"Sire . . . they only did it for the best," said Mirko, standing up for his men. He had survived Emeric's army, where he would never have done that. But he had—gradually—learned that his new commander was different.
Vlad illustrated how different he was. "I know. That's why I am promoting them. We need more sergeants. They need to learn to shoot better, though. And to deal with such idiots faster," said Vlad.
"He . . . the boyar is one of our overlords, Sire."
Vlad shook his head. "At best he was a fool. At worst a spy and a traitor. And he seemed to forget that I am his overlord. Well. He is a boyar no more. He's a peasant and a deserter. Five gold forint for the man who brings me his head."
Mirko grinned. "It's a public service that most of the men will do for free, Drac."
"In the meantime, we need to get a move on, to get those wagons unloaded and onto the horses and to heading back into the mountains. I think we'll take the road along Drumhos valley. That boyar may know too much about the other possible routes. We'll also be moving camp again. Send a man on a good horse with my instruction. I told Emil we'd probably do it."
"Sire!" said Mirko, saluting respectfully and grinning.
A few moments later Vlad heard Mirko telling the troops to jump to it. And two wary looking you peasant recruits came out of the mist and saluted. "Sire. Sergeant Mirko sent us to see you. He said to say it was about that boyar."
"Ah. He is not a boyar any more."
"No Sire. He is. He was alive, S . . .Sire." stammered the one with the thatch of black hair and a single solid eyebrow.
"He is, yes. Unfortunately. He just is not a nobleman in my realm anymore. I will have both his lands and his head for cowardice and treachery. Now, what are your names?"
The surprised looking soldiers took a moment to absorb this. "Viorel, Sire," said the solid-browed one.
"Brudhos, Sire," said the stolid second man.
"Very well, Sergeants Viorel and Brudhos," said Vlad with a smile. "See that you work on the accuracy of your shooting. And now get back to helping load the pay chests out of those wagons. I'll not have them looted. That's your pay and the pay of rest of our men up in the mountains, in there."
It was the sort of work, Vlad noted, that men could go to with a will. He reluctantly admitted that there was an element of bandit in even the best of men, even himself. Like the animal, the hard part was keeping it subservient to the good man in there too.
* * *
King Emeric, in the temporary quarters he had appropriated from one of the local overlords, got the news of his missing pay chests later that same afternoon, along with an injured boyar. The man had lost some blood and ridden more than thirty miles. He was pale and clinging to the saddle when Emeric saw him from the windows of the room which he had set up as his operations center. The Croat officer with him was not much more cheerful looking when they arrived and dismounted. "Now what is it?" demanded Emeric irritably, as the two men were shown into the drawing room. He'd been going through reports from the various districts and towns in Valahia. He had invested little money or effort on spies here, in this subject kingdom. Now he wished that he had done more.
"Your Majesty. The army pay wagons have been attacked and robbed," said the Croat Captain, not wasting any time in getting to the point, getting the worst over with.
Emeric flung a fragile inkstand—a beautiful piece of Venetian glass and silver—hard enough to smash onto the thick turkey carpet. "Damn your eyes. Did I not order them escorted with at least three squads of cavalry! This country is rotten with thieving bandits. Find the nearest settlement. Crucify five men, five women and five children until they talk. The local peasantry and burghers always know, and always sing. And then burn their homes. You know that. You've served with me long enough. I remember your face from Corfu."
"Your Majesty, I took steps against the nearest villiage. Then . . . this man came to us."
Emeric looked at the obviously wounded man. He looked and dressed like one of the minor nobility of this benighted principality. The wounded man was not in chains. If he'd been one of the brigands, he would have expected a brutal and efficient officer like this Croat to make sure of that. In fact the officer would probably have made him sing, and then followed the pay chests already, if that was the case. "Who are you?" said King Emeric, his eyes narrowed.
"The boyar Pishtac. From Cluj." said the man uneasily. His right arm hung useless at his side.
"And what do you have to do with my army's pay chests?" asked Emeric.
