by Brian Hodge
Only a couple of those impaled still lived. Only one had the strength left to fight. He was vaguely aware of the woman's eyes, glaring down, struggling through the pain to concentrate on him as if desiring to take his image to the hereafter, where they might meet again.
He paid her no attention. Let her die with her fantasy; he would die with his nightmares, and they had come for him again, though he was awake and aware, dragging him inward.
The cell in the sultan's palace had been cold and damp, but the chill that had set into the marrow of his bones went far deeper than physical discomfort. He’d been punished before, many times, and yet this time, somehow, he knew it would be different. This time he felt his life teetering in the balance. While the thrill of it was delicious, still he feared.
His crime had been a small thing. One of the princes of the palace had wanted a particular girl – Myrna; Vlad wanted her as well. Myrna chose Vlad. Officially he was a guest at the palace, though all knew the truth of it – that he was hostage against the good faith of his father, he and his younger brother Radu. If things had ended with the girl, all would have been well, but of course, it had not.
Ahmed, the prince, had not been satisfied with defeat in love. He'd come upon Vlad in the gardens, weapon drawn, and he'd insisted that they fight. He would, he'd said, avenge his honor on this "son of a dog" – thus making it personal. Vlad was no stranger to fighting – he'd done more than his share of it since arriving at the palace – and he'd set about teaching the young prince a lesson; that lesson was that a dog is no mean adversary
The cuts, and the young man's pride, would heal; though there would be a scar on his cheek until the day he died to remind him of Vlad Dracula. The sultan's anger was less easy – less malleable. There was no fighting allowed, especially no fighting wherein "guests" injured princes. No matter the cause of the dispute, Vlad was at fault, Vlad would be punished.
They left him in the cell in the early afternoon with nothing but a skin of warm, brackish wine and his thoughts. He had never been in this particular section of the dungeons, and his sense of direction, usually sharp, had failed him. He knew only that his prison bordered a garden, or what had once been a garden, before decay had set in, and that the barred window in the far wall looked out over that barren, lifeless place.
There was something about the way the light slipped through and over the court, but never seemed to touch it, the way the shadows held their ground and relinquished nothing to the dying rays of sunlight, that chilled his heart. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled, and he nearly jumped from his boots when a key slipped into the lock and the door grated noisily behind him.
Turning swiftly, he found that the sultan had entered the cell, alone, and that the door was closing again behind him.
"Your eminence," Vlad said, barely hiding the sneer in his voice. "This is a surprise."
"Oh, this moment has been long in coming, young Vlad; it was as inevitable as death." The sultan's voice had a merry lilt to it, as always, but his eyes were cold, like those of serpent.
"I trust you have had some time to think. Do you know why you are here?
"To soothe the wounded pride of a very stupid and physically inept prince," Vlad snapped.
"Oh, that..." the sultan made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You may have actually done Ahmed a favor. He is much too quick to provoke a fight, and now he has learned that when you do so, you risk losing. He is lucky it was only his pride."
"Then," Vlad's tone changed, his brain racing, “why am I here?"
"You remind me too much of your father, Vlad. He had been one of the greatest thorns in my side. I see him in your eyes, only what I see is much more dangerous because, where your father is wild, impetuous, and strong, you are all of that and much more intelligent."
Vlad said nothing, his senses on full alert for a sudden movement, or a trap.
"This leaves me with a problem," the sultan went on. "You will be free one day, assuming your father manages to keep himself in check long enough to insure it, and on that day we will no doubt become enemies. Do not try and deny it, it is in your blood.
"I have something to show you that I hope will help to even the odds. There are secrets even your father cannot have told you, things very few know of, and that make a difference. Do you believe in God, Vlad Dracula?"
The question took him completely by surprise. He had been raised a Christian. All that his father stood for, all that they fought for, was so heavily enmeshed in the church that it was part of their lives, their souls. Did he believe in God?
"I do not know," he answered slowly. "I have been taught to fear God, and that is a hard lesson to unlearn. In that respect, I believe in God."
