World of Corpses (Book 1): World of Corpses

by Cook, Scott W.

  Vlad narrowed his eyes. The man was sweating profusely and his eyes, although filling with tears seemed to be burning with redness. The man was sick, clearly. The man looked feverish, in fact. He was scantily dressed for a central European winter, especially in the mountains. A man wouldn’t sweat that way and wouldn’t have a pallid complexion with patches of red on his face without being extremely ill.

  “This man is sick,” Vlad said, “Why have you brought him to me?”

  Basarab shrugged, “It wasn’t my idea, Prince. We were simply going to have him flogged. But father Devotori here insisted that we show mercy. He insisted that we see you in person.”

  Vlad turned a questioning gaze to the young priest.

  “Yes,” Devotori said in his strong voice, “I felt for this man. I thought that, while you despise theft, you might show mercy on him. He’s young, as you see. Dragged from his home and forced to fight perhaps before his time. It would be a shame to simply flog him or put him to death for what is really a small and even understandable offense.”

  Vlad studied the pitiful man… pitiful boy, really… before him for a long moment before saying, “You make a good point, father. Yet I cannot let this deed go unpunished. It’s a matter of discipline, after all.”

  Before anyone could speak, the young man threw himself to his knees and grabbed the Prince’s right hand in both of his own. Vlad winced slightly, his hand having been lightly slashed in a skirmish the day before. The wound was healing but was still open and sensitive. Vlad also noticed that the man had blood on his hands. His own blood, probably from the beating he’d already received.

  “Stand,” Vlad ordered, ignoring the slight jolt of pain, “You will not be killed nor flogged. However, your act of theft must be dealt with so that the men see that no breech of discipline goes unnoticed and that when another man steals food from their bellies the crime does not go unpunished.”

  The boy’s eyes were filled with fear as he stood.

  “My order is that you are to be moved to the front line,” Vlad said, “When the fighting begins, you’ll be the first to participate. It’s only fair. You are freshly fed, after all. Now go back to your unit.”

  The man fled. Basarab eyed him with what to Vlad seemed like contempt, “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Vlad said, wiping his bloody hand on a bit of old clothing.

  “I thought it was just,” Devotori said.

  “Of course you do,” Basarab said, “A man of the cloth and not of the sword.”

  Devotori only fixed Basarab with a steady and unblinking gaze. Vlad watched with a raised eyebrow as the soldier quickly grew uncomfortable and looked away. It was impressive. This seemingly placid priest had a power about him and that look gave Vlad a glimpse into the steel that lay beneath the kindly exterior.

  “You brought him,” Dracula said to Basarab, “What did you expect?”

  The other nobleman only shrugged, “It’s not important. I have work to do before our battle.”

  Dracula sighed as the other man left. He had been forced to work with Basarab at the request of King Matheus, but he didn’t have to like it. The man was rude, arrogant and believed himself better than others, no matter what their station in life.

  The Prince / general sat down to his desk once again and took up the task of his administrative duties. As time passed, he began to notice that the abrasion on the back of his hand began to itch. At first he ignored it and then began to simply pat the wound lightly every so often. It was hard not to scratch at it, but he knew that would only make it worse.

  By late afternoon, the wound had started to get warm and had gone from a minor scratch to a puffy red that looked far worse than he knew it to be. Dracula sighed and went out to wash it in a pale of water filled from the nearby Bistrita River. The fool who’d stolen the bread had probably been filthy and had rubbed dirt into the semi-open wound.

  He immersed his hands in the pale and rubbed them vigorously. When he looked at the back of his hand, it did look better, although it was still swollen and red. The soldier only sighed and went to inspect his troops.

  “Sir!” Joseph Moresti, commander of the first battalion and a personal friend and advisor said as he rushed up, “They’re coming!”

  “How soon?” Dracula asked. He mused for a moment that this was the same Joseph who’d obeyed his order to have the Turks’ turbans nailed to their heads. Now, a few years later, he was a colonel in Vlad’s army and a trusted companion.

