The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls Read online

  “Andrei should return when he is ready.”

  “He is not the only one to consider,” the gypsy argued.

  His protest agitated the elder. “It is his birthing day! We shall wait until he returns.”

  Helga stepped up to the two men. “We should go and look for him,” she said, siding with the other.

  “Does my word count for nothing?” Constantin asked his wife, his face reddening.

  “My husband,” she said calmly. “We all know how much you love Andrei. Still, he does have a tendency to wander and forget more important things.”

  “I am sure what he is doing is important to him.”

  “But he is one of a hundred, however special he might be. We should go and find him.”

  He threw his hands up in resignation. “Very well! Go and find him.”

  Ten minutes of searching and calling his name yielded nothing. Concerned now for the welfare of his adopted son, the elder joined in the search.

  “Andrei!” he called, as he walked through the trees. “Where are you?”

  “Over here!” one of the gypsies shouted.

  They all ran in the direction of the call, where the sound of a waterfall soon met their ears. When the gypsies gathered together, someone pointed to the blue light from beneath the waterfall to the elder.

  “So that is where he is?” Constantin sighed.

  “What should we do?” one of Andrei’s brothers asked.

  The elder shrugged, as he often did. “I do not think we should disturb him.”

  “But what of the celebration? The food is cooked ready to be eaten.”

  “I know,” he conceded. “I shall call him once. Andrei!”

  Andrei barely heard the elder shout his name over the din of the water. It prompted him to open his eyes and stand up. Once he stepped outside the circle, it vanished. He staggered forwards and fell through the force field, his legs sapped of all their strength.

  The gypsies saw the barrier disappear and a blue shape crash into the pool below. They each peered down into the water to see what it was.

  Constantin gasped in horror when he saw the figure of his son floating face down in the water. “It is Andrei!” he cried. “Go and get him!”

  Several of the men threw themselves into the pool. At least three of them reached for Andrei’s body as it turned to follow the direction of the river.

  Andrei gasped when they lifted his face out of the water. The old man jumped in too when they dragged his boy over to the riverbank.

  He clutched at Andrei’s face and shook him. When Andrei opened his eyes, the elder held him close and cried out with relief.

  “Do not worry, Papa,” Andrei said, his voice weak and barely above a whisper.

  The elder looked down to see him smile. He hugged his boy close a second time.

  Andrei breathed in a lungful of air and then whispered into his ear. “I am ready at last, Papa. To face the Dark Side.”

  WALLACHIA. VLADISLAV BASARAB’S RETREAT AT OLTENITA, SOUTHEAST OF BUCHAREST.

  THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 11, 1447.

  Two hours before sunset Vlad set off with his army. Their quick departure had allowed the men barely a few hours of rest. To ensure there was no chance of encountering Mihail Basarab he took a route east through the forest trails. When he found a main route he turned south and rode for a further five hours with his men to the resort of Oltenita. This was the favoured location of Basarab to set up his capital.

  It was bitterly cold. Vlad expected to see few people out on the streets, even Basarab’s men. They were not expecting any trouble after the events of the last week. Vlad felt that would be their undoing. This was the first lesson he was going to teach any enemy of his. Expect me at all times. He grinned as he thought of it, and of them. Wrapped up in the warmth of their beds, he did not think they would put up too much of a fight.

  The night was clear with not a cloud in sight. It helped contribute to the low temperatures on the ground. Vlad looked up at the night sky. He cursed the full moon that shone overhead.

  His men took position on a hill a half a mile to the north of Oltenita. They saw a few lights in the town. On the whole there appeared to be little, if any, activity.

  Vlad’s mount stood beside that of Kazic, his most senior officer. “Let us hope they are fat and sleepy from their evening meal.”

  Kazic was a Serb by birth. He joined the Janissary Corps in his early teens as part of Branković’s tribute. Now in his thirties, he had made a career out of serving in the Ottoman army. “I imagine they are not in the mood for a fight.”

  “More the fool them for going to war with my father.”

  “Or for going to war with you, my Lord.”

  This was to be Vlad’s first ever taste of action. He relished the prospect of killing any man involved with the coup to overthrow his father. A coup that had seen his mother and brother murdered.

  “When do you think we should attack?” he asked.

  “Not yet, my Lord. Let us wait for them to get a little cosier in their beds.”

  An hour passed, and then another. The night took on an even colder edge and Vlad could feel his limbs turning numb in the saddle. “Do you not feel the cold?”

  “You grow used to it after years in the army. I have spent most of my life sleeping under the stars.”

  Vlad realised, perhaps for the first time, that he had enjoyed a very sheltered upbringing. “Yes, I am sure.”

  They heard the sound of horses far below. Then, from nowhere, they caught sight of a group of riders. Almost their equal in number, the group took the route west out of the town. The enemy had detected Vlad and his army.

  “Damn!” he cursed. “They know we are here. Give the order to attack!”

  Vlad did not wait for Kazic to relay the order. He dug his heels into his stallion and set off down the hillside in a gallop. His men followed close behind. They caught up with him only as he neared the outskirts of the town. Basarab was gone, but he intended to sack the town anyway. The horses of he and his men had ridden many hours so the idea of giving chase would have been pointless.

