The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

  Dracula ducked to avoid its arc and felt the rush of air as it whistled past his ear. At the same time, he drove his own blade into the man’s crotch.

  The Fier Negru tore through the soldier’s genitalia and ruptured his bladder. With the sudden shock, he lost the grip on his own weapon. It flew through the air and struck a Maglak warrior full in the stomach.

  Dracula withdrew the famed Toledo blade. His victim cried out and fell onto his back. He ignored it and, instinctively, turned on his knee to block the downward thrust from the fourth man.

  A hot rush of liquid hit him full in the face and blinded him. He fell backwards and tried to wipe his eyes. Unable to see, he feared his life might end at any moment. Very soon, he realised it was the blood of the fourth man that had caused his sudden loss of vision. The man’s head dropped in his lap as Ivan Olescu towered over him. His good friend had severed it with one clean swoop of his sword.

  Dracula managed to wipe the blood from his eyes. They stung, but at least he had his vision restored, and he was alive. Not for the first time in his life, his friend had come to his rescue.

  He looked up at Olescu, and they exchanged a brief smile, the image of his friend transfixing him for a moment. The two men could have passed as twins. Even friends had confused them for each other in the past. It often left Dracula wondering if Olescu might indeed be his brother. Only subtle differences allowed people they knew to tell them apart, and his father had sired others outside of marriage. So it was plausible that this might be the case.

  Olescu stood a few inches taller. His moustache was shorter and not quite as thick. Later that same day, another would make this very mistake. An undercover agent would cut off the head of Olescu believing it to be the prized scalp of Dracula.

  Now, as Olescu looked down on his lord, he did not see the arrow with his name on it. It smashed through his spine and upper body armour. Blood spilled from his mouth. When his knees sagged, Dracula saw the arrowhead protruding from his chest.

  He cried out in grief, and watched Olescu drop down dead right before him. Incensed at this, he struggled to his feet. The third man he had fought groaned quietly nearby. He limped the few yards between them and drove his sword through the man’s heart.

  Dracula then used his sword as a support to take the weight off his injured leg. The arrow still remained embedded in his thigh, and every time he moved it, it caused him much distress. He shifted his weight to his other leg and, with his sword at the ready, he surveyed the scene around him.

  His men had warded off the attack. Reinforcements arrived in the thick of the battle to join in the fight. They routed what was left of the enemy. The injured and the dying they killed without mercy where they lay.

  Bodies lay strewn all around; Turkish and Wallachian warriors caught in the intimate indiscriminate embrace of death. He looked down on the corpses of many of his own men. They had given their lives bravely to protect him. These were the noblest of warriors, and he felt the loss of every one of them.

  He threw the Fier Negru down in despair, weak from his blood loss. Looking down at the arrow in his thigh, he grabbed it with both hands. He gritted his teeth and snapped it in two. Then, taking a deep breath, he pushed the arrowhead through.

  The pain was excruciating and caused him to nearly pass out. He screamed as the arrowhead ripped at muscles and tendons. Once he had it out, he discarded it on the ground beside his sword. He tore away the hosiery on Olescu’s left leg and made strips from it, which he tied around his bleeding thigh. By this time, he was gasping for air.

  Where is my horse? He squinted in the fading daylight to locate his trusted mount. The animal had bolted at the beginning of the attack without its rider to direct it. Once the fighting had ceased, it returned again to the slope and stood now about thirty yards away. He sighed with relief when he saw it there, grazing on what little green grass it could find.

  He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The animal pricked its ears at the summons and reared its head back before trotting over. Dracula then leant down and retrieved the Fier Negru. He groaned again before returning it to its scabbard.

  His horse nudged him with its nose and snorted a greeting when he rubbed its neck. With great angst, he placed his left foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up. For the second time, he cried out in agony, a black wave passing before his eyes. He sucked in several deep breaths, finding it a struggle to clear his head.

  The fighting in the day’s main battle had ended. The hundreds pouring through the pass told him this. His entire army now mustered to his flag and saw an end to the ambush. One of his officers rode to his side. The elderly Dancu had been with him in the old days, and with his father before that.

  Dancu saw the large amount of blood on the voivode’s left leg and the nasty wound there. “Send for the physician!” he shouted at the men nearest to him.

  The exhausted medic soon arrived. He rode up alongside Dracula and climbed down from his horse. Fresh and dried blood caked his bare arms. It covered his face, his hair, and a tattered shirt that he had torn many strips from. He pulled a fresh towel from his bag and cleaned his hands as best he could. To taint his voivode with another man’s blood would not be to his favour.

  Dracula dismissed the request to climb down to make it easier to treat him. He did not possess the strength or the desire to do so. For that reason, the physician had to stand beside his horse to examine him. He saw at first glance the wound was a serious one and set to work. The strips Dracula had tied around it were already soaked with his blood.

  It was an effort for Dracula to try and maintain his composure. He had to put on a show, even now, for his men. To them, there was no man more fierce; no man who was stronger. Many of them knew he had taken an arrow and watched from afar. He was aware of this and could show no sign of weakness, even in his current state.

