The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

“But there is no greater embodiment of evil.”

  “There is if it walks the earth in the form of a man.”

  “Lucifer has taken on the identity of a man?”

  “You of all people should know the terms of the truce God made with him.”

  “It is a myth.”

  “It is a fact! To end the Great War, God entered into a truce with His fallen son.”

  Alexander decided to humour the old gypsy. “Then enlighten me, if you will.”

  “They agreed they could contest the soul of every man. Every man and woman who has walked the earth has the power to choose their own destiny.”

  “We all know God bestowed us with the gift of free will.”

  “For that reason, there are rules that restrict them both.”

  “And those are?”

  “They cannot physically interfere in the lives of men. They can only use the power of persuasion and thought, and for Lucifer, temptation.”

  “And is that not enough?”

  “Not for Lucifer. He realised if he created a beast in his own image to walk the earth, that creature would not be so restricted.”

  “I can see no logic in that. This is a fantasy of yours.”

  “The same way Jesus came in God’s own image, so does one walk the earth in Lucifer’s. But where Jesus brought the gift of life and hope, the other brings only death and darkness.”

  “Who is this entity?”

  “You know of him.”

  “How might that be?”

  “Your predecessors knew him. Men whom you looked up to and respected.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He was a ruler of great repute. He carried the banner of our faith into battle against the Ottoman Turks.”

  “His name!”

  “It is Vlad Dracula.”

  Alexander knew the name. He was very familiar with the crusades originated by Sixtus IV. Dracula led the last of these in 1475. He had also seen a document written about the night of Dracula’s alleged death at Snagov. “Yes, I know of him. So you claim the stories written of him are true?”

  “Yes, they are true.”

  “And what was the purpose of his creation as a demon?”

  “To destroy the Church.”

  “But why? For what purpose?”

  “Lucifer sees a chance to turn man against God again if the Church falls. Sadly, it is one of the easier options for him to exploit.”

  “Why do you say that? The Church is God’s great icon.”

  “Men like you are making his task an easy one. Your position means you are to live a life of purity, chastity, and servitude. Yet you abuse it. You murder, steal, and involve yourself in all manner of sexual debauchery. In the same manner Jesus was chaste, so must you be.”

  Andrei’s words stung him hard, and he had to fight to keep his temper under control. He could not deny, though, what the other man had said. His only interest as pope had been to promote the careers of his children. To achieve this end, he had engaged in every kind of treachery.

  “You can still atone for much of this, Rodrigo,” Andrei said. “It is not too late. Change your ways, and do what is required of you this day.”

  He did not want to talk about it. “You are connected to Dracula?”

  “I am his twin soul. We breathed life in the very same moment.”

  “There is more, I wager?”

  “Yes, he is my brother.”

  “So you are born of royalty?”

  “No. We had the same father, but never the same privileges.”

  “I understand. Your mother was a mistress of Dracula’s father?”

  Andrei shot him a sharp glance that indicated she was not. “My mother endured great suffering during my conception.”

  “And yet you turned out the better of the two?”

  “It is what God wished.”

  “Even so, what brings you to me this day?”

  “As the pope, you and your successors have to know how to destroy him.”

  “As you say, I am but a man. What can I do?”

  “Protect my body. I am the key to killing him.”

  “You are the key?”

  “Yes, my bones and the bones of my six sons shall provide the weapons to kill Dracula. Only those can end his existence.”

  “Your sons are dead?”

  “No, they all live.”

  “Then is this not a little premature?”

  “No, it is not. My time on this earth is almost at an end. My body has to be buried here in the Vatican.”

  “That is a privilege reserved for popes and kings.”

  “My body is more sacred than that of any such man.”

  “That is quite a claim to make.”

  “Take your nose out of the air, Rodrigo. You have to ensure my body is buried here, safe from the clutches of Lucifer’s minions.”

  “Why here?”

  “Those on the Dark Side cannot enter the inner sanctum of these halls. Not even Lucifer can walk here. My body would be safe here till the day the weapons are crafted from it.”

  “How should these weapons be made?”

  “They must be pointed stakes crafted from the breastbones. Hollow the centres and fill them with holy water. Twelve bishops must bless them every day.”

  “I shall write it down.”

  “They shall be the most sacred relics, and must be kept as such.”

  The pope nodded. “We have to decide where to bury you.”

  “It has to be a secure location.”

  “There is a vault below the library.”

  “Does it contain a crypt?”

  He nodded. “It has many.”

  Andrei opened his small bag. From it, he produced an old shawl.

  “What is that?”

  “It is a shawl that belonged to my sister, Tania. Jesus touched this when he brought her back from the dead.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The time I faced Lucifer. I told you, there was a great battle between the angels and demons. She died at the hands of one of them. Jesus brought her back.”

  “He was really there?”

  “Yes, the porthole to Hell closed. It trapped the Archangel Michael. Jesus came and saved him.”

  “That is quite a story.”

  “It happened. I was there.”

  “You are giving this shawl to me?”

  “Yes, it is most sacred. I wish the stakes to be wrapped inside it once they have been crafted.”

