Vlad: The Last Confession (17 page)

The Comet

July 1456—eight years after Dracula’s exile began

Vlad found the weakness he was looking for, in the man, in his armor. Dropping suddenly onto his left knee, he wrenched the man’s dagger hand down, unbalancing him. At the same time he jerked his own hand free, drove his own dagger up, slipping the point into the slight rent he’d noticed in the chainmail at the man’s throat. Rivets gave, burst by tempered steel. Flesh was less resistant.

The man tried to cry out but his voice was lost to blood. Vlad, rising, held him so close that he could see eyes through the narrow visor, terror-filled. Then he looked
beyond them, turning the body now this way, now that, as a ward against other enemies. He’d been taught that, when you were triumphing in your own kill, you were most likely to die. Since this was his first battle, he wasn’t going to dispute it.

Yet
beyond the dying man, his comrades were fleeing. Making the choice seemingly as one, like a flock of birds suddenly turning together in the air. No one called; all realized, turned, fled.

He looked again into the visor, saw the light leave. The man was instantly heavy with death. Vlad dropped him, stepped away, dagger held before—but he had no need of it. The enemy ran down the slight slope, round or over the bodies that had filled the bowl-shaped valley in the three hours it had been fought over, up the equally slight slope opposite. The fastest were amongst their comrades there in forty heartbeats.

It wasn’t just the blood in his eyes. It had gotten harder to distinguish individual men across the narrow valley. Soon, it would be night.

He looked sharply to the north-east…and there it was. Through the reddening sky, low to the land, the twin-tailed comet burned, as it had every night since his army first set out through the passes from Transylvania. His men had hailed it as a Dragon, a sure sign that his cause was blessed. Yet Vlad was certain that his cousin, Vladislav of the Danesti clan, in the middle of his army on the opposite hill, believed exactly the same.

“Prince?”

Vlad turned to the voice. Grouped behind him, as ever, were his close companions: Black Ilie, the huge Transylvanian, hired during the fugitive years as bodyguard, though for most of them he took his wages in wine and food and often little of either; Laughing Gregor, his face now covered in blood, still split with that permanent, gap-toothed smile; and Stoica the Silent, Vlad’s body-servant, a mute who did not need a voice to react to his master’s every need. All wore mismatched armor, but it was at least black—like their prince’s.

It was Ilie who had called him, the man’s voice rumbling from a face so dark it was said he had the blood of Africa in his veins. But it was Stoica who held what he needed: the Dragon’s Talon, his father’s sword, dropped when an enemy somehow slipped inside his guard and needed to be met with a dagger. He took it, reached up to put it into the sheath he wore over his back, all the while looking all around for the one person he needed most.

“Where’s Ion?”

“Here, Prince.”

Vlad frowned as Ion pushed through. “You are hurt.” He reached out, turned his friend’s head. A wound the length of a forefinger ran a fingernail deep from cheekbone to jaw.

“I got careless,” Ion replied. “I forgot that a man’s not dead until he’s dead.”

“If I may venture,
jupan
,” said Ilie. “You’re not as pretty as you were.”

“Thank Christ,” laughed Gregor. “Perhaps the rest of us will have a chance with the tavern girls now.”

Vlad did not smile, his gaze on Ion. “They fled. And none of our men pursued them?”

“No, lord. I fear the fight’s gone out of them.”

“Or the money has,” Gregor added.

Vlad looked along the ridge-line. Aside from his companions, and perhaps five hundred exiled Wallachians, the rest of his army, some six thousand of them, were paid to be there by his backers—the bankers of Brasov and Sibiu, Hungary’s King and the White Knight, Janos Hunyadi, Vlad’s former enemy, now his ally. Men would fight for gold, even fight fiercely; but only for a time. Many were now taking off their helmets, squatting on the ground, swigging wine. Vlad could see that Gregor was right—they believed they had already earned the gold he’d paid them.

Ion saw the despair in his eyes. “If it’s true of ours it is also true of theirs,” he said, pointing across the valley. “Just as many mercenaries in the Danesti ranks will feel they have done enough for their wages. They will not come again.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We can wait till nightfall, then slip away, rally in the mountains.”

Vlad had been looking above Ion, to the comet, brighter even in the few moments that they had talked. He felt that he had ridden its twin tails into the heart of his country. It was still flying towards his enemies. “Are you so anxious to be a fugitive again? For if we go back now, if we disband this force, that’s what we’ll be. And our chance may not come again.”

