Vlad Dracula: The Dragon Prince

Copyright © 2004, 2014 Michael Augustyn.

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ISBN: 978-1-9389-0854-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9389-0855-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906287

iUniverse rev. date: 4/10/2014

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Fugitive

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Prince

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Prisoner

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Legend

To Patricia

for all the help and support

and so much more.

To John Burke

at St. Joseph’s University

for correcting every comma on every theme

and for all of the encouragement.

With special thanks to

Carole and Dom Roberti

for the design and composition of this book,

and to my parents and brothers,

Michael Mallowe,

Jack the Greek Xenakes,

Tom Hinchcliffe,

Robert Smith,

Rick Barnes,

Jill Galper, and

Barbara Kelly,

all of whom helped with this work

in various ways.

Introduction

Though this book is a novel, it attempts to follow actual history as much as possible. With the subject of Vlad Dracula, that is not easy. While much is claimed as fact regarding his life, one of his biographers explained it to me best: East Europe, fifteenth century … Few records survived the turmoil of the region.

To illustrate the problem, regarding one battle, I found two sources, each claiming a different victor. Turning to what should have been a good third source—the records of one of the combatants—I found no mention of the battle at all, at least not in texts printed in English. Further, for many of the historical characters—though fortunately not Dracula himself—there is no documentation to support accurate physical descriptions.

Still, I tried to capture the flavor of Dracula’s life. He was a fugitive, a prince, and a prisoner, pretty much as described. Many of the other characters are also presented in their actual historical context, including Radu, Stephen, Bogdan, Hunyadi, Matthias, the sultans, Toma Catavolinos, Skanderbeg, Gales, Ilona, and Jan Jiskraz. Prasha, too, is presented in context, though her actual name and origins are uncertain. Much about Dracula’s sons is also uncertain, other than that he fathered at least three—two by his second wife, Ilona. Other characters—like Balt’zar, Wilk, Ibrahim, the spy, the priests—are composites; their types have some basis in fact in Dracula’s life. For example, there are historical references to his employing foreigners in his service, just as foreigners also served the sultan.

Regarding battles, I tried to give accurate numbers of the respective sides. Regarding Dracula’s major campaign, though much of the route is uncertain, his tactics are described in both history and lore. Also, where I specifically mention something as historical fact, I believe it to be so, based on at least one reference. And yet this book is intended as fiction, an author’s interpretation of the characters’ motives.

A Note on Pronunciation

Generally, s, as in Gales, is pronounced like sh—Ga-lesh. J is like y—Jan Jiskraz/Yan Yiskraz; Janos Hunyadi/Yanoosh Hunyadi. As noted in the text, Wilk sounds like Veelk.

Prologue

October 1448. He was a month shy of his seventeenth birthday when he led a column of cavalry two thousand strong to the wooden walls of Tirgoviste. He had already attained a man’s average height, with the scrubbed complexion and lean build of a junior officer fresh from training. The build, like that of most soldiers of his day, thickened at the neck and shoulders from the constant wielding of lance and sword. His hair showed as a wavy black fringe under the crown and nape of his open-faced helmet. His eyes were dark emerald.

He halted the column at the edge of the broad field opposite the main gates. As it spread behind him in attack formation, he dismounted, walked his horse forward, and knelt. His men thought that he was merely offering a Christian prayer, just as they, in their own tradition, were offering Muslim prayers. But he had taken a handful of earth—his native soil—and, squeezing it dearly, drank in its scent. After a long moment, he rose.

Tirgoviste was the capital of Wallachia, a small country in southeastern Europe wedged between the Roman Catholic kingdom of Hungary and the western edge of the Islamic Turkish empire. Yet, even as the capital, the city’s main defense was its wooden walls, a mere palisade of hewn logs—and the last obstacle between him and his destiny.

Destiny. Though his life had been short, the years to him had seemed long, long indeed. But they had finally brought him to this spot. He was at last poised to reclaim the throne that had been held by his father as voevode, or, as the word translated in Wallachia’s Romanian tongue, prince.

