An Evening at Joe's (33 page)

Kirschner unsuccessfully stifled a rueful chuckle. Prince Stephan was undeniably brave, but would charge a cannon if he thought he could reach it before its shot cleared the muzzle.

"He can't even read a war-map. The man could lose his way inside a garderobe." Kirschner refilled Vlad's outstretched tankard. "But all that aside, he's shockingly ill-read for a Prince. Small wonder he doesn't apprehend Tacitus—he hasn't enough Latin to fill a posset- cup. And have you had the pleasure of familiar conversation with this gosling?"

"Of a fashion," replied Kirschner with a slow shake of his head, "if being audience to an oration qualifies as conversation. If you denied him his horse and armour as subjects, the man would be as mute as a stone."

"I fear we burn logs with higher intellect. And it was this man that my erstwhile brother-in-law made second in command of this campaign."

"An appointment promulgated by political expedience, most assuredly." Although Kirschner had the wit not to correct the Prince on this particular subject, he knew full well that King Mathias had decreed Prince Stephan sole commander of the army, at least while within the borders of Transylvania. His two duchies notwithstanding, Vlad was not the most welcome of guests in "the land beyond the forest." The German-Saxon population in particular, cozeners and intriguers with the Danesti, Dracula's most potent political rival, had ample cause to fear his restoration. The Saxons had long perpetuated a trade monopoly that fettered native industry. Dracula hit upon an unprecedented yet undeniably effective method of redressing this trade imbalance—he had over 40,000 of them impaled at the towns of Brasov, Amlas, and Sibiu. It was stories of legendary depredations such as these that, in no small part, inspired King Mathias to intern Dracula for a dozen years and keep him on a short lead in his progress through Transylvania.

"And Prince Steven's host—they will be returning too?" ventured Kirschner, although he already knew the answer.

"Yes, they must return," nodded Dracula. "The Turk is a common threat to all our borders, and I cannot—will not—weaken Steven at my expense. His pledge to me is fulfilled. My only real regret is that he cannot be present at the Curtea to witness my vindication." In his twentieth year, and fleeing the assassins of his father, Dracula found asylum in the court of Prince Bogdan of Moldavia. There he developed what was probably to be the only true and lasting friendship of his life, with the Prince's son and his cousin, Steven. They had vowed to each other that whoever attained their throne first would likewise aid the other. The cruel and untimely assassination of Bogdan had elevated Steven before Vlad, but no princely obligation would compel him so much as a covenant made in honour to a friend.

"But your Moldavian guard... they will remain?" asked Kirschner optimistically.

"Oh yes, they will stay—Steven's gift to me. Ironic, is it not," mused Dracula, "that I, Prince of Wallachia, have as my personal guard a Teuton and two hundred Moldavs, because I cannot risk to trust my own subjects?"

Kirschner nodded in commiseration. A less charitable person (or one with a suicidal paucity of discretion) might have been tempted to point out that this condition might have been avoided had the Prince been more judicious in where he exercised his unsavoury hobby. However, after over thirty years' exposure to the realpolitik of eastern Europe, Hans realized that, Vlad's revolting enthusiasm for pointed sticks aside, if he was considered merciless and sadistic, it was only a matter of degree. "So... the coronation being concluded, that will leave us with how many men?"

Vlad took a contemplative sip and toyed with a piece of sugared marchepan. "Hmmm... the mathematica was never my strong suit, so I would not presume to render an exact figure, but I could speculate..."

"Please do."

"... however imprecisely, mind, that we could expect to be left with..." He regarded the ceiling momentarily, then favoured Kirschner with a grin. "Five thousand, maybe less."

"God Almighty!"

"Not counting, of course, the inevitable defections the moment there exists any real threat to our borders, or the throne. The boyars who joined us when we crossed into Wallachia did so by casting aside Laotia, the pretender. It served their purpose then to fasten their lips to a more puissant backside, and I doubt not that when another rump appears more succulent that they will throng, lamprey-like, to it. These fools think to prosper by straddling the chess board, and following whichever king is not in check. Some fancy themselves adept, and so have deluded themselves into believing that it is a game." Dracula paused, then reached over the table to place the piece of candied marchepane he held atop an artistically arranged pile of like delicacies. He studied the stack briefly, then reached out and removed a select piece from the bottom. One whole side of the pile collapsed, rolling little squares of confectionery onto the table in a miniature cloud of sugar-dust. "Games have rules," said Dracula, as he popped a loose piece of marchepane into his mouth and chewed toothily. "Princes do not."

