The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

  “I did not see you try to help her,” Varkal said, holding his hands out to either side. His confidence unsettled his opposite. “Perhaps you enjoyed it more than I. Did you like watching, Anton? Is that what excites you? Watching a helpless woman die?”

  Even though Anton held the sword, it was he who stepped back when Varkal moved forward.

  “Look at you!” Varkal sneered. “Even with the sword in your hand, you have no backbone. And you wonder why your father favours me over you?”

  “It is all over for you, Varkal. The Guard is on its way.”

  “The Guard is loyal to me!”

  “You may think so, but they despise you.”

  “Soldiers are like dogs, dear Anton,” he said. “They bow to strength and authority. When they sense a coward, they are quick to turn. And you are a coward, Anton. It is a trait the Florescus are famed for.”

  “Say what you wish. You are finished. I shall see you swing before nightfall.”

  Varkal squinted his eyes. “I have given you a chance to kill me. You shall never take me alive. So why not run me through? You would rather do that, I wager.”

  The idea tempted him, but when his rival pressed forward, he stepped farther back. “No, I want to see you dangle from a rope.”

  “Even with the upper hand, you lack the courage of your convictions. Show me some steel, man. Run me through!”

  His slow retreat allowed Varkal the room he needed. The captain seized the moment and threw himself headlong into the bedroom. In his dive, he dragged the lifeless body of the baby with him. He brushed it aside with his foot and retrieved his sword.

  Anton’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He had never had the courage to go up against Varkal, and he feared he might lack the same conviction now that an opportunity had finally presented itself. The taunts Varkal had thrown his way had reopened old wounds, wounds that had never healed. His father had overlooked him for good reason, and he knew it. All his life, he had failed to live up to his father’s expectations, and it made him the subject of gossip and ridicule. He saw it in the eyes of the men at the garrison and anyone else whose gaze he met. On this day, though, fortune had smiled on him. He had caught Varkal in the act and had the means now to destroy him and remove him from his way, once and for all. His father could not deny his claims after this.

  He gave chase and saw his rival kick the dead baby away before rising to his feet with sword in hand. In a second, Anton saw his hopes begin to fade again.

  Knowing he was the better man with the sword, Varkal launched an immediate attack. The fight took them outside into the fading twilight. Anton remained on the back foot the whole time.

  They fought hard for several minutes, with neither man gaining an advantage over the other. Varkal had underestimated the ability of his opponent. Anton lacked courage, but he did not lack skill.

  Varkal’s wound showed signs of blood again. After a time, they rested against tree stumps a few yards apart.

  “You are losing your edge,” Anton said between breaths.

  “Perhaps, but you have not yet killed me.”

  “No, but you shall not be leaving here, either.”

  It occurred to Varkal that Anton was buying time for the soldiers from the garrison to arrive. He knew he had to finish this if he were to get away alive. “We shall see,” he said, straightening up.

  He tried to flee, but Anton blocked his path. In the same moment, he caught sight of flickering torches through the trees. The sound of distant voices and approaching horses met his ear.

  Anton grinned at his worried expression. “It seems that your end is closer than you thought.”

  Varkal took a deep breath and glared at him.

  “Would you like to pick a tree?”

  “Not a chance,” he said defiantly as he lunged forward again.

  Anton darted to one side just in time to avoid a sword through his gut. He countered and brought his own down in an arc. The blade connected with his rival and sliced a deep gash across Varkal’s left forearm.

  It was the second injury Varkal had suffered in less than an hour. He flew into such a frenzy that Anton could not cope with his next assault. Anton’s weapon flew from his grip, and, disarmed, he backed up against a tree.

  Varkal pressed the tip of his own sword against the underside of his chin. “If I do hang, Florescu,” he said, as he grimaced, “you shall not be here to see it.”

  With that, he ran the tip of the blade across Anton’s throat. He glared into the eyes of his enemy before stepping aside.

