Much Fall of Blood-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  * * *

  Elizabeth Bartholdy could barely contain her rage. She had to get away from here. She needed blood now. Preferably young and noble. Twenty-five! Damn this upstart boy. But he was too ignorant to lie. He really thought so. She'd given the devil a lein on her soul to remain forever seventeen. Of course he'd set conditions. But these days it seemed that she could barely go a week without her bath. And even moving between her various establishments, and with her rank, and deliberately keeping a low profile—she was beautiful and people did ask suspicious questions when she remained that way—it was difficult to find sufficient victims. She needed their pain and terror as much as their blood. It all took time. And if word got out, real confirmed word, there might be repercussions. Nothing that she couldn't deal with, but enough to make hunting for victims harder. She'd had to fake her own death, once before, before returning as a cousin—just as beautiful, but with golden hair.

  And then there were the damned gypsies, as they called themselves. Ha. Did they really think that she did not know what they were? As soon as she got back to her tools and paraphernalia . . . she had enough . . . there had been tiny amounts of wolf-saliva on that message. She'd deal with them. Nets and iron would work.

  The nauseating pap in this mother's letter was almost the final insult.

  Vlad looked ready to burst into tears. Useless soft fool.

  She had to get out of here. Had to. Even to entrap him she could not stay another day—especially as it seemed that they would be doing nothing but moving, and, it seemed as if he would be off campaigning for days after that. She had her agents in place now. They would bring him to her establishment near Caedonia. She needed her blood. She was obviously showing her age. "I am sorry, Vlad," she said, caressing his cheek. "I have also had messages that I go and attend to some business." The dismay written on his face was comical. She had worried, just a little, that he would be able to resist her. He did resist more than a mortal should.

  She touched his cheek. "I am trying to recruit you some more men and of course, money. Politics, dear. Not your forte, but something every ruler needs to master."

  He made an effort and smiled. "I will ask you to do it for me."

  For a very brief moment she was almost tempted. He would make such a good front for her. Better than Emeric. Emeric needed power, and Elizabeth, to stay on the throne. Vlad they might just follow because they loved him. And oh, how she could corrupt that. She smiled at him again. "It's a hard task. But if you are to assume your rightful place you'll need more than just the support of the commons, Prince Vlad."

  "Better men than Boyar Pishtac, I hope," said Vlad rather curtly.

  He was plainly a little stung by her reference to his troops as commoners. They were, of course. But they were loyal to him. She would erode that, given time. Not that it was important, really. He would be in her clutches and drained long before that became relevant. "Oh?" said Elizabeth, raising her eyebrows. "What did he do? I haven't see him. I will chastise him."

  Vlad shrugged. "He fled when we clashed with Emeric's troops."

  She was startled. He shouldn't have been able to do that. He was supposed to find out what Vlad's plans were. She thought she'd soothe Emeric with such information. The Prince had said to her twice, that he really needed someone to help him with strategy. That he could talk to. And then he'd run off. It was this place. It had a negative impact on her workings. It was affecting her! She was quite right that it was a good time to leave. "I will send word. His family will be dealt with."

  "But . . . just because he was a traitor . . . does not mean that they are," protested the young Prince, showing his naivety. He obviously had not understood any politics yet. "I think, Countess, that he was in the pay of King Emeric. He could betray you."

  She sighed. "Perhaps I was too trusting. But he will not dare speak ill of me to the King. I promise that." She toyed with the idea letting Emeric 'capture' her and luring this fool into a rescue. But firstly she needed his blood to stay in his veins until it suited her, and secondly, he might just succeed. He should not have been able to do what he had done, without either support or money. It had to be magic. She wondered, just for an instant, if she could harness it. Or if he too had made his compact with her master. It would be typical of the dark lord to set them against each other. A game for his demons to play. A betrayal of hopes. But no. The boy was still an innocent, if not virginal.

  Her hands twitched. She'd done something about that woman, anyway.

  "I am still sorry that you must go. But so must we. I expect Emeric will be hunting us. I will arrange a suitable escort to see that you are not intercepted," He said.

