The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls

by Shane KP O'Neill

  Vlad loved the chance to show off to his father. He was a full twenty-five yards from the target when he made his shot. He continued to ride at pace while the others watched the arrow strike the mannequin full in the face.

  “Bravo!” the two men shouted in unison.

  Vlad stood up in the stirrups and extended his arms fully as he rode towards his father. When he got close he pulled the stallion to a halt. He pushed his feet hard against the stirrups and tugged hard on the reins. It made the stallion rear up and strike out with its front legs.

  He exchanged an awkward glance with Mircea and then chose to ignore his brother. Sitting proudly atop the stallion he directed it as it paced left and right, while soaking up his father’s adulation.

  “That was an amazing shot, young Vlad,” Rodrigul praised him. “I do not ever recall seeing a shot as good from the back of a horse. Not by any man.”

  Vlad waited until his father nodded his agreement before smiling. “I am even better with the sword, Papa.”

  “Yes,” his father acknowledged. “I hear only good things about you.”

  “Perhaps I can show you. If Mircea is willing to indulge me?”

  Mircea declined the offer. “My shoulder is sore today from archery practice,” he said, rubbing the joint. “It would not be a fair match.”

  “You might have more than an aching shoulder when in battle,” Dracul pointed out to him. “But you would still need to wield a sword or risk losing your head.”

  Mircea frowned at the comment. In spite of his own improving skills he could not match the younger Vlad with the sword. The humiliation he had already suffered in front of his father was enough for one day.

  “And what of you, Papa? You are the finest with a sword in all the land.”

  Dracul laughed off the challenge. “That may be an exaggeration, my son. I am good, but I am not sure I am that good.”

  In truth he did not want to spar with his son for fear of hurting him.

  “I hear it is so, Papa,” Vlad persisted, refusing to waver on the point.

  “A man cannot take up a sword against his own child,” Dracul argued.

  “I promise to be gentle with you then, Papa.” His tone was so serious and assured.

  Rodrigul had to laugh. “Such arrogance in the boy. I salute your courage, young Dracula.”

  Vlad smiled when he said this. No one had ever addressed him as such. But he was Dracula, the last letter of his name significant in him being the son of Dracul.

  “Very well,” Dracul said with a deep sigh, climbing down from his horse.

  “Are you to use the Fier Negru, Papa?”

  He touched the hilt of his famous sword. Like other swords spoken of in legend, the famed Fier Negru had never known defeat in the field.

  “No, Vlad,” he told his son. “I use the Fier Negru only for killing my enemies. The usual props shall suffice.”

  “I tire of them, Papa,” Vlad moaned. “At least let us use the lighter ones.”

  Dracul looked to Rodrigul, who shrugged. Usually the boys used the chunkier more awkward props. The purpose of this was to build their strength as much as anything else. Vlad preferred the lighter, springier wooden swords. They suited his speed of hand much more.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “The lighter ones it shall be.”

  One of the guards in attendance stepped forward with a pair of the longer wooden props. He handed one each to Dracul and his son.

  Dracul swung his about, liking the sound as it whistled through the air. “Are you sure you want to do this, dear son?”

  “Yes, Papa,” Vlad said without hesitation. It did not enter his mind to accept his father’s offer to reconsider.

  “Take guard then.”

  TRANSYLVANIA. FORTY MILES EAST OF BRASOV IN THE CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS.

  LATE AUGUST, 1442.

  Andrei walked out of the tent. He found a spot on a rock by a stream and sat down. Storm clouds rolled in slowly from the nearby mountains. Constantin saw him there and hobbled over to his adopted son.

  “Are you well, Papa?” Andrei asked him.

  “Yes, my son,” the elder groaned as he sat down alongside the boy. “I wanted to ask the same of you.”

  “I am well, Papa. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem distant of late. Is anything troubling you?”

  “No,” he said with a casual shrug. “Although I do wonder why people are so cruel to us. And why we have to keep moving on all the time.”