  He rode through the open gates and down the main street. A strong wind touched his back and sped on past him. It swirled dust up into the air about the clusters of houses. Soldiers ran into position to defend against the coming attack. Basarab had left them there in the hope they could gain him enough time to get away.

  Vlad drew his sword and brought it down against the head of the first to cross his path. A strange rush came over him. It was the first man he had ever killed. His men raced behind him, cutting down anything that moved.

  They cleared the street from one end to the other. No more than forty men had come out to meet them. Now the many pools of their blood stained the earthen road. More of it trickled down the walls of the houses on either side.

  Vlad drew his mount to a halt and stopped to look around. He spotted the stronghold that Basarab called home and rode towards it. “I want this burned to the ground,” he ordered. “Let us see who is still inside. Flush them out!”

  His men lit torches and threw them onto the roof of the building. They waited until they could hear the sounds of screaming coming from within. The wooden structure offered no resistance to the fire. Soon smoke billowed from the shuttered windows.

  It was not long before a half a dozen guards fled the burning building. As soon as they appeared, the Turks cut them down. The roof groaned on the point of collapse. Before it did, the rest of the occupants emerged, coughing and choking from smoke inhalation. None of them wore uniforms or carried arms. Vlad assumed them to be members of the Danesti family.

  He felt tempted to kill them all where they stood. Kazic could see it in his eyes.

  “We should take them as prisoners, my Lord,” he suggested. “They may be of use at a later time.”

  Vlad nodded at the idea. “Very well. Tie them up and bring them with us.”

  “We should leave soon, my Lord. It shall not be long be
fore Basarab returns with his men from Bucharest.”

  “Yes, but I want to engage him. It is my task to stop him joining his brother.”

  “We might be best served doing that, my Lord, outside the town.”

  Vlad nodded again to agree. “We can cut off their route north.”

  Kazic rode away to organise the men.

  Vlad walked his mount to where his men were tying up the prisoners. “Who are you?” he said to the one woman who stood out in the group.

  She was easily forty years old. Even so, age had done little to blemish her beauty. Vlad’s first thought was that she had never had to work in her life. He could see she was someone special and no doubt loved by many. She appeared slight in stature and her complexion of true Romanian stock. But she was a beauty of the like he had not seen in quite some time.

  “I am Danesti,” she spat. “How dare you treat me and my family this way!”

  “I am sure it is much better than the treatment my mother received at the hands of your family,” he snarled. “Who are you, I asked?”

  “I am Natalia, the sister of Vladislav Basarab.”

  “And who are the others?”

  “One is my daughter. The others are cousins and friends.”

  With her, they numbered eight in all. Vlad looked them over with disdain. He did not want them to hamper the progress of his men, who would have to carry them on their horses. But he wanted to send a message to Basarab. His enemy needed to know with whom he was dealing.

  “Except for this one,” Vlad said, pointing to Natalia, “Kill them all. Impale them fifty yards outside the gates of the town. As for her, tie her across my horse. She can ride with me.”

  He gave the order in Turkish. No one knew what was happening when his men marched them out of the town.

  “We do not have the time to do this, my Lord,” Kazic pointed out.

  “I care not. I want my order seen through.”

  “Very good, my Lord.”

  “When it is done, burn the town to the ground. I want Basarab to regret this course of action he has taken.”

  With Natalia secured to his mount, he rode out of the town with her lying across his thighs. She cursed at him, humiliated and in pain.

  “Hush woman,” he warned. “Or I shall have your tongue cut from your head.”

  Stakes were readily available in the town square. It saved his men having to cut trees and fashion new ones. The scene was a grisly one. The men impaled the seven others on his order. He had left a strong message for Basarab.

  Vlad then had his men torch the town before he led them away.

  “To where are we going, my Lord?” Kazic asked him.

  “Back to my father’s camp. There is nothing more we can do here. We can assist him in the battle that is to come.”

  “We would be fortunate, my Lord. If Mihail Basarab locates your father’s camp, then the battle would have started without us.”

  “Then we have no time to waste.”

  WALLACHIA. THE CAMP OF VLAD DRACUL TO THE EAST OF BUCHAREST.

  THE EARLY HOURS. DECEMBER 12, 1447.

  Earlier that day, the Vlach rode down from the mountains. They camped in a location between the Dimbovita and Arges Rivers. A heavily wooded area, it provided them with good cover. It was not ideal for cavalry to fight in, but Litovoi did not expect any sort of a confrontation there. The only people his scouts saw anywhere near their location was a large gypsy tribe near the river, and they were no bother to them.

  They camped close to the west bank of the Dimbovita. Three miles downstream, a bridge crossed over it. It led to a road that passed the northern outskirts of Bucharest. They were no more than thirty minutes ride now from their planned rendezvous with Dracul. Litovoi sent a rider to inform him they had moved.

  By the time Vlad had reached Oltenita, his father began to worry. His scouts had worked tirelessly to follow up on Vlad’s lead about Mihail’s whereabouts. They had remained west of them, not too far from Balteni. His concerns now centred on Mihail and Vlad.