  Anton lurched forward and dropped to his knees. He put his hands to his throat to try and stem the gush of blood. Gasping for air, he collapsed to the ground as it choked him.

  Varkal whistled to his horse and mounted it as soon as it came to him. He looked over to see the first of the soldiers appear through the trees. They saw him mount his horse, naked, and ride off in the opposite direction.

  In the twilight, he hoped to make good his escape. Darkness was fast closing in, and soon it would engulf the forest. A dozen riders gave chase. The others stopped at the old shack, where there was much for them to investigate.

  The boyar, Victor Florescu, dismounted outside. He saw with his own eyes the grisly scene inside the hut. For a moment, he gazed at the dead baby in the bedroom. He then walked up to the dead woman, although he did not speak.

  “She died the same way as the others,” one of his men said.

  Florescu looked down into her wide and terrified eyes. The look of fear behind them sent a cold shiver through him.

  “Varkal is the man we have been looking for, My Lord.”

  Florescu seethed with anger. Varkal Gabrul was his most trusted deputy. Yet his captain was the one he had so desperately sought. It was he who had terrorised the region and cast a black cloud over it. “He shall feel my justice for this,” he vowed, as he stepped outside again.

  The justice he meted out was usually swift and severe. He did not like his peace disturbed. Yet these crimes of Varkal’s were the worst he had seen in his domain. “Where is Anton?” he asked his men. “Is there any sign of him?”

  “He is here!” someone shouted.

  Florescu and his men walked over to the spot where his son had fallen. He gazed down at Anton’s dead body. His legs almost buckled with the shock. Anton had never been of much use. Still, he was his son, and he loved him.

  His eyes watered both from grief and the hate he felt for Varkal. With his blood boiling, he looked to the trees. He yelled at the top of his voice so all could hear him. “I want him brought back to me alive! I shall give five hundred gold ducats to the man who brings him to me!”

  TRANSYLVANIA. THE FORESTS NEAR BRASOV.

  OCTOBER, 1494. LATE EVENING ON THE SAME DAY.

  Even in his flight, Varkal heard Florescu. The boyar’s voice carried far into the night. Varkal feared his words, and his heart thumped in his chest as he sought the darkness of the forest. The soldiers he had hunted with earlier would hunt him now. This he knew well. Five hundred gold ducats was quite a bounty, and his future looked bleak.

  He looked up to the dark skies, thankful that night was closing in. The shadows loomed all around. Soon they would engulf him and shield him from his pursuers.

  His horse seemed edgy, and it shied many times to one side, fearing the shadows. He deviated from the regular path through the forest and slowed it to a canter.

  He heard the soldiers draw closer. Their flickering torches hinted they were not too far away. He knew he could not outride them. When the sun went down, it took with it the warmth of the evening. Still naked, the night air chilled him to the bone.

  It prompted him to dismount and seek a hiding place on foot. He felt tired and weak and sore from the saddle. Riding naked was never a good idea, as he soon realised, the saddle and the animal’s hide rubbing against his exposed flesh. His injuries had seeped a lot of blood, and although the bleeding had eased a little, the pain was far from going away.

 
He stumbled upon the hollow trunk of a fallen oak and pulled back some of the bushes that had grown over it. A quick check assured him it would suit his purpose. Inside, he saw a space large enough for him to slide into. His horse bolted when he slapped it hard across the rump with his sword. He then settled down to hide.

  Their voices carried on the wind that gusted through the forest. It worried him that he could hear their words with such clarity. They spread out in a line through the trees, ten yards apart from each other. If he were there, then they knew they would find him.

  It did not take long for them to draw close, and a few excited cries rang out around him. His pursuers had located his horse. Despite driving the animal away, it had come back and grazed now only a dozen yards from his hiding place.

  “He cannot be far away!” one of them shouted.