  “It is a way of life for us travelling folk, my son.”

  “But why? I do not understand it. We are good people; honest and true.”

  “Not everyone has a heart as pure or as beautiful as yours, dear boy. There are many men in the world who are not so kind.”

  Their tenure near Lake Balaton had ended six months before in the dead of winter. The boyar, on whose land the gypsies had lived and worked, died late the previous year. His son and heir wanted the gypsies off the estate and drove them out.

  The gypsies turned east across Hungary. They met with hostility from the Magyars wherever they went. For the good of the tribe, Constantin decided it a better idea to cross the border south into Transylvania. People there were not as prejudiced, but still life remained tough for them. Two months later, the tribe stopped near the Carpathian Mountains in the southeast of the country, weary from their travels.

  Andrei sat again to speak with his adopted father after they had set up camp. All that had gone before weighed heavily on his mind. “I want our people to be able to live a quiet life the same as everyone else.”

  “If anyone can ever make that a reality, my son, I am sure it would be you.”

  “But I do not want to be the one to lead our people, Papa. It means you shall no longer be here.”

  “You are so wise for one so young,” the elder said. He sighed, but smiled as he stroked the boy’s hair.

  “I draw my wisdom from you, Papa.”

  “You are far wiser than I already, my son.”

  “No, Papa. I only strive to be like you.”

  The elder smiled. “At least I know when I do pass on, there shall be someone well capable to follow after me.”

  “I am still a boy, Papa. I hope you are not planning to leave us for a long time to come.”

  “Not yet, Andrei. But when I do go, it is you who I want to take my place, however old you are.”

  MAN and boy squared off. They stood with left hands on hip and right arms extended, holding out their props. Dracul bounced back and forward on the balls of his feet with a few gentle swings to loosen up. His son blocked each one with ease, bringing a smile to his face.

  Vlad fought with a determined poise and countered with quick jabs of his own. He did not even seem to notice Dracul’s light-hearted mood and his speed surprised his father. At last Dracul began to view the contest with a little more purpose.

  Their exchanges grew quite heated. Dracul soon realised he would have to exert his skills to avoid being embarrassed in front of his men. He put it out of his mind that he stood opposite his son.

  It made Rodrigul smile. He liked it that Dracul now afforded Vlad the same respect he would give any opponent in the field.

  Vlad’s reactions proved lightning fast, and he resisted all attempts to disarm him. Rodrigul leaned forward in his saddle and watched with great interest. He had never before witnessed anyone give Dracul such a hard time in combat. The boy was almost too good to believe.

  Dracul was equally amazed at his son’s prowess. Here stood a boy only ten years of age. He knew that every man stationed in the field to guard his sons was watching. Now he was on the back foot, he began to wish he had not agreed to this.

  It worried Dracul that some of his men might begin to doubt him should the boy go on and embarrass him. Therefore, he launched an attack of great gusto against Vlad. The boy noticed his father slightly off balance and stepped to one side.

  Vlad saw his chance to use a move he had practised on Mircea. He ki
cked at his father’s ankle and sent him crashing to the ground. Before Dracul could react, Vlad pressed the tip of the wooden prop against his throat.

  “Do you submit, Papa?” he asked his father. “Or must I run you through?”

  Dracul looked up at his son in disbelief. He wondered how he had finished up on his back and lay there motionless, knowing he was beaten. Then he surprised everyone and burst into laughter. “I submit, my noble young warrior,” he said, after a brief pause. “Help your Papa to his feet.”

  Rodrigul laughed out loud too and clapped hard. “Bravo, young Vlad.”

  The guards joined in the applause. Dracul turned to his men and smiled. “Need I ever worry about leaving my kingdom in the hands of such awesome young men?”

  Mircea turned his head away. His father’s comment did not impress him. Dracul meant it for Vlad and he knew it. He did love his younger brother and had never quarrelled with him since the day in Sighisoara. Yet he remained envious of Vlad despite his own excellent skills.