Perhaps so, thought Kirschner as he listened to Vlad foment, gleefully and graphically, against conspirators both real and imagined. But sooner or later you will be entering into a much different game, whose rules you ignore at far greater peril. You have been a wily mariner in the currents of petty politics. We'll see how adaptable your mind is when presented with the possibility of infinity as a playground.

Time, in the short term, passed considerably quicker. The following day, with Kirschner in the vanguard, Dracula left the citadel of Bucharest with a force of over a thousand, and plodded, with grumbling horses, for two days, through biting cold and stinging sleet, to Curtea de Arges. There, after a brief but poignant theological discussion on the nature of the afterlife with the Metropolitan, Dracula donned his coronation robes, and hung about his massive neck the chivalric order from whence derived his name; a golden dragon biting its own tail, on whose wings was emblazoned a Christian cross.

And so, on November the 19th, 1476, Vlad Dracula, the "little dragon," was reinvested with the crown of Wallachia. A man considered a heretic by the very church that found it prudent to crown him, regarded by the Saxons as a genocidal tyrant, conspired against by the prideful and corrupt boyars, loathed by the Turks, feared by most of the peasantry; whose only true friend and confidant was a centuries- old German mercenary, whose chief concern was to patiently wait out his prince's death.

Kirschner threw his blade across his chest in inverted position, just managing to catch the blow that was descending onto the left side of his neck. He could feel the jarring impact all the way up to his shoulder. Almost simultaneously, he swung up with his left arm, catching his opponent a numbing back-handed blow to the inside of his out- stretched forearm, knocking the ann and weapon aside. Instantly, from out of his parry position, Kirschner launched his riposte—bringing the blade to horizontal, and slashing left to right across the throat, adding power to the cut by lunging forward on his right leg.

His antagonist, however, was fast—almost preternaturally so. The second Kirschner's knuckles had stunned his sword-arm, he hurled himself backwards, rolling his head and chest to the left, in a frantic attempt to diminish the effect of the blow he knew must follow. His desperate stratagem succeeded; the pronounced curve of Kirschner's blade had foreshortened the slash just enough, and only the last two inches of the point grated unnervingly but ineffectively across the chain mail aventail that depended from his helm.

The knight's reprieve was temporary in the extreme. Off balance, stumbling backwards and too close to use his sword to cut, his assailant's blade rising to renew the attack, he did the only thing left to him. He punched out a thrust from his hip, the point directed to his foe's inside thigh.

Kirschner had already anticipated this action as being one of three possible responses to his attack, and dealt with it summarily. Pivoting to the left, he smashed the blade aside, then, pivoting back and pulling his elbow into his right hip, he arced the sword down onto his opponent's head. The tightness of its delivery put the full weight of Kirschner's torso behind the blow, and the force of it on the parry brought the other knight, already in a compromised balance position, down onto his left knee.

Kirschner stepped back, his blade hovering at his right side. His rival was down but far from out. He had pulled in his right leg and held his sword in a two-handed grip, the pommel tucked into his stomach, and the point angled up to threaten Kirschner. Only a fool would rush onto a man positioned thus. It would be like tilting cavalry against pikes.

Kirschner backed off another three steps. He saw his opponent starting to lean forward in his crouch—a sign that usually indicated his intention to spring into a charge. As if not to disappoint him, the knight leapt from the ground like an uncoiling spring, his sword already swinging down towards Kirschner's right hip. Once again, the walls of the small private courtyard echoed with the impact of steel on steel.

Kirschner and Dracula sparred at least once a week. The Prince was too experienced a warrior not to recognize the value of another's experience. He also reveled in the joys of violent exercise. Here was the one and only place where Vlad could ignore the often strident demands of his towering egoism. Indeed, it was absolutely necessary that he do so, it being impossible to learn such skills if the teacher felt inhibited to point out deficiencies, or allowed him constantly to win. And, to his credit, Dracula urged Kirschner to push him as hard as any squire. Long immured to the fawning and silver-tongued sycophancy of court, Dracula recognized the need for at least one man to speak to him honestly. Here, after bouting, the two men spoke of many things. The private courtyard was the only concession to Dracula's vanity. He could tolerate being bested in practice, so long as no one else were present to see.