"I will show you a new fear," the sultan said softly. His voice was still light, but his eyes were dancing now, and deep within their depths, Vlad saw the fear the man spoke of surfacing
His own heart speeded accordingly. This man had locked him here, was threatening to teach him fear, and yet he felt fear himself. Whatever was to come, it was either safe for neither of them, or simply horrifying enough that, even without personal risk, it made the sultan nervous. Vlad grinned.
"You will show me something that will bind me to you?" Vlad asked slowly, not wanting to let his true feelings show, his contempt. He could imagine nothing, death included, which could bring such a thing about.
"I will show you something that will bind you to nothing," the sultan replied quietly. "I will show you something to shake your belief in yourself, your God, and your world. I will show you something to pale the threat of death.
"You are wise and strong beyond your years, Vlad Dracula, but you have not lived those extended years. Your experience limits you."
The sun had fallen steadily as they talked, and the shadows that had ruled in the corners and nether-regions of the ancient courtyard beyond the window stretched forth to swallow it whole. Vlad could think of nothing to say, and he was afraid, in any case, that a catch in his throat might give away the dread that was stealing over his soul with the vanishing of the light. He stood in silence, and the older man came to stand at his side, watching.
Suddenly, there were sounds in the courtyard, the scuffing of feet, the rattling of chain and the scrape of metal against metal. There were soft curses and a whimpering, keening cry – muffled, but forlorn and so bereft of hope that it stood the hairs on Vlad's arms and at the nape of his neck on end. He reached up to grip the bars on the ancient window, fought to split the shroud of darkness to see what, and who, was there.
They came into sight moments later, illumined by a soft glow of moonlight that trickled down through the withered trees. He saw three figures. Two were larger, men, and the third was dragged between them. He could just make out a woman's robes … no, only a girl. She struggled wildly in the grip of her two captors, but to no avail. She was bound, hand and foot, in chains.
As they drew closer, Vlad saw the soft lines of her face. It was Myrna, she over whom he and Ahmed had fought, and her eyes were wide with unbridled terror. He could see their whites as they tried to roll in upon themselves. What would instill such fear?
"Is this some sort of joke?" he said, spinning to the sultan in anger. "The girl means nothing to me; do you think her death will change me?"
"I have not grown to this age by being a fool, young Vlad … you would do well to keep that in mind. Watch. Learn. Fear. The girl is nothing."
This wasn't exactly true. Vlad remembered the softness of her skin as they'd pressed together the night before, the touch and taste of her lips, the soft, flower-scent of her hair. She was not important, not exactly, but the point that was being made of her, at his expense, was an insult that would be repaid. He kept his silence, and he watched.
The two men released her from her shackles, one at a time, but they held her tightly by each arm, as if awaiting some sign. Vlad looked out and caught Myrna's gaze, just for a moment, and held it. Se seemed to be begging him for something, but sh
e held her silence. The futility of her trust in him angered him further. The muscles in his arms tensed, and he gripped the bars so tightly he feared that either the metal, or skin and bone, would surely give.
What could they be planning? Rape? Torture? Were there wolves to be set free, or was it all a show to see if they could get him to react? What kind of lesson could this man, this "Turk," be planning? The man might be a dog, but he was no fool, as he himself had pointed out.
There was a high, keening cry from above, and the men, their own eyes awash in sudden dread, released their hold, throwing Myrna to the ground. They melted into the shadows quickly, and before she could rise to follow, they were gone. She was alone, except for her silent audience of two. Vlad's breath quickened.
Myrna did not move immediately. She seemed pinned to the ground, trembling and weak. Looking about herself frantically, she searched the encroaching shadows, never locking her gaze on any one point. She sensed something – they all sensed something – but there was no direction to it, only the acrid, bitter stench of danger. It burned Vlad's eyes, dripped from him in the sweat that stained his tunic and froze, clammy against his thighs.
