Death of Kings, page 27
part #4 of Dracula Chronicles Series
Vlad straddled him and began to pummel his face. “You, miserable shit, traitor, liar, backstabber.”
Even though Marcus managed to block some of his brother’s blows, within seconds his face was unrecognizable.
“You sent your men ahead to burn down the ferry,” Vlad hissed, breathless, “hoping I’d think the Turks did it.”
“I promised Hunyadi I wouldn’t let my brother become a traitor to Christendom.” Marcus sprayed blood from smashed lips as he spoke.
Vlad grabbed his brother’s sword from the mud and lifted it with both hands, like a logger aiming to split wood: his heart was ice-cold, his mind beclouded.
“Vlaaad,” came Gruya’s holler. “We can’t turn back this stupid tub.”
Vlad sprang to his feet to see the barge thirty yards away, prow pointing upriver. The men were beating the water urgently with their oars, trying to return to the riverbank. He realized the most they could hope for was to float in place. But for how long?
“Wait for me,” he shouted.
He sprinted over to where Timur was grazing, a few yards away, and mounted him without touching the stirrups. Then he pointed the horse to the river and kicked him hard. Timur leaped forward and plunged into the water.
63
Stay Calm, Stay Alive
May 1444, Danube River, Wallachia
On impact with the water, Vlad was thrown off the horse and sank beneath the waves. Shocked by the cold, he tugged desperately at Timur’s reins. Before he could break above the surface he received a kick in the shin from his horse. The pain made him open his mouth, causing water to enter his lungs.
Stay clear of him, he thought on the verge of panic. Stay calm. Stay alive.
On resurfacing he coughed violently, trying to expel the water he’d inhaled. Between gasps, he heard Gruya’s shouts from downriver, but couldn’t see the barge: the crown of a floating willow tree blocked his view.
The horse kicked him again; this time Vlad felt no pain. He thought about re-mounting the saddle to be clear of Timur’s thrashing. But the horse would tire under the increased weight and might drown. He contemplated holding on to Timur’s tail; that’s how Akincis crossed rivers when they had no boats. But his hands had begun to get numb. I wouldn’t be able to hold on for long.
He looped the leather straps tight around his left wrist and began to swim ineffectually with his right arm; his legs, weighed down by his boots, refused to cooperate.
Timur craned his neck to the left where the riverbank rose only twenty yards away; then he began to swim in that direction.
“No, Timur,” Vlad shouted, as he yanked at the reins. “To the right, to the right.”
The horse obeyed; they began to advance toward the right bank, gaining speed with the current. He no longer heard Gruya’s calls.
After a while—he couldn’t even guess the time elapsed—he judged they’d reached the middle of the river.
Now we must escape the current so we might reach the other side, he thought, knowing he didn’t have the strength to do it. He noticed with a sinking feeling that Timur had ceased to swim; instead, exhausted and chilled, he was simply floating in the turbulent water with the rest of the flotsam.
Vlad had lost the feeling in his left hand, strangled as it was by the reins. His right arm felt heavier and heavier; he began to go under every few strokes.
I need to rest, he thought, his mind impaired by strain and cold. He pulled himself with difficulty closer to Timur and hugged his neck. Under the increased weight the horse sank deeper until only his ears, eyes, and nostrils were visible.
He read reproach in Timur’s glassy stare. I’m killing us both.
He decided to separate from his horse. On his own, Timur might manage to swim ashore; together they were both doomed. He glanced around and saw a large tree floating nearby, white roots sprouting in the air from the downstream end. He’d climb on the trunk and…. He had no idea what his next step would be. How far downriver could he float before he’d succumb to the cold?
No matter… it’s better than drowning Timur.
He tried to let go of the reins, but his hand, tightly closed around the leather straps, was unresponsive. The realization of what this meant triggered a deluge of feelings that clashed, melded, and churned inside him like a whirlpool: frustration, fear, remorse, hatred…. And somewhere, on the periphery of this maelstrom, he became aware of an overwhelming pity for Timur; and for himself.
Vlad’s heart puckered painfully and his arm slipped off Timur’s neck. This is the end, he told himself.
