The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls

by Shane KP O'Neill

  Balthasar stepped back a few paces, a little unnerved by the outburst. He hoped now he might be out of earshot of the rest.

  Lucifer knew the old man wanted to talk, though he was none too keen to engage with him. “Go away, blind man,” he warned, in a low growl.

  “Your threats are lost on me. I do not fear you.”

  “You do not want to incur my wrath.”

  “What would you do? My time is close at hand. You would only begin my journey to paradise sooner than I had hoped.”

  He knew Lucifer still had his eyes on the young man on the Cross. “I held him in my arms the night he was born. You can be sure I shall be with him after he leaves this world too. You are only here because he has undone all of your work. Yet you can do nothing to stop it.”

  “What would you know of it?”

  “I know enough. This is the end for you.”

  It was all the Dark One could do to contain the rage building inside. “You are beginning to vex me, old man. Move away from me before I send you on the journey you so desperately crave.”

  “As I said, I am going nowhere.”

  “I could rip him down from there any time I please.”

  “We both know that is not so. Or you would have done it.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “He is doing this of his own free will. Not even God can stop it. The truce you agreed upon renders you both powerless to stop this event. He shall die today, as a man.”

  The old man was right. Lucifer could not interfere with the free will of any man, least of all this one. If he did so, then God would strike him down. He did not have the power to stand up to that. There was only one other thing he could do.

  He stepped closer to the crowd. His eyes remained fixed all the time on the one he loathed. “I can take away your pain,” he said. “Ask me to cut you down.”

  The young man did not look at him. He wanted it to end, but not that way. The pain of his ordeal was more than any man could endure. For a whole day the Romans had beaten him to a pulp. They had lashed him with the whip and driven a crown of thorns into his head. Then they nailed him to this Cross.

  He gritted his teeth to take another agonising breath. A loud gasp escaped his lips as he did so. There was not a part of him that did not hurt. His hands and feet had turned black both from the hammer and a lack of oxygen to them. Yet still they pained him. He could think of nothing better than for another to cut him down. But he had come too far for that. He had to see it through to the end.

  The battle for souls was running close. Lucifer had caught up fast in recent years. Man had turned bad and cared little for God. It left Him with no choice. He had to send a son to save this species He loved so much. Not a son He had crafted with His own hand, but one born of this earth, as a mortal man. It was His deep love of man that had started the first Great War. Too much had passed to let it all go. He could never allow Lucifer a route back to Heaven. To do so would signal the end for those He so cherished.

  “Let me spare you this torment. Ask me and I shall grant it to you.”

  “It is no use,” the old man said. “There is nothing you can do here.”

  “Stand at my side! Bow to me as your one true lord! I can give you power beyond your dreams! I can take away all your pain.”

  The young man looked past those he loved. His eyes fell on his great enemy. The skies turned ever darker and a strong wind blew about the hill. It was such that the people clung to their robes. The Romans too moved away to find shelter from it. As they did the first drops of rain began to fall.

  Balthasar stood firm. The change in the weather did not faze him as it did the others. He knew at last the reason this land had drawn him back. It was his task to speak for the young man on the Cross. “Your words are wasted. You are the false prophet; the Prince of Lies. His power far exceeds yours.”

  The young man squinted hard, but kept his eyes trained on the Dark One. As a man he did not have the strength to speak. Yet he wanted Lucifer to know that the old man spoke for him. He would never give in, despite his mortal pain.

  Lucifer knew he was losing this battle and was close to despairing. “Look around you!” he implored him. “They are not worth a single drop of your blood! For all you are doing for them, they still spit on you! Man is a cur! Let him die! It is as much as he deserves!”

  Balthasar walked right up to him. At once Lucifer noticed a change in the old man. The one who would ruin his work was indeed about to speak.

  “It is time that you left,” the old man said.

  Lucifer shot him a sharp glance. The voice he spoke with was that of the young man on the Cross. It was rare that he ever felt unsettled, but this was such a time. The Son of God had thrown down the gauntlet.

  His temper got the better of him. He shot across to where the Romans had crouched down. Their eyes remained fixed on the one they had crucified. More than ever they wished he would die. They did not want to spend another moment on this hill.

  He cast his eye over the group to select the right one for his purpose. Once he had chosen the man he wanted, he jumped into his body. The Roman stood up, no longer bothered by the wind and rain. His fingers closed around the spear he held in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” one of the others asked, when he moved away.

  The legionary ignored his comrade. He walked around the small clusters of people to find the perfect spot. The young man knew what was to come. He looked the Roman right in the eye to show his resolve would not break.

  The others got up to follow him when he did not respond to the question. They feared he might do something foolish. His actions could then spark a riot. Such an event would not please Pilate, the governor.

  The centurion worried about this most of all. He did not need this now. All he wanted was for this to end so they could return to barracks. But if it did happen he needed his men to be on their guard. “Stand down!” he shouted to his soldier. “I command you!”

