The Dracula Chronicles: The Path To Decay Read online

  He pointed to Yallin Florescu so no one could have any doubts. His gaze then fell on Kazic. “Carry out the execution.”

  Two of the soldiers stripped Yallin of all his clothing and forced him onto his knees. Another two walked through the crowd carrying a stake. It measured fifteen feet in length. Yallin shouted out of fear when he saw it. He struggled and fought against the men holding him down.

  “You evil tyrant!” he screamed at his enemy. “I do not deserve to die like this!”

  Kazic walked up to Yallin and kicked him in the face. The blow silenced him. He remained on his knees with blood pouring from a badly split lip and nose.

  Dracula stooped beside him and spoke so only he could hear. “I am told you used my mother before they strung her up. For your sake, I hope it was worth it.”

  Yallin looked at him with hatred in his eyes. “Yes,” he said in as defiant a voice as he could summon, blood staining his teeth. “I fucked her like the Draculesti whore she was.”

  Dracula gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He wanted so desperately to kill Yallin there and then. Yallin wanted that too, but it was not to be. Dracula turned to his men. “Be sure to make it slow and painful.”

  Yallin eyed the stake with real fear. He knew they had fashioned it from a beech and it would not break. They had stripped it of its bark to give it a smoother edge. It glistened white with a point at the end over a foot long. In the past he had seen a man die this way. It was not something he had cared to see a second time.

  One of the soldiers pressed his foot down between Yallin’s shoulders. It forced the top half of his body down against the ground. As his face pressed against the stone he continued to curse his executioners.

  A stony silence passed over the crowd. The quiet whispers of many now ceased. Few wanted to bear witness to any more of this. Yallin saw their faces and looked long into their eyes. Not many of them liked him, but they would never have wished for such a fate to befall him.

  He shivered both out of fear and from the cold. A slow drizzle fell over the city and coated his naked skin. Death had come calling for him. But his passing would be slow. It was then he caught sight of the hooded figure stood amongst the crowd.

  Death stood there with his face obscured. Yallin knew it sealed his fate. There was no escape from him. Once you had seen Death, your time on this earth was at an end. He would wait there long after the crowd had dispersed, until Yallin took his last agonising breath.

  The two men holding the stake dropped to their knees behind him. Dracula wanted it to be slow. That meant they would have to direct it with care to avoid the main internal organs.

  They gritted their teeth and rammed it into his anal opening. Yallin cried out at the top of his lungs. He breathed hard, in and out, trying to fight the pain. The men lowered the stake a little towards the ground so that its path would move up along his back. They waited and pushed it a second time, forcing it in another six inches.

  The stake bypassed his prostrate gland and bladder, but ripped through his intestines. He screamed again, louder and longer than before. His eyes bulged as his face turned a dark red. He wanted to show his resolve and curse Dracula, but speech was beyond him now. Every ounce of strength he possessed he needed to cope with the agony of having his insides ripped apart.

  One of the women in the crowd had seen enough. “This is barbaric,” she said, as she turned away to leave.

  A guard stepped across her path. “To where are you going?”

  “Move out of my way,” she said. “I do not care to see this.”

  He gave her a cold stare. “Remain where you are, lest you wish to join him.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” she asked, in disbelief.

  “Do as you are told,” he warned. “It is the order of the Voivode.”

  She was defiant. “To hell with him,” she cursed. “He is no better than any of the barbarians that have come before him.”

  Her husband grabbed her firmly by the arm and pulled her back into the crowd. “Keep your mouth closed, you foolish wench! You shall have us all killed.”

  The men stopped applying pressure once the stake scraped against Yallin’s ribs. Six of them grabbed it at various points and hoisted him up into the air. It was the worst possible agony for him. He screamed so loud that every vein in his neck and head bulged. It was the most horrible cry that sent shivers through all who watched.

  The soldiers carried him to a hole in the piata where others had prised up the cobblestones. There they planted the stake into it. Another filled it in while they held him upright. They secured supports around the base to ensure it would not topple over. The downward pressure from Yallin’s body saw the stake force its way out through his back.

  He closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain. The crowd before him ceased to exist. He knew nothing now except the pain in his body. His lips trembled and quivered. “Please, God,” he whispered with difficulty, barely as loud as the breathing of a baby. “Take me away from here.”

  Blood trickled along the stake as far as the ground. An hour later his body continued to shake. His feet and ankles turned a dark shade of purple, his face a deathly white.

  The crowd fell away in time. Dracula stood alone on the piata with his guards close by. He walked up to Yallin, studying the face of the dying man.

  Yallin managed to open his eyes briefly and saw Dracula standing there below him. Blood trickled from his nose as the network of veins in his head started to rupture. He looked past his enemy and saw Death stood a little further behind. Death’s long bony fingers tightened around his scythe. It would soon be time to go. Yallin longed for that moment.

  The sound of horse hooves attracted Dracula’s attention. He turned to see a rider pull up near his headquarters. The rider looked at Yallin briefly, and then disappeared inside.

  The young voivode followed him. Before he reached the entrance to the building, Kazic stepped out of the doorway.

