The Mark of Cain (30 page)

“Seneslav,” he told his man. “You’re in charge while
I’m gone. Stay here. We must stay hidden.”

Then, dressed as a Turk, he snuck into the camp. It
was a bright summer’s day. A beautiful day. He walked through the tents,
searching for the location of the sultan’s. He couldn’t kill him now, in broad
daylight, but he did gather plenty of information. For one, he learned that the
sultan had ordered the men to stay in their tents at night so, if there was an
attack, there wouldn’t be the panic of thousands of men, as well as any
attackers would be obvious.

Cain couldn’t help but smile. That was perfect. If
he came in during the night, then the men wouldn’t see, for they would be blind
inside their tents. And then Cain could sneak to the sultan’s own tent and
assassinate him before the dawn could break on another glorious day. As quietly
as he had snuck in, he snuck back out, heading back to his men.

***

The sun had set three hours before when Cain and his
troops marched upon the sultan’s camp. It was a clear night through which
crickets’ cheerful songs could be heard, their tunes dancing on the light
breeze. Behind Cain, Seneslav and his troops were keyed up. He could feel their
anxious hopes as though lightning was sizzling in their midst.

Himself, Cain was in a joyful mood. It took all his
self-control to not join in with nature’s song, whistling a triumphant melody.

After speaking with those on watch, Cain and his
troops dressed like janissaries—Christians converted to Islam, pretty much by
force—were allowed access into the camp. They didn’t strike right away.
Instead, they got as far inside as they could before they were forced to stop,
for the janissaries weren’t allowed as close to the sultan as Cain would like
to be.

He’d planned to change into another uniform that
would allow him to slip to the sultan’s tent unnoticed, but one of the
real
janissaries called from his tent, telling Cain’s man nearest to him that they
weren’t allowed outside. Cain’s soldier didn’t answer, instead looking to Cain
because he was the only one who spoke the language the janissary was using. But
Cain was too far away to take care of the situation, and the enemy soldier
realized what was going on.

The janissary took one look at the menacing group
and called out, “Attack!”

Just like that, men began pouring from their tents.
Without waiting for the first of them to strike at him, Cain pulled Excalibur
from its hiding place under a blanket. Then, the blade flashing with a devious
glint, he lopped off the nearest Turkish head, not pausing long enough to allow
his artistic side to fully appreciate the consecutive eruption of titillating
blood.

He turned this way and that, efficiently taking out
all within reach, including any animals that could be used as a means to
escape. Not one man came near enough to him to even cut the Turkish cloth
hiding his Wallachian armor.

The battle raged on, his enemies’ faces becoming
more visible as the fires his men had started lit the field. Every time he
smote an enemy, he thought they would be the last man standing in his way.
However, just as his army of Immortals had done when he’d lived by the alias of
Xerxes the Great, when he killed one man, another would pop up in his place.
They were like weeds. Nasty, annoying weeds that bred like rabbits and had very
weak roots. Easily pulled from the ground and tossed aside, their roots
screaming in silent agony as they were ripped from the source of their
nutrients.

By the time the Turks had thinned somewhat, Cain
could see that the sultan had left with the majority of his men, having
retreated to go back to the relative safety of his soil. Still, Cain smiled. He
may have lost today, but he knew he had shaken the sultan. The sultan was most
likely feeling his own mortality. A feeling that would be exacerbated
relatively soon, for his retreat would take him to the very road where Cain had
sent the executioners.

Cain wanted to go after him, but a group of
janissaries were gathering together to pursue him, and he knew he could not
win.

“Come,” he commanded his bloodied men. “Let us ride
ahead. We’ll suck them into the mountain pass and ambush them.”

The journey toward the mountain was rough, the sun
not seeming to rise as thick clouds began swirling overhead. The men and horses
were tired. Even Idimmu was languid under him. Then, as though God was doing
all He could to slow their progress, a great storm shattered the sky.

“This way!” he commanded, steering his steed to
higher ground through the forest thick with summer foliage, abandoning his
initial plan. He knew how the weather could get here in Wallachia, and if God
was angry, then it would get worse than possible with His wrath fueling it.

It was just as he thought this when he heard a loud
cracking as a force rushed through the trees. He spared a glance toward the
violent sound.

“Flood!” he yelled as a wall of solid water rushed
at them, ancient trees falling as its dirty fingers punched their way through
their trunks. The very hands of God clawed toward them at a relentless pace.

Behind him, one of the horses screamed, a
frightening sound that had the rest of them frantic. Idimmu was foaming at the
mouth, whites showing around his irises, and Cain knew the rest of the horses
were having similar reactions.

Cain barely reached the high ground as the host of
water barraged the ground beneath him. He looked down around him, where dirty
rivers flowed like lava around his hill, carrying grown trees and other debris
in their angry arms. It reminded him of the time of Noah, when God had flooded
the numerous cities filled with people who had been corrupted by Cain
generations before, taking things further than Cain ever would by becoming a
truly perverse people. The scriptures told that the whole world had been
flooded, but that wasn’t quite true. Basically, it had been the whole world as
Noah knew it. But Cain hadn’t been on the ark, and he’d lived a relatively dry
forty days, as had most of the world.

But now he wondered if there was another man of God
on an ark somewhere, and if Wallachia would be the next place God would drown,
ridding Himself of the people who thought of Cain as the Christ.

The floods trapped him there along with Seneslav and
a handful of his soldiers. Those in the back had either been carried away or
could be seen from where they had come, being slaughtered by the janissaries.
Stuck there, he could only watch as the sultan’s forces butchered his men
before escaping the bombardment of rain themselves.

