The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood Page 16

  One of his men drove a sword into the horse. The beast cried out, and its legs buckled before it collapsed to the ground. Varkal caught his breath and strained the muscles in his neck. The noose tightened around them as his legs dangled free.

  Ilona flew into the air and caught him in her arms. Florescu watched in disbelief as she snapped the rope and carried him away to safety.

  The presence of the vampires terrified the horses. Those that had riders threw them to the ground. Others trampled the soldiers in their need to get away.

  Florescu did not see Dracula as the vampire pounced on him. The boyar cried out when he felt something sharp cut into his neck.

  Dracula only drank a little from him. He withdrew his fangs and held his enemy up in the air by his hair. “Anyone who attempts to flee, shall die!” he shouted so they could all hear.

  The soldiers stopped on his command. They stood there and watched when he drove his fingers through their boyar’s chest. Florescu gasped as the assault punctured his lung. He hung there, helpless, as Dracula continued on and ripped out his heart. Frozen with fear, the soldiers looked on. Dracula let the lifeless body drop to the ground. He stuffed the heart into his mouth, and once his saliva had broken it down, he swallowed it whole.

  No one dared to move. Dracula strolled amongst them, smelling their fear. Their blood called out to him to take it. He savoured the moment as he continued to walk, letting his thirst grow. Ilona felt it too and longed to attack. She was not yet as accomplished as he in controlling her urges.

  She exchanged glances with her husband. When he gave her the signal to go ahead, she jumped on the man nearest to her. In her eagerness to get at his jugular, she almost ripped his head off.

  In the same moment, Dracula gripped one of the men in a bear hug and snapped his spine. Taking the sword that belonged to the dead man, he beheaded a second. The blood of the headless man sprayed Varkal’s naked body and many of the others who stood around. It turned his stomach. He watched in fear as Ilona attacked her second victim and held firmly on to a third.

  Some of the men fought back in desperation, but Dracula cut them down with ease. He revelled in his dazzling speed and skill.

  Three others attempted to flee to the trees, but did not even make it half way. Ilona released the man she was drinking from and knocked them all down. One of them let out a muffled cry as she pinned him to the ground, her strength far superior to his. He whimpered like a scared puppy while she held him there. She looked into his eyes, scanning the inner recesses of his mind. His eyes focused on her mouth, where blood dripped from her lower lip and down onto her chin.

  “That is not very becoming of you, soldier,” she said. “I see not only are you a killer of men, but you are a violator of women. So why do you fear me? Do you not want to do the same to me as you did that poor girl in Sibiu?”

  The man felt alarm at her words. How can she know of that? But what limits are there to what a demon can do?

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Take a good look. This is how a demon would appear to your like.”

  She stretched her jaws wide and bared her fangs.

  “No!” he cried. “Move away from me!”

  Her face returned to normal. “I want to see the weapon you used in your greatest conquest,” she said, her tone tinged with bitterness. She ripped off his breeches to expose him.

  He trembled with fear, and his penis shrivelled to almost nothing. His embarrassment grew worse when she glanced down at it and frowned. “Is that what you impaled her with, soldier? It does not appear such a dangerous weapon to me. Here, let me assist you.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt utterly humiliated as she rubbed him with her hand. When he tried to look away, she squeezed on his testes. “Look at me!” she warned. “Lest I shall crush them to powder.”

  Terrified, he met her gaze once more.

  “You have every right to feel shame,” she said. “You are no better than my husband’s bastard son. Yet you would see him dead.”

  He glanced briefly at Varkal. Then his eyes reverted back to her when he slowly began to grow in her hand.

  “Am I exciting you, soldier?” she asked, her voice taunting him. “Do you like me playing with your lance?”

  She ran her tongue along his length. He trembled all over, fearing she would bite him at any moment. “Do not worry,” she said. “I hate to disappoint.”

  The soldier screamed when she bit into his sac. He clawed at her hair in vain before she tore out both testicles with her teeth.

  “Mmm, delicious,” she said, dribbling a mixture of fluids as she chewed.

  He wavered on the brink of consciousness. Before he passed out, she stooped down again. Holding both his wrists in her hands, she drank him dry from the wound between his legs. When she returned to her husband’s side, all but one of the soldiers was dead. He lay face-down at the feet of the startled Varkal.

  “This one is for you, Varkal,” Dracula said. He felt a little annoyed at the revulsion he detected in his son. “It is time for you to join me at last.”

  TRANSYLVANIA. THE RESIDENCE OF

  VINTILA FLORESCU AT BRASOV.

  NOVEMBER, 1494.

  The events of the previous month cast a dark shadow over the house of Florescu. Victor and his son had both died in the forests near to the city. Men from the garrison found his body with the heart ripped out and his head missing. Strewn all around were the bodies of over a dozen of his men.

  Each body showed signs of a bitter end. Some looked emaciated and devoid of blood. Others had died by the sword, while a few had also had their heads lopped off. Of those, they had only failed to recover the head of his son.

