run toward the forest, the tip of his oversized hussar’s saber dragging on the ground.

  “To eavesdrop on them we’ll have to get pretty close,” Gruya said. “And we can only do that in the dark.”

  “They’ll be done talking by then,” Vlad said. “We’d best do it while they’re having their supper. We need a place to hide close by.”

  The valley floor between Adela’s Twins was pockmarked with burrows dug by animals or carved out by floodwaters, and overgrown with shrubs and tall weeds. Vlad chose a burrow lying about thirty feet to the side of the camp opening. He said to Lash, “Dig up some shrubs from the edge of the forest and plant them around this hole. Leave no trace of scattered earth or broken twigs. It’s got to look as if it’s never been touched by human hands.”

  When Lash completed the work, Vlad and Gruya stepped into the burrow and crouched to the ground. Lash said, “They’d have to come looking close to see you.”

  “Satan’s scrotum, man,” Gruya shouted, unnerved, “this isn’t the time to draw the evil eye on us.” He crossed himself and spit over his left shoulder.

  “Go find a safe hiding place for yourself,” Vlad told Lash. “We’ll get out of here after dark and return to the horses. If something happens to us, take László back to Targoviste. I don’t want Father to have troubles with Hunyadi on account of my adventure.”

  CHAPTER 26: The Justice of the Sword

  “There they are,” Gruya exclaimed, his voice strangled. “A rider in the front, two in the rear, and a wagon in between, like Lash said.”

  Though Vlad had been expecting these words for more than an hour, now they stung him like nettles. His heart began to throb and his right leg started to shake. He’d been lying at the bottom of their shelter pretending to doze, while Gruya kept watch.

  “Glad they made it here before these plantings wilted and gave us away,” he said, forcing calm.

  He guessed that from the point Gruya could’ve spotted them, the Turks needed another thirty minutes to reach the campsite. “Wake me up when they enter the meadow,” he said with feigned indifference, and turned on his side.

  Minutes passed in silence. Vlad tried to hide his agitation from Gruya by breathing slowly, though his lungs ached for air. For a while he indulged the thought it wasn’t too late for Gruya and him to sneak away. They could be at the edge of the forest in twenty seconds. If they kept close to the ground, the Turks wouldn’t notice them. The words of his father, recalling his own pursuit by the Akincis, rang in Vlad’s ears, “I heard their hoofbeats behind me, and I froze.” Better to stay here, under cover. By now the Turks had to be close; on foot, Gruya and Vlad would be easy prey.

  “Oh, no,” Gruya said, with a chuckle. “These folks aren’t Turks. They’re ordinary merchants.”

  “How could that be?” Vlad said. He wanted to jump to his feet at the unexpected news, but that would betray his nervousness. Instead he remained still, as if the matter was of little import. “Look close. Their bows will tell you what they are.”

  “I see no bows.”

  Vlad felt a sudden relief, as if he’d just regained his footing after sliding out of control toward a precipice. They were safe. But if he was rejoicing it meant he was still a coward. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said, gruff. He rose to his knees and shoved Gruya to the side.

  The lone rider preceding the wagon was now a mere sixty yards away. He wore a lamb cachoolah tipped onto his ear and a sheepskin jerkin of the kind favored by local peasants. Vlad could spot neither bow nor sword on him. The wagon driver and the two riders following in the rear were dressed in the same manner, and appeared unarmed as well. That these travelers weren’t soldiers was obvious. Yet Vlad felt there was something amiss about them.

  “We’d better come out now,” Gruya said, “before we give these poor people the fright of their lives—”

  “Wait,” Vlad said. The wagon had made a turn to avoid some obstacle, and now Vlad could see a spare horse tethered to it. “Look at the saddle on that horse. It’s got an unusual design, something you don’t see around here.”

  “They could’ve bought it at a fair.”

  True. Yet something else felt out of norm. Vlad strained to figure out what. It came to him with a shock. “Their stirrups are too short for ordinary riders.”