There was a skittering sound, like claws against stone, and the fluttering of a thousand moths, trapped against the glass of a lantern. Vlad could not tear his eyes from Myrna. She shivered, melting to the ground without form or substance, unable to rise. Her gaze was devoid of thought or intelligence. He saw the animal in her, stark and unchained, and it was not a predator he saw, but helpless prey.
Then his heart stopped. The window was blocked, no, not blocked. There was a face in the opening, a creature, grasping the bars from the other side, eyes feral and yellowed, fangs bared in an evil grimace that mocked a smile. The creature let loose the high, keening screech once more, this time directly in Vlad’s face, and he felt the heat of its breath, smelled the stench of decayed flesh and generations of death washing over and around him, trapping him.
The thing had its claws wrapped around his fingers where he grasped the bars, and he could not tear his hands away. He could not release his eyes, either, as he felt himself dragged easily into the things gaze. Behind him he was vaguely aware of the sound of scraping stone, aware that the sultan, for all his bravado, was making his exit. There was no time to spare for the man now. All was focused on those eyes, on the points where cold, icy flesh gripped his own, and the madness of the power he felt emanating from the thing.
As the door behind him slammed back into place, Vlad wrenched himself free with a mighty tug and fell backward. He slammed into the stone of the opposite wall. His head connected hard with unyielding stone, but somehow he managed to stagger to his feet. He tottered back to the window, careful to keep his hands from the bars, and he gazed into the courtyard.
His heart hammered so fiercely that he felt it would burst from his chest, but he had to see – had to know. Whatever that thing was, whatever it was going to do, he had to know. He had looked into its eyes, and he had not seen his death – he had seen hunger, damnation far beyond the physical release of death – madness. He had to know.
The thing had turned to face Myrna, who was pressed so tightly against the ground that she seemed no more than a small lump in the courtyard. Her eyes were as round as saucers, wider and more filled with dread than any Vlad had seen, and they were locked onto those of the creature. It advanced with mincing, prancing steps across the court to where she lay prone, and yet she did nothing to move from its path, did nothing to try and escape.
"Run!" he cried, putting every ounce of strength he possessed into the scream. For one long second, she seemed to acknowledge him, to hear. She turned slightly, letting her gaze return to his eyes, and in that moment he knew fear. It was not the exhilarating fear of battle, or the fear that riding a horse through the woods at full gallop might bring. Those fears he knew and reveled in – this was unclean. It was a fear so deeply rooted, so all-encompassing, that he had to force himself to continue to breathe. The weight of it pushed down upon his breast, punishing, grinding into his soul.
The creature paid him no attention, and Myrna's gaze returned almost immediately to her attacker. Miraculously, she managed to rise to her knees as it approached, then to stagger to her feet as it reached out with clawed, shriveled hands to take hers in its grasp.
Vlad wanted to scream a negation, either of the scene before him, or of the knowledge he would now take to his grave, the fear that had been thrust upon him. He knew this creature, though until that moment he'd thought it legend alone. He knew the vrykolakes, the vampyr. He knew, and wished to the depths of his soul that he did not.
The thing drew Myrna close against itself in a parody of an embrace, or some demented dance. Myrna did not resist. If anything, she seemed drawn to it, entranced. She moved as a lover, now, not a victim, and the fear had melted from her features, leaving them slack and lethargic, though her eyes were as wide as ever.
Vlad’s heart cried out to her, to what she had been. He was helpless in his cell, would probably have been equally so in the courtyard, and she was beyond his words. It was like watching the bizarre courtship ritual of some gigantic insect, one that fed, like the spider, on its mate.
He saw the thing dip its head in a lightning strike, saw Myrna's head yanked roughly back by the hair and heard her tiny cry. It had her by the throat, fangs ripping through soft flesh, both arms holding her in a tight embrace as she squirmed weakly. The thing drank her down in moments, great heaving, gulping draughts of her, pumping her dry with the enormous strength of its arms.