  Varkal recognised the voice of Adam Petrescu. His heart pounded in his ears as the group converged on the oak. Horseshoes crunched the leaves only a few feet from his head. They were so close, he dared not breathe for fear they might hear him. Then there was silence. Their torches lit the entire area. They had all stopped to listen for any hint as to where he was hiding.

  “Comb this area,” Petrescu said, breaking the silence. “He is close. I know it.”

  One of his men agreed. “I wager he can hear all we are saying.”

  “Be on your guard at all times!” Petrescu warned. “A rat is never more dangerous than when it is cornered.”

  Varkal grimaced at the slur and wished he could get Petrescu alone. He would not be so bold then. Such an opportunity was not likely. Petrescu was correct in what he had said and would ensure he had plenty of men around him at all times.

  The soldiers dispersed to begin a thorough search of the area. The one whose horse had almost trodden on Varkal’s head called the attention of his comrades. “Wait! What is this?”

  Petrescu and some others walked over. On the leaves near the fallen oak, they saw fresh blood. He put a finger to his lips as they neared him. They believed they had found their man. When enough of them had gathered there, he gave the nod. The group began beating the bushes with their swords.

  Varkal knew the game was up and sprang from his hiding place. The soldier who had made the discovery stood nearest to him. Varkal swung with his sword and slashed him the length of his face.

  The man screamed in horror before Varkal crashed into him and knocked him down. The captain tried to take advantage of the surprise on their faces and made a dash for his horse. But a second man stood in his way to block his escape. They clashed swords, Varkal fending the oncoming blow aimed at his head.

  He prepared to deliver one of his own when he felt a searing pain in his thigh that forced him down onto one leg. A length of cold steel lay wedged in the other. He cried out and looked up to see Petrescu standing over him.

  Another of the men beat a stick against his fighting arm. He dropped his sword to the ground, and, before he could react, Petrescu kicked him to the side of the head. He fell down hard on the arm Anton had injured earlier. When he hit the ground, several of them joined in the assault. It left him broken and bleeding.

  “Put him in restraints! The boyar is waiting to see him.”

  Two of the soldiers kept him pinned down. Another bound his hands tight behind his back. He then turned Varkal over and spat full in his face. “How does it feel to be the one who is naked and bound?”

  Petrescu grabbed the hilt of his sword. With great deliberation, he yanked it from Varkal’s thigh. Varkal screamed out loud in agony, and it took every ounce of strength he had left to remain conscious. The men then stood him up. With his head cloudy, Varkal struggled to keep his weight off the badly injured leg.

  The soldiers took real delight in his pain. They hated him with a passion. This was even more so since the grim discovery at the shack.

  “It does not feel so good, does it?” Petrescu sneered. “I only wish I could cause you even half the misery you dealt those poor women.”

  The officer struck him twice to the face while the others held him firm. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. He looked Petrescu straight in the eye to show he was not afraid.

  Petrescu hoped he might beg for his life, and it agitated him when he did not. “Even when you know you are going to die, you act so brazen. That shall soon change.” He turned to his men. “Put him on a horse! And show some haste. We do not want him to bleed to death before we have the chance to see him hanged.”

  The men hoisted him sideways onto his horse. He cried out as they moved him, the pain in his thigh excruciating. Someone cut the bonds behind his back. Then, laying him across his stomach on his mount, they tied his hands and feet underneath the animal. He groaned hard as they pulled on his leg, and overwhelmed with the pain, he finally passed out.

  They led him back to the scene of his crime. Victor Florescu awaited their return outside the old shack. Already, his men had secured a noose to a strong tree for Varkal’s execution. They each held torches so they could all see his hanging.

  “Cut him down!” the boyar ordered.

  One of the soldiers cut him loose from the horse, though his hands and feet remained tied. Four of them picked him up and threw him into the pool to revive him.

  The cold water sent a shock through his whole system. He opened his eyes at once, choking for air when he broke the surface. The four men watched him go under a second time, enjoying his suffering. Some of them had waited a long time for such a moment. Varkal tried to kick to push himself upwards, but with the restraints and his injuries, he was unable to do so.

