Page 150 of Dragon Slayer

Both of them looked chastened.

Vlad put a hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “It’s a good idea, though, old friend. We’ll see it done.”

The wolf flicked him a small smile.

~*~

They cheered him.

A messenger had been sent ahead, to cut down the desiccated corpses from the gibbet and to stand atop the platform, shouting in Romanian. Vlad had sent Cicero to do this, a figure the people would recognize from Dracul’s retinue; one of their own, a friend.Vlad Dracula, the Son of the Dragon, is your prince now, come to protect his people from Vladislav’s unsavory forces. Make ready, because the prince rides in an hour to address you all in the town square.

And even with only an hour’s preparation, they did make ready. They came out in droves, waving streamers made from old quilts and cleaning cloths. They lined the streets, and cheered when he approached on his roan charger, children jumping and waving their arms, fathers putting them up on shoulders so that they could see him better.

He wore red. A cobbled-together ensemble that was half-Turkish, half-Romanian, and wholly his own. Not a boy dressed up in his father’s shadow, nor a conquering foreigner from the east.

His cavalry, turned out in gleaming mail and polished helms, cleared a path to the square, to the freshly cleared gibbet, and his people called to him the whole way. Vlad lifted a gloved hand in greeting, unable to smile or even to call back, stunned stupid by this reaction. He’d never anticipated it, not in his wildest dreams.

When he reached the gibbet, Cicero stepped forward to take his horse, and Vlad slid down to the ground breathing heavily through his mouth. He might be panicking.

The nearness and scent of his wolf helped. As did the hand Cicero laid on his shoulder, the two of them tucked out of sight behind the horse. “They already love you,” he said with an encouraging smile, and a little shake. “All you have to do is love them back.”

Vlad nodded. Swallowed a swell of nausea. “Right.”

Then he climbed up on the platform and faced his people.

He could have done this other ways. Could have held an audience in the great hall at the palace, asked the citizens to walk and ride up the long hill to the gate, and file across the bridge. Could have sent messengers around to each and every house. Could have sent Cicero or Malik to speak in his stead. But this, addressing them directly, on their turf – this had been the right choice; he knew that now, looking at the sea of smiling, hopeful faces, listening to the shouts of his name. Young women batted lashes and waggled fingertips at him. Young men