Then he heard a voice screaming in Romanian from somewhere behind, “Give me your hand, Vlad. Your hand. Your hand.”
No, that’s impossible. His mind became so foggy he was only vaguely aware he had sunk deep into the murky water.
There is… no one… to save…me.
64
A Timely Intervention
May 1444, Nicopolis, Ottoman Empire
Tirendaz returned to his tent and sat in a stupor for the next few hours, refusing both food and drink. Finally, he shook off his lethargy to write a farewell letter to his parents. He sealed it and wrote instruction for its delivery. Only then did he remember Ismail and the fifty soldiers he’d asked to clear the cove for Vlad’s landing.
I had the poor men work for nothing.
Looking back at the start of his project to help Murad achieve peace, he was overwhelmed realizing the futility of his efforts; and the cost in human lives. How many men had to die so I could chase an impossible dream?
He decided to recall his men in person. He rode his mare across the Edirne Road, then up the flattop hill where he’d seen Ismail the day before. From the height of the plateau he had a bird’s-eye view of the Danube’s left bank, with its vast expanse of flood water. Wisps of smoke rose from the ferry village and mingled with the low clouds. Rain and mist made it hard for him to distinguish more than the outlines of the burned-out buildings.
He wheedled his horse to a trot with a light touch of his heels, when something in the river caught his eye. It was a dark, oblong object moving not with the flow but diagonally across the current. Though he couldn’t make out what the object was, a voice screamed inside his head: it’s a boat. Just the day before his own boat had fought the current in the same manner to gain the right bank.
He spurred his horse and galloped along the plateau, keeping his eye on the mysterious object. His path entered a depression and for a few minutes he lost sight of the river. When the path rose again he was unable to see the floating object anymore. The plateau came to an end and a steep slope opened ahead of him; in the distance, where the river had carved the cove in the bend, he spotted Ismail’s tent and the smoke of camp fires.
He continued to gallop, reckless, hands clutching at the horse’s mane. “Where is it?” he shouted into the wind. “Where’s the damned thing?”
Then he saw it: a barge racing downriver close to the bank, even with him. There were two horses on it and a few men—how many?—two standing, eight rowing, one steering…. Oh, they’re going too fast; they won’t be able to land in the cove.
The path leveled off and he began to gain on the barge. He turned his eyes to the river bend, lying half a mile ahead, where now he could see his men milling around the fires. “Get the lines ready,” he shouted, though no one could hear him. “The lines, the lines.”
When he reached the cove, he jumped out of the saddle and tumbled onto the gravel, scraping his knuckles. “Throw a line at the barge,” he screamed, while still on the ground. As everyone around him stood dumbfounded, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed a big coil of rope lying nearby, and dashed to the water’s edge. He shook one end of the rope and said to Ismail, who had rushed to his side, “Secure this to something, quick.”
Ismail looped the rope around the trunk of a tree half-buried in the sand.
The barge came into sight fifty yards up the river; the oarsmen were standing now, leaning hard against their oars to break their mad speed. The helmsman too was using his weight to steer the barge to the landing spot with a long oar. Concluding these were experienced boatmen, Tirendaz’s apprehension eased. But just at that moment, a loud report sounded above the roar of the river and the helmsman fell forward as his rudder snapped. The stern spun away from the bank; then the barge floated sideways with the current.
As his blood thumped in his kidneys, Tirendaz’s attention focused on the two passengers. One was holding the horses’ reins; the other stood on the prow. Neither was Vlad.
They are just some strangers. Tirendaz felt his shoulders becoming heavy, his feet sinking into the sand; the rope dropped out his hands.
The man on the prow shouted, “Tirendaz Pasha.”
It was as if someone had grasped Tirendaz’s hand at the moment the water was about to drag him under. Liquid fire coursed through his veins as he pounced upon the rope, thinking, I’ve got one chance. He threw the coil blindly at the barge as it scudded by, ten yards offshore. The man who had shouted caught the rope and wrapped it around a cleat.
Rudderless, the barge floated away for another few seconds; when the line became taut, the stern swung hard landward. In doing this the craft hit an underwater obstacle with such violence the horses and three men toppled overboard.
