The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2 Read online

  The battle at the Torre del Gallo raged on. The German Landsknecht of Frundsberg and the Swiss under Florange gave each other no quarter. It was a private war between two divisions of the same fighting men. Both sides took the fight to the extreme. A battle to the death. Sword on sword. Sword on bone.

  In time the Swiss began to yield in the face of superior numbers. The Germans were just too strong and their resolve would not break. They would die where they stood before they gave an inch.

  “Sound the bugle!” Pescara shouted.

  The officer nearby who carried the bugle put it to his mouth. He blew hard into it. The sound carried across the Park.

  “Keep it going,” Pescara said. “I want all my men to know where to come.”

  Del Vasto turned to de Bourbon. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes. Pescara is calling us to join him.”

  He pulled away from del Vasto for a moment. A Swiss soldier had broken through and come in behind de Lannoy. De Bourbon spurred his mount into a sprint. He leaned to the right, only half in the saddle. The Swiss did not see his approach. In the din of the battle he did not hear him either.

  The Swiss raised his sword. De Lannoy heard a sound from behind and turned. A look of horror crossed his face. He knew his moment had come. A despairing gasp escaped his lips. He raised his sword, but knew he could not fend off the blow that was coming his way.

  He closed his eyes. In a moment it would all be over. Suddenly he hit the ground hard. The thick mud covered his face. It found its way into his nose and mouth. His eyes stung as the cold mire blinded him.

  De Bourbon arrived in the nick of time. He brought his sword down against the back of the soldier’s neck. The blade ripped through tendons and flesh. An explosion of crimson rose into the air all around him. He dropped to his knees. His sword fell to the ground before him right beside his head.

  The Frenchman could not slow his momentum. His horse crashed against de Lannoy’s. Both animals cried out. They lost their footing in the mud and threw their riders. De Lannoy went straight down. De Bourbon sailed through the air, just above his head.

  His body flipped over in mid air and he landed with a thud on his back. With the men on both sides fighting all around him, he slid for a good twenty yards amongst them. Some he knocked over on his way. It all added to the agony of his fall.

  Del Vasto followed him the moment he set off. He too saw the danger facing de Lannoy. When de Bourbon hit the ground he shot into the fray. He lashed out at anyone not wearing a white vest.

  Despite his heavy fall de Bourbon got to his feet quickly. His life depended on it. He raised his sword just in time to fend off a blow from a Swiss officer. Clutching the hilt with both hands he knocked the offending weapon to one side. Before his enemy could respond he plunged his own deep into the soldier’s belly. He withdrew it sharply and allowed the man to drop to his knees.

  Soon del Vasto reached him. The cover he provided allowed de Bourbon to move away to safety. He ran to de Lannoy’s side. The Italian still struggled to see. While he wiped the mud from his eyes he made an easy target for the enemy. De Bourbon grabbed his arm and whisked him away. Del Vasto followed.

  “Get off me!” de Lannoy shrieked. He did not see who had a hold of his arm.

  “Relax, my friend,” de Bourbon said. “It is I.”

  De Lannoy gazed at him through bloodshot eyes. “That is a relief. I thought I was dead.”

  “Not yet, my friend. Get back up on your horse.”

  “I cannot even see it.”

  “Take a moment to clear your head. Your horse is right here.”

  “You saved my life?”

  “That is what friends do in battle.”

  De Lannoy took his arm. “Thank you.”

  “When your eyes clear then you can watch my back.”

  “I will.”

  “We must go,” del Vasto reminded them. “Pescara has sounded the call. He needs us at his side.”

  The bugle sounded again over the fog.

  “What about Florange?” de Lannoy asked. “We have him beaten.”

  “It is not important. The main battle is all that counts. De Leyva should have no trouble in getting through.”

  De Bourbon nodded that he agreed. “We must inform Frundsberg.”

  “He knows what the bugle means. He will lead his men after ours.”

  “There are others,” de Lannoy said.