  “Maybe they’ve got short legs,” Gruya said.

  Father Gunther’s description of raiders’ habits left no doubt what these travelers were. “Akincis shorten their stirrups when on campaign. It helps them shoot their bows backward while riding full speed.”

  “Nah, these people aren’t Akincis,” Gruya said standing. “They’re Christians like you and me—”

  “Zekaï yayımı ver! Çabuk!” the lead rider shouted, in a harsh tone that hit Vlad like a blast of frigid wind.

  Vlad drew Gruya by the tail of his shirt down to his knees. “Your Christian’s just asked for his bow in Turkish,” he whispered, panic struck. “I think he’s spotted you.”

  Gruya’s hand flew to his sword handle but Vlad blocked him before he could unsheathe his blade, and growled in his ear, “No more fucking sounds.”

  Vlad watched in horror the unfolding of a scene he believed might be the last he’d see this side of Judgment Day. It played out with a speed that made it impossible for him to reflect upon anything he could’ve done different to avoid ending up trapped in this hole like a dumb varmint.

  The Turk wheeled his horse around and dashed back to the wagon. His cachoolah fell to the ground, exposing his shaved scalp. In seconds he was beside the driver, who handed him a bow and a quiver. The rider nocked an arrow against the bowstring and returned at a gallop toward their hiding place. About twenty yards away he stopped, rose in the saddle, and peered ahead of him. Vlad was struck by the strength that radiated from the Turk’s weather-beaten face. His powerful nose and fleshy lips conveyed both determination and cruelty.

  The Turk placed a hand behind his ear and turned his head to the side, as someone trying to catch a distant sound might. Vlad held his breath and let himself slump to the ground, dragging Gruya with him. A rolling thunder crashed inside his head.

  A moment later the ground shook, as the horse shot past the burrow. A few more seconds, and the clatter of hoofbeats ceased. Then the sound resumed, but this time coming closer and closer. The rider was returning. Vlad’s fright threatened to strangle him.

  When the horse got to the burrow, it stopped and whickered, directly above the cover of loose branches. Crouching, forehead in the dirt, Vlad held a hand to his mouth to stifle his panting. His other hand
found Oma’s medallion and pressed it edgewise against his chest until the pain became unbearable.

  “What’s going on, Omar?” a youthful voice shouted in Turkish from the distance.

  “False alarm,” the man on the horse replied. “Get the wagon into position and unload the children. I want them settled down before prayer time.” His voice had the grating resonance of an iron ball dragged over a slab of stone.

  For a few moments, everything above remained still. Vlad listened to the horse’s breathing, wishing it would move on. Instead, he heard Omar dismount with a groan. No, a growl. He’d spotted them, and now he was toying with their lives. A black cloud of regret burst over Vlad. Why did he have to be so reckless?

  He shut his eyes and made the sign of the cross with the tip of his tongue. If only he could reach his sword and spring out of the burrow before Omar could loose an arrow into his back. He’d still be struck down, but could at least depart this world in a more dignified manner. But the sword was somewhere at his feet, and he didn’t dare stir. He clenched his teeth and braced himself for the sharp pain he expected would shoot through him any moment. Then he heard the sound of pissing, followed by a loud fart, and he knew his life had been spared.

  “So far I’ve got the names of two of them,” Vlad whispered after Omar walked away, leading his horse by the reins. “Not that it’s going to be of much use to us.” He continued to hide his fright for Gruya’s benefit.

  “I’m sorry, Vlad.” Gruya’s shirt was soaked with perspiration and his face was covered with red welts. “I almost got us killed.”

  “It was my stupid idea to get ourselves trapped in here like this. We’re lucky they didn’t have a dog to sniff us out. That possibility didn’t occur to me until now...