  Alexander took the key from around his neck. He pulled the portrait of himself that hung on a wall nearby to one side. Behind it, Andrei saw a safe. He watched the pope open it and produce an ornately decorated jewellery box.

  “It can be kept in here,” he said. “What more is in your bag?”

  “I have seven empty vials.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Each is to be filled with holy water. I shall then place my blood into the water.”

  “There is a font inside the door.”

  Andrei filled each one. He brought them back to his seat and sat down. Taking a small blade from a pocket, he sliced the top of his thumb. He pressed his bleeding digit over the opening of the first vial. Several drops of his blood fell into the water. He sealed it and shook it so that the two liquids mixed. This process he repeated with each vial.

  “What is their purpose?”

  “They can be used for many things. The one who goes in search of the bodies of my sons can use these to guide him.”

  “Then they had better be added to this box.”

  “They shall also glow blue whenever Dracula or one of his kind is close.”

  “So they can also be used to hunt him?”

  “Yes, I imagine so.”

  “Who should that task fall on?”

  “I shall be the one.”

  “I thought you said your time was almost at an end.”

  “It is, but I shall be reborn. I am of the mortal realm.”

  “Such
a notion is blasphemous!”

  “Open your eyes, Rodrigo. The Bible says Jesus shall be reborn. Is that blasphemy too?”

  “Jesus is not bound by such restrictions. It does not mean that a mortal man can be born again. That privilege is for him, and him alone.”

  “My power comes directly from him. I shall come back many times, for my soul to gain strength and knowledge.”

  “I suppose then I had better accept it.”

  “If this venture has any hope of success, then you have to believe it.”

  “What is that in your hand?”

  “It is a map I have drawn.”

  “Of what?”

  “The location where my sons shall be buried.”

  “You already know that?”

  “I told them where I wanted it to be. It should make the task of finding them so much easier.”

  “Indeed. It should be put in here with the rest for safe-keeping.”

  He took it from Andrei and placed it in the box. Andrei settled back on the sofa while the pope returned the box to its hiding place.

  “Is there anything more I need to know?” Alexander asked him.

  Andrei did not answer. The pope walked over to him to see him lying there with his eyes closed. He shook Andrei gently, but got no response. Andrei’s arm flopped down over the edge. He was dead.

  The pope looked down at him. He thought about everything the old gypsy had said. Even now, he could not make up his mind over how much of it was the truth. He had never heard anything of the like. What better way for a pauper to ensure the perfect burial than to procure such a story?

  Piccolomini had remained outside with his ear to the door. He heard most of what Andrei had said. What an amazing story, he thought. There might be a time when I can use it to my advantage.

  Alexander walked over to the door. With an effort, he pulled the sofa away. He slid the bolt back and pulled it open to see the cardinal there. “You were listening?”

  “I was concerned for your safety, Holy Father. The man sounded quite mad.”

  “Yes, he told an incredible tale.”

  “What shall you do with him?”

  “Go and find my secretary. We shall bury him in the palace grounds.”

  Alexander closed the door behind the cardinal and returned to Andrei’s side. A great wind blew through the room from nowhere. It hit him full in the face and took his breath away.

  He fell down onto Andrei’s legs. When he looked up, the most amazing sight met his eyes. The Archangel Michael stood there, dressed all in white. His long white hair and beard fell down about his shoulders and chest, and his awesome bulk towered over the terrified pontiff.

  Alexander gazed at his mighty arms. Michael’s huge biceps rippled and bulged. Behind his shoulders, his wings rose up almost to the ceiling.

  His deep blue eyes pierced right through the cowering Alexander, and he pointed an accusing finger at him. “You wretched excuse for a man!” he bellowed. “You shall bury him in the vault lest there be no place on this earth where you can hide from me!”

  He extended his wings and flapped them hard. Sofas and tables turned over, and the mantelpieces emptied all over the floor. Each book on the shelves that lined the room flew up into the air and crashed down.

  Alexander climbed from the sofa and dropped to his knees. “Forgive me,” he begged. “I shall do as he said.”

  “You were in the presence of greatness today,” Michael advised him. “See to it that you do.”

  WALLACHIA. THE ROYAL PALACE AT TIRGOVISTE.

  MARCH, 1503.

  A slow drizzle fell on the city. Dracula glided unnoticed over his former capital. He was just one more obscure shadow against the dark night sky.

  He settled onto one of the rooftops of his old palace. It still had its own special smell, and he took in a deep breath to savour it. This had been his seat of power for the longest of his reigns, and for his father before him. He had ruled from here for six years, between 1456 and 1462. His nephew, Radu cel Mare, held court here now. That did not interest him too much and had no bearing on his being here. He just wanted the feeling of home, if even for just a short while.

  The moon briefly broke through the clouds, catching his eye. Its rays bathed the city with a murky light. From it, he drew a clear view of the tangled web of streets below.

  It was a full moon. Each one marked a period that left him feeling restless. Something had drawn him back to his old city. He had no idea what that was, but if he stopped here on the roof of his old palace, he hoped it might come to him.