  “Where?”

  “My men are scattered all around the woods east of here.”

  “Then I will go and find them,” de Bourbon said. “Get the men together. We must answer the call.”

  De Bourbon rode north and away from the battle. A strong bodyguard rode at his side. They scoured the forest edge along the eastern wall. His men shouted the call to all who fought under their banner. They rounded up a fair number. When he could find no more de Bourbon joined del Vasto and de Lannoy at the point of call.

  Francois removed his helmet. He took a moment to look around. There was still not a lot that he could see. He took a deep gulp of air and then laughed.

  The Marechal de Foix wondered what amused him. “You are laughing, Sire?”

  Francois looked to his Marshal. “Yes my dear, de Lescun. This means I really am the Duke of Milan.”

  De Lescun smiled at him. “Indeed you are, Sire.”

  The young king was not aware of his error. Neither did he know the true state of affairs around him. The charge of his cavalry had left him isolated. He did not now have the support of his infantry.

  His cavalry should not have stopped. Had he kept the pursuit going he might have driven his enemy right out of the Park. His knights were at their best on the charge. Now his infantry did not know his location and they felt lost. His cavalry were immobile. It left them at the mercy of their enemy, which had regrouped and prepared to attack.

  Pescara looked to Dracula. “Is it time?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Sound the charge.”

  “Sound the charge!” Pescara shouted to his generals.

  Dracula smiled as the shouts echoed about him. He caught the eye of both his sons. They could not hide their excitement. No one wanted to get into the thick of battle more than they. It was a first chance to show him their worth on the field.

  Their father waited until the troops had lined up. Pescara’s heavy cavalry joined a long line either side of him. He looked along the ranks. When he was satisfied they were ready he raised his sword into the air.

  “Forward!” he shouted. “And charge!”

  He and his sons took the lead. They rode at a furious gallop into the fog. De Bourbon assumed command of the infantry. He took up a position on the left flank. They comprised Italians, Spanish and the second body of German Landsknecht. On his signal they cried out and wielded their swords above their heads. Then with a great roar they ran into the fog behind the cavalry.

  Del Vasto seemed confused at the events around him. The fog obscured his line of sight. He heard the charge of the army, but could not see it. It meant he avoided the front line of the attack. He organised his men and the Spanish arquebusiers with him. Then, issuing a charge of his own, he led them along the right flank.

  Frundsberg’s force decimated what was left of Florange’s Swiss. After hearing the call of the bugle they allowed the rest to flee south. The Swiss ran for their lives. Their hope was to join up with Montmorency.

  The Germans ran through the fog. The din of the Imperial charge guided them to the right area. They joined de Bourbon on the left flank. This freed the other Landsknecht to reinforce del Vasto’s numbers on the right.

  They joined del Vasto just in time. The young Italian arrested the march of Francois’ infantry. The French were leaving the Casa Repentita to support their king. With the added impetus of the Germans joining his ranks, del Vasto led a full assault from the side.

  Another battle raged further south near to the monastery. The forces of de Leyva and Montmorency locked horns in a bitter strugg
le. It was as ferocious a contest as any other fought in the Park so far.

  Slowly but surely de Leyva gained the upper hand. His men began to drive the French and Swiss back towards the banks of the Ticino. Both sides could hear the swollen waters in the distance. The Swiss realised the battle was lost. Unless they escaped the field they would die. It prompted them to begin to look for a way out.

  In that moment Anya and Ruxandra emerged from the fog. The French and Swiss soldiers clearly heard the two women call to them over the din.

  “Come!” they both shouted. “This way! We can show you a way out!”

  Many of the men turned and ran in their direction. They needed only the slightest prompt. It soon became clear that large numbers were deserting. When the others realised this they turned and ran also. Soon the whole body of Swiss troops that still lived was fleeing the battle.

  De Leyva’s men gave chase. They wanted to deny them any chance to regroup and return to the fight. The actions of their enemy baffled them. They knew all that lay ahead was the raging waters of the Ticino.