At the very thought of his father, his mind raced, and a glaze settled in his eyes. It was a glaze of pain and anger—rage—the glassy-eyed look of a wounded animal. With it, his hands tightened till they paled, and his head felt light, as though he were drunk on strong spirits. He was conscious of both sensations—the tightness and mock intoxication—but neither fazed him anymore. They always came with the glaze, and the glaze had come, on and off, since he had crossed the threshold to manhood. In the past year especially, it had been with him more often than not.

Through the swirl of images and emotions that the memory of his father conjured, he seized a single thought and thrust it to the fore of his mind: he would be his father’s son in every way that he possibly could. They already shared the same first name: Vlad. And he would soon have the throne behind the walls. Then, in time, he would also take the name that his father had earned: Dracul, or Dragon. He would have done so already, except that the troops behind him, Turks, held the name as anathema. But he would free himself of the Turks in due course, and then … then he would declare himself Son of the Dragon: Dracula.

A horse trotted to a stop behind him, and he turned. Smiling slightly in the saddle was the column’s native commander, Balt’zar-bey. At twice Vlad’s age, he was a warrior in his prime. He had the bronze skin of his race, and his eyes and hair, with trim beard and moustache, were dark. Like Vlad, he had the active soldier’s build.

The commander was a sipahi, one of the Turkish sultan’s own vassal knights. As such, he was one of the Turks’ heavy cavalrymen. His armor consisted of turbaned, open-faced helmet, round shield, and long, chain mail shirt. His mount was also protected by mail on head and torso. The sipahi hefted a lance—not the jousting lance of romanticized tournaments, but a fighting spear some ten feet long. On his belt he wore the Oriental curved saber, the scimitar. In Balt’zar’s case, he was not only a knight, but a bey, a Turkish feudal lord. In the name of the sultan, he served the local pasha, or overlord, the infamous commander, Hamza. Now, simply as a matter of good form, he addressed Vlad as a lord and spoke in Romanian, though his manner was somewhat casual.

So, Vlad-bey, what are your orders?

Vlad had known him for only a few weeks, from the time that the column had been borrowed from Hamza Pasha. He found this Balt’zar to be like most knights he knew, both Muslim and Christian. He talked chivalry—duty, prayer, fasting, charity, mercy, justice—but he practiced something else.

As a matter of pride, to show that he needed no deference, Vlad answered the commander in flawless Turkish. Send a rider. Tell them to open the gates and ride away free. If they refuse, no mercy—none. Tell them.

It amused Balt’zar. The rider who carried such a message might not live through its last word. Among most peoples who at the time claimed to be civilized—save perhaps for the Tartars—messengers were sacrosanct, untouchable. At least, most of the time. They merely carried the words of their masters. They had nothing to do with the content. So they were not to be harmed.

But history testified that enemies were the most bitter when separated by race, religion, or culture. And, in Vlad’s time and place, they were often divided by all three: European vs. Turk; Christian sect vs. sect vs. Muslim; Occident vs. Orient.

So messengers were sometimes used—as the Tartars casually used them—to make a point about hatred.

Balt’zar would not waste a native Turk on such an errand. But no matter. He would send another. He called, Ibrahim!

The man spurred forward promptly. He stood out from all the rest by the very color of his skin: the darkest ebony. He was lean and slightly taller than average. His short beard ran in tight, dark curls from under his turban. His African tribe had only recently converted to Islam. Politically the tribe was independent of the Turkish empire. But the empire called itself the Porte—the Divine Porte—the empire at the very gates of heaven itself. And Ibrahim had been sent by his sultan, as so many provincials were, to learn the ways of this great empire—the newest Shining Light of all Islam.

Ibrahim took the message and galloped for the gates. Eagerly. As always. So eager to do his duty for the Faith. Even as he made the first strides toward Tirgoviste, he was erased from Balt’zar’s thoughts.