  The lightest of touches on his leg caused him to wince. He sucked in a deep gulp of air and held his breath so that he might not cry out. But even then, he had to close his eyes to try and combat the pain. He lowered his head so none of his men would see it on his face.

  Sweat ran in streams down the medic’s face, mixing with the dried blood that covered it. It worried him that his efforts pained his voivode so. He paused to wipe the blood from his hands and took a step back. Dracula opened his eyes at once, which alerted the watching Dancu.

  “Why have you stopped?” the officer asked. “I did not hear our voivode say that you could. Resume at once, lest I shall remove your head.”

  The physician sucked his next breath of air in hard and stepped forward once again. “I humbly beg your pardon, My Liege,” he said, removing the last splinters from the arrowhead he could see in the wound.

  Dracula closed his eyes again without speaking. He gritted his teeth hard as he felt the tweezers pick at his exposed flesh. Never before had he endured wounds such as these. As great a warrior as he was, he knew he was growing too old for it.

  His head still down, his teeth still gritted against the pain, he did not see the arrows that rained in on the group around him. The physician fell to the ground at the stallion’s feet. The thud of his fall and the cries of his men alerted him to the latest attack.

  The man lay dead on the ground. Dracula looked down to see an arrow had struck him in the head, just above the ear. A number of others close by took hits also. He reacted fast to the threat and leant forward, and low, steering his mount away from the melee.

  A second arrow found him as he turned his horse, and struck him in the chest below his left shoulder. His breath caught in his throat as the force of it threw him backwards. He clung on to the reins in desperation as Dancu reached out and managed to place an arm around his waist. Only for that, he would have fallen from his horse. Already, blood began to fill his left lung, and his laboured breathing left traces of it on his lips.

  “My Liege?” his friend asked him. “Can you ride?”

  Dracula looked at him through eyes that welled
with tears. “Take me to the chapel at the monastery,” he rasped. “If I am to die, I wish for it to be in a sacred place.”

  WALLACHIA. THE CHAPEL OF

  THE MONASTERY AT SNAGOV.

  DECEMBER 11, 1476. SUNSET.

  Dancu’s heart raced on hearing his master’s words. He reached for the halter of the horse and steered them towards the monastery. The island, where it stood, was less than two miles away. They would not need a boat, for the surrounding lake had frozen over weeks before.

  The other members of the bodyguard saw their master slumped in the saddle. They forgot everything else and raced to his side.

  There were no further incidents along the way. Dracula’s men hunted down the archers and killed them. Those who rode with him ensured nothing blocked his path, and remained vigilant in case of any further attacks.

  Blood oozed steadily from his wounds, and the colour had drained from his face, leaving a ghostly pallor. Upon arriving at the monastery, his men lifted him gently from his horse. They could see he was not in a good way. Few of them had known anyone as tough, but he looked as close to death as a man who still breathed could. Some of them thought then that the tips of the arrows might have carried poison.

  The men pushed open the door of the chapel. Taking him inside, they laid him down at the top of the steps below the altar. Two monks who saw them, ran off in search of their master. The abbot arrived soon after with a group of them at his side. It led to a fracas with the soldiers over the intrusion into his building.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the abbot demanded to know.

  “Mind your tongue,” one of the boyars warned. “I could soon cut it out for you.”

  The abbot looked aghast. “You cannot violate the sanctity of the chapel.”

  “How dare you come in here and threaten the abbot!” one of the monks shouted, in support of him.

  The same boyar pushed him back. Soon all of Dracula’s men became involved.

  “Good Lord!” the abbot cried out. “What is wrong with you men?”

  “It is this that ails us!” one of the boyars snarled.

  He grabbed the abbot by his smock and threw him down. The abbot fell on the steps near to Dracula. He gazed at his voivode and saw he was slowly bleeding to death.

  “Get on your knees when in the presence of your sovereign,” the boyar warned.

  The abbot had known Dracula for many years and felt genuine worry. “My Liege,” he said, crawling on all fours to be at his side. “I did not know you were here.”

  Dracula opened his eyes for a brief moment. Every breath became a struggle for him. The arrow that remained embedded in his chest had filled his left lung with blood. It had also caused a tear to one of the arteries near his heart. His wounds already looked badly infected and proved the theory of his men about the possible use of poison.

  The abbot began to administer the Last Rites. Dracula barely heard the words spoken over him. He did not notice the efforts of the others to comfort him in his last moments. Some of them wept openly, as hardened as they were. He may not have had the love of his people, but he had it from his most trusted men.

  A heavy rain fell on those waiting outside. Above it, the dark clouds sucked the last light out of the day. Many of them knelt down in the freezing mud, miserable from the cold and the wet. Yet they prayed in the hope that God might spare their master on this day. Those who had seen him carried into the chapel knew better.

  The first cries rang out from those farthest away. Men drew their swords and turned to look for the cause of the noise. At first, they saw nothing. And then it came. A thick black mist began to move from the darkness towards them. Those who did not move out of its path found themselves tossed down to the ground on either side. The air around it was colder than ice and it drove the people back farther. Many clawed at the mud with numbed fingers in their attempts to get away.