It was two days before the rain calmed enough to
start back for home.

Mist rose from the marshland that had been fields
and meadows before the storm. The mist was so thick it hid the murky waters the
horses waded through. Cain could feel objects hitting against his leather
boots, like the dead in the river Styx, where the wrathful and sullen were
punished by drowning in its muddy waters for eternity. When the haze finally
lifted, he saw that he wasn’t far off, for as far as he could see, bodies were
strewn, their armor or other debris anchoring a good portion of the men, women,
and children to the meadow grass under a foot or so of water.

He looked down at one man’s swollen face, his eyes
open and milky, his mouth open in a grimace. And he
recognized
him.
Without even needing to look at the insignia on his armor, Cain knew that a
large portion of his peasant forces had been caught in the storm, most likely
on their way to him after staking their prisoners. He could only hope that the
rest of his forces were alive and well, protecting Poenari Castle and his wife
and infant son as ordered.

He was heading for that very castle when a messenger
from Moldavia arrived with a call for aid. He wanted to ignore it as he had his
own problems, but doing so would weaken Wallachia even further. So, instead of
going back to his castle, he went to defend the town against the Turks. Despite
the fact that he’d lost most of his army, he succeeded.

He fought and won another two major battles before
he even got to
think
of home again. And then, it was only because he was
making a quick stop there before going to the Hungarian regent to ask for money
because he had run out of gold with which to pay his mercenaries, which were
the only forces really worthy of being called his. So, exhausted, he once again
made his way to Poenari Castle.

By the time he could see his castle’s outline on the
horizon, he was tired and hungry, ready to eat a hearty stew and sleep in a
plush bed. Possibly even get a rubdown from Nadia.

“Sire!” one man cried as he entered through the
portcullis. “You’re alive!”

“Yes. And I’m hungry,” he grumbled.

“But sire,” the man called.

“I would like a thick stew.”

“But sire….”

“I’m going to rest. Bring it to my chambers. And
tell my wife I’m waiting for her.”

“But
sire
….”

Cain turned to him, in no mood to argue with who he
now realized was his head servant.

“Look, I’m tired, which is obvious by the way that I
haven’t had you executed for arguing with me….”

“Sire, I have important news for you. It’s what I’ve
been trying to
tell
you.”

He let out a grunt. “Can it wait?”

“No, sire.”

“Fine,” he said, squeezing the bridge of his nose to
try to gain patience in case what the servant had to say was even a fraction as
dire as he was making it out to be. “Tell me.”

The servant’s insistence turned to nervousness, and
he began to knead his calloused hands.

“The sultan left your brother and his army of
janissaries in Wallachia, sire,” the servant said. “Your brother’s allied
himself with the nobles, telling them it would be in their best interest to do
so. They’re on their way here!”

“That was fast,” he grumped, for the first time
noticing the hurried packing going on around him. Everybody was running around,
doing all they could to pack provisions and valuables so Cain wouldn’t become
destitute when abandoning the fortress. Still, he couldn’t believe that yet
another force was using his time away to sneak up on him. That showed how tired
he was that he had fallen for it. The other, feebler forces he’d fought and killed
must have been distractions so the larger one could slip through unchallenged.

“How large is Radu’s army?” Radu the Handsome, the
real Vlad’s younger brother, had been a gift to the sultan as well. However,
over the years he had been molested by the sultan and now they were lovers…or
so the rumors said. And by the favor Radu had in the sultan’s eyes, Cain
believed it. Besides, that’s exactly why the sultan wanted tributes made out in
boys. He had a thing for them, if you will. The younger, the better.

“Large, sire,” the servant answered.

“Fine,” he sighed, more in annoyance than anything
else. “Continue readying the retreat. But pack lightly. If it can’t be carried
on horseback, don’t pack it.”

“But your valuables, sire…” he protested.

“Are only valuables. They don’t help if you’re dead.
Also, do you remember those shoes I made for the horses?” he asked, referring
to shoes that would make the tracks they left look like a herd of cattle had
gone that way, and not horses.

“Yes, sire.”

“Attach them to every horse.” Then, with more energy
than he’d had since arriving home, he asked, “Now where are my wife and son?”

“That’s…um….”

Catching fear and pity in the servant’s voice, he
asked, “What?! Are they well?”

“Your son is, sire.”

“And my wife?”

“She was the one to receive the message about Radu’s
army. She didn’t want to be their prisoner for fear of what they would do to
her in response to what you’ve done to them….”

“And?” he pressed, snarling in the servant’s face
when he didn’t go on.

“She killed herself, sire. She threw herself from
the window to the river down below.”

Cain felt a flitter of sadness. Nadia had been a
good wife. Unlike Quintillia, she hadn’t nagged, as well as she’d left him to
his work.

He nodded. “Thank you.” Then, hardening again, he
said, “Now get to work. We don’t have time to stand around.”

Only an hour or so later he stood by the castle
gates, lifting his infant son Mihnea into Seneslav’s hands.

“You take care of him,” he told his man. “If I don’t
come back….”

“You don’t need to worry, sire. I’ll defend him with
my very life.”

Cain nodded and stood back as everyone but him left
the castle, the hoof prints perfect replicas for cow hooves. Then, after
burning anything the Turkish armies could use, he jumped on Idimmu and rode
through the damp dirt roads covered in fragrant pine needles.

“Hyah!” he yelled, heading in the opposite direction
to Transylvania to ask the Hungarian regent for aid.

As he pushed the horse hard, another storm began
brewing, always at his heels. Eventually, as his steed tired, it caught up to
them, making the trek as miserable as the one he’d taken when God had first banished
him from His presence.