  “They’re massing near the pass,” Joseph said, pointing east, “There looks to be more than ten thousand of them.”

  Vlad frowned. That was nearly half again as many men as he had under his command, including himself. He nodded and said nothing.

  “That’s nearly half again our force,” Moresti said, echoing his general’s thoughts.

  “Indeed,” Dracula said in his rich deep voice, “However, we occupy the high ground.”

  “They do as well,” Moresti pointed out.

  “Yes,” Dracula said, “But it’s this ground they’re after. They’ll have to cross the intervening low depression and fight us uphill. It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got. Assemble the men. Make certain that they know that under no circumstances are they to advance unless and until I give the word. You’ll know because I’ll be leading the first charge.”

  Moresti frowned at this, “Sir…”

  “No arguments, Joseph,” Dracula said, “You know better. I’ve never been a man to lead from the rear and today of all days will not be the day I start. Now go, we have little time.”

  As the men assembled, Dracula rode along the line on his horse. He hated to admit it, but for the time being, he was glad for the mount. He wasn’t feeling quite at full strength. A light fever had started and his joints ached.

  Am I just getting too old for this? The Prince of Walachia asked himself. He was only forty-five and in top physical condition. A soldier’s active fighting career tended to be a short one, but he didn’t think he was at the end just yet.

  “Even Julius Caesar fought on the line well into his fifties,” Dracula muttered to himself as he rode, “And Vespasian and Trajan… Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun as well.”

  Vlad was very interested in history, especially the history of battle. In particular, the feats of the Roman generals and emperors were among his favorites. Most educated fighting men raised in the provinces of Romania were, truthfully.

  In particular, the war of the emperor Trajan against the Dacean ruler Decabolis was among the most retold tales. Dacea was, after all, the roman province that had later become the Romanian provinces of Transylvania, Walachia, Hungary and others.

  Dracula took his place near the center of the line, leaving his horse in the care of a groom. What few musket men he had at his disposal were arrayed on both his flanks along with the majority of his cavalry. In the center where he stood were his two lines of infantry. The men were something of a ragtag group, but they had taken their places exactly and looked ready to fight.

  “My Prince, I must speak with you.”

  Dracula turned to the sound of the strong voice slightly behind him. Father Devotori stood there, his priestly garb gone. In its place was a plain set of trousers and tunic over which he wore sleeveless chainmail. The holy man held a shield and had a sword buckled around him.

  Dracula’s eyebrow went up in surprise, “Father… do you intend to fight?”

  The priest smiled thinly, “If necessary. One should always be prepared.”

  “I have a moment,” Dracula said, waving a hand to the army that had amassed three hundred yards away on the other side of a shallow depression, “So be quick. If you wish to offer a prayer—“

  “No,” Devotori said with a grin, “That’s been done. I wish to talk to you about your fever. I can see it from here. You shouldn’t go into battle if you’re ill.”

  Dracula scoffed, “A minor warmth, nothing more.”

  “I see your wound is inflame
d,” Devotori said, pointing to Vlad’s right hand, “it’s only going to get worse.”

  Dracula narrowed his eyes. He respected the priest. Yet the man was taking too much liberty, especially at a critical moment, “Father, you overstep yourself.”

  Devotori stepped closer so that the two men were only inches apart. While Dracula was at least four inches taller, he suddenly didn’t feel so large in this man’s presence. In his bearing and in his eyes there was something powerful… something so charismatic that a lesser man would’ve already been overwhelmed.

  “You are not prepared,” Devotori said sternly, his eyes blazing.

  Suddenly Dracula had a flash of insight. Perhaps this man wasn’t a priest after all… perhaps he was an impostor, or an assassin. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth, “Be careful. Who are you?”

  Devotori suddenly smiled and resumed his easy going nature, “I am what I am, my Prince. Don’t feel that I’m threatening. On the contrary, my purpose here is what it has always been, to help you. But I know something of medicine. I can see a sickness working in you. Here, this will help give you strength.”

  Devotori held out a small flask in which a clear liquid sloshed about. Dracula eyed it suspiciously, “What is that?”