"They were taken by Prince Vlad. I tried to stop it . . . to warn . . ."
Emeric walked up to him. "Taken by Prince Vlad indeed. He is in the high Carpathians. His ragtag peasant army don't dare come down."
The Croat officer coughed. "Your Majesty, there were four squads with the pay wagons. Eighty men on horseback. They were all killed bar two—and they bear out what this man says. They were attacked by well-armed well-disciplined men, who fired in massed volley. The villagers heard it too. And the two survivors confirm the attackers calling 'Drac'. "
Emeric scratched his chin. He hated losing his gold, far more than he hated losing men. Men bred. Gold had to be dragged out of a reluctant population. His tax men were good at it, and he had given them almost unlimited powers, but there was never as much as he wanted. "Tell me what you were doing there," he said to the boyar. "And how come you failed to save my gold."
"I tried, Your Majesty."
"Tried is not good enough," Emeric said, preparing to vent some of his rage on the man. The fellow's next words changed his plans.
"Countess Bartholdy said I was to go with him," said the boyar cowering back. "I couldn't help it. Honestly, Your Majesty. I did my best."
Emeric let his hands fall, and turned to his factotum. "Get this man a chair, before he falls down. And then all of you get out of here. I need to question this man alone." He looked at the quaking boyar. "And give him some brandy."
Soon, the boyar was seated in a comfortable armchair. A large glass of very good brandy, held clumsily in his left hand, clattered against the boyar's teeth, and spilled down his shirt. Emeric smiled. "Now I need to know where Vlad of Valahia is. And I need to know exactly what he is planning. And, of course, I want my gold back." Emeric paused. "And I also want to know just what my dear aunt is up to."
The glass nearly ended up on the floor. It was good Venetian glass, Emeric noted. He would have his people to look into just what the local lordling was paying in taxes. "She's a witch."
"No, strictly speaking I believe that she is an enchantress. She dislikes and despises witches. She has done a great deal to eliminate pagans from my lands, and has destroyed the Streghira. But that is beside the point, right now. First Vlad of Valahia. What does he plan?"
"I tried to get him to tell me, Your Majesty. But the man . . . if he is a man, and not a demon . . ."
"He's a man. He's going to be a dead man when I catch up with him. So what does he plan? Did you glean anything of value? Your own life depends on this, Boyar. Give me what I need and you'll have lands and life. Otherwise, I may become angry. You wouldn't want that."
"Your Majesty . . . mercy."
Emeric sniffed. The man had fouled himself. Bah. Where there no real men out there? "Of course. Just tell me all that you can. And I will decide if it is enough for rewards . . . or punishments." He wondered if torturing one of her creatures was worth the risk. Probably. She really did not care.
"I can show you where their camp is. On the map. I made sure that I could find it again."
Emeric let him show him, and two of his Generals, who carefully ignored the stink of the man. If Vlad knew this fool had run off, he'd already have moved. But he was moving a large encampment. There would be traces.
The rest of the questioning did not go so well. The one real and substantive piece of information the boyar had to offer was that Vlad had been very interested in the cost of horses, and where to buy them. Well, that little avenue cou
ld be closed. Emeric would forbid the sale of horseflesh. But the man could tell Emeric little that he didn't already know. The boyar was not deep in Elizabeth's confidence. Emeric suspected—indeed detected with his own rudimentary knowledge and skills that Elizabeth had taught him, some form of compulsion set on the man. He would do whatever she ordered him to do. That unfortunately didn't tell Emeric what Elizabeth wanted this man to do.
Eventually Emeric let the boyar leave. Or rather, be taken away to a chirugeon. Not because he'd been as co-operative as possible but because he stank and kept fainting.
PART V
November, 1540 A.D.
Chapter 49
"The seasons move, the stars dance in their ancient courses and fiery portents are seen in the sky," said Radu, who was prone to a poetic turn of phrase.
"And besides that, it is getting damned cold," said Grigori. "The first snows will be here soon. We need to move."
"And the foraging is getting thin around here," said Radu.