“But it may,” urged Ion. “While here…” He gestured to the field, its dead.

Vlad turned again to it, then looked
beyond it to the standard of the Black Eagle on the hill opposite, to the south. Unlike Vlad, Vladislav had not once left its shadow to fight, just sent his men to die.

His gaze shifted to the smaller hill that made up the eastern side of the valley. Other standards flew there. Some of the
boyars
of Wallachia fought for the Danesti. A very few, exiles like himself, served in the ranks of the Draculesti. Many, the most important, had merely watched from that hill, taking no part; eating, drinking, commenting. Amusing themselves with the spectacle of two cousins fighting, not too concerned about the result. Whoever survived they would accept as voivode—until another, more generous leader came along.

“My sight’s blurred,” said Vlad, reaching up, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Who still sits up there?”

Gregor followed the pointing hand. “Albu the Lard…sorry, ‘the Great.’ Codrea. Gales. Udriste…”

“All the most powerful, Prince,” Ion interrupted. “Waiting, watching, not moving…”

“Wait,” said Black Ilie, stepping forward. “See who’s stirring his fat arse!”

Vlad looked. Horses were being ridden down the slope. One rider carried the bear’s head banner of Albu cel Mare. Another a simple white cloth.

“They call for parley,” Ion said.

“To arms,” called Vlad, “in case of treachery.”

His companions and a few others responded. Most ignored him. The squadron, some twenty strong, rode across the valley and up their slope in moments, then reined in ten paces before them. In the middle of the horsemen, under the two banners, sat a huge man astride an equally vast destrier. He lifted his helmet.

“Albu cel Mare himself,” Ion spat. “The man who took your army and deserted eight years ago.”

“I don’t think I’ll mention it now,” murmured Vlad.

The big man reined in. “Which one of you is Dracul’s boy,” he shouted. “I haven’t seen him since he was a puny cub.”

“Here I stand,” said Vlad, stepping forward.

“Hmm.” Albu sniffed, turned aside to a companion and, in a voice not much lowered, said, “Hasn’t grown much, has he?” Then he turned back. “Dracula
jupan
,” he said, addressing him as “lord” only, “it seems this day ends in stalemate.”

“The day is not yet done, Albu
jupan
. Why not join with me and end it?”

“Strange,” laughed the mounted man, “but that is exactly what your cousin just asked me to do.” He leaned down. “And I told him what I now tell you: it is just so hard to choose between the spawn of Mircea the Great’s line. Why should I favor one until he proves himself?”

“Is this not proof enough?” Vlad pointed at the bodies behind the horsemen.

Albu did not even turn. “Dead mercenaries? No.” He sighed. “But war is not good for our land, or our coffers. We need a voivode who has proved himself strong enough to hold the throne.”

“Why not you, Albu cel Mare?” Vlad said softly.

“You know, everyone asks me that.” He scratched his chin. “Too much responsibility. Too many…meetings. I prefer to advise, to influence…”

“To stay on my estates and fuck sheep,” muttered Gregor.

Ilie laughed. Albu heard that, not the words, but his face hardened anyway. “So which of you is the strongest. Dracula or Dan? Vlad or Vladislav? Since you could not lead your armies to prove it, perhaps you could prove it as men.” He smiled again. “Let God decide. I suggested it to your cousin and he readily agreed.”

“You wish one of us to kill the other for your amusement?”

“No.” The man’s smile vanished. “One of you should kill the other for the crown of Wallachia.”

It was not uncommon to issue a challenge to single combat to the opposing leader. It
was
uncommon to accept. Ion saw his friend’s hesitation. “Prince,” he said quietly, “do not—”

Vlad’s lifted hand halted the words. “Where and when, Albu
jupan
?”

The smile grew on the large face. “Since we are all gathered, and there is yet a little light in the sky…”—the smile came again to the large face—“how about here and now?”

Ion wanted to speak, to protest. But his friend’s hand was still raised against him.

“What weapons?” Vlad said.

“Well,” drawled the mounted man, “how about lances to commence? For form’s sake. And then, if required”—he shrugged—“what you will?”

Vlad barely paused. “Agreed. One condition.”

“Name it.”

“I will not fight him while he wears the crown my father wore. Put that on the side of the field, as prize for our endeavour.”

“Agreed. Shall we say…” He looked around. “…When the shadow of that oak there touches the stream. Should give us enough time to clear the field of the wounded and the dead, and for you both to prepare.”