  The first of the Swiss soldiers jumped into the freezing water. De Leyva’s men heard their cries. Many struggled to breathe at the sudden shock from the cold. Others struggled to keep their heads above the water. Their armour and heavy padding weighed them down.

  The two women had done their job. They descended on the men furthest out into the river. Those with no hope of escaping the angry waters they seized and fed on.

  Several of the soldiers bore witness to this. They made a mad dash back for the riverbank. However they only succeeded in getting in each other’s way. It added to the confusion. Others arrived at the water’s edge in their attempt to flee de Leyva’s army. They collided with their comrades. This saw them all crash headlong into the dark waters.

  The river had swelled from the recent rains. The current was strong and swept all in its wake. It dragged many of the men under. The freezing water filled their lungs. With their bodies thrown into a serious state of shock they had no way of fighting against it.

  De Leyva’s men arrived there. They slew those who managed to escape the river. Most had lost their swords and had no defence against the slaughter.

  It was a painful spectacle to watch. Even the battle-hardened men of the Imperial army found it hard to stomach. Many of them felt a sword through the chest was a merciful end in comparison for their enemies.

  Soon the screaming died away. The river was a mass of floating and half-submerged bodies. The current devoured them and swept them downstream.

  Dracula and his sons rode without fear through the fog. They tore into the centre of Francois’ vast army of heavy cavalry. The French had remained immobile since their initial charge. Their heavy armour bogged them down. The vampires owed their first successes as much to that as they did their supernatural ability.

  These cavalry came from the French nobility. The vampires did not realise the courage or the ability of these men. Pescara knew many of them. Some he knew by association and others by reputation. They were the finest knights in all of Europe.

  They fought back with real vigour. The Imperial army swamped them on all sides. Many of them realised this could be their last stand. Not a single man in their ranks was prepared to die without a fight.

  Pescara was in the thick of the action. A great soldier himself, he led by example. Dracula kept an eye on him as they fought. He saw the general engage in a bitter duel with Francois of Lorraine.

  Another French knight came up on his rear. He readied himself to drive his sword into Pescara’s lower back. Dracula spotted this. He broke away from his own fight and hurled the Fier Negru at the knight.

  The sword whistled through the air with vicious speed and precision. It passed by the faces of many of the knights as a blur. In the blink of an eye it found its mark. Dracula watched it pierce the helmet of the knight. He spurred his mount forward in pursuit of it.

  The Toledo blade drilled its way through the knight’s right ear. His own sword fell from his grasp. The blade sliced through his brain and exited through his other ear. Blood oozed from every small opening in the helmet, his body lolling to one side. Dracula reached out and grabbed the hilt, which still protruded from the knight’s head. He yanked it clear. The sudden jerk pulled the knight from his horse and left him to join the growing number of his dead comrades on the ground.

  The French fought valiantly and they enjoyed some success. Despite this their enemies dragged them one by one from their horses. On the ground they were helpless. The Imperial troops swarmed all over them and hacked them to death.

  Francois of Lorraine slumped forward in the saddle. A ball fired by an arquebusier pierced the armour around his midriff. A second struck his left arm. Jets of blood exploded from each wound. Pescara took his eyes from him for a moment. He saw the actions of Dracula that saved his life.

  Lorraine managed to turn his mount and pull away. Pescara did not pursue him, as the knight made a course through the melee. He stopped near the trees of the second wood. His wounds bled heavily and the pain in his gut was paralysing.

  He looked to his left in horror. A half a dozen arquebusiers lined up. He could do nothing, as he watched them take aim. Knowing he had no escape he whispered a silent prayer to seek forgiveness for his sins. Six loud clapping sounds echoed in his ears. A thick plume of smoke surrounded the six Spaniards. The volley they fired lifted Lorraine clean off his horse. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Suffolk followed him. He tried to cut through the strong position the arquebusiers held there. An Italian halberdier ran at him from the side. He rammed a pike into Suffolk’s stomach. The knight’s own forward momentum allowed the pike to virtually gut him. He slumped forward in the saddle, blood flowing down over his thighs. It also oozed from his mouth. He fell from his horse. The fighting raged on all around him. Dozens of pairs of feet trampled him into the mud.