The bey instead glanced to Vlad, and his smile twisted wryly. Among his people, there were many stories and whispers about this young lord. Everyone knew that the sultan had tried to humble him in the ancient way of breaking a captive’s spirit: rape. Some said that the sultan had succeeded. But others swore that Vlad had thwarted the attempt, with the help of some angel, or even the help of an evil jin, one of the devil’s own genies.

But whatever had happened with the sultan, there were many now who feared Vlad, who called him brutal and cruel—and mad, as witnessed by the passing glaze in the green eyes. And there were many who said, too, that, despite all appearances, Vlad hid a bitter hatred for all Turks.

But to Balt’zar it was gibberish. Nonsense. Not worth thinking about. Of course the sultan had taken his way with Vlad. For how could a mere boy—jin or no jin—have resisted the great sultan? And brutal and cruel? What true soldier—what Turkish soldier especially—could not see through such things? They had one purpose: terrorize an enemy. They frightened only the weak-hearted. Balt’zar was not weak-hearted.

Further, as Balt’zar saw it, if Vlad was mad—and admittedly he probably was—it was not the wild-dog madness, the dangerous madness, that people thought. It was the madness of delusion, of bold orders in clipped phrases: … no mercy—none. The madness of a mere boy who thought himself a great prince.

As for hatred … Balt’zar laughed heartily inside. All provincials, especially Christians like the Serbs and these Wallachians, hated the sultan and the empire. But greater peoples—like the Mongols and Tartars—also hated the empire. It made no difference. It was the way of the world. The empire simply hated them back. In the grand scheme, provincials had one purpose: to bow. Not love. Just bow. Obey.

But Balt’zar turned his mind back to the task at hand, to Tirgoviste. They are your people, Vlad-bey. What do you think? Will they run or fight?

Run, Vlad said. At least, they should.

Yes, the commander agreed. Better for them if they run. With a note of concern, he added, And better for us.

Vlad said only, Aye.

They shared the same worry. It was not the walls themselves, though walls were usually enough to stop cavalry in its tracks. To breach walls, one typically needed infantry equipped for assault and siege. But Vlad’s cavalry were Turks, and Osmanli, or, as the west called them, Ottoman, Turks at that. The tribe had risen from slaves on the far eastern steppes to carve an empire that straddled Europe and Asia. From four years of training with them, Vlad knew not to worry about the wooden palisade.

Nor was he particularly worried about the troops manning the walls. They numbered only a few hundred and were led by some boyars, Wallachian noblemen. The boyars were part of the faction of the current voevode, Vladislav. But boyars were notoriously self-serving, and their voevode was gone.

A few weeks before, Vladislav had led the bulk of his army in yet another Christian crusade, or holy war, against the Muslim Turks. His family, the Danestis, were cousins to Vlad’s family, which, from Vlad’s father, Dracul, had come to be called the Draculas. By Wallachian law, since both families had the blood of voevodes in their veins, both could claim the princely throne. Both in fact did and so became bitter rivals. In the shifting politics of the day, the Danestis had allied with Hungary, leaving the Draculas—by necessity—to ally with the Turks.

The most recent crusade had been called by the great Hungarian baron, Janos Hunyadi. For him, fighting the Turks had become his destiny. Sometimes, he had won incredible victories; and sometimes he had lost, barely escaping with his life. But even in defeat he had risen from the ashes like the phoenix, and, for his efforts, Christendom had dubbed him The White Knight. As the Danestis’ patron, when he had called the last crusade, Vladislav had dutifully joined him. They crossed the Danube River riding south and met the Turkish sultan, Murad, on a Serbian field called Kossovo, the field of the Crows.

At the time, though Vlad had been trained as a Turkish officer, he was left well behind the lines. His real value to Murad was as a candidate to Wallachia’s throne. For, though small, Wallachia was fanatic—even to the point of national suicide—in upholding its customs. And one of those customs was that its voevode be of native blood.