“As the
jupan
wishes.”

“Good then.” Albu turned his horse’s head, then glanced back. “You don’t look much like your father. Have you half his skill in the lists?”

Vlad smiled. “That you will soon discover, Albu
jupan
.”

The
boyar
nodded, put spurs to his horse’s flanks. As he rode away, the white banner of parley was hoisted three times; obviously a signal, because Vladislav’s eagle was raised high once in response. Immediately, some Danesti soldiers descended to the valley floor, to collect the wounded and the dead; others spread along the crest. On their hill, shouts quickly confirmed the news that had already been whispered and Vlad’s army began to do the same—tend to fallen comrades; find a place with a better view.

Now Vlad turned, finally lowering his hand. “Well, Ion?”

“What is left for me to say?” replied his friend. “You have accepted the challenge before all. Even if you wanted to leave now…”

“I don’t.” He looked across the valley, then up. “It ends today. With my Dragon in the sky above me.” He had started to walk back, over the ridge-line;
beyond it, Kalafat was tethered and Stoica was already gathering what would be needed for mounted combat. “Any thoughts, Ion,” Vlad continued, “beyond your cautions?”

“Not many,” Ion said. “Vladislav is a noted jouster, has triumphed often in the lists…” He broke off.

“While I, you were going to say, have not had time for tourneys and codes of chivalry.” He smiled, raised a hand to halt the apologies. “But this is not a decorous tilt, fought for a lady’s silken favor. We fight for the crown of Wallachia. My father’s crown.” The smile left him and he looked once more at the blazing light in the sky. “And I
will
take it.”

Single Combat

“The oak’s shadow touches the stream. It is time.”

Vlad rose at Ion’s voice. Groaned. He shouldn’t have knelt, not even to pray. He had fought all afternoon and though he had not been wounded his body was stiff, strained.

He twisted his trunk from side to side, bent over his straight legs, swung his arms, raised them when he was ready. Stoica came, to dress him again in his black armor. It was only slightly better fitting than that of his companions and there had only been time to hammer out the larger dents. At least Stoica had managed to clean off most of the mud. For years, Vlad had not had the coin to buy a better suit and when money came for the invasion, he had chosen to spend it on other things—more soldiers, for one. And, as he was armed, he noted again that he had none of the special equipment required for the tourney. His shield was solid, you didn’t scrimp on a shield—a rectangle of riveted, metal-faced wood, its top edge cut in a curve—but it had no recess to rest a jouster’s lance. No extra metal reinforced his armor’s left side, where the opponent’s lance would likely strike. His helmet was the same he’d worn when he’d come from Edirne to take the throne eight years before—a Turkish metal turban, the neck protected in mail, the face open, not closed as jousters’ usually were to protect from splintering lances. Stoica slipped it over his head…and then he was finished. Armed. It had not taken long. Ion looked at him and could not restrain a sigh.

Kalafat saw him when he was forty paces away and began to dance, jerking her head up and down, baring her teeth, giving little grunts of welcome. He rubbed at her ears, clicked his tongue.

“Are you certain you won’t take mine?” Ion had offered his warhorse before. It was male, huge. The same as Vladislav would certainly be riding.

And Vlad, not the tallest, would look small upon it. “No,” he replied. “This is no time to be learning a new horse’s ways. Besides”—he leaned forward and kissed Kalafat between the eyes—“I have ridden her in a tourney before.”

“I wasn’t going to mention that,” muttered his friend.

Ilie came forward, cupping his hands. Vlad placed one foot and the big man lifted him into the saddle. He looked down. “I told you, Ion. I failed then, in my only joust, because it was for nothing. A lady’s kerchief. I didn’t even know the lady. I will not fail now.” Touching his heels to Kalafat’s flanks, he rode her up the slight rise to the hill’s crest.

Both armies had been busy in the short time Vlad had prayed and armed. The valley floor had been emptied of bodies. The sun-warmed, blood-steeped soil had disgorged insects, and swallows darted and turned amongst them. Those men who lived had spread around the valley, the armies mingling, for most of them were mercenaries, reuniting with old comrades. Only a few atop their hill, a few more atop the Danesti’s, held themselves loyal and aloof. Mostly Vlad saw men drinking, eating, laughing…and he shivered, looked to the hill opposite, just as cheers came from it, as the Eagle banner was pushed forward. Something gleamed underneath it. The valley ran roughly north to south so neither knight would have the setting sun full in their face. But beams still sparkled on the armor that covered both man and horse, making them seem even bigger. He remembered meeting his cousin a few times, the few times there was peace between the clans of Drac and Dan. Vladislav was ten years older, bigger by a head, experienced in joust, in battle. And he had ruled Wallachia for many years now. Of course he had the best armor!