  Almost the entire right wing of Francois’ cavalry had fallen. The rest found themselves bogged down in the centre. The deep mud and masses of dead bodies trapped them there. They began to break up into smaller pockets. The moment they did the enemy infantry and arquebusiers slaughtered them. Their armour offered no protection against the gunfire.

  La Tremoille wearily fought on. A hulking figure, he was Francois’ oldest and most respected knight. From the onset he had been in the thick of the fighting. He fended off one blow after another. Time and time again he brought his sword down against an intended target. His armour exuded the dark red hue of the blood of his opponents.

  Late into the battle he found himself surrounded by more and more of his enemies. His comrades continued to fall by the dozen. Despite his great strength his limbs quickly tired. He was one of the last defenders on Francois’ right flank. Much depended on him. He knew he was one of the few left to protect his king. With that in mind he swung his sword about with every ounce of strength he had.

  Soon he found himself surrounded on all sides. He tried to steer his mount forward, but it could not move and it cried out with fear. Two halberdiers engaged him from the front. Several soldiers stole in behind him. He brought his sword down against one man just as they dragged him from his mount.

  They stood back and allowed him to fall. He hit the ground hard. Every bone in his body ached. He groaned quietly, but had no time to dwell on it. His enemies descended on him like vultures. He could not get up to fight them, his heavy armour weighing him down.

  Still he showed amazing courage. Although on his back he swung his mighty sword again. It took the leg off a nearby fusilier just below the knee. Before he could bring the sword back an arquebusier lifted his thigh armour. La Tremoille looked into his eyes as he placed his arquebus inside it. A moment passed and then he fired.

  La Tremoille trembled from the shock. A thousand splinters from the projectile ripped into his stomach and pelvic region. His whole body shook. Blood spilled out over his lower lip and he lost control of his bowel. Darkness engulfed his
vision. A ghastly groan escaped his lips, as he slowly exhaled and his whole body turned cold. Varkal’s horse pressed one of its hooves down against his chest. It knocked the last agonising breath out of the great warrior.

  In that moment Varkal came under attack from La Tremoille’s close friend, La Palisse. He fended the knight off with ease. Striking out with his own sword he caught the Frenchman full in the chest. His armour saved him from the blow, but it knocked him from his horse. He crashed down into a sea of bodies.

  La Palisse found himself pinned there. He could not break free or move in any direction. Death, he knew, was only moments away. As they had with his dear friend, the Imperials swarmed all over him. He swung wildly with his sword with every ounce of strength he had left. A half a dozen cold blades ripped through his armour. His enemy thrust them into his neck and chest. He wheezed out loud, as his blood filled his lungs. It caused him to gag and choke. They dragged him from the mass of bodies. As he fought for breath they continued to stab him. Soon they left him there, his armour thick with blood.

  Frundsberg and Marc Sith led their infantry into the thick of the fighting. They fell under the command of de Bourbon and del Vasto. In their way stood the Landsknecht loyal to Francois. This part of the battle became German on German. Unlike the Swiss, the Germans fighting for Francois would not take a step back. They felt they had a point to prove to their countrymen fighting on the other side.

  Frundsberg’s men were already warm from the fight with Florange. They laid into their opposites without mercy. They received the same back and it turned into the bloodiest encounter of the morning.

  The Imperial force proved the stronger of the two. However, those on the French side refused to yield. The scene became one of real carnage. The air was thick with the smell of blood and opened abdomens.

  The Germans on the French side found themselves driven back despite their best efforts. But not one of them fled the field. They fought down to the very last man, their great pride spurring them on.