  The sound of rattling chains drew their attention to the wagon, now parked in front of the campsite opening. A young man, Vlad assumed he was Zekaï, busied himself with unlatching the wagon gate, watched over from a distance by the two Turks who’d brought up the rear. Zekaï appeared no older than Gruya, while the other two seemed to be seasoned men in their late twenties. Now all three had bows slung over their shoulders and quivers full of arrows strapped to their backs.

  “It’s stuck again,” Zekaï said, tapping the latch with a rock. “Come give me a hand, Redjaï, or we’ll be here all day.”

  “I’m not getting close to that stinking trough. You do it, Sezaï.”

  “Stop arguing, Brothers,” Omar’s voice came from inside the camp, “and get the kids to the hillside before they shit themselves again. If they do I’ll make you wash them and the wagon before I let you eat supper.”

  “So now we’ve got all of their names,” Vlad said into Gruya’s ear. “And they are brothers. The one who nearly pissed on us is Omar. He’s the one in charge.”

  “The bolt’s stuck because the children are pressing against the gate,” Sezaï said. He snatched the rock from Zekaï’s hand and slammed it hard against the latch. The gate flipped open with a bang and a row of four children tumbled out of the wagon, falling headlong to the ground. The chains that tethered them by the neck to the other prisoners dragged the next two rows on top of them.

  “Hey, watch out, you bums,” Omar shouted. “Don’t damage the merchandise.”

  “Virgin Mary’s tits,” Gruya said, and blessed himself, his eyes riveted on the sight in front of him. “There must be more than twenty kids there. All bruised and chained up, and not a peep out of them. “

  “Twenty-eight,” Vlad said, “and too scared to cry.”

  Zekaï led the prisoners toward the barren hill to the east. Sezaï and Redjaï hobbled the horses and the mules, then set them free to graze in front of the camp. When done, they walked over to the forest and returned a few minutes later with armfuls of firewood.

  “What if we stole their horses and mules tonight?” Gruya said. “They’d be stuck here, wouldn’t they?”

  “No good. The Turks would just slaughter the children and leave on foot. As long as they have their bows, we still couldn’t get them.”

  In the distance, Vlad could see the children squatting on the slope of the hill. A few feet to the side, Zekaï was squatting as well.

  “Too bad we didn’t anticipate that,” Gruya said, pointing in Zekaï’s direction. “We could’ve killed that Turk while he was shitting.”

  “The children would’ve given us away with their screaming. It would’ve been different if we could’ve ambushed the two gathering the firewood.”

  “We’ll know better next time.”

  By the time the children returned and filed into the campsite, smoke had begun to rise above the briar hedge. Soon the rattle of wooden bowls indicated the prisoners were about to be fed.

  “Shouldn’t we get away now?” Gruya said. “Seeing that we missed only by a fly’s cock getting discovered?”

  Vlad felt the same way, but was loath to admit it. “We haven’t learned anything of their plans yet.”

  “Send me the kid with the long hair, once you’ve fed him.” The voice shouting that command was Omar’s, but it came from somewhere far away to the right, where there was nothing but water surrounded by thorny bushes. Vlad translated for Gruya.

  “The degenerate must have gone for a swim,” Gruya said.

  “That changes the situation,” Vlad said, feeling a new wave of excitement coming over him. “Perhaps we can venture a closer look, if Omar’s in the water.” There was something irresistible about the notion he could spy on the Akincis at close range. He unsheathed his sword and climbed out of the burrow; Gruya shadowed him. They crept to the back of the wagon, then crawled to the opening of the campsite. Vlad put his face to the ground and peeked into the passageway from under the lowest branch of the briar bush. Only ten yards separated him from two of the Turks.

  “What do you see?” Gruya mouthed, tugging at Vlad’s sleeve.

  Vlad’s heart thumped, violent, and he had to wait a few moments before he could speak. “Sezaï’s sitting on the far side of the fire, facing this way,” he whispered into Gruya’s ear. “Redjaï’s on the near side, facing the water. They’ve put on their turbans.”