“More ropes, quick,” Tirendaz shouted.
Soldiers scrambled to attach additional lines to the buried trunk and toss them at the barge; the oarsmen secured them to their benches, just as the first line snapped. The new lines paid out in a flash, but they held; the barge, buffeted by the current, pivoted gradually toward the bank.
The Janissaries broke into teams and began to tug at the lines, gradually bringing the barge into the shallows until its bottom settled on the sand.
“Who are you,” Tirendaz shouted at the two passengers. Then he recognized one of them as Vlad’s Gypsy servant. “Where’s your master?”
Instead of answering, the two men scampered to the stern where they lifted a long, blanket-wrapped bundle from inside a well below the gunwale.
With a mixture of hope and dread Tirendaz waded hip-deep into the water. “Is he alive?”
“He was a few minutes ago,” Gruya said.
Four soldiers carried the bundle to dry land.
“Quick,” Tirendaz said, “take him to the tent.” He looked around for his secretary. “Ismail, bring hot milk, towels, dry clothes…hurry.”
The soldiers laid the bundle down inside Ismail’s tent then unwrapped the blanket. Vlad’s face emerged, pale and blue-lipped.
Lash peeked into the tent. “With your permission, Tirendaz Pasha, I’d like to personally attend to my master.”
Tirendaz stepped aside to let the Gypsy kneel next to Vlad.
“You’re safe now, Master,” Lash said in Romanian, but got no reaction from Vlad.
“Is he breathing?” Tirendaz said a bit too loud.
Lash stripped Vlad of his shirt and trousers, leaving only his drawers on. He chafed Vlad’s skin with a towel; reddish streaks appeared on his arms and legs.
Tirendaz noticed Vlad had a black medallion tied around his neck and a wide leather belt strapped diagonally on his chest. A sheathed stiletto was secured to the belt with leather thongs. The Gypsy left the belt and the medallion in place.
Unable to contain his anxiety any longer, Tirendaz knelt next to Vlad and took his right hand into his. “Allah is Merciful,” he cried when he felt Vlad’s fingers give him a weak squeeze. “You’ve kept your promise,” he added mostly to himself.
Vlad opened his eyes and mumbled something unintelligible.
“You’re out of danger, Master,” Lash said.
Ismail entered the tent bringing a steaming mug.
Next came Gruya who took the mug from Ismail and knelt by Vlad. “You’ve rested enough for one day: drink and get up.”
Vlad let the warm milk trickle into his mouth; then began to shiver.
Gruya removed his own shirt and dressed Vlad with it. Then he lifted him as he would a sleeping child and placed him on a dry blanket someone had spread on the floor. “Prince Vlad needs shalwars and boots; and I need a shirt.”
The items materialized on the spot. Gruya dressed and shod his master, whistling a cheerful tune.
Vlad submitted wordlessly to Gruya’s ministrations. After a few more sips, color began to return to his cheeks. “Timur?” he whispered.
Gruya raised Vlad’s inert left arm with the fist clutching the stub of Timur’s reins. “Sorry.”
Vlad stared at the dangling strips of leather for several moments, then closed his eyes and bit his lip. When Gruya tried to pry his fist open, Vlad resisted.
“Take a horse,” Tirendaz said to Ismail, “and fly back to the camp. Tell the sultan—and him alone—that Vlad has arrived. I’ll take the prince to him as soon as he has revived sufficiently.”
65
Dei Gracia
May 1444, Nicopolis, Ottoman Empire
Tirendaz took Vlad into Murad’s pavilion through a back entrance guarded by Janissaries. When the guards attempted to frisk Vlad, Tirendaz ordered them to desist.
They traversed two empty chambers and finally stopped in a third one, where two pages were loitering. At a word from Tirendaz they brought cushions, two fur coats, and a charcoal brazier. Vlad and Tirendaz sat on both sides of the brazier; the pages placed the coats over their shoulders, then retired.
Vlad heard muffled voices coming from the distance and gave Tirendaz an inquiring look.
“The sultan is holding a war council; he’ll send for us soon.”