  “Wallachia shall be Mircea’s to rule, Papa,” Vlad said. “I shall rule in Transylvania.”

  “Let us hope this rings true.”

  “We should attend to other matters,” Rodrigul reminded him, dismissing Vlad’s show of vigour.

  Dracul sighed when he remembered what Rodrigul was alluding to. He knew he could not ignore Murad’s letter. Such an action might see his territory invaded.

  Vlad saw the concern on his father’s face. “What is ailing you, Papa?”

  He looked to his son and offered a faint smile. “It is nothing for you to worry over, young man.”

  An idea came to Rodrigul. “Why not take the boys with you?” he suggested. “Such an act would demonstrate you have no hostile intentions.”

  “Take us where?” Mircea asked.

  Dracul did not answer, but took time to ponder the idea. It had points both good and bad. Neither would satisfy his wife if he decided to take them along.

  Rodrigul answered Mircea for him. It prompted a dirty look from his voivode. “Your Papa has been summoned to Gallipoli to meet with the Sultan.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Mircea pleaded. “Let us go with you.”

  “No,” Dracul said at once. “You are going nowhere.”

  Mircea showed his displeasure at the decision and irritated his father.

  “You are my eldest son,” he explained. “That makes you my natural heir. You must remain here.”

  Mircea did not hide his disappointment, even though he understood to a degree. It felt to him that nothing he did seemed good enough for his father. That notion could not be further from the truth. Dracul favoured him above all others.

  Rodrigul saw the look on Dracul’s face and wished he had said nothing.

  “You are a man,” Dracul admonished his son. “So why not act like one?”

  Dracul waited for him to lift his chin. He hated to see one of his boys sulking.

  “Anything could happen in Gallipoli,” he reasoned. “What if I was killed and you as well? Vlad is too young to rule. Our kingdom would be open to whoever wanted it. And where would that leave your mother? And Radu? I dread to think what might happen to them. It would be nothing good, that much I do know.”

  Mircea nodded that he accepted his father’s logic. “I am sorry, Papa.”

  “You shall be in control while I am gone.”

  For the first time a smile showed on Mircea’s face. He was only fourteen years old, but already considered to be a man.

  “Vlad and Radu shall come with me on the journey,” Dracul decided, after a brief pause. “Come. Let us go and inform your mother.”

  The decision did not impress Maia. “How can you put my children in such danger?” she screamed at her husband.

  Radu cowered behind her, gripping onto her skirt.

  “There would be no danger to the boys. The Sultan would not harm our children. He wants me as an ally, not an enemy.”

  “He might keep them and employ them as janissaries in his armies.”

  “That is pure melodrama,” Dracul scoffed. “Our sons are princes. They would and could never be used in such a way.”

  “To bring you to heel he would do it!”

  “Nonsense, woman!” he shouted. “They are coming with me. That is my final word.”

  Maia picked Radu up in her arms and left the room. He did not understand the implications of the conversation. Anyone that knew the boy realised he would not react well to a separation from his mother. She and her friends had pampered him his whole life, and because of that he possessed none of the steel or grit of his brothers.

  Dracul left the next day for Gallipoli. With him he took a strong bodyguard and his two youngest sons. He left Mircea in charge to rule in his absence. Mircea had received schooling for such a role and Dracul felt confident in his son’s ability to perform that task.

  Maia was inconsolable as Radu and Vlad rode through the city gates. She sensed something bad was to come and it filled her with dread. Little did she know that she would never see her boys again.

  ANATOLIA. THE ROYAL PALACE OF SULTAN MURAD II AT GALLIPOLI.

  SEPTEMBER, 1442.

  It took four weeks for the party to reach Gallipoli. Despite riding with his father, Radu was a real handful for much of the journey. He hated to ride and would never sit still in the saddle. His crying and whining grated the nerves of all who rode near or with him. Vlad, on the other hand, loved the whole experience.