The great sultan, of course, could have conquered the land outright. But then Wallachia would have rebelled, and kept on rebelling, until the sultan’s conquest was a wasteland. It was far more practical for Murad to rule Wallachia through a puppet prince—and the Osmanli were an eminently practical people. Vlad was Murad’s candidate, just as the Danestis were Hungary’s candidates. So Vlad had been left safely behind the lines.

The battle at the Crows had raged for three full days. It was the second battle on the same field between Muslim and Christian; the first had been in 1389. And both ended with God—in His name as Allah—smiling on Islam.

In the aftermath of the second Crows, Vlad’s time had finally come. Both Hunyadi and Vladislav were among the missing. All that Vlad needed was the sultan’s permission—and the troops—to march on Tirgoviste. He got the first, and the second naturally followed.

The column that he was lent consisted of five hundred sipahis, supported by fifteen hundred lighter troops, the akinjis. The akinjis were the sipahis’ own vassals. As a distinct form of cavalry, they dated back eight centuries, to when the Turks had first risen from slaves to raiders and rustlers on the steppes.

They were essentially horse-archers. Like their masters, they wore the turbaned helmet, but the rest of their armor was little more than thick, quilted shirt and small, target-like shield. Where the sipahis, as the Osmanli heavy cavalry, blended shock and speed, the akinjis blended speed and maneuverability. They screened the sipahis’ charge, sprung hit-and-run strikes, and rained arrows on the enemy from running formations. But, once a battle was joined, once their masters engaged, they could also draw scimitar and lock with the enemy.

At his very word, Vlad knew, the column would lunge at Tirgoviste’s walls. The akinjis would lead, raking the ramparts with arrows. Under that cover, the sipahis would streak through the ranks, massing in separate contingents here and there under the walls. When the defenders rushed to repel them, another contingent would suddenly spring from among the akinjis where the ramparts were left sparsely defended. They would jump from the saddle with scaling hooks. And once the sipahis got a foothold on the walls, the akinjis and all the rest would converge and follow. A fortress with high stone battlements would surely stop them. But Tirgoviste’s poor palisade would surely not. To its shame, Vlad thought, the city’s walls were like those of some mere garrison town. And he had seen the Osmanli, even with only cavalry, take many garrison towns.

What troubled Vlad and Balt’zar were the small, round, black mouths spaced along the ramparts: Tirgoviste’s artillery. There were only a few guns of medium caliber, but, three decades before, gunpowder weapons had been refined by a Christian sect called the Hussites.

Ironically, the sect began as part of the Protestant, or Reformist, religious movement; their first conflict was strictly spiritual, against the leader of the Roman Catholic Church, the pope. But most of the feudal lords remained loyal to the pope, and they sent armies of knights—trained soldiers—against the mostly peasant Hussites.

At first, as could be expected, the Hussites were driven from field after field. But then they adapted and refined gunpowder weapons, and they came to drive the knights from the field. Already men were imitating the Hussites, loading cannon with canister and chain-shot for a scatter-gun effect, as well as with stone and iron balls for distance and penetration.

There was a fair chance now that the boyars—though the odds were against them—would choose to fight. They knew that Vlad hated them—and not just because they served a rival voevode. His hatred burned much hotter. And, if they chose to fight, they would do so with desperation, the desperation of condemned men. As Vlad had vowed, No mercy. So the boyars would unleash their cannon, and, though they would lose in the end, Vlad could picture his troops savaged by canister and chain-shot.

Balt’zar, in fact, was now wishing that Vlad had allowed time to recruit a swarm of the Turkish irregular infantry, the baji-bazouks. They were irregular indeed; the Turks themselves called them horse thieves and scavengers. And they fought like thieves and scavengers: for plunder. They hardly had the stuff for real combat. But bazouks made good cannon-fodder. With the akinjis’ bows aimed at their backs to give them courage, they could have been driven to Tirgoviste’s walls, taking the brunt of the cannons’ barrage to clear the way for the cavalry. But Vlad had not waited for any bazouks. In fact, the commander knew, if Vlad could have found wings, he would have flown to Tirgoviste.