  “I would let the bastard drown,” one of them said.

  “Haul him out,” Florescu told them. “His noose is waiting.”

  Coughing and spluttering, they dragged him from the pool. They sat him upright on his horse and secured the noose around his neck.

  The sun had set fully now and darkness had closed in. The torches of the soldiers offered the only source of light. The boyar climbed back onto his own horse and rode up alongside him. He delivered a short speech denouncing the captain for his crimes. It ended with a condemnation of death.

  Florescu looked at him. “Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”

  Varkal shrugged and grinned at the boyar despite his pain and his predicament. “Only the one thing,” he said through bloodied teeth.

  Florescu was not sure he wanted to hear it. “And what might that be?”

  “She was a hump worth dying for.”

  With that, he spat full in Florescu’s face. The boyar wiped away the mix of spittle and blood with a hand. With fire in his eyes, he looked at the condemned man, and saw another of those sickening grins etched across his face.

  In that moment, nothing could give him more pleasure than to see Varkal dead. “Carry out the sentence,” he said, raising an arm.

  One of the soldiers raised the whip to strike Varkal’s horse. He held it there when he heard a strange voice, loud and true, to all around the tree.

  “Who wants to be the first to die?” it said.

  The boyar turned to see who had interrupted the execution. At first, he thought his eyes had deceived him. Then his blood turned cold. He realised he was looking at the man whose family his had feuded with for generations. “Vlad Dracula!”

  “If I were to say I am flattered that you remember me so well, I would be lying.”

  “You are a dead man.”

  “I am not nearly as dead a man as you, Florescu.”

  “You were killed at Snagov years ago.”

  “You should not believe every story you hear. Of course, you were not there. No Florescu ever shows his face in times of battle.”

  The boyar turned to his men. “What is this? Has someone here fixed this to have a jest at my expense?”

  “It is no jest, you cur. You know who I am. Release my son before I kill every last one of you.”

  “Your son?” Florescu said in disbelief.

  If he
was surprised, then Varkal was even more so. They had all heard tales of Vlad Dracula. He was a legend for what he had achieved in battle in trying to save the country from the Turks. That, and his prowess with the sword, was fuel for many stories. Many men thought he was the most skilled to have ever lived.

  Many more of those sprouted from his death. The events of that night in Snagov remained shrouded in mystery. The most popular tale claimed he had emerged from the chapel as a demon. All rational men dismissed it as myth and claimed a lot of the soldiers had bellies full of ale from celebrating their great victory. The fact that many had drowned in the lake, added to the grief at losing their hero and leader, is what had led to the story. Even so, others still spoke of it around fires at night.

  Stories also grew about the disappearance of Dracula’s wife. Many of the boyars had known her father well. The soldiers at the palace in Buda swore by what they had seen. They said a man who bore the image of Dracula flew with her in his arms from a window. No one had seen her again. It was the night of her husband’s birthday. Most believed she had thrown herself into the Danube in despair. It was a likely scenario as Dracula’s first wife had committed suicide in the exact same way.

  And now, here they stood, Dracula and his wife. Florescu had once visited the palace at Buda, and knew their faces. “He is the son of Gabrul. Everyone knows that.”

  “Gabrul watched over him for me. Varkal is my son.”

  Florescu’s initial fear had subsided now. “That would explain much. Most of all, why he is a murdering bastard.”

  “You would know enough of such things. It was your father who murdered my mother and brother.”

  Florescu smiled. “Yes, he has oft spoken of it.”

  Dracula had to fight the urge to snap his neck there and then. “When I am done with your family, your father shall stir in his grave. He shall wish he had chosen his enemies with a little more care.”

  “If he were dead, I might tend to agree with you.”

  His men laughed out loud.

  “It should be a good day when the last of the Draculestis is gone. Carry out the sentence!”