  “Is that a messenger?” Dracula asked him.

  “Yes, my Liege.”

  Dracula walked with him inside to meet with the rider. “What is this?” he asked the man, taking the scroll from his hands.

  “A letter from the vice-governor of Transylvania,” the messenger informed him.

  “What could he want?” he said to his aides in attendance.

  He read the contents of the letter and then informed Kazic, in Turkish, of what it said. He was the only man in the room Dracula truly trusted.

  “You know you cannot go there,” Kazic said.

  “I imagine you are right.”

  “I can think of two reasons.”

  “Share them with me. You know I am seeking your counsel.”

  “The first reason is they would surely try to kill you. I cannot imagine any other reason they would want you there in the flesh. And it would not be difficult for them to do this.”

  “Yes. Hunyadi’s second in charge penned the letter. I cannot see that he has any good intentions for me. What is the other reason that came to mind?”

  “The Sultan would be furious if you went there. You took control of the country with one of his armies. To agree to any sort of a meeting with your enemies would cause him the greatest offence.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Politics is not my area of expertise, but it should be clear to see.”

  “I am keen to hear your views.”

  “It may indicate to him that you are going to end your alliance with him. Why else would you make a deal with the other side?”

  “But I have no intention of making any deal.”

  “I know that. He and his advisors may see it differently. I could be wrong, my Liege, but that is the impression I would get.”

  “Thank you, my friend. It is sound advice, as always.” He turned to one of his administrators. “Compose a reply for me.”

  “In my own words, my Liege?”

  “No, you fool. I shall dictate.”

  “Very well, my
Liege. To whom shall I address it?”

  “I have no care to acknowledge the sender. So say… To The Recipient Of This Letter.”

  “But, my Liege,” the man protested. “This is the vice-governor of Transylvania.”

  “I care nothing for who it is. That is the point I wish to convey in my reply.”

  “Forgive me, my Liege. It is not how I am accustomed to doing things.”

  “To The Recipient Of This Letter, I must decline your invitation to meet at Brasov. Go on, write it down.”

  The man did as he ordered and then awaited further instruction.

  “Such a gesture may offend my ally, Sultan Murad II. I would be pleased to accommodate you here in Bucharest. Failing that, I am happy to open a line of communication with John Hunyadi on his return.”

  The man wrote it verbatim. “How would you like it signed, my Liege?”

  “Vlad Dracula.”

  “You do not have a seal, my Liege,” the man pointed out when he finished.

  Dracula thought about how he could apply his stamp to the letter. He removed the medallion from around his neck, which bore the insignia of the Dragon.

  “Use this,” he said. “I am the Dragon after all.”

  TRANSYLVANIA.

  THE ESTATE OF MIHAIL BASARAB AT BRASOV.

  NOVEMBER, 1448.

  The letter reached Nicolae within a week. He remained a guest of Mihail Basarab so that he could discuss with him any reply that might come. The moment he read it he sought out his host. “Look at this,” he said, handing the letter to him.

  “Is it a reply from Dracula?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was prompt.”

  “He does not even have the courtesy to address the letter to me.”

  Mihail grinned at the comment while he read. “He is brazen for sure, fearless even. And as sly as a fox.”

  “He leaves us little avenue for reproach.”

  “Hence why I call him fox. This reply does not warrant an attack against him. Not one that would stand up to scrutiny. It would have to be a personal crusade.”

  “Is not every war fought such a thing?”

  Mihail smiled again. “It is all in the interpretation. But as I have stated, I have no desire to go to war with him. Let my brother deal with it. It is his affair. If Dracula marches on Brasov, then I should act.”

  Nicolae was red with anger. He wanted Dracula dead or, at worst, removed from the throne. “It is as well your brother has organised another army.”

  “What is this?”

  “My sources tell me he was ready to cross the Danube into Wallachia three days past. It is good for Hunyadi to know who he can count on.”

  “If he returns,” Mihail said in response to the threat, his upper lip curling into a sneer.

  “I shall leave for Hunedoara in the morning.”

  “Yes, go at your leisure.”

  Nicolae did not see him again before he left. He busied himself discussing the business at hand with his advisors and writing many letters. Word had reached him that the Serbs had Hunyadi in custody in Smederevo. The fiend, Branković, had kept him there and already he had sent a ransom demand. Nicolae wanted to pay the money and get Hunyadi back home safe. He knew then they could deal with the new threat of Dracula. Hunyadi would know exactly what to do. Removing Draculestis from the throne was, after all, a speciality of his. Then he could bring Mihail Basarab and any other dissenters to heel.

  WALLACHIA.

  VLADISLAV BASARAB’S CAMP ON THE VEDEA RIVER. FORTY MILES NORTHWEST OF GIURGIU.

  LATE NOVEMBER, 1448.

  The moment Dracula routed his army at Kosovo, Basarab feared an invasion at home. He also heard the rumours of the sighting of the Draculesti banner. Instead of fleeing north and seeking shelter from Brankovic, he remained deep in Serbia.

  A large number of Hunyadi’s troops had escaped the field. Without him there to lead them, they roamed the countryside, lost and unruly with no good purpose. They banded together in groups and raided small villages for food and shelter.