At the city walls now, Ibrahim turned his mount and set spur. He galloped back to his bey and Vlad and reported that the boyars had given no answer to Vlad’s ultimatum. At the gaping mouths on the ramparts, thin spirals of smoke began to rise; the tapers were being lit to fire the guns.

While Vlad’s face betrayed no emotion, he cursed inside. As Balt’zar had a wish, he, too, had one: If only he had artillery! Even one gun could turn the tide, smashing the wooden gates to pulp. But artillery—guns and the mysterious powder that fired them—was ungodly expensive, so much so that the pasha, Hamza, in lending Vlad two thousand men, had refused to part with even one gun.

Vlad mounted his horse and drew sword. From a hitch on his saddle, he took the kite-shaped shield preferred by Western, Christian cavalrymen.

Balt’zar was aghast. Vlad-bey! Surely you don’t mean to lead the charge!

I do, Vlad said.

He knew what the commander meant. There was a time for officers—even sultans—to ride into battle. But there was also a time when they had to refrain.

Balt’zar argued, Today, you are the head, not the hands! Your place is here, as our general!

And today, Vlad countered, flashing his own wry smile, the head’s order is simple: take that city!

As Vlad walked his horse forward, Balt’zar cursed. Indeed the boy was mad; he thought he was still on the drill field. And Balt’zar had no choice. Hamza’s orders had been clear. The sultan wanted Wallachia; Vlad was the key to Tirgoviste. Balt’zar hefted his lance and followed.

Vlad was about to raise his sword when the gates opened, just enough to spring a single rider. He carried no weapons and galloped across the field, stopping short just a few feet from Vlad. He was a burly man with full beard. Like Vlad’s, his eyes were glazed. But his was the glaze of pure fear. He had to strain to keep his voice steady.

Vlad, I am sent to ask you—

Vlad quietly cut him short. You will address me as ‘lord.’ I am voevode here.

The man bowed his head, but with eyes ever on Vlad. He began again. Lord Vlad, I am sent to ask you: are you still a son of the True Faith?

I am, Vlad said.

As the messenger meant it, the Christian Orthodox faith, as opposed to Islam or any other Christian sect. Since another of Wallachia’s strict customs was that its voevode be Orthodox, Murad had let Vlad keep his faith. And Vlad, for the sake of appearance, professed it.

And, Lord Vlad, the man continued, will you swear on that faith—on your very soul—that your terms of surrender are true?

I swear it, Vlad said.

It was the holiest of oaths. In those days, most men—even hard-bitten warriors—believed in souls. And they believed that a soul lost on a broken oath would burn forever in hell.

The man studied the green eyes and seemed assured. He could not know that it had been quite some time since Vlad had given a care about souls.

The man reined about and galloped to the walls. He did not even wait for the gates to open, but shouted his message and spurred away—skirting the field as far from the Turks as possible. A moment later, the gates swung wide, and a stream of riders galloped in his path.

Again Balt’zar smiled. Vlad-bey, he tempted, they could be yours for the taking. He knew the hatred in Vlad’s heart for Vladislav’s boyars.

But even Vlad was a bit stunned. We gave our word.

No, the commander said. "You gave your word. My duty on this day is to follow your orders. As Allah is my witness, if you give the word, I can attack with clear conscience."

And yes, Vlad noted, he was still learning about the Osmanli—and it was like dealing with the devil. And the devil’s temptation here was great. For, even aside from his hatred for the boyars, the Osmanli had taught Vlad that—first and foremost—a prince had to be feared.

But he sheathed his sword. For he had also vowed to himself that his word as voevode—at least to his own people—would be iron clad. And, in truth, long after his death, the peasants of his land would testify: Prince Dracula struck terror in men’s hearts, but his word was a bond with even the lowest of his people.

Watching the boyars disappear, Vlad’s heart took wing. If it did not soar, it at least rose, taking a great burden with it. Surely a long way had yet to be traveled. But a long way had already been crossed. He was—finally—voevode.