  The Roman did not look around and he did not obey the command. Even the sound of the centurion drawing his gladius did not deter him. He carried on until he stood right in front of the young man. They stared each other out for a moment. The young man tried to ignore his pain. A fresh flow of blood trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He wanted an end to this too and gazed at the Roman, as if daring him to throw his spear.

  The people standing around saw it too. Those loyal to the young man ran to try and stop the soldier. With a shove of his hand he knocked two of them down. He then gripped the spear hard and hurled it through the air.

  Time seemed to stand still. Everyone on the hill stopped and waited with bated breath. Their eyes turned from the Roman to the man on the Cross. The young man cried out as the spear ripped through his left side. That and the loud thud of iron on wood broke the brief lull. Blood gushed from his new wound and down his thigh, some of it dripping in a torrent onto the ground below from where the leg bent at the knee.

  His mother fell down, distraught at the image before her. “No!” she wailed. “Why do you do this to him?”

  John tried again to comfort her. Other than that no one moved. The Roman looked on as the young man dropped his head. Even now, he was not yet dead though all could see the moment was close.

  The sky turned completely black while the wind and rain picked up at an alarming pace. The Roman walked right up to the Cross. Blood trailed down the young man’s thigh and knee and splattered off his chest armour. He grinned as he looked up. “If you want so much to die, then die you shall!”

  He reached up and with both hands and the use of all his weight, he pulled the spear out. The young man screamed this time, the horror of the moment draining the very last of his strength. His body stiffened again from the shock and his vision grew cloudy. He felt the last remnants of his life begin to ebb away.

  A brilliant white light shot down from above. It filled the Roman with fear and forced him to step back. He dropped to his kne
es as Lucifer left his body, all the energy sucked from his limbs.

  The beam of light fell on the dying man. He took one last breath and raised his eyes. “Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit.”

  His head dropped for the very last time. Those who loved him knew he was gone. As one they broke down and cried, some of them choking in their grief.

  The soldiers tried to run to the aid of their comrade. Suddenly the whole of the hill began to shake. The ground opened up between the young man and those who had witnessed his death. Each of the Romans fell down and lay on the ground fearing their own deaths were close at hand.

  Lucifer still lingered not too far away. He stood at the back again to watch events unfold. The death of Jesus had erased the sins of man. Countless souls were lost to him and it weighed him down as though he were wearing a coat made of lead. When the ground began to shake even more violently he saw these same souls rising from the earth and ascending to the heavens. It left him with nothing; all his hard work undone. He would have to start over.

  But in that moment he did not care. He had struck out at God’s beloved son, his one great act of defiance. The people around him screamed as the earth tossed them about. Still he waited there. He had to see if God would strike back.

  The spear he had thrown now glowed a fiery red. It lifted into the air and came straight at him. He dived to one side just in time, the air feeling heavy around him. The spear hit a rock behind him and split it in two.

  Balthasar stood over him. He gazed down with eyes that were no longer blind. “Get from this place!” the voice inside him advised. “Whilst you still can.”

  Lucifer got to his feet. There was nothing else here for him now. He gave the old man one last icy stare and then disappeared into the night.

  TRANSYLVANIA. THE STREETS OF SIGHISOARA.

  DECEMBER 11, 1431.

  Vlad Dracul rode at pace through the streets where snow an inch thick already covered the road. His unit of sixty riders flanked him on either side and to the rear, weary from a whole day’s ride back from the border to the south.

  “Yah!” he shouted, slapping his horse across the side of the neck.

  “Come on!” one of his men urged. “The weather is turning!”

  The hour was late. Few of the city dwellers remained on the streets. The earlier snow showed signs of frosting over with the cold. It made the group of horsemen eager to return home. For them, that was the garrison in the centre of the city fortress. Looking up, many of them sensed more heavy snow to come.

  All sixty men wore their familiar black. Their capes flowed freely in a wind that was slowly gaining in strength. The light of the moon caused the odd flash of metal as it fell on the hilts of their swords.

  His captain eyed the garrison up ahead. “It is good to be back, my Lord.”

  He looked at his good friend, Rodrigul. “Yes, it is that.”

  “It shall be good to take off these boots and rest.”

  “You are fortunate that you have that luxury.”

  Dracul, once known as Vladislav Basarab, dressed the same as his men. He differed only by the insignia of the Dragon on the back of his cape. A gold medallion hung around his neck and down over his vest. It felt heavy and icy from the cold. He looked forward to the moment he was home and he could remove it.

  They had just returned from an expedition along the border with Wallachia to the south. Dracul had heard rumours of a secret meeting there between several boyars and his half-brother. At that time Alexandru ruled in Wallachia. The whispers spoke of an alliance between him and the said boyars with the Turks.

  As commander of the frontier guard, this was of much concern to him. If the rumour was substantiated, it meant an invasion of Transylvania was a distinct possibility. Dracul loathed his half-brother. He envied him holding the throne that had been their father’s for thirty-two years.

  Approaching the gates, his mind drifted back to the trip.