Angelo shook his head. "Another week at least. They are still too small. They need the vents at night. Soon they'll be big enough to walk the woods on their own. We need to teach them to hunt."
"It will be easier than feeding them. They're getting more voracious by the day."
"They're just growing. They'll slow down soon enough." said Angelo who had been through two hatchings before. The pack lived far longer than most ordinary humans as a result of the magical blood, but he was beginning to feel his age a little.
"Just as well, or there would not be enough game for them in all Valahia, let alone on this mountain," said Grigori, stretching.
"It's just forcing you to run a little more," said Radu. "You said you liked to run. You said that we spent too much time riding when we were with the Drac."
"So who is going to take the Dowager Duchess's letter to the Drac? It's time he came south anyway," said Grigori.
"You. It'll give you a break from hunting for food for the young ones," said Angelo.
"So I get a longer cross-country run instead. Alone, no doubt." He didn't sound too unhappy about it. Well, Angelo knew that the new Drac, his survival and future preyed on their minds. Once the Drac had merely been the man of a river priestess, and then, his sons, hill-chieftains. And back then the protection he afforded the pack was small. But for centuries now, that protection had been growing. And with the coming of the travelers from the south . . . well, they were convenient cover for the pack. But they did carry the potential for persecution with them. And the pack knew they were outnumbered, and if they failed, if the wyverns failed, and if the Drac failed, the other non-humans would not help them.
"Take one of the youngsters with you. You can teach him a bit about hunting on the way," said Angelo. Radu would complain later, no doubt. But Grigori was the best at fitting in with humans. He was more flexible than Radu. And it was time to start to groom some new blood to lead the pack. They could be in for some very tough times, if the Drac failed . . . but for the first time, they had a second throw of the dice with the younger sister.
Later that afternoon Grigori and young Miu set off, loping quietly through the trees. The little Besarab noticed they were missing. She didn't miss much, that girl. Tante Silvia said she'd been fiddling with the all the rubbish in the cart, obviously looking for something. Well, the blood grail would just have to be hidden from her.
* * *
When Vlad arrived back at their camp with the pack-train, the camp had already been largely dismantled. For the last month it had been practical to divide the camps up. This was far from the only base that Vlad had ready. He had hidden food stores, and spare weapons. He even had the Smereks safely secreted in a cave which had been refitted as a makeshift smithy. The men were used to moving. Used to not knowing where they would go, until they actually left. Vlad thought it worked very well. It would make them hard to find.
It appeared that the gypsy and his young companion hadn't found it so difficult. They were lounging next to a large rock when Vlad rode up.
Vlad leapt down from his horse in delight and hugged Grigori, rather to the gypsy's surprise and disapproval of their other watchers. Vlad did not care. He'd missed the ragged men, and the music . . . And he owed them. He owed them a debt even greater than that he owed to Countess Elizabeth Bartholdy. "Angelo? Radu? Are they here too?" he asked eagerly.
"Too lazy to make the run, Drac," said Grigori with his usual wicked wolfish grin. "This is my young cousin, eh. Young Miu. I brought him along for company."
The young man bowed. He was a younger version of Grigori, even with the same grey eyes. "Drac," he said, bowing. "They did say that you were very tall. But you are even taller than I thought. You look very like your sister."
"My sister?" said Vlad, puzzled. The last time he'd seen her she'd been a big-eyed toddler. He could barely remember her.
Grigori fished in his ragged patchwork cotte and pulled out a sealed letter. "We have them—your mother and your sister—hidden and safe on Moldoveneau mountain, Drac. This is a message from your mother."
Vlad's guilt nearly overwhelmed him as he took it. He had been so busy first surviving and then building up an army and fighting King Emeric's troops that he had not even given a thought to his own family! True, he had not seen, or been allowed to hear from them for ten years. But that was no excuse. He tried desperately to reconstruct the image of his mother in his mind. He had done his best not think of her, for so many years. But he could still remember the songs she had sung to him. She'd been big . . . then. But so had everyone. He had been a small boy.
