Page 149 of Dragon Slayer

“The message,” he said in a normal tone, resuming his walk. Both men fell into step on either side of him. “Came from the prince of Serbia. His sons, the princes at court alongside my brother and myself, you know.”

A stolen glance revealed that Malik raised his brows. Doubtless he’d never laid eyes upon the boys; who knew if he’d even heard of them.

“He managed to surprise Hunyadi, and the Albanian prince, the one they call Skanderbeg as well, and has taken them captive.”

Skanderbeg. George Castrioti. The name had leapt off the page, and Vlad’s pulse had stuttered. He remembered a kind smile when there were none, an exposed throat, an offer of freely given blood. A hand extended, and an offer of an alliance. He remembered a lesson on patience. And hope. George Castrioti had offered him hope.

He understood wanting vengeance for lost sons – heunderstood. But Castrioti was a force for Slavic Europe. A force for resistance to the mighty empire, and Vlad could have cheerfully strangled Brankovic.

“Why has he done such a thing?”

“Apparently, he’s displeased with Hunyadi’s seeking of personal glory, and the way he’s been using the rest of Eastern Europe for his own gain, casting us aside when it profits him, bullying us. He refenced my father. Hunyadi’s support of Vladislav after my father risked our lives to support him.” He found that he had to take a steadying breath. “So he wants to coerce a marriage. Hunyadi’s son Matthias will wed Brankovic’s daughter. Or else he shall remain in irons.”

Malik ground to a halt, and Vlad stopped as well, as the men turned to face him, brows raised up to the edge of his turban. “For a marriage?”

Vlad felt a smile tug at his lips. “Apparently. Brankovic’s family has suffered greatly during the course of Hunyadi’s ill-advised crusades. Revenge is understandable, though I suppose, all things given, he lacks the will to kill the man and go to war over it. More’s the pity.

“But.” He resumed walking and the others followed. “I should like to see Geor – Skanderbeg,” he corrected, “freed. I’ll draft a letter to Brankovic, promising cooperation and alliance in exchange for the Albanian’s release.”

“Will he honor that request?” Cicero asked.

“Not likely. But I have to make it anyway.” For the sake of the boy who’d befriended him in enemy hands.

“This doesn’t solve the issue of the vice governor,” Cicero said.

Vlad sighed. “Yes, I know. I’ve already written to him. I will not leave here. That way lies a trap, and I don’t intend to fall into it.”

“Where is Vladislav?” Malik asked.

“Off warmongering somewhere. We’re lucky, in that.”

They passed the practice yard, where foot soldiers practiced with spears, their friends and fellow soldiers watching, encouraging them with shouts and jeers.

Cicero and Malik drew breath at the same time, and Vlad silenced them with a wave. He knew what they were going to say. “If Hunyadi agrees to the marriage, and is freed, doubtless he will join up with Vladislav and they will march here. And yes, I already know that, as good as these Turkish troops are, we lack the numbers to defend ourselves.” He frowned into the middle distance, imagination taking hold, showing him a palace with walls tumbled by sappers, black smoke billowing from the towers. “This place isn’t home to either of them,” he said, quietly. “They won’t think twice about razing it to get me out. We can’t face them,” he admitted, shame a terrible lump in his throat.

His men were silent a moment, and then Cicero touched his arm, two fingers hooked into the crook of his elbow, and pulled him to a halt so they faced one another. Vlad spared a moment to think that Malik must be surprised by the gesture. Subjects, even captains and confidantes, didn’t assume such familiarity with their princes. And only a Familiar dared touched a vampire in this way. Had Malik understood the existence of immortals, this would have served as all the proof he needed.

Cicero’s eye sparkled amber in the sunlight, a smile threatening. He looked so different than he had in those first days; happy again, hopeful, and it had little to do with a shave and a bath and clean clothes.

“You’re right, your grace,” he said, “we can’t hold the palace with just your men. But what if it was more than that? What if it was the whole city?”

“What?”

“You haven’t addressed your people yet.” Cicero waved toward the wall, toward Tîrgoviste beyond it. “You are their prince’s son; they would be on your side. They would help!”

For a moment, he thought–

But no. Practicality won out. “They are farmers and tailors. Wives and children. They can’t fight for me.”

“There are sons, too, plenty of them.”

“Your grace.” Malik stepped around to stand beside the wolf. “That woman in the square on your first day. He’s right: the people do remember you, and they want you leading them.”

“Go into the city,” Cicero said. “Address your subjects. Tell them what’s happening, and make an appeal to them.”

“I…” He wanted to kick himself. For faltering. Princes didn’t falter. Didn’t utter half-sentences. Not savage ones, anyway.

He took a breath and started again. “I should address them. Yes. That’s what a leader does. But. A battle needs weapons. Needs money, and trained men. A battle needs the support of boyars, and I have no nobles on my side; not after they cut my father’s heart from his body.”

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