  Basarab soon realised that the Turks were not going to give chase. It allowed him the freedom to move around in safety. He slowly rallied the scattered groups of soldiers into one solid unit. By the last week in November, he had a force of twelve thousand men at his disposal.

  By now, word reached him that there had indeed been a coup in Bucharest. Vlad Dracula had seized his throne. He was furious at the news. Only a year ago, the son of Dracul had sacked and burned two of his towns. He had murdered a host of his relatives and kidnapped his sister; the beautiful Natalia.

  Hunyadi’s decision to retreat north compounded his anger. He had wanted his ally to rouse the men. They argued and had parted on bad terms. The time it took him to rally the men together himself had allowed Dracula time to consolidate his position.

  He did not rush his army on the way to Wallachia. They had endured a crushing defeat at Kosovo. He wanted them to have the time to recuperate—so that when they went into battle again he knew they would be at their best.

  The stories grew among his ranks of the night battle at Kosovo. Many of his men claimed to have seen the Draculesti banner. It had to be true for them to say it. This meant it was the son of Dracul who had defeated them. Basarab used this to fire them up. He claimed Dracula was the reason so many of their comrades lay dead.

  “A man that hails from the Romanias and carries his banner for the Ottomans against other men from the Romanias is the most despicable of all men. We must drive the swine from our borders!”

  The same as Florescu, he despised everything Draculesti. But the vendetta he planned to wage on his enemy began to verge on the obsessive. The sight of his family members impaled outside Oltenita still haunted his dreams. Their corpses rotting and half eaten by the birds. Those images would remain with him forever.

  Natalia was alone in the room she had shared with her much younger lover. Word had reached her weeks before of Hassan’s great victory and of Dracula’s part in it. She had heard too that he marched on Bucharest and seized the throne.

  He had not sent word to her or contacted her in any way. It left her feeling hurt and abandoned. Since that day when he had walked away from her, she had not seen him. Every day she clung to the hope that he would send for her. She dreamed that she would join him at his palace in the capital. But with each day that passed, nothing had changed and she fell deeper and deeper into a dark depression. What shall become of me?

  In her heart, she knew their romance had come to an end. As a young monarch he could ill afford to have a woman twice his age as a lover. And a woman who was a sister to the one he had usurped from the throne.

  She was shrewd enough to know the implications of this. Her lover had abandoned her, which now put her life in danger. For how long would Hassan or anyone in authority in Giurgiu allow a sister of Basarab to remain among them? It was likely, in her mind, that they would ransom her to her brother. But without Dracula there to protect her, it was only a matter of time before someone came calling and took what they wanted from her. She would not be able to do much to prevent it should this happen.

  One of the few friends she had in the city advised her that her brother had set up camp not too far away. It was then she decided she would try and slip away during the night and make for the safety of his camp. If she was safe anywhere it would be there.

  She lay down on her bed and thought of Vlad. Despite the way he continued to ignore her, she felt the deepest warmth at his memory. She reached for his pillow, still able to gather his faint scent. Holding it to her nose she closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. Memories of him came flooding back to her; times when he really looked at her and even looked inside her, almost to her soul. She would cherish those memories for always. But now she would wait just a few more hours and slip out into the night. Then she would let go of him forever.

  In the next moment, a group of three men forced their way into the room. She jumped up with fright and dro
pped Vlad’s pillow on the bed. Her initial fear subsided when she recognised one of them as someone she had seen Vlad speak to often.

  “Have you received word from Vlad? Is he well?”

  The look in his eyes told her he had not come to bring news of her lover. Without speaking, he dived on her and pinned her to the bed. When she tried to struggle free of his grip, he raised his fist in the air and struck her hard to the jaw. From that moment, everything went black.

  Basarab knew there was a chance of an attack from Dracula, or even from the garrison at Giurgiu. He learned a valuable lesson from the night attack at Kosovo. To avoid a repeat of that, he assigned over a hundred sentries to guard the perimeter of the camp. He also ensured his camp was at a safe distance from both.

  Deep into the night, one of them noticed a group of men on the road that led out of it. He alerted the others and they went to investigate. They stumbled across a barrel that the men had left in the middle of the road. It had a letter nailed to it.

  “Do any of you know what it says?” one of them asked.

  No one did. They were all Hungarian. The few among them who were literate realised at once the writing was in Romanian. One of them went off in search of a Wallachian officer and returned with him soon after.

  “It is addressed to Basarab,” he advised them. “We had better take it to him.”

  They notified their leader of the discovery and brought the barrel to his tent.

  “What is it?” he asked, looking at it with suspicion.

  “A barrel, my Lord,” one of them answered.

  He looked up in despair. “I meant what was it doing in the middle of the road, you fool? What does it signify?”

  “It is a message of some kind, my Lord.”

  “Then open it.”

  One of his men ripped the letter from the barrel while two others tried to prise it open. In their attempt to do so, it toppled over and the lid fell off.

  He recoiled in horror when the head of a woman rolled along the ground as far as his feet. One of his men stepped across him to shield him from the grim discovery.