  Rumours were rife as to what could have happened. In all, they found twenty dead bodies around a shack in the forest. This number included those of a woman and child. The woman died in a way they had seen all too often. She was the latest of a dozen they had found in the last two years. The scene showed signs of a rape before her killer had strangled her.

  Florescu received a report in full detail. Victor was his only living son. Anton, whom they also found dead, was his only grandchild. His other son, Yallin, had died many years before. The son of Vlad Dracul had captured him in Bucharest, where he had him beaten and then impaled in the city square. His only daughter, Maria Despina, had married Radu, the youngest of the Draculas, and they had not had any children.

  It left him all alone in the world. Victor left no other children and so there was no natural heir to his estates. He had a nephew to a sister, but hated him with a passion. Now, well past his eightieth birthday, he had nothing left.

  He missed the glory days of nearly fifty years ago. In 1447, he had helped to remove the great Vlad Dracul from power. He thought back to that time often. They were heady days. With Victor and Anton gone, it had all amounted to nothing. There was no one left to carry on his legacy.

  Most of his men had deserted him, and the servants too. The slaughter in the forest scared many of them off. How long might it be before the rest of them suffered the same fate? That was the reason for leaving that most of them gave. And then, a messenger delivered Victor’s head. Very few had stayed after that, even the most loyal of the men.

  The stories started up again about the undead Dracula. Many thought he had returned from the grave to exact his revenge on his old enemy. People began to believe if they stayed, they too would become targets of that vengeance.

  Florescu walked to a window. Outside, he could hear his sentries talking.

  “You are out of your mind to want to remain here, Alin.”

  “Florescu is my master,” he replied. “Where would I go? Besides, Aurel, I do not believe so easily in fiction, as you do.”

  “You do not believe in the stories of Dracula?”

  “Of course not. They are a nonsense.”

  “But many saw what happened at Snagov. Even one or two you call friend.”

  “Who knows what happened there?”

  �
�It is as the story suggests.”

  “What, that he emerged from the chapel a demon? I think not.”

  “You are a sceptic, Alin. You have always been the same way. For as long as I can remember.”

  “No, I am practical. I believe in what my own eye tells me.”

  “It is a wonder you even believe in our Lord, Jesus Christ. I cannot imagine you witnessed the Crucifixion.”

  Alin did not appreciate the remark. “Shall I tell you what happened at Snagov?”

  “Go on. I can see you are so compelled.”

  “His own men killed him.”

  “What? He had men most loyal to his cause.”

  “The man was a brute. He killed untold numbers of his own people. You cannot hope to do that on such a scale and not suffer retribution.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Yes, he was wounded in battle.”

  “That is common knowledge. It is a wonder you believe that, though, when you believe no more of what was said of it all.”

  “His men laid him down in the chapel. Seeing his weakened state, one of them seized upon the chance to kill him.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “Do not be so naïve, Aurel. Even his first wife’s brother kept him a prisoner for thirteen years. When you live by the sword, you die by it.”

  “Even if what you say is the truth, how did the stories come to pass?”

  “His men invented them to conceal their crime. Why else would they come back with such a story?”

  Aurel shrugged. He had long believed the established version of events.

  “People love a tale of terror to share around the fire on a cold winter’s night.”

  Florescu chuckled to himself. He poured himself a cup of plum wine and returned to the window.

  “Yes, but none that involve one so famous.”

  “Why not? A story of a famous man is far more interesting than a story of one whose name no one knows. There were enough stories spoken of him when he was alive. So why not when he is dead? When there is no fear of reproach.”

  “I still do not accept that.”

  “Perhaps there were some who could not accept his death. They needed the story for something to hold onto.”

  “Who knows, Alin? It is legend for the now. We might never know the real truth.”

  “That is the first sensible word you have spoken this night.”

  Aurel shrugged again. He would never sway his friend. “Perhaps what you say is the truth. I am still open to all possibilities.”

  “That is your choice.”

  “I cannot understand how you are so quick to dismiss it.”

  “I am not privy to such foolish talk.”

  “Then how do you explain the night in the forest a month ago?”

  “It is certainly not the work of Dracula. Is that what you think? That he did it?”

  “The Draculesti family despises the name Florescu.”

  “The Draculestis are all gone, save one. And Mihnea Dracula has not walked in Brasov for a long time past.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “That is not to say he was not involved.”

  “You think he could have been at the back of it all?”

  “Who is to say he was not? It is possible.”

  “I do not think so. But he does have a son, Mircea. He is prone to start trouble wherever he can, even though he is young.”

  “You have to view things as I do. Someone did kill those men. There is no dispute in that.”

  “I know it. I saw what was left.”

  “What you have to think on is who could have killed so many men. Who had the power to do it? And most important of all is who had the most to gain from it?”

  “What is your opinion on that?”

  “The one who stands to gain from it most is Craiovescu.”

  Florescu perked up at the theory that met his ears. The notion had crossed his mind too. He had as much faith in the ghost stories as Alin did. Only one with a strong military presence could have pulled off such a coup.

  “Why do you throw that name into the pot?” Aurel asked him.