  He turned to Rodrigul. “There is one thing we have not considered.”

  “What is that, my Lord?”

  “Mihail might be alerted when Vlad attacks Oltenita.”

  “It is possible, but not likely. They are a very good distance away from each other. And there is no telling that a rider would even find Mihail’s army.”

  “That may be so. If they did find Mihail, then he could well crush Vlad’s force. And then another son lost to me.”

  Rodrigul thought it over and realised there was a risk, even if only a slight one. “You are right. We had better get ready to move.”

  “Yes, that is my thought too.”

  “What if we encounter Mihail before we meet with the Vlach? Do we really want to engage him without our friends beside us?”

  “I cannot see that we have a choice. It is better that we intercept him with the force we have, than allow him to meet with my son.”

  Rodrigul nodded with a heavy heart. His earlier confidence had all but vanished.

  Dracul could see it in his face. “I cannot risk losing a second heir,” he said. “If that happens, the throne would be lost to my family for good. I never groomed Radu to rule and do not even know if he could. We have to ride.”

  “Very well, my Lord. I shall pass the word. Let us hope we do meet with the Vlach before we meet our enemy.”

  He soon had the men ready to leave. As they slowly marched out towards Balteni, Litovoi’s rider appeared with the news the Vlach had moved camp.

  “You had better turn around,” Rodrigul said. “Tell your master we are leaving camp and marching to the rendezvous area to try and engage Mihail Basarab. Our scouts last spotted his army in that area.”

  The rider nodded and galloped off hard back from whence he had come.

  Litovoi was the subject of many legends. He had achieved fame just for his sheer size. Many thought no man in all the Romanias had a girth to match his.

  His prowess on the field of battle sealed his legendary status. Like his father before him, he had never known defeat. Such was his reputation that warlords from all over the Balkans sought him out. They offered big purses to hire the Vlach as mercenaries. Many believed if you had the Vlach at your side, you achieved victory. And it was true, proven many times over. The Vlach did not lose. Litovoi often turned them away, including Hunyadi prior to Varna. It was why the Vlach pounded the war drum on the eve of battle. When the enemy knew they were coming, victory was already half won.

  There was a more famous story spoken about Litovoi. It was of how he had tamed two wolves. As with most tales about him, this one was true. Whilst out hunting a few years before, a pack of wolves set upon him. There were as many as seven or eight. He had killed all but two, which lay wounded from his sword. Instead of killing them, he brought them with him back to camp. In the weeks that followed, he nurtured them back to health. Now they followed him everywhere and guarded his tent while he slept.

  Litovoi was resting against a fallen tree trunk when his rider returned to camp. Despite the very early hour he was chewing on a joint of meat ripped from the boar still turning on the spit. It was still a good four hours before dawn. Even so, his men were up and about readying themselves for the day ahead and the expected battle.

  Both his wolves lay at his feet, busily gnawing on bones he had tossed to them. When the rider approached him on foot, they paused and offered low growls from deep in their throats.

  “Rest easy, men,” he cautioned them.

  On his command, they returned to their bones. The rider was wary of them, but knew they would not harm him now that their master had spoken. He rested his hands against his thighs while he got his breath back.

  “What is it?” Litovoi asked him, noticing he had ridden harder than normal.

  “My Lord, Dracul and his army are on the move.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Did they say why th
ey are marching without us?”

  “No, my Lord,” he gasped, still out of breath. “But they are on the move, heading for Balteni in the hope they might engage Mihail Basarab.”

  “Very well. Then we go too.”

  He got to his feet and tossed the joint away. Taking a deep breath, he uttered the Vlach war cry. It was the same sound his men made after each chorus of the drum. In minutes, they were mounted and on the move, armed and ready to fight.

  Dracul had an uneasy feeling as his small army marched west. He knew in truth he should have met with Litovoi first before seeking out his enemy. His main concern though was for his son. That far outweighed his need to have the Vlach at his side.

  Rodrigul felt uneasy too. His fears were born from not waiting for the Vlach. He knew all the legends and had often helped spread them. They could not lose with them at their side. Yet they had decided to march before giving the Vlach adequate time to meet them. He wanted to argue the point with Dracul, but then thought better of it. They had spent many years side by side and he was as loyal as any man could be. When his voivode gave him an order, he followed it to the letter. He trained his eyes to the road ahead and his thoughts to the coming battle, for there was sure to be one. If ever there was a time to have a clear head, it was now. He knew he had to keep his focus, but had begun to dread the battle they would have to fight. The night was growing ever colder and shivers ran down his spine. He blamed it on the cold, but in his heart he knew it was fear.

  These feelings filtered to their men. Earlier there had been excited whispers through the camp that the Vlach were joining their side. In spite of that, they had set off earlier than planned.

  The only consolation Dracul could draw was that he had with him good fighting men. Many of them had seen action. They were older and tougher than the force coming up against them, or so he hoped.

  He prayed the Vlach met them in time. Their progress was slow because of the infantry. The Vlach were good riders, among the best. For this reason, he knew they might still be at his side when they struck the first blows on the battlefield.