He opened the letter, breaking the seal of the house of Valah . . . two wyverns supporting the rooted crown. Eagerly he unfolded the page. Just one page of a neat, slightly crabbed handwriting.
"Dearest son," he read. His eyes blurred. She had always called him that.
He tried to get a grip on himself. Surely all mothers addressed letters to their sons thus?
"What have you got there, Prince Vlad?" asked the countess Elizabeth, musically.
He bowed. "A letter from my mother."
"So nice. And what does she have to say? Where is she?"
"I . . . haven't managed to read it yet," he said, feeling foolish.
"Poor boy. Can I read it for you? Where did it suddenly come from?"
"Oh, the gypsies brought it for me," he said, gesturing—and suddenly realizing he was gesturing at nothing in particular. He blinked. Where had they got to while he'd opened the letter. "They've gone," he said, lamely
"To be expected, Prince Vlad," she said, waving a languid hand in front of her nose. "gypsies. Dirty and untrustworthy, everyone knows that."
"Well . . . they have looked after me. They, er, they have helped me a great deal."
"I doubt if they did it for you, Prince. They have their own agendas. And they will desert you when they are done with those purposes." She looked him from under lowered lashes. "They're said to be ritual murderers you know. They use blood magic. Every adult gypsy man must rape and kill a non-gypsy child. The shared conspiracy and secrecy binds them. They have plans, evil plans, for you."
He gaped. Thieves yes. They were . . . although they seemed to have a code of honor, a line which they did not cross. But murderers? Why? Why had they brought him home.
"They practice dark rituals every day. Defile churches . . ."
"I lived with them for weeks. I never saw anything like that."
"You can't trust them, Prince Vlad. They will seduce you into their own evil ways with their blood magic. And then abandon you."
They had left him . . . but they'd brought him home too. Protected him. Perhaps for their own ends . . . He didn't want to argue with her about it. "If you will excuse me, I must read this letter," he said.
"Let me read it for you," she said with a devastating smile.
Reluctantly, but unable to resist, he handed the letter to her. "How is it that you look so young, Countess?" he said admiring her smooth skin. Vlad was not
versed in feminine looks or ages. He assumed that she must be a little older than himself. In references to the passage of time at court she'd mentioned things that had happened some years ago. "You could be twenty-five."
She nearly dropped the letter. He was surprised at the poisonous look that came over her face . . . It was the first time he'd seen her look anything other than serene or smiling. It made her look a lot older. "I do not thrive outdoors. Now, let me read this for you. "Dearest son."
She somehow made it sound very commonplace.
* * *
Grigori could scarcely believe that they'd got away. What was SHE doing here? Yes, he knew that the old woman kept out of the public eye too much in the Magyar lands. What was she doing so openly here? The pack had never hunted the Pannoian plains, so they knew her less well than they might. What he did know, frightened him. Grigori wished desperately that Angelo was here, rather than young Miu . . . even if it had been Miu that had smelled her and warned him. By the Old Ones . . . she stank. Age and decay and fear. The terror of others, rubbed into her decrepit flesh. How the people around her could stand it . . . human noses were really inadequate. He shuddered to think of it. They'd barely got away in time, and right now, the further away the better as far as he was concerned. What was the Drac doing consorting with such a one? Had she entrapped him? Were they all doomed, the pack, the Old Ones, the compact?
"And now," said Miu, rubbing his nose as if that would rid him of the scent that still clung there. "What do we do, uncle?"
Grigori wished he knew. His instinct was to run. But they'd been charged by the Drac's mother—rather repetitively, it seemed to him—with bringing back a message from her son. She, and possibly the little one, were their second chance, maybe their only chance if the old woman had her hooks into the Drac. They would run off if no message came back. The two women, Grigori knew, stood very little chance if they left the gypsy encampment.
"Back off and watch," he said, finally. "We need to see him. When she is not around. She'll be watching for us too. And she'll kill both of us pretty quick if she gets her hands on us."
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 37