The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls

by Shane KP O'Neill

  Hunyadi arrived back on the field with his cavalry. He turned up just in time to see his men fleeing in terror. Mircea and his men arrived back in the same moment. His cavalry had chased the Anatolian Spahis all the way to the fortified Ottoman camp. They broke through and plundered it. Once they had pillaged the camp of anything of value, they left and returned to the main battle.

  It was apparent to Hunyadi what had happened in his time away from the field. He cried out in anguish at the king’s fatal error. Had he waited and held the line, the returning cavalry may well have prevailed.

  He looked all around for any sign of his king. All he could see was his soldiers fleeing from the enemy hordes. He knew it likely that Ladislas was already dead.

  The Hungarian cavalry followed his lead. They charged into the Islamic warriors chasing his men from the field. The force that met them head on was easily their match. They gave their all, but made little or no progress up the hill. It was then that Hunyadi caught sight of the enemy waving the king’s head about for all to see.

  “No!” he cried out. “No!”

  It devastated him to know his king was dead. His anguish turned to rage when he saw the enemy flaunting that fact.

  He decided he would not leave the field without the king’s body. It meant he had to put aside any fears for his own well being. He sucked in a deep lungful of air and urged his mount on into the fray. His men followed him to the end, even though they knew the cause was futile.

  They could not find a way through. The wave descending the hill to meet them was too strong. It came at his men with the same manic fervour as a wolf that had the scent of blood. As they fell in droves, those that still lived had to fall back.

  Mircea had been a good distance away when Hunyadi made his charge. At once, he directed his men there to give their support. He arrived in the danger area in the same moment that he saw the White Knight fall from his horse.

  Hunyadi found himself on foot. His enemy surrounded him just as they had his king. He used his great bravery and skill to fight off the first attempts to take him down. Mircea pushed hard with his mount to make up the last ten yards between them and closed the gap with every second.

  The mass of bodies was not going to get in his way. He struck one warrior across the head with his sword. His stallion took out two others. And then, riding at pace, he reached down with his left hand in an attempt to save his leader.

  Hunyadi was grateful to see the arm and grabbed it with both of his. The momentum of the stallion carried him along and pulled him out of harm’s way. Mircea’s men rode on with him, fighting hard to protect him on both sides. It was only through their efforts that he and Hunyadi got clear.

  Mircea managed to maintain a grip on his arm. It enabled him to haul himself up onto the back of the horse. He sighed with relief when the beast raced away from the madness. His ambitions lay in tatters, but at least he might live to fight another day.

  The surviving generals lost all control over their men. They cared nothing now for the battle and strove only to escape with their lives. Each man had to fend for himself. Any hope of rallying one last time for a victory had gone.

  The Turks swarmed all over them. They were relentless in their pursuit and killed anything that moved. The Christians left alive had only one option now to ensure their survival. The early gains made on each flank gave them avenues of escape that were not there at the start of the battle.

  Mircea and his riders negotiated the terrain well. They made a safe escape through the hills without losing another man. Only an eighth of their number had been lost in battle. Laden with their booty from the Ottoman camp, they returned home safely to Tirgoviste.

  In spite of their victory, the battle left a huge dent in Ottoman designs. It affected them so much they did not seize upon their advantage and march on central Europe. Even in defeat, the Christians had halted the Ottoman advance.

  BULGARIA. THE DESERTED BATTLEFIELD AT VARNA.

  NOVEMBER 11, 1444.

  A full day after the battle, the corpses of the slain lay in heaps where they had fallen. The stench of death filled the air. Crows walked awkwardly among the dead, too heavy to fly up to the trees. The rats, gorged with human flesh, ran between the bodies.

  Both armies had left the field and only the bodies of the dead remained. Thirteen thousand Christians had perished to twenty-seven thousand Moslems.

  The disciples of both Heaven and Hell had come to claim the souls of the dead. This they did except for one. Giuliano Cesarini remained on the field in the exact spot where he had fallen. A man of God and yet an instigator of war, he remained here in a state of limbo. He wandered back and forth in the vicinity of his lifeless body. As hard as he tried, he was unable to move more than a few feet away.

  He looked down at his corpse. Stripped of its armour, it lay naked and broken. A deep sadness filled him. So many good men lay dead all around. In death, he felt remorse for the dreadful waste of life. Christian or Moslem, it did not matter. They were all men, and they had all died in the name of God. But they were all men who had died without any great need.

  In life, he had not appreciated the significance of this. Only now did he see things with true clarity. He was a chosen man of God. One who had attained a high office within the Church.

  How did I allow myself to be so far in error? Why did I campaign with such vigour to kill men because their beliefs did not match my own? It is natural for kings, emperors and sultans to make war. They do so to defend their territories from invasion, or out of greed. But there was no need for me to be involved in this slaughter. I am a man of God after all.

  It had cost him his life. And now he remained trapped on this battlefield. He had witnessed the claiming of the souls; the ecstasy on the faces of those claimed by the White Ones. With dread he remembered those claimed by the Black Ones. Neither had come for him. He did not know which was worse, to be taken by the Black Ones or to be left here alone.