He ordered the column to walk behind him in parade formation. Slowly. Stately. Not like a wild rabble. He hardly cared when Balt’zar smirked in passing the order.

Inside the main gate, Vlad was promptly met by a delegation of the city’s leading citizens: merchants, shopkeepers, the heads of the tradesmen’s guilds … and, of course, a priest who spoke for the metropolitan, the Orthodox bishop of the country.

None of the delegation were soldiers or the voevode Vladislav’s men. They were civilians, neutrals. With the boyars gone, the lot fell to them to come to terms with Vlad. They would bow to him, as they had to Vladislav and Dracul—and to the long line of voevodes that each decade seemed to bring to their land. And they—or nearly all of them—would bow gladly if the voevode were reasonable.

But Balt’zar began giving orders. He barked for half the column to secure the city. The other half he loosed to dash through the streets with the shouts of conquerors. And with the shouts spread cries as bolted doors were smashed.

Even before the delegation could fall to its knees for mercy, Vlad gave Balt’zar a low but hard command. Stop this. Now.

The city is ours, Balt’zar said.

The city is mine.

Balt’zar sneered outright. "You forget whom we serve. Whom we all serve."

Vlad knew. There was no arguing. It would do no good. The Turks would take what they wanted. Only then would the city be let to stand, to go on as it had, more or less. Neither Hamza nor the sultan would object to a little looting and sport.

The delegation turned from Vlad to grovel now to the Turkish bey, who obviously held the real power here. Their begging grew as the cries from the city also grew.

Balt’zar told them, Bring gold. Bring it here. One chest. Only one. But a large chest.

The delegation implored. There was no gold. At least, not so much. What Vladislav had left, his boyars had just taken.

Am I a fool? Balt’zar said. Bring what I know you have buried. He told Vlad, Come. Let us see your new ‘palace.’

But Vlad did not follow. He only stared as his allies went on manning the walls … stared as both maidens and mothers were raped in the streets and then slung across saddles to be carried to wherever the conquerors chose to spend the night.

He was straining to keep his lone sword sheathed when he glimpsed a small band of Turks standing aloof from the pillage and rape. Among them was Ibrahim.

Vlad spat, Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get your share. It’s a large city.

Ibrahim came forward. Lord, we could take our ‘share’ now if we choose. We are free to join them.

Then what holds you? Don’t you like helpless girls? Or do you prefer pretty boys?

One of the Turks answered, Lord, you wrong us. This … He gestured to the chaos. This is not Allah’s way.

Vlad was struck dumb.

The Turk continued, This is not why we took the oath as soldiers of Islam.

Then why did you?

Ibrahim spoke, "To spread the Faith, lord. And the True Faith is not spread by hatred. It cannot be."

Aye, the Turk agreed. "The great holy warriors, the ghazis of old, understood this. They raised sword only against sword. Not against the meek."

You talk like priests, Vlad said.

Ibrahim replied, Your own book says, lord: ‘What does it profit a man to gain the world …?’

To gain the world but lose his soul.

Vlad looked back to the city. He told Ibrahim and the others, In truth, you ride with the wrong company.

Fugitive

1

December 1448. Tirgoviste. Vlad leaned back on the throne and let his eyes drift over the court. Throne, he thought. And court. Wallachia’s throne was nothing more than an oversized wooden chair raised on a small, low platform. The court was a rectangle of stone and wood. On holidays and feast days, the Church’s holy days, it might hold one hundred comfortably, or two hundred crowded at tightly packed tables. Even the tapestries on the walls had almost faded into the gray stone.

Vlad ignored the noise from the courtyard: the loot of a city being culled for what could easily be carried. Nor did he listen to the harsh echoes from the inner wall behind him: the ecstatic groans of men and the whimpering of women as the Turks had their last way with their young ally’s city. He paid no mind to the crackle of the hearth at his back or the advance of the chill as the heat of the dying embers retreated.