  He had wanted to come alone. Ilona and Varkal, he left to hunt by themselves. She sensed his agitation and left him be. Later in the night, she would seek him out. Then they could hunt side by side as they liked to do.

  Varkal had other things on his mind. He liked to go his own way, and tonight was no exception. He had cast his eye on the wife of a noble, a woman he had known many years. She lived with her husband on the outskirts of the city. Her bed was one he had longed to enter for years before his mortal life had ended.

  Standing there stirred some strong memories in Dracula. He let his mind slip briefly from the business at hand as a strong wind tugged at the ends of his long hair. The heavy drizzle had left it stuck to the sides of his face and small rivulets of water ran down the back of his coat. He closed his eyes and cast his mind back. It was late June in 1462. The armies of Sultan Mehmed II were close to descending on the city.

  It was a desperate time for him and his people. The might of the Ottoman Empire weighed down on them. He had to take extreme measures to keep his throne, faced with an army that outnumbered his by four to one.

  This forced him to drop back to his capital. Wallachia’s greatest defence was its difficult terrain. Few were as aware of this as he. He knew he had to draw his enemy deep into his territory. Then he could defeat it.

  He planned his strategy around these great natural defences. To the south, he had the buffer of the marshy soil of the Danube frontier. From east to west, the Vlacia forests extended across the plains. In the north, the impenetrable mountains provided an obstacle to even the smallest of armies.

  Dracula adopted a scorched earth policy. He left a desert in the path of the invading force. As his army retreated, he abandoned huge areas to the Turks. All civilians, regardless of their status, made the trek with him. They brought with them all the livestock they could herd.

  The animals he could not take, he had destroyed. His men burned the crops and poisoned the wells. Even the towns and cities he had burned to deny the enemy shelter. They dug huge pits along their line of advance. These they covered over to disguise beds of stakes below. The pits proved a major success, trapping and killing many Turkish soldiers and horses.

  Dracula did many other things to blight their progress. He released the few hardened criminals not yet put to the stake. These he employed to kill off stragglers from the Turkish army. For that, he gave them their freedom. Lepers, and others afflicted with disease, he sent to mingle with and infect the enemy.

  These tactics had the desired effect. The Turks could find nothing to eat or drink as they advanced. In the punishing heat of that summer, it drove their morale to an all-time low.

  Dracula was a genius for his day. He did not limit himself to these tactics alone. His enemy could find no peace. He added to their misery by waging a well-thought-out guerrilla campaign. Time and time again, his men attacked them. They struck at random, and with much success, and often at night. It deprived the enemy of rest, this torment draining the Turks of their resolve.

  Despite these setbacks, Mehmed pressed on. His need to defeat Dracula bordered on obsession. Defeat at Belgrade in 1456 had greatly damaged his pride, and his reputation. Dracula was a part of the coalition that had risen against him. His consort of many years, Radu, was Dracula’s brother. He shared in this hatred of the great voivode. It was he who drove Mehmed on.

  Mehmed cut a path from Turnu north to Glavacioc. From th
ere, he turned east to Bucharest. His march then took him north again to Snagov. He set up camp here, sixty miles from Tirgoviste.

  It was while Mehmed camped there that Dracula played out his masterstroke. On the night of June 17, he hatched the most cunning of plans. He divided his army into two and attacked the Turkish camp while his enemy slept.

  The carnage was horrific. Dracula’s men gave no quarter, and slaughtered the Turks without mercy. Even now, he could remember the stench of death. The blood of the dead flowed downhill through the middle of the camp like a river into the nearby lake.

  The second half of his army he gave command to a boyar named Gales. When Dracula moved in from the south, Gales was to attack from the north.

  Gales did not keep to the plan. His lack of courage in the vital moment cost Dracula a decisive victory. Fifteen thousand Turks perished that night. Dracula lost a third of that number. Gales’s refusal to attack from the opposite flank cost most of those lives.

  Mehmed had a lucky escape. The force of assassins chosen to kill him attacked the wrong tent. This gave him precious time as his two thousand Janissaries rallied around him. A vicious battle ensued, in which they warded off the attack and saved his life.

  Killing Mehmed would have clinched victory. His army would have lost its stomach to fight after that. Dracula tried to put this setback out of his mind. He had still dealt his enemy a huge psychological blow.

  He managed a faint smile. They were exciting times. Only in those days had he felt truly alive. His acts in defending his nation in that campaign were what would make his name live on forever. He looked down over the ramparts. The best was still to come, and he gloated at the mere thought of it.

  The rain continued to fall. In his short time on the rooftop, it had become heavier. The moon hid again behind the clouds and plunged the city into darkness once more. This did little to dim the glow his memories brought him.

  His gaze fell on the courtyard below. From there, his eyes drifted up to the battlements. He recalled how they were awash with life. His men prepared to defend the palace. He could still see them loading the cannon. The archers took their positions up high. Down below, thousands of his men waited, ready to charge out through the gates. The din of it all rang loud in his ears. His men shouted their war cries, for they knew this mighty enemy would breach the walls. Then all fell silent again. It was but a memory.