  In time, the people of Varna would come to the field. They would come to hunt for any loot and to bury the dead. He feared what would happen if they buried his body before either side claimed him. It would leave his soul to wander this field for eternity.

  It was not a good prospect. Many men had died here in the worst possible way. The souls were gone and the bodies nothing but empty shells. Yet their blood would live on. Long after the colour of the ground turned green again it would linger. If his soul remained trapped here, then the stench of death and the cries of the dead would stay with him. It was a torment as bad as any they could conjure for him in Hell. And not only that, the pain of his own death had not gone. He remembered every cut and stab to his broken body, and the cold of the marsh as his blood drained away. It would stain his soul until one or the other claimed him.

  He noticed a lone rider enter the field in the distance. The figure was too far away to allow him a clear view. But, even then, both rider and horse looked large and imposing.

  An icy wind passed over the field. It preceded a creeping mist that cloaked the dead on the ground. He saw a host of shadows race about. They moved at lightning speed, but he felt their menacing presence. He also heard their ghastly screams and knew they were not of this world. It made him very afraid. The fear he felt was even worse than in the last moments before he had met his grisly end in battle.

  The rider appeared to move at a relaxed pace. In spite of this, he soon closed the distance between them. He loomed high above the dead cardinal, sat upon a huge black stallion. It was the largest and most fearsome beast he had ever seen. Its eyes glowed a fiery red and clouds of steam emanated from its flared nostrils. The rider wore a long black robe, his face hidden beneath a heavy cowl.

  Cesarini knew there were no secrets when you were dead. He knew exactly who the rider was and cowered in fear. Has Lucifer come to take my soul?

  Lucifer brought the stallion to a halt right beside him. “Rest easy,” he said in a deep, inhuman voice. “I am not here for you. You are not on m
y list.”

  The admission did little to calm him. But as he looked up again, the Dark Lord seemed to have no interest in him. Lucifer turned the beast away from the cardinal and prompted it to walk on.

  The bones of the dead crunched beneath its feet. Lucifer closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of death was always most pleasant to him. This was even more so when it was human death. Here at Varna the air was thick with the smell. Many of the corpses, even in the bitter cold, stank from severed limbs and entrails that littered the ground. As the stench wafted up to his nose, it gave him a most satisfied feeling.

  He smiled at the irony that was the aftermath of Varna. Forty thousand men lay dead. They had all believed in the same God. Yet they had slaughtered each other over the variations in their beliefs. How he wished it could always be like this. It made his task easier when men did his work for him. Murdering each other in the name of God. It is indeed the greatest of all ironies and one that aids my cause. Long may it continue.

  The moment did not last. He looked up to see a brilliant white point of light on the horizon beyond the Thracian hills. The stallion rose up, snorted and struck out its front legs. Lucifer tugged hard on the reins to settle it. Still, it continued to stamp its hooves and snort.

  The light moved quickly down the pass between the two hills. Cesarini saw it too, but could not make out its shape. The Dark Lord looked on as a second rider entered the field.

  It pleased him when the white stallion came into view. His own animal grew more agitated. A trail of dust followed in its wake, even through the brilliant light all around it. He smiled when he saw it was his brother, the Archangel Michael. It was the reason he had himself come here.

  “Hello, brother,” Lucifer greeted him.

  “Lucifer? For what purpose are you here?”

  “You know I cannot stay away from the carnage and the stench of human death. It is such a joy, and better than any I know.”

  Michael nodded, his own mount jostling about. “And quite a stench it is too. I see then, your love for humans has not grown any since last we met.”

  Lucifer did not respond to the comment. He eyed his brother, and noticed him kitted out in full armour. “What brings you here, brother? You are not one so taken by the scent of blood. Have you come to do battle?”

  It drew a laugh from him. “I hardly think so. Even with your current status in the scheme of things, you would never be a match for me.”

  They both knew it was true. It annoyed Lucifer that his brother persisted in calling him by his old name. “Why do you continue to insult me?” he asked, his voice tailing off into a low growl. “Even our Father has the good grace to address me with the name of my choosing.”

  “You have so many names, brother. Most of them given to you by men. It is not always so easy to follow. To me and our brothers you shall always be Lucifer. So why bother to take issue with it?”

  Lucifer did not look happy, but there was little he could do. He rarely enjoyed these meetings with God’s warrior Archangel, rare though they were.

  “So what is the purpose of the armour?” he asked, his voice like thunder in Cesarini’s ears. “What is the occasion to warrant it?”

  “You know how I am,” Michael said, flexing his mighty arms as he tugged on the reins. “I do not go far without it. It is always good to be ready for battle. Where or whenever our Father commands it.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I am here on business for Him.”

  “You mean him?” Lucifer asked, looking straight at the dead cardinal.

  “We cannot leave him here forever.”

  “So what does Father think of all this?”

  “I am not sure what you mean. What would He think?”

  “These two armies,” Lucifer said, surveying the dead littered across the field. “Killing each other in His name. I did not have to involve myself with it. They did it all with free will.”