  A heavy escort met them near to the city gates and rode with them to the palace. The strength and size of the group made Dracul feel uneasy. They numbered at least two to his one. Rodrigul felt too that the omens did not look good. Still, he tried to remain in good spirits for the benefit of the men. They too, sensed all was not well.

  They dismounted near the palace and finished the journey on foot. The heat was stifling. It served to make Radu even more miserable. To soothe him, Dracul carried him in his arms the rest of the way.

  Murad sat in conference with an array of his generals. Word had reached him that Dracul was close to the city. He wanted his best military men at hand when he arrived. It was only one of a number of issues they had met to discuss.

  “Dracul is here, Sire,” Mohammed Umit advised him, receiving word from one of his own men.

  The sultan nodded. “Are there any other matters for my attention before he joins us? I want the meeting with Dracul to be the final business of the day.”

  Karadza spoke up. “Yes, Sire. We have a problem with the new recruits from Serbia.”

  “What? The Janissary Corps again?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Murad liked to impose tributes on the nations he subjugated. One of these was that they give him as many as five hundred boys each year. These were usually no younger than nine years of age and no older than twelve. Once in Anatolia he had them sent to the remote Kutahya district. It was there they received their training.

  Here, they began their conversion to the hard life in the Ottoman army. Their captors forbade them to speak the language of their birth. Right away they had to learn their adopted tongue. Any lapse from this incurred severe penalties. These could vary from periods of starvation to more serious floggings. The Turks also liked to rape most, if not all, of the boys to break any spirit or fight they had left in them.

  The boys were also required to convert to Islam. This always proved to be the greatest problem with integrating them. But the strict punishments meant they would never resist for too long.

  “What is the problem with them? It is time they had a taste of our discipline.”

  “I agree, Sire.”

  “So what is the issue? Hurry! Dracul shall soon be here.”

  “The new recruits are rebelling, Sire.”

  “Against what?”

  “Every condition we try to impose on them.”

  “So why have you brought this to me? Why can you not deal with it?”

  He felt a little embarrassed. “Your permission is so
ught to use more extreme measures, Sire.”

  “Then use them! Do what it takes!”

  “Very well, Sire. I shall send the word.”

  “Take the eldest fifty of the boys,” the sultan said, straightening up in his chair. “Impale them in full view of the younger ones.”

  It was a measure the general did not want to take. “Is that necessary, Sire?”

  Murad did not like to have his decrees questioned. Karadza was only able to do so due to his high military standing. “You brought this matter to me. That is my ruling. I am certain there should be no more problems after that.”

  “Very good, Sire.”

  “Take away all their privileges. Remove all trace of their lives as Christians. They must convert to Islam, and our language, from the day they arrive. That is my final word.”

  “I shall see to it, Sire.”

  “Good. Ensure that you do. If this problem comes before me again I shall impale the commanding officers instead of the boys.”

  Karadza bowed to accept the sultan’s decree. He stepped back and joined the other officers present.

  Umit walked to the door when one of the royal guards entered. He nodded at what the man said and returned to the meeting. “Dracul is outside, Sire,” he said.

  “Good. If all other business is finished we can meet with him.”

  “What stance do you plan to take with him, Sire?”

  “You shall know soon enough. Umit, is there any word of Branković as yet?”

  “No, Sire. I doubt we shall see him. The deadline has passed.”

  Murad welcomed his guests when they entered the room. His guards only permitted Rodrigul and the two boys to accompany Dracul.

  It amused Murad that Branković declined his summons when Dracul had made the trip. He could tell at once which of the two men possessed the greater nerve.

  Dracul set Radu down when he approached the sultan, but kept a firm hold of his hand. He saw Murad had his eyes trained on him and was watching him closely. Dracul then bowed and thanked the sultan for receiving him. He was able to speak fluent Turkish. For that reason the sultan dismissed the interpreters who had followed him in.