  “THERE is no sign of them in the village, my Lord,” Rodrigul advised.

  “The information we received was good. I know it.”

  Ion Dancu rode up to the two men. “I thought so too, my Lord.”

  “Then keep looking. All is not as it seems here.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  “Empty every house! Perhaps the cold might loosen a few tongues around here!”

  One by one his men emptied them all. They herded the people out into the small square in the centre of the village. Every man, woman and child stood there shivering from the cold.

  Dracul waited a short time. He wanted the icy air to bite into the exposed fingers and toes of those before him. It did not take long for some of the children to begin to grizzle and cry. This drew a few angry glances from the women. It made the men anxious to see them return inside to their warm beds.

  Dracul’s men surrounded the group. Their torches lit up the entire area and tall shadows covered the ground, adding to the eerie atmosphere in the village.

  “Why have you brought us out from our beds?” the village elder asked him.

  Dracul looked down on the man. He ignored the question and turned to Ion Dancu instead. “Are they all out?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Good.” He turned to the elder. “Unless you speak and tell us what we want to know, you shall all remain here. If that means the whole night, then so be it.”

  “Speak of what? What do you want from us?”

  Rodrigul raised his fist to the old man. He glared at him to show his intent. “You show respect when you address the great Dracul.”

  The elder met his gaze and cowered a little. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

  Dracul had not finished. His voice took on a more serious edge. “If it means you all freeze then you shall all freeze. And that means the children too. I want you to be very clear on that point.”

  “My Lord, I beseech you. Pray tell me what you want to know.”

  “I want the names of the men who met here in this village in recent days.”

  The elder fell silent. It told Dracul and his officers much. They could see he had the answers they wanted.

  Rodrigul aimed a fist his way again. “You had better answer Lord Dracul. If you protect these men then you, too, become an enemy of this state.”

  “Their names!” Dancu shouted. “Their names and where we can find them!”

  The political climate in Wallachia had changed. Primo-geniture no longer determined succession to the throne. The eldest son did not just assume power as in the days of old. Now the boyars elected the new prince. This led to much fighting and strife. Dracul’s father, Mircea the Old, had brought peace and stability to the country in his reign. That existed no more.

  The throne had changed hands over a dozen times since his death in 1418. This owed to a split in the Basarab dynasty to which he belonged. The House had broken into two factions. They were the Danesti and the Draculesti.

  The Danestis were descended from Mircea’s brother, Prince Dan. They now had the support and favour of mighty Hungary. Dracul’s own branch of the family was the Draculesti line and directly descended from Mircea. Hungary was the all-powerful nation in the Balkan region. For that reason the balance of power lay with the other side of his family. Sponsored by John Hunyadi, who was the Protector of Hungary, Alexandru assumed the Wallachian throne.

  Dracul himself was not without friends or influence. He was the protégé of Sigismund of Luxembourg. Sigismund was King of Hungary and since 1410 the Holy Roman Emperor. He had taken Dracul under his wing as a boy. From that time forward he oversaw Dracul’s education in Buda and in the German states. Here he received schooling in the best military traditions.

  The result saw the young Dracul grow into an intelligent and assured diplomat. He also earned acclaim as a fine soldier. This he showed while defending Hungary against Ottoman expansion into the Balkans. It was why Sigismund summoned him to Nurnberg in February.

  “String him up!” Dracul ordered. “If
he shall not speak then he can die.”

  His men grabbed the elder and dragged him to the nearest tree. Many of the women cried out in anguish. Their men looked on, powerless to do anything. They knew if they interfered they might well endure the same.

  “Tell them what they need to know!” one of the women screamed.

  Dracul prodded his mount towards her. “You know something?”

  The woman looked to her husband. He tried to tell her with a grimace to shut up.

  “Arrest this man as well,” he told Dancu. “Our enemies have more friends than we first realised.”

  “No! Please!” the woman cried. “My husband’s silence is out of fear for me and our children!”

  “Why? What has he to fear?”

  “These men vowed to come back and kill us all if we ever spoke a word.”

  “I am the commander of this frontier. You all fall under my protection.”

  The man struggled against his captors. “You were not here to protect us any time before,” he argued. “Any time scavengers crossed the border to take whatever they wanted.”

  “I am here before you. This is the one chance I shall give you to speak.”

  “They were here this day and for the last five,” the woman told them.

  “Who was here?” Dracul asked. “I need to know their names.”

  “There were several,” the man replied.

  “I need to hear names.”

  “More than any other I saw Mihail Basarab.”

  Dracul looked to Dancu at the mention of his much younger half-brother. He was one of four that had defected to the Danesti side.

  “What of his brothers? Were they here also?” Dancu asked.

  Another villager spoke up. “Yes they were here also. I saw two of them at least.”

  “And that would be Vladislav and Alexandru?”

  The same villager nodded his head.

  “Then it is true,” Rodrigul said. “They must have had good reason to meet here.”

  “To invade I should say,” Dancu suggested, clenching his fist.