For the moment, losing was not a consideration foremost in Dracula's mind. Switching to a two-handed grip for additional speed, he pressed Kirschner back with a flurry of blows.

Kirschner retreated evenly, drawing his opponent towards him. Even after three hours, Dracula's blows had shocking potency. Come on, my princeling, thought Kirschner as he absorbed a jolting flank- cut, let's get this over with.

Almost as the words formed in his mind, it came: the break in cadence he knew Vlad was setting him up for. As a cut flashed down to Kirschner's right knee, he noticed the blade beginning to turn to its inside flat. Even exhausted, Dracula's swordsmanship was far too precise for this to be unintentional. No, there it was! The right elbow was rising to allow the wrists maximum rotation. Vlad's blade snapped through a left molinello with blinding speed, descending upon Kirschner's head. Hans brought up his blade with the point facing right, making a window-bow of his arm, and stepping out slightly with his left foot. As the blow caught on his edge, he allowed the point of his blade to dip slightly down. Bound by the laws of physics and his own strength, Dracula's blade began to' slide, following the curvature of Kirschner's sword. At the very instant of impact, Hans' left hand shot forth like a striking snake to seize Vlad's right forearm. Three things now occurred more or less simultaneously: rotating on the ball of his right foot, Kirschner gave Dracula's now-extended arm a powerful yank, while he drove his left shin into the back of Vlad's right knee. The prince's sword now safely deflected, Hans shifted his weight to the left leg, and brought his blade whistling down to stop with an audible click against the mail on the back of Dracula's neck.

The two men paused in a frozen tableau as though contemplating the ramifications of the last four seconds. There was silence in the courtyard save the whistling of laboured breath. Intermittent puffs of white blew from the holes of their visors and blanched the metal with frost.

Kirschner swung his sword to the side, and stepped away from the prince. He depressed the spring-stud that locked his visor in place and pushed it up.

"Shall we dispute upon those last few moves, my liege?" His Liege rolled over to sit, and hinged up the klappviser of his bascinet. "Well," he breathed, "as I recall, your sword had a serious difference of opinion with my neck and as a result, my head left home in disgust."

Ass, thought Kirschner. "...which would affect, most radically, your ability to govern." Kirschner held up his sword, a Turkish kilij taken from one of his innumerable battlefield victims, and presented it to Dracula.

"Witness the extreme curvature of the upper half of the blade. It provides a grazing surface as oblique as your helm's. Any forceful cut upon the head can easily be deflected to the right or the left, even by an unskilled warrior. The blow itself will bend the man's wrist enough to send your blade on its way, and so you aid the enemy in your defeat." He held the gleaming blunted half-n1oon motionless as a stone; steam rose slowly from his arm as perspiration leached through the black leather of his practice jupon. "There is another thing..."

"I rather thought there might be," sighed Dracula resignedly, as he absentmindedly snicked at the frozen grass with the rebated tip of his blade. "Please... continue." He gestured magnanimously with an upward roll of his eyes.

"The pronounced curve of this blade, the width of its tip, and the thickness of its spine, make it an exceptionally deadly weapon for close-quarters combat. The Turkish manner of fighting favours circular slashing moves. When you make a similar cut with a straight blade very little of the edge is involved. Indeed, the closer you are, the more it becomes a tip-cut, as you must haul back strongly on the hilt for leverage. Now observe." He stepped back, and slashed two fluid figure-eights in front of himself, one descending, one rising. Dracula's eyes narrowed with interest.

"With the kilij, the extreme arch of the blade ensures contact with the edge is maintained through the full length of the draw. The closer you are, the more edge there is employed. But here is the weakness." Dracula leaned forward intently. "Such a draw-cut must pull the hilt past the hip to free the blade—as the stroke slides off your armour, step in, face-to-face, and employ your pommel. Then, as his head snaps back, retire on your right foot, and slash down diagonally upon his neck." Hans mimed his way through the moves as he spoke.