  “Water,” Devotori said, “Holy water, blessed by the Lord to strengthen you in your holy task.”

  The Prince was no fool and suspected the man was lying to him, “Indeed.”

  “You must drink it,” The priest told him in no uncertain terms.

  Dracula smiled, “Very well, father. If you share it with me.”

  Devotori’s eyes twinkled and he actually smiled broadly, “Suspect me of foul play, eh? I don’t blame you. I’ve seen and heard of my share of poisonings in my day. Very well.”

  The priest uncorked the bottle and took a healthy swig. Dracula watched for a minute or two. Devotori held out the flask to him, “You see? Please, Vlad, drink this. It’ll help.”

  Dracula sighed and took the flask and sipped from it. It was indeed water, although a bit metallic tasting. He took a sip and made to give the flask back.

  “Anoint your wound with a little and then finish it,” Devotori said, “You must drink it down, Prince. Quickly.”

  Once again the stab of suspicion. Yet something in the young priest’s bearing made Dracula trust him. He paused only for a moment, poured a little on the back of his wounded hand and then chugged the remaining few ounces.

  “Excellent,” Devotori said, stowing the flask, “I’ll see you soon. Good luck.”

  The priest’s words couldn’t have been timelier. Only seconds later, a great shout arose from the other side of the low ground and the Sultan’s men began to surge toward the Wallachian army. Trumpet’s blared along the line and the two platoons of musketeers fired into the onrushing crowd.

  Although gunpowder and the gun had been available in Europe for well over a century, the science of gunnery was still very much an art form. A poorly understood art form at best.

  The weapons were crude and highly inaccurate. Most armies using the primitive muzzle loading weapons had barely begun to utilize the multiple firing line technique that would serve so well until the advent of the carbine hundreds of years in the future.

  Fortunately for his people, Vlad Dracula was such a general. He knew that with a limited number of guns combined with a lengthy reload time, it was important that the pressure exerted by the firearm must be maintained at a constant rate in order to be both effective and to act as a deterrent.

  That’s why his two hundred musketeers were arranged in two ranks. Even with this innovative tactic, the results of the first two volleys were less than spectacular. Perhaps one shot in five actually hit a man, or hit him in a way that took him out of the fight.

  Although the first two volleys took down only forty or fifty hundred men, a drop in the bucket as compared to the more than ten thousand remaining, the psychological effect was far more beneficial.

  The front line of the Turks faltered at this onslaught. The rippling pops and flashes from the muzzles frightened many of the Turks, many of whom had never seen a weapon discharged. It slowed their advance and simultaneously gave Dracula’s own men a boost of confidence.

  The musketeers continued to fire and as the Ottoman army drew near, the rank of archers behind the infantry began to fire their arrows. These, ironically, probably did more damage than the bullets, at least at first.

  However, the ground between the armies was soon crossed and all the tactics of firing wooden missiles into the onrushing army along with sending hundreds of lead balls into their midst was forgotten once a good old fashioned melee erupted.

  Vlad soon found himself embroiled in chaos. Men were shouting, roaring with rage, shrieking in pain and everywhere there was the sound of metal clashing against metal.

  The line of Turks was pushing hard into his men, and right before him, Vlad saw two Moslems rushing for him. They emerged from a dust cloud created by thousands of shifting feet. The dust was already so thick in the air that it was hard to see anything that wasn’t within ten feet.

  The men rushed forward, swinging their swords and holding their shields out as if to ram Dracula. Vlad surged forward, his own shield and sword thrust outward together. He knew, as every experienced soldier knew, that in battle, the victory usually went to the aggressor.

  As both he and his two opponents were the aggressor, the victory then often went to the one who was smarter and more experienced. Fortunately for Vlad, and unfortunately for the Turks, he was their better on both counts.

  Just before he would slam his shield into the sword of the man on his right, the Prince jerked to a stop, lunging backward a step. This forced his opponent to foolishly press his attack by extending himself.