He lifted his face to the high, narrow windows overlooking the courtyard, to the clear sky and sharp rays of the sun. Their light and warmth were among the few things still left to him in his own capital. But even his slight reverie was shattered by a stomp and scuffle of footsteps forcing their way into the court from the inner rooms: the bey—Balt’zar. He led a young girl by the arm, almost as a father might lead a recalcitrant daughter. But she was naked behind the crumpled bundle of her clothes, which she struggled to hold as he dragged her along. He pushed her toward Vlad. She’s still almost a virgin. He strode out the thick double doors leading to the courtyard.

It was a long moment before Vlad’s eyes left the doors. He turned to the girl, but she recoiled. He averted his stare. Dress, lady. In peace.

Another long moment passed before he heard the rustle of the clothes. He asked her name and she gave it haltingly: Alma. The simple syllables alone were enough to shake her voice into quiet sobs. When she was dressed and he turned to her, her hands clearly trembled as she vainly tried to straighten her long, brown hair.

Vlad spoke almost to himself. I can at least let you go home.

Her words slashed through her weeping. Home? What home now?

Vlad understood. She had been violated. Shamed. Through no fault of her own. But to some families it did not matter.

And yet what else could he do? He went to a window and saw the man he wanted. He called to him, Ibrahim!

When Ibrahim came, Vlad told the girl, He will take you safely. Even as Ibrahim gave a nod, Vlad told him, See that her family takes her in. As Alma hesitated, he gestured to the inner rooms. Would you rather they have you back?

Ibrahim had the girl veil her face with her cloak—the Muslim sign of a modest woman. As they left, Vlad watched from the window. Watched as the Turks saw the African with the girl … as they cat-called him with lewd jibes … as Ibrahim merely pushed his way through them—even across the path of a smirking Balt’zar-bey sitting regally in the saddle.

Ibrahim had just crossed that path when a pack of Turks were at his back. Vlad’s hand was on his sword when he saw … The pack was not closing on the girl. They had new prey: a lone man. He was about Vlad’s own age, with fair, ruddy skin and dusty blond hair. His build had gone a bit thin for his ample chain mail shirt, thick boots, and plain, worn doublet. A gleam in his blue eyes and a cynical twist to his slightly cupid-bowed lips belied the obvious fact that he was a soldier—an alien soldier now trying to argue in accented Turkish with the pack growing around him.

He led a charger still in his prime but also gone somewhat lanky, and a donkey laden with a large, cloth bundle. As the Turks picked at the bundle, he poked a hand to hold them at bay, as he also poked to keep them from the large broadsword and small purse on his belt.

Vlad flung open the window. Leave that man alone!

The Turks looked at him, stopped, and then looked to their bey. Balt’zar nudged his horse, ambled to his men, and looked at Vlad. With a smile he drew his sword and cut the bundle from the donkey’s back. Its contents spilled with a clank and clatter: an assortment of arms and armor, mostly old—to the Turks, junk.

Balt’zar extended a hand for the purse. The man gave it. The bey held it aloft and emptied it in the dirt. He and his men laughed. For all the fuss the stranger had caused, there was nothing worth taking. As the Turks melted back to their looting, the man recovered his few small coins and called to the window. His Wallachian, like his Turkish, was accented. Thank you, sir. I am looking for Prince Vlad.

Vlad motioned him in, and the man guessed as he entered, "You are Prince Vlad." He knelt and was let to rise.

Vlad said only, State your business.

The man was taken for a moment by the grunts of lust from the inner rooms. He said through them, I would join you, lord.

Vlad mused, As what?

A soldier.

Vlad smirked. Are you sure?

I am here, lord. And I’ve come a long way.

Perhaps. But others, too, have come a long way. And they’ll be here soon: the Danestis. Do you know who they are?

Your enemies, lord. They come from the Crows, Kossovo. In a roundabout way. They should be here tomorrow. So I was told.

Told by whom?

Your own people, the man answered. Refugees. His lips twisted in a smile again. "Those from the north head south. Those from the south head north. They all know a war’s coming. But they don’t seem to know much else. At least, they don’t