As he stared, trumpets sounded. A squire rode out, bearing the Eagle banner. Cantering to the base of the slope, he raised the flag pole high then drove it into the ground. He turned, rode back, leaving the Eagle to flap in the breeze among the darting swallows.

“Ilie,” Vlad called.

His standard-bearer rode out from the ranks. The Dragon streamed behind him. When he reached level ground he reined in and brought his horse up onto its hind legs. “A-Dracula!” he cried, before ramming the shaft into the earth.

“Strutter,” laughed Gregor.

On the higher ground to the left, two trumpeters now stepped out and blew a loud refrain. The laughter and carousing ceased as, between the trumpeters, stepped another man. He too bore a flag, folded around a pole, and as he swirled it out all could see it bore no
boyar
’s arms but was all black.

“To the death!” came the mutter from thousands of throats.

As Ilie rode up, smiling, Ion said, “What other weapon do you take, Prince?”

Vlad gestured to what Stoica already held. “The Dragon’s Talon. My father’s sword to reclaim my father’s crown.” The weapon was passed over, slid into the sheath across his back. He mounted.

Gregor passed him a lance. “Your
kebab
, master,” he said. “Just needs some Wallachian mutton on it.”

Vlad looked at Ion. “Any last advice, old friend?”

“Yes,” came the grunted reply, “don’t get killed.”

“I will try not to.”

A bray of trumpets. On the opposite slope, a silver shape began to descend it. At a touch, Kalafat moved, too.

“Go with God, Prince,” Ion shouted, stepping forward. “But fight like your father—the Devil!”

Silence held as the two horsemen descended. The only sounds Vlad could hear were the sharp cries of swallows as they dived, the whispering of water in the stream, the snap of banners in the breeze. But when he was level with the pole and its Dragon, voices did come, shouting and repeating two names.

“Dan. Dan. Dan.”

“Dracula. Dracula. Dracula.”

Then, as if by some accord, the voices ceased as one. Vlad looked at the man a scant hundred paces away. The Voivode of Wallachia. His cousin. His enemy. The setting sun encased him, turning armor to fire.

Vlad glanced back, up, to the east. “He can have the sun,” he muttered, “for I ride the comet.”

A shout turned him back. Vladislav had spurred his horse, stolen ground. Couching his lance, Vlad put heels to Kalafat’s flanks.

A fast man could have run it in ten seconds. The horses, trained to the instant gallop, met in two. Sunlight flashed off steel armor, off steel lance-tip. Dazzled, Vlad sought a target, tensed for the strike.

He had never been hit so hard. The sound of it was loud, sudden, a shriek as metal point smashed into metalled shield; followed by silence and redness, and everything moving so slowly within it. His own shield smashing back against him then snatched from his grip, gouging finger-flesh through the glove because he was grasping it so hard; his feet leaving the stirrups; his back on Kalafat’s haunches, then off them; his feet hitting the ground first so it almost looked like he would stand up; falling, hard, face into the dry earth; toppling slowly onto his side. His eyes never closed, he could see faces on the hill, mouths wide in some shout he could not hear. But he saw them as if through a red, silken veil. Saw the black flag, lifted straight out by a breeze; not flapping, so slowly did it move.

The earth was moving. He felt it, the vibration, as sound partially returned—distant shouting, a horse’s closer snort. A shadow came between him and the sun, something sparkled and he rolled, so was able to watch the lance-tip plunge into the earth where he’d just been. The point gouged turf then was lifted, gone. He felt the vibration of hooves; a clod of mud hit him in the face and somehow that cleared his sight of the redness, brought back the sounds.

“Dan! Dan! Dan!”

No one was calling “Dracula” now. It brought him onto his knees. He looked at the brightness moving away from him, saw it resolve into man and horse, pausing now beneath the Eagle banner. There the man signalled, and a squire came running down the hill, carrying something, passing it up. Then the man—his cousin—let the something fall and Vlad saw what it was: an iron ball, studded with sharp spurs, an arm’s length of chain connecting it to the staff that Vladislav held.