  Michael smiled at him. “So man is flawed. It is one of the many reasons He loves him. With all your airs and graces, you are still limited in what you can do. I see it angers you still, that you cannot intervene with the mortals.”

  He had always known how best to vex his brother, but what he said was true. Lucifer could not interfere in the lives of mortals, or their actions. He signed a truce with God after the first Great War of the Angels. Mortals had to choose their own path and even he had to abide by that rule. If he did not, then it could have serious repercussions, even for him. All he could do was make suggestions for man to do his bidding.

  Lucifer did not rise to the bait, though he continued to speak in his customary low growl. “This is only the beginning.” His voice then took on a more sinister edge. “Moslem and Christian shall kill each other until the end of time. Nothing can change that, not you and not I. But perhaps we might one day see Christian killing Christian. That would be a day to savour.”

  “It shall see its course,” Michael said, dismissing the remark.

  “You can hope. I can make it so.”

  Michael gave him a long hard stare. “These things always die a death. The only constant that shall remain is you condemned to the bowels of the earth where you belong.”

  “Do not be so certain of that,” Lucifer warned, meeting his stare and looking him in the eye. “I shall have my time again.”

  “It is a good thing you were cast out of Heaven. I never could tolerate your whining.”

  Lucifer glared at him. “You ought not to act with such vanity. One day our roles shall be reversed.”

  Michael could not resist a chance to belittle his brother once more. He ignored the threat and grinned. “We had hoped the Crucifixion would put an end to your schemes. It was a masterstroke and it really did hurt you. I see it pains you still, that it eradicated man’s sin. And you could do nothing to prevent it. I am sure you never envisaged such an event.”

  Again Lucifer seethed beneath the surface. He longed for the day he could wipe the grin from Michael’s face.

  Michael was eager to press the point further. “Of course, the Church stands as a reminder of your defeat. The shining icon of God’s great victory over you.”

  “It is like any other man-made institution. I shall see it reduced to ashes.”

  “You forget the man who built it. He is another you have no power over.”

  “He is weak like all men.”

  This time Michael let out a hearty laugh. “Who, Jesus? I think not. Even in His darkest hour and at the height of His torment, your bribes still could not reach Him.”

  “Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. He is dust. So shall His church be when I am done; nothing but ash.”

  Michael laughed yet again. “What? By your hand? You always spoke such folly. Wait ‘til I tell the others. We shall laugh over this for centuries.”

  The taunts served to increase his agitation. They also fuelled the activity of the demons in the field. In the form of shadows they accompanied their Dark Lord wherever he went. They raced about the pair, acting on the mood of their master. They terrified the hapless Cesarini, though they were a mere blur to his eye.

  Michael did not like the effect they had on the cardinal. “Send your minions away,” he ordered. “Lest I lose my temper.”

  He flapped his wings with such force it knocked Lucifer’s cowl back over his head. “Damn it, but you are ugly,” he taunted. “That is one price you shall pay to the end of the ages. He loved you above all others, and yet it was not enough for you.”

  The gust knocked Cesarini down against his dead carcass. Lucifer clicked his fingers and the shadows were gone.

  A rush of ideas filled his mind and brought a grin to his face. “We shall see,” he said with a surety that surprised even Michael. “The day shall soon come when I can remove that sickening smile from your face once and for all.”

  Michael eyed him with close scrutiny. He looked for a hint of what was going through his brother’s mind. Though he could see into the thoughts of man he
could not do so with Lucifer. It meant all he could do was surmise.

  “I look forward to that day,” he said, his smile gone. “When you feel ready to match me, call my name. Until then, go away!”

  Lucifer did not respond, but pulled hard on the reins of his horse. It reared up on its hind legs and struck out at the air. When it touched down again it shook its head from side to side and scraped the hard ground with a hoof. Lucifer gave one last lingering look before turning the beast to ride away. He had already hatched a plan, his brother’s words rekindling old thoughts and schemes. An idea came to light that he had harboured for a thousand years, and now was the time to put it into practise. For the first time his brother’s mockery had brought an outcome of his liking.

  The stallion raced forward at lightning speed and then, in a thick plume of smoke, it and Lucifer disappeared from sight.

  Michael flapped his wings a second time, as if to exercise his authority. He then rode slowly over to Cesarini. The cardinal looked up when Michael extended one of his powerful arms.

  “You had better come with me.”

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

  DECEMBER, 1444.

  Vlad and Radu felt the sultan’s wrath even before he left for Varna. He had them moved from their quarters and thrown into the cells. There they ate leftovers from the palace given to them once a day. The guards passed them scraps often left out for hours and barely fit to eat. But very soon hunger made them a necessity. The boys never wasted any.

  Radu cried every night. His tears emanated both from the hunger and the cold. He also cried for his mother, who he had not seen in over two years.

  Vlad cried for no one or no thing. In the early days he missed his father very much. Dracul was the one man young Vlad aspired to be. All he had ever done and every skill he had developed with endless hours of practise had been to impress him.

  When Murad threw them into the cells he ensured they knew the reason why. At first Vlad believed it to be a lie. Then his common sense made him realise that it was not.