  The man swung his sword out in a wide arc at the end of his arm. Dracula sneered as he once again drove forward. He smashed his shield out and to the left directly into the man’s wrist, forcing his arm and sword to the man’s right and directly into the path of his companion.

  The second man had to check his own sword thrust and raise his shield high to avoid an accidental blow. Vlad simply held his sword close and thrust his whole body toward the first man, pushing his way between the Turk’s outstretched right arm and his extended shield and burying his blade in the man’s chest.

  The Turk’s eyes went wide with surprise and then fear as he realized his opponent was both right in his face and that he’d been run through.

  Energized with fighting madness, Dracula rammed his shield into the other combatant and yanked his sword free, dancing backward and avoiding the clumsy overhand blow that the second Turk tried to aim at his head.

  With two quick movements that surprised the remaining enemy, Dracula hit the man’s sword arm with his shield and struck the Turk’s shield with the flat of his sword, launching his full weight forward and shoving the man back.

  Dracula then simply took advantage of the man’s shock and his imbalance and slid his sword up and over the lip of the shield. He leveraged his greater size and strength and pivoted his wrist so that the razor sharp edge of his blade sliced across the Turk’s neck, opening his carotid artery and sending gouts of blood into the dusty evening air.

  For the next hour, the battle went on like this. With man against man. There was no gunplay now. No carefully aimed arrows. Only the sword and the shield and the blood of thousands spilling onto the soil.

  By dusk, it was over. Dracula’s army had pushed the Turks back down the hill and they’d turned to flee. The Romanian infantry pursued them and along with the cavalry, cut nearly half of what was left of the Turkish army to pieces.

  Dracula stood near the crest of his hill and surveyed the carnage before him. Like every time before, he marveled at the level of destruction that two groups of enraged men could wreak on one another. He was both disgusted and astonished.

  Evening was beginning to fall and with it a modest snow as well. The bloody field of combat was quietl
y being smothered in pristine whiteness, as if the heavens themselves were trying to hide the scene of mortal combat from those who had just lived it. An angelic white blanket to enshroud the charnel pit that spread wide before Vlad.

  However, rest would not come to the tired prince of Walachia just yet.

  Basarab and two men galloped up to Vlad and jumped down from their horses. He didn’t know the other two men well. One he thought was a man named Florescu and the other he wasn’t sure about. They were both loyal to Basarab, as evidenced by the distinctive arm bands they wore. Arm bands that bore Basarab’s family crest.

  “Victory, Basarab,” Dracula said. He’d been alone near the top of the hill, standing amidst the bodies of friend and foe alike.

  “Yes, Prince of Walachia,” Basarab said as he strode forward, “Another victory for Vlad the Impaler.”

  “For all of us,” Vlad replied, a spike of suspicion suddenly flaring up inside him. His instincts were warning him and he always trusted his instincts.

  ‘No,” Basarab said, drawing his sword. His two companions did the same, “Not for all of us. Not for those of us who don’t wish to be ruled by a deranged tyrant.”

  “Indeed,” Vlad said with a small smile. Basarab’s reputation wasn’t exactly stellar. And unlike Dracula’s, Basarab’s was not embellished.

  It was the reputation of a cruel and thoughtless leader who wanted nothing more than to perpetuate his own glory. He was even reputed to be a coward.

  Judging by the lack of blood and injury to his person, Vlad knew these rumors were true. Basarab and his two men were fresh, far fresher than Vlad, who bled from at least five wounds and whose muscles ached and lungs burned from inhaling the dusty air of the battlefield.

  “So says the coward of Slovakia,” Vlad said with a sneer, “Did you hide during the battle, Basarab? Waiting until the real men did the fighting and joining the victors to celebrate? What would you have done if we’d lost? Sided with the Sultan?”

  “You mean like your brother?” Basarab asked wickedly.

  “Exactly like Radu,” Dracula said. He was outnumbered and not at his best. The longer he kept Basarab talking, the more he’d regain his strength and the more likely would be the chance that someone would come to support him, “I know you’re in league with him. I know that you’re a traitor to our king and country. I’ve known all along.”