Vlad knew he should tell Tirendaz of his suspicions regarding Zaganos: that he was behind the death of Murad’s first two messengers; that he sent Hamza to kill Vlad, too; finally, that he’d colluded with Hunyadi to prevent Murad’s letter from reaching Norbert. There was enough in that story to see Zaganos hanged.
But as much as the prospect of his enemy’s demise would’ve pleased him, Vlad wasn’t up for the lengthy discussion such a disclosure would entail. He’d tell Tirendaz everything in the morning.
“You haven’t asked me yet if I’m bringing good news or bad,” he said in a hoarse, barely audible voice.
Tirendaz chuckled. “Gruya said you plunged into the Danube riding your horse. You’d have to be a deviant to do such a thing, only to bring bad news.”
Vlad tightened his left fist, still holding the remnants of Timur’s reins. Since the moment, back in Ismail’s tent, when he understood he’d caused the death of his childhood horse, a void had lodged in his chest. He wanted to shift the blame onto Marcus. But recollecting that last, reproaching look Timur gave him, Vlad accepted his own culpability.
He’d thought endlessly, with tingling anticipation, about this meeting with Murad, ever since he learned of Norbert’s willingness to ask for peace. Now, when the meeting was only moments away, all Vlad felt was lassitude and indifference.
He untied the stiletto from the leather belt under his shirt and offered it to Tirendaz. “King Norbert’s message; you don’t need me anymore.”
Tirendaz declined to take the knife. “It’s normal to feel deflated after such a long, perilous journey. You’re chilled, tired, hungry—and I know what happened to your favorite horse.”
Vlad let his arm drop. Yes, he had to take one more step before he could slink away somewhere to lick his wounds. And then? One thing was sure: he would never set foot in Wallachia again. But where could he go? What could he do with himself?
“His Majesty requires your presence, Tirendaz Pasha,” a çavuş announced from the opening to the chamber.
Vlad and Tirendaz followed the çavuş through a corridor lit by lanterns and lined with Janissaries standing to attention. The voices Vlad had heard before now became distinguishable through the canvas wall on his right. Someone was reporting on the condition of military river transports. Vlad gathered they were being readied for an amphibious operation, somewhere up the Danube.
“It will take us only twenty-four hours to ferry the entire Akinci Corps to the other side,” a confident voice said.
The çavuş flipped aside a curtain and Vlad found himself in a small chamber filled with men sitting on the carpet; facing them, was Murad, reclining on a dais, with his three viziers at his right.
“Ah, Tirendaz, I hope you have a good excuse for being late to my council.”
Tirendaz pushed Vlad forward. “I was engaged in apprehending an escaped hostage, my sultan: Prince Vlad of Wallachia. He’d just crossed the Danube and landed downriver, a little distance from here.”
As Vlad picked his way between the seated councilors, he heard whispers and felt curious looks following him. But his own eyes fastened on Zaganos, seated three cushions away from Murad. Mehmed’s lala stared at Vlad with a mixture of hatred and disbelief, worthy of someone visited by the Grim Reaper.
“Why bring a stray dog to His Majesty’s war council, Tirendaz?” Zaganos barked. “You should’ve hanged him like the spy he certainly is.” His agitation gave his voice a frenzied quality.
You were certain I wouldn’t make it, Vlad thought, savoring his enemy’s stupefaction.
“I’m of the same opinion,” Zaganos’s neighbor said. He was middle-aged man with an impeccably trimmed beard and a grave demeanor. “Who, but a spy, would risk his life to cross the river under the current conditions?”
“You’re making a good point, Fazullah,” Murad said. “Why would a fugitive return to his place of captivity, unless he is a spy?”
So this is Fazullah, the infamous Second Vizier; the man who said Lady Mara should be put to death for the deeds of her father.
Fazullah and Zaganos appeared taken aback by Murad’s stance.
Vlad caught on to the theater the sultan intended to play and assumed his implied role. “I hope the message I bring you from King Norbert will earn me forgiveness for escaping, Your Majesty.” He let Norbert’s stiletto slip out of his sleeve and presented it to Murad with a bow.