  “His father was a close ally to our boyar. He did marry a Florescu too. That means Vintila is his uncle. With Victor and Anton gone he becomes a legitimate heir to the Florescu estates.”

  “You are as wily as a fox,” Aurel said, seeing the sense in his logic. “But he controls Sibiu. What would he care for Brasov?”

  “When does a man like him ever have enough? To add Brasov to Sibiu, what is to stop him controlling the entire country? If it is anyone, then I would say it is he.”

  “You should not say that so loud. It might cost you your head.”

  “Nonsense. I am most loyal to the Florescu name. I have nothing to fear here.”

  “I was thinking of Craiovescu.”

  “If he makes a move here then I shall leave. I would not serve another master.”

  “We shall have to see. If you are right, he may not take too long in calling.”

  “Let us hope that is not any time soon.”

  The men paused to reflect on their conversation. Florescu had heard enough. He stepped away from the window and sat down in his chair. It was the most plausible explanation for what had happened that he had heard. But to murder his son and then send him his head? That was personal and indicated a real grudge. Could my nephew dislike me that much? It gave him plenty to ponder.

  He gazed at Victor’s head, where it had spent the last four days on the table in front of him. His tears had long dried up now. They would do Victor no good. He was a broken man. If Death were to call, he would be welcomed. Florescu sighed hard, and then, drinking the last of the wine in his cup, he drifted off to sleep.

  His dreams took him back to another time. He was much younger then. Dead bodies littered the streets from the fighting. Smoke hung over the city from the buildings that burned in the aftermath.

  A woman stood naked at the gallows with a rope hung around her neck. He grinned at her, though she did not seem afraid. Even then, as her moment of death was upon her, she showed only strength. She stared at him, her eyes full of hate. He hated her as much, but secretly admired her resolve.

  Her face remained engrained there in his mind. He had pushed her down on her bed, naked. The bed she had only ever shared with her husband. He forced her to watch in the mirror as he took her from behind. Holding her by the hair, their eyes met in the glass. The first silent exchange of hatred passed between them.

  He then sat in a chair. One after another, his men took turns with her while he watched. He loved every one of her cries, though she fought hard to stifle them. Pound the Draculesti whore, his men encouraged each other. One at a time, they did.

  Her face remained there. Purple and swollen, it turned as the rope tightened around her neck. Her legs dangled free, kicking aimlessly against the cold night breeze. A tongue, black and swollen, protruded from her mouth. Her eyes bulged as the noose slowly choked the life out of her. Yet, still they burned into his.

  He turned his focus on a man much younger than he. A son crushed by the image of his mother dangling from a rope. One who had already brought himself much honour on the battlefield. Battered and bruised, he looked up defiantly. On his knees, he cursed them, each and every one.

  Florescu looked down at the hot coals nearby. He picked out an iron, its metal red and glowing. A thousand sparks flew against the darkness when he blew on its tip. The young man eyed it with fear. He struggled against those who held him down, though it did him no good.

  He pressed the hot iron against soft flesh. A loud hiss followed by the most horrible of screams. Then silence as the molten iron ate through all in its wake. Flesh and bone melted into one. He saw a blinded, convulsing body thrown down into an open grave. It was an image he could not escape.

  Florescu awoke with a start. Voices close by had saved him from his nightly torture. Alin and Aurel, he thought. He rubbed a hand over his dry mouth. Groa
ning at the ache in his joints, he got up to pour another measure of wine into his cup. If he drank enough, he might sleep better. His mind might go to another place. Sweat trickled from his forehead and along his nose. He listened again to the two men. It was a welcome departure from where he had just been. He realised from the conversation that he had probably only dozed off for moments.

  “Your theory does not explain how some of them were drained of their blood.”

  “Perhaps they bled to death,” Alin argued.

  “There was none on the ground. Someone or something drank it all from them.”

  “The forest is full of wild animals.”

  “An animal cannot drink a body of all its blood.”

  “A bat might.”

  Aurel laughed. “That would make you the one talking nonsense.”

  “Well, you saw the puncture marks in the neck. That sounds like a bat to me.”

  “A bat may drink a little. Thirty bats could not have drunk a man dry. And there was one bite to each drained corpse. It was no bat, or any number of them. It could only have been the work of the vampyr.”

  “I have no other idea as to what could have done that. To suggest the vampyr is nothing but foolish superstition. There is no such thing, but for in fireside tales.”

  “Of course you have no idea, but there is no other way to explain it. The cause is far beyond our understanding. I say Dracula did it from the grave.”

  Before his friend could answer, they heard a large group of riders nearby. The two men stopped to look.

  “Who is that?” Aurel wondered.

  They waited until the group came closer. Alin’s fears were soon realised. “I was afraid of this. It is Craiovescu.”

  The powerful boyar from Sibiu rode at the front of a group of fifty men. “Is your boyar in residence?” he asked the two sentries.

  Florescu watched from the window. He knew this moment had to come. The only thing he wondered about was how long before his rivals killed him.

  Craiovescu walked straight in and found him waiting. “Hello, Uncle,” he said, no warmth in his voice.

  “Hello, Pirvu. It does not take the vultures long to circle.”