  "Emeric is unaware of my sympathies. Even if Boyar Pishtac has betrayed you and I, he can hardly have reached the King. And it would take a direct instruction from the King before any lesser soldier would dare to act against me. And I have legitimate reason to be here in Carpathia. I have my estates at Caedonia and the nunnery there—which is where I will need you to meet me, Prince. I will have some special things arranged by then."

  He bowed. "I will be there, Countess. Nothing would stop me."

  She smiled graciously at him. She had him. She need spend no longer in these unappealing and rude circumstances. "There is one other thing you could do for me—I don't need an escort, but your mother and sister will need them. I can provide them with safety and shelter at my estate. Emeric will not look for them there. But you'd better send some of your best men to protect them. And be aware that the gypsies may not want them to go. They keep them as hostages, I think."

  She'd struck home with that one. "I'll sent Emil. And fifty of my best. I'm just not sure where to."

  "Emil? Is he the man you set to guard me? It is no use sending fifty men, Prince Vlad. The gypsies will hide from them. Just send Emil to be their bodyguard—and to help them steal away. He is so trustable." she smiled. "I will need his help in packing up my things."

  "I will order him to assist you," he said, smiling gallantly. "Or could I help you myself."

  She lowered her eyelashes. "Such work is beneath a prince."

  "I would gladly do it to help you."

  "Ah. But I would not demean you thus," she said. "Emil will do very well. A Prince must show the commons that he knows his worth."

  * * *

  Vlad thought about the need to show his men that he was indeed a Prince. It puzzled and worried him. He'd lived with them, eaten from the same pots, slept rough next to them . . . they still treated him with deference. In the end he concluded it was probably good advice if the men did not know you. His men did. They'd built a legend around him, to believe in. It almost didn't seem to matter what he did.

  The business of getting the camp moved, and seeing Elizabeth safely off occupied Vlad for most of the rest of the day. His scouts—and the mountains seemed alive with those who would bring word to him—reported some Croat scouts, that they had shot at. The days had long gone where King Emeric's scouts or indeed anything less than a few hundred men could move freely in the north end of the Carpathians. Someone, somewhere would shoot at them.

  But at close of day, he had something of a surprise for his men. They were volunteers, serving him out of loyalty and the hope of eventual reward. And of course the chance of some loot. Vlad knew that, and had seen the effects of the desire to loot. He hoped to ease that desire a little.

  "Parade the men, Mirko."

  It was something he had not done very often, and it plainly surprised his partisans. They drilled in formation to shoot and to march, but not to stand. He'd sat with the quartermaster Sergeant earlier, and found that his little army had grown more than he'd realized. He had—including the scouts and the men in the two smaller camps—just over a thousand men. Barely a bite for Emeric's armies—the king could field eighty thousand, if he called up levies, and possibly more. But still, for a Prince who had arrived as a vagabond in his own duchy, a vast step up. He still did not have quite enough arquebuses for them, but the S
merek brothers had quite a manufactory going. They were—Vlad did not ask how—getting components up from their old workshops and contacts. Cast-brass barrels for the little cannon too had come up from the south, somehow bypassing Emeric's checkpoints. But they really needed a far better and more stable base, one where they could actually machine the weapons from scratch. That too was on Vlad's mind. The Smereks were getting a substantial chunk of the money that King Emeric's paymasters should have been handing to his troops. So was the quartermaster. But Emeric had been paying seven times the number of men, and of course, officers, who were paid much more generously. And this had been the money for the next quarter. Vlad knew regular pay would be beyond his means . . . but for some of his peasant irregulars this would be the first money that wasn't copper, that they'd ever touched.

  The men were a little wary. Their clothing was for the most part the worse for wear, and the colors tended toward mud. For some reason they'd all taken to wearing three goshawk feathers in their hats. It was as close to a uniform as they had. It was becoming known as the Drac's symbol—that was why he'd had Emil and the two men he'd sent south take them out of their hats.