  A large group of men stood firm in its path. The air grew thick and stale and turned so cold that not one of them could hold a sword any longer. Some even cried out as the iciness bit into their exposed fingers. Before the mist reached them, they had all moved aside. They could do no more than stand and watch it pass them by. An aura of darkest evil emanated from it so strong that they could feel it, one and all.

  All of a sudden, the same icy chill engulfed the men inside the chapel. A strong wind blew in from the door and travelled the short distance to the altar. It ruffled the hair of each of the boyars present. They looked to the door to see the black mist creep slowly along the mosaic floor towards them.

  The abbot was the first to see the dark figure that stood at the entrance. He stopped in mid-sentence, his raised hand falling against his thigh. The boyars watched him bless himself several times. They wondered what he had seen that had so evidently frightened him. The blood drained from his face when the figure began to walk slowly towards the altar.

  Dracula sensed the presence of the mysterious figure, though he had not seen it. A faint smile escaped his lips as he knew Death had come for him at last. So many times he had cheated it, but this was the time; his time. In his heart, he knew there were no angels coming to this place. It was what he had expected, and he was not afraid. In that moment, he welcomed Death’s arrival.

  The boyars turned in the hope they might see what had caught the abbot’s eye. They saw only the black mist creeping towards them. The figure remained invisible to their eye and stopped right where they stood. The air grew stale all around, and a foul stench caused them to gag and fight for breath.

  Terror filled the abbot. His mouth went dry and a cold sweat formed on his brow. Instinct told him the identity of the stranger. He did not want to believe it and fought the thoughts filling his mind. But the fear of the reality facing him paralysed his every muscle.

  The figure stood over Dracula. “Tell them to leave us!” it said in a deep, gravelly voice that was not from any human throat.

  Dracula opened his eyes. When the boyars saw this, they crowded around him. “Go,” he told them, barely above a whisper. “Leave me in peace to die.”

  He found it a real effort to speak now. His men knew he was very close to death and did not want to leave his side. “Go,” he said again. “It is what I command.”

  They adhered to his wish and took their leave. The abbot left also, along with his monks. He had no desire to confront the stranger, his fear suddenly far outweighing the power of his faith.

  The door of the chapel closed tight behind them. The boyars turned in shock, aware there was no one inside who could have closed it. They rushed over and pushed against it as one, but it would not budge. Some of them shouted and resorted to beating at it with their fists. It did them no good, as the door stood firm.

  Knowing he and the stranger were alone, Dracula looked up at the towering figure that loomed over him. The stranger pulled back the shroud that obscured his face, to reveal himself.

  Despite his fragile state, Dracula gasped in shock at the image that met his eyes. Standing well over seven feet, the stranger glared down at him. His black eyes looked right into Dracula’s soul. Fathomless, they hinted at an expression of real malignancy and menace. It filled Dracula with dread, a sense of terror he had never felt before. This was not how Death should appear to those who welcomed him.

  The shock of seeing such an image was so great that Dracula could not breathe. He rolled onto his side and clawed at the marble steps, his face turning from deathly white to a murky blue.

  The stranger clicked his fingers, and Dracula was able to breathe once more. He stayed on his side, not daring to look up.

  “Look at me!” the stranger ordered him.

  The voice itself was enough to put fear into the staunchest heart. Dracula fell on his back again and looked up. Only then did he see the face of the stranger properly. A full black beard covered his jaw. He had long raven-black hair that dropped to his shoulders. His skin looked tough and scorched. What caught Dracula’s eye the most were the two strong horn
s that extended upwards from the stranger’s forehead.

  “Did you think by coming here you could escape me?” the stranger asked, though the question was more of a growl.

  Dracula did not answer. He closed his eyes in the hope this might all go away.

  “Look at me!” the stranger ordered again, with real menace in his voice. “I can make you wish you never had eyes. If you close them once more, I shall make good my threat.”

  He did as the stranger said and opened his eyes to look up at him.

  “You are mine,” the stranger advised, looking Dracula straight in the eye. “You have always been mine.”

  The voivode no longer felt afraid. The pain in his body was such that he no longer cared. “How do you come by that notion?” he gasped, through bloodied lips.

  “Oh, Vlad, are you so naïve? I have been with you enough times over the years.”

  Dracula was not sure what he meant at first. He thought back over his life. Then it struck him. The one who had nurtured him from such a young age. The one who had protected him from harm. The one who had guided him through so many troubled times. The one who had manipulated and threatened him when he wanted to follow his own path. But that was a woman he had known. “Lucy?”

  The stranger laughed. “Yes, indeed.”

  It had been clear for a long time that Lucy was not human. Dracula had, for a long time, thought of her as a messenger from some archaic deity. Perhaps he had always known the truth, but never wanted to believe it. “You are she?”

  “I told you I would come for you in your moment of death. That time is upon you at last.”

  Dracula closed his eyes again. He should have known. So many things made perfect sense to him now. He realised why God had sent nobody to claim his soul. All his life, the Devil had courted him. He knew it meant an eternity of damnation.

  “This place is no haven for one such as you,” Lucifer advised him. “God does not want you. He turned his back on you a long time past.”