Vlad retched violently and dropped to his knees, then clawed his way back up the wall, tearing skin from his fingers and breaking nails with the effort. He rose without bothering to wipe the bile from his face or clothes and forced himself to watch. He was beyond fear now, beyond anger, even. He committed each moment to memory, saved each emotion, for revenge. He etched the scene into the fabric of his psyche. He was setting the course of his destiny.
The thing had stopped its convulsive feeding. It still held Myrna's cold form close to it, but almost tenderly. Slowly, she was lowered to the ground, and it turned again, facing the window, seeking Vlad's gaze.
Again, his heart skipped a beat. It was no hideous ghoul he faced – nor was it quite human. The thing still wore its tattered clothing, draped over thin shoulders like the wrappings of a scarecrow, and yet there was no comparison. Where the hair had been patchy white shocks, barely clutching the sides of a ruined skull, blond hair had sprouted, long and lush. Where yellowed, glowing eyes had stared out moments before, deep grey orbs, flecked with ice, called out to him.
The mincing, dancing steps had become even and sure, and the thing advanced on the window again and reached out a long, slender arm, gesturing for Vlad to come near. He took a half step forward and nearly reached for the bars again. In that instant he wanted to reach through them, but he stopped. Sweat ran from him in small rivers, coating his skin, soaking his clothing, but he did not move closer. He fought.
Beyond the thing, a broken lily against the dark, shadowed ground, he saw Myrna's prone form. She did not move, and her skin, if anything was paler than the white, filmy gown that she wore. He latched onto the sight of her, the memory of the way she'd been the last time they'd been together, and he lurched away from the window.
You will come to me, Vlad Dracula, the voice trailed after him, soft, sibilant, provocative. In some time, in some way, we will be bound, you and I. By the blood.
Then there was silence. He did not feel the chilling dread that had accompanied the thing, nor had it made any discernible sound in leaving, and still he knew it was gone. He remained where he was, leaning heavily against the wall beside the window, heaving in immense lungfuls of air and expelling them as quickly as he could, trying to wash the taint of the thing's touch, the memory of its eyes, from his soul.
A long time later, he managed to turn his face toward the window again. Myrna was gone. There was no trace in the court of h
er body, or of her assailant. Nothing. It was as empty as the shadows that filled it were black.
Vlad lay back on the rough, wooden cot and placed his arm across his eyes. Weariness crept over him and overcame even the discomfort of the cell, the chill of the air and the weight of memory on his heart. Closing his eyes, he passed from consciousness and fell into a nightmare world of claws and yellowed skin, fangs and crumpled flowers that became women, then blossomed and flew into the night on wings of wicked laughter.
When he'd awakened, he found the sultan there, watching him from the other side of the room and waiting. Vlad sat upright in a swift motion, rose to his feet and lunged to within a foot of the older man before he stopped. He knew the ice of anger coated his eyes, that his own death might be imminent; it didn't matter. He was through with this game, this horror.
"Now you have seen," the sultan said simply. "They are here, Vlad, many of them, and they feed in the night, despite what we might wish. With some we have a pact – we don't hunt them, they don't hunt us. We provide sustenance when it is scarce, or when we have a suitable sacrifice."
"The girl had done nothing," Vlad grated. "You should have shooed your dog of a prince out there – at least he earned the fate."
The sultan's eyes went hard for just an instant, but his control was phenomenal. "I am not here to banter back and forth with you, young Vlad. I need you as the leader of your people, and I need your support – and theirs – to continue my own rule. What I have done is simply to insure that this is possible.
"There are those among us who would do away with the vrykolakes, given their way. Your church would certainly do so, but it is not so simple. Some among them have done me great service, service that has gone beyond the confines of death itself. A man such as you can see the beauty of such service … the honor of it.
"They will come for you, if I bid it, young Vlad. This is my lesson to you. Remember this night; remember the eyes that held you and the beauty of the death dance. They will come for you if you fail me. You will be one of them, not dead, not alive, no salvation for your soul possible. You will do as I bid, or you will never die … that is a promise to chill even your hot, Wallachian heart."