  "Men, I have called you together because I wish to reward you for your loyalty to me. It has not gone un-noticed, I promise. Thanks to the courage of the men who accompanied me on last night's ride, Sergeant Mirko will be holding a pay parade."

  They began cheering. He raised his hand to still them. "I will reward those who serve me well and loyally. That is my word."

  "Drac! Drac!" they cheered.

  It was later, just before he headed off to find some food and rest that he saw the gypsies again. Looking wary. He was both angry and a little uneasy. Why had they vanished like that? Still, he owed them a debt. He walked up to Grigori and said so.

  The gypsy laughed, a return to his old self of their journey together. He had always laughed, while Radu took things seriously. "We don't need your gold, Drac."

  "We can take it anyway," said young Miu cheerfully.

  "Shut up, boy," said Grigori, cuffing at his head. The young gypsy dodged. "He wants finery. He thinks it may impress a certain young woman."

  "She likes me anyway," said Miu.

  "I was looking for you. I have despatched Emil, my trusted Sergeant, and two of my best men to be guards for my mother and sister. Tell them I am coming south . . ."

  "Your mother said we were to wait for a reply. And that you were to quote the song she always sang to you. If you remember it."

  "Of course I do! Let me find parchment, a quill and some ink. Do you think you could find my Sergeant? Or I can send more men with you."

  Grigori raised an eyebrow. "We watch, Drac."

  * * *

  Vlad was glad enough to find his bed that night. But although he was tired he waited for Rosa.

  She did not come to him.

  Chapter 50

  In Vilnius the man-monster with the steel eyes decided that, when his rule extended from the icy shores of the north to the hot heart of Arabia, he would see to stamping out the production and use of certain drugs. Yes, they had been useful. Chernobog had found it far easier to deal with mazed minds that wanted to believe they had seen paradise and dealt with their god. But right now, when he needed to either organize a pursuit or punish his servant, the tarkhan Borshar was too full of the narcotic to be completely coherent.

  They'd been right inside his mouth . . . and somehow the valuable prizes and the conflict their death would stir up had slipped away from the sharp teeth that had waited to rend them. That would still happen, but not in the time and place of his choosing, which angered him.

  To add to his fury, one of his sailcloth manufactories had caught fire. And the news Chernobog could glean from Venice—where the monster dared not venture, not even in spirit—and other points of the Mediterranean, was that the west was readying itself for a spring attack on Constantinople. The city should hold, even if the Venetians had somehow managed to work out a way to fire massive forty eight pound bombards from the decks of their vessels without sinking them.

  Alexis must be warned of that. The Byzantine Emperor should concentrate his guns on the seaward walls, to keep the enemy ships out of range. That was if Alexis could be kept from alternating between his depravities and total panic. He was a weak reed, but at least it that meant that he was corruptible and malleable.

  Chernobog turned his questing mind across the distances to his newfound disciples and their demands for visions of paradise and translucent virgins, and investigated the state of the Ilkhan and his agents' penetration and readiness. He found them a worried group. The overlords had at last deigned to notice their activities. Nothing had been done, yet. The Ilkhan Hotai the Ineffable was a large, lethargic man, but that was not true of all of his generals. Some of them were definitely looking at Alamut. The Baitini cult were nervous and looking for reassurance. Tiresome as it was, Chernobog wou,d give them that reassurance. After all, so long as the Ilkhan were in a state of chaos and civil war they would be too busy to interfere with the other plans that the Black Brain had.

  He wondered just when his new shaman would be here. The delay was becoming insupportable. It was far better that the shaman risked his life in the dangers of the spirit world than for Chernobog to assume that risk himself. He wondered what his enemy beyond the Carpathians was up to. As usual, her demonic assistants defended that area from his view, as the church shielded Rome, and the Servants of the Holy Trinity shielded the Holy Roman Empire.

  In realms far removed from this physical world, but yet with ties to it, Chernobog was aware of the powerful and ancient wild magic stirring in the Carpathians themselves. Mountains have deep roots, some into planes beyond most human ken.