  “What about Omar?”

  “No sight of him. He must be still in the water.”

  Vlad peeked again, listening for any sound that would tell him Omar’s location.

  “What if the boy can’t swim, Omar?” he heard Zekaï shout from behind the bushes at their right.

  “Don’t you worry, Zekaï,” Omar shouted back from far away. “Just hurry up and get him ready. I’m getting cold.”

  “Omar will let the boy ride on his back,” Sezaï said and snickered. “It’s part of his fun.”

  “Cold water’s the last place I’d want to play with the boys,” Redjaï said.

  Vlad translated for Gruya then said, “This might be a chance we’ll never get again.”

  Gruya looked at Vlad, incredulous, and asked with his eyes, “Do you mean...?”

  Vlad nodded. “Wait for my signal, then move fast. We’ve got to surprise them.”

  “But there are three of them and—”

  “I’ll take the two by the fire,” Vlad said. “The third one’s yours. Omar’s naked and away from his weapons. We’ll deal with him afterward.”

  Vlad turned his head back to Sezaï. As he stared at his quarry’s black eyes, the unsettling memory of two other eyes watching him came to Vlad. Yellow, ferocious, yet guileless. Why did he falter then? It wasn’t fear. It was because the she-wolf knew no evil; it felt wrong to kill her. Still, it almost cost Father and Vlad their lives. Hesitation was death. He shook off the wolf’s memory and gripped tight the hilt of his sword. This felt right. There would be no hesitation this time.

  “The boy’s ready,” Zekaï shouted over the rattling of chains. “Come and get him.”

  “Now,” Vlad hissed, and without waiting for Gruya to react jumped to his feet and bolted through the passage, sword held above his head. He glanced to his right and saw Zekaï standi
ng in front of the pack of children, holding a boy by the hand. Then he turned his eyes to Sezaï, and saw him reaching for his bow lying on the ground at his left. The man was fast, but not fast enough. Vlad leaped over the flames and brought his sword down upon the Turk’s head. As the blade smashed through Sezaï’s skull it sent a satisfying vibration through Vlad’s arm, like the blow of an ax when it hit the tree deep and true. He landed with a half turn to the right, yanked his sword free, and pivoted on his left heel. The blade floated in a horizontal arc toward Redjaï’s head. Too slow, too slow. The man was already aiming an arrow at Vlad’s face.

  As the thought that he was doomed burst upon him, Vlad caught sight of Lash in the passageway. What was he doing there? Then there was a pop, and the arrow released, brushing against Vlad’s left ear. His sword continued its flight to Redjaï’s temple. The momentum carried Vlad past his target causing him to trip, fall, and slam his head against a boulder.

  “Are you hurt, Master?” Vlad heard Lash shout as he scrambled back to his feet. “Forgive me for missing—”

  “Missing what?” Vlad said, dazed from the fall. There was stinging pain on the side of his head, and when he touched the spot it felt wet.

  “I threw my dagger at this one,” Lash said pointing at Redjaï’s corpse, “but hit his bow instead.”

  Still disoriented, Vlad looked at the two bodies at his feet. The cloth of Sezaï’s turban was jammed inside his crushed skull, and had turned scarlet. Redjaï’s turban had flown a few feet away, together with the top half of his cranium. Two brothers, one moment chatting carefree, the next moment dead.

  Then he remembered the third brother.

  “Gruya,” he screamed at Lash, “help Gruya with his Turk.” But when he looked to the spot where he’d seen Zekaï last, Vlad understood Gruya needed no help.

  With the children watching in terrified silence, Gruya and Zekaï were standing toe-to-toe, appearing as two men engaged in intimate conversation. Zekaï’s hands were clutching Gruya’s arms, and his eyes had the expression of wonder one might show on encountering a long-lost friend. Gruya’s sword protruded two feet from Zekaï’s back.