“Ball mace,” Vlad said, aloud. And saying the name of one weapon made him remember another. As his cousin wheeled his horse and began to trot towards him, Vlad reached up and drew his sword from its back sheath; saw, gratefully, that it had not been bent or broken in his fall.

He was still kneeling. Couldn’t rise yet, could only hold the sword angled up before him. Vladislav was forced to bend low to strike, swinging the great ball round and round, finally sweeping his arm over in a great downward smash. Vlad could do nothing but slip to the side, sword angled down to avoid the full force that might break it and to guide the blow away from him. The ball drove into the left quillon, bending the hand guard, but not snapping it.

Then Vladislav broke off the attack, circled wide, giving himself room for the charge. He spurred his horse into it…but he had also given Vlad a moment. One to get to his feet, plant them solidly underneath him, shake the last of the mist from his eyes and, when the horseman drove at him again, swinging the ball in a great arc, to step in and not away, sword going square above him, tip dropping into his other, gauntleted hand. It was the chain that met it, not the ball that would have snapped the blade; the chain that, because of the force of swing and charge and the weight of the ball, swung round and around the sword. The moment it stopped, Vlad wrenched hard, threw his whole weight down, and jerked the horseman from his saddle.

In the fall, the strap that had held mace to wrist slipped, and the weapon dropped as the man landed. Vladislav was somehow still on his feet, stumbling forward, hand going to his sword. It was halfway from the scabbard when Vlad remembered that he still held his own sword in two hands; and then recalled, from the days of training with a Swabian fight master, one particular stroke. It had been one of the German’s favorites. It had a German name.

Mortschlag
.

Taking his right hand from the grip, he put it to the blade, just below the wrap of chain. Then, bringing the weapon over in a high arc, he smashed the point of the unbent, right-hand guard into the top of Vladislav’s helmet.

A moment of stillness, neither moving. The only thing that did was the chain, unravelling at last from the blade, the ball falling to thud dully into the ground. And only when it had did Vladislav fall also, as if he would sit, his hand still gripping a sword just halfway out of its scabbard.

Vlad’s quillon was still embedded in the helmet. Straining, he twisted and finally jerked metal from crumpled metal. Then he reversed the weapon, took the grip again into his hand. The man before him did not move, head lolling forward. Leaning in, Vlad carefully placed the tip of his blade under the man’s visor and flicked.

The visor rose. His cousin’s eyes were open and Vlad could see that they were almost the same green as his own. He could also see that life was leaving them; and, even as he looked, a gush of blood flowed down the forehead and pooled in the sockets, reddening the green.

At last, the body fell sideways. Vlad knelt, putting the sword-tip into the earth so he could hang from the quillons, one bent, one straight. Only then did he become aware of the chanting, of a name. His name.

“Dracula. Dracula Dracula.”

He looked around. All seemed to be chanting it. His army. His cousins. He looked up. Swallows still swooped through the sky between him and the comet, careless of man.

Then Ion was there. “Vlad,” he whispered. “Vlad!”

Vlad let himself be lifted up. Others came, his close companions. Ilie hoisted the Dragon banner and waved it joyously. Gregor held Kalafat’s reins. Stoica handed him a wine skin and he drank deep. When he was ready, he nodded and the group marched up the hill between the two, now silent, armies, to the place where the black banner stood.

Vlad hadn’t noticed it before, because it was so small. But hanging over the flag pole’s tip was a slim circlet of gold, unadorned save for an emerald the size of a gull’s egg in its center.

“Your father’s crown…Prince.” Albu cel Mare came forward, spoke in a different tone. The disdain was gone from his eyes. “Of course, it means nothing until the Metropolitan places it on your head and you are anointed in the cathedral of Targoviste.”

“It means…everything,” replied Vlad, reaching, grasping. He lifted the circle of gold high and cried out, “I claim my father’s throne. I claim his title, Voivode of Wallachia.”

Acclamation came, from all around. From both armies; even from the
boyars
, Albu in their center—at least, from those that remained, for Vlad could see that some had gone when Vladislav died, to offer their allegiance to the next pretender. But he was scarcely aware of the noise. Turning suddenly he buried his face in Ion’s chest.

Few could see. They were surrounded by large men. The cheering went on. In all their time together Ion had never seen him weep. So he just held him, glaring above his head at Albu cel Mare and the
boyars
and, through his own tears, dared any of them to mock.