  He hoped that Elizabeth was stupid enough to meddle with mountain-power. It might be a match for the host of lesser demons that protected her. Her master, like Chernobog, would never risk that close an encounter. If Elizabeth dared to meddle, she might find herself abandoned.

  * * *

  In his chambers in Elizabeth's castle, Count Mindaug was entertaining similar thoughts. There were certain places in the world that the wiser sort of magic-users avoided. Corfu was one of them—as King Emeric had learned, not so long ago.

  The Carpathians were another. These mountains had their own ancient forces, which it was best not to meddle with.

  All the more so, because it was inherent in such old and pagan powers that their geographic scope was limited. On their own terrain, they could be fearsome. But only on that terrain. In their very nature, those forces could not extend their sway beyond their limited realm.

  Mindaug was not at all happy to be in Elizabeth's castle in the northern stretches of the Carpathians. But at least, unlike the countess, he was not attempting to meddle personally in those mountains. He thought she was quite mad to be doing so. Of course, she was quite mad to begin with.

  He pulled another book down from the shelves. Far better to explore such dangers in print, from a suitable distance.

  Chapter 51

  Irongate. Irongate was the prize. Of all the castles in Valahia, no other had the capacity to earn income on that scale. With control over the Danube, it was a valuable and strategic place, which King Emeric would not, could not leave in the hands of someone who was less than completely loyal to him. Ban Alescu had known that, had schemed very carefully to become its master. Marriage was the key, and power. It was simply unfortunate that the law only permitted one wife.

  The answer was of course to bury them, and he had done that. He had accumulated power, but he had further ambitions. That was his nature. But up to now he had been content to eat, slowly, into the lands and possession of his neighbors.

  Now, looking at the letter from Emeric he saw a way clear to become overall ruler of the Duchy of Valahia. And then Emeric would have to look to keep the throne of Hungary under his backside, thought Ban Alescu grimly.

  He wondered just what his mother would say when she found out ab
out her secret marriage. He grinned. A good thing his father was dead. And of course the Dowager Duchess Bertha of Valahia might be less than pleased. He had met her and her daughter, several times. Her husband had been a weak vacillator, unable to take control of his nobles, and not able to stop Hungary's steady encroachment on his productive heartlands in Trans-Carpathia. The Mongols had taken and held all the lower lands to the east, and Emeric was nibbling away at his principality from the west. The prince had been left with control of a few strategic castles in the passes, and even those had garrisons of Hungarian troops.

  Well, he would, of course take up the king's offer, but there was no way he would allow himself to be a puppet prince half-controlling a rump principality. He wanted the degree of control that the man's grandfather had had.

  He turned to one of his footmen. "Have my scribe sent up. And tell him to bring with him some of the best parchment."

  The man hurried off. It was only once he had gone that it occurred to Ban Alescu that there might be more to this proposal than first met the eye. What had happened to the Prince of Valahia's son Vlad, named after his terrifying grandfather? He'd been a hostage in Buda. Had Emeric killed him? Alescu had been too wrapped up in the affairs of his own fief to pay much attention to local politics in Valahia.

  The scribe hurried in with quills, ink and several rolls of parchment. He bowed respectfully, trying not to spill the ink. He was from Valahia, a native, if the Ban recalled right. "Bergen. Tell me about the son of the Dowager Duchess Bertha . . ."

  "Prince Vlad, your lordship," said the scribe, eagerly. "His army grows by the day. They say that he is coming south. Are you going to make your submission, My Lord? That's most wise. They say that he is his grandfather reborn."

  The Ban steepled his fingers, and sighed. A complication. Emeric had said that he merely wanted Alescu to step in to avoid rival claimants to the Principality causing a civil war. It appeared Emeric was in fact trying to foment one. Well, that did not mean he would not take the King up on his offer. Just that the price would be higher. And he needed to find out more about this Prince Vlad. Which of the nobility cleaved to him? What sort of force did he have? It had to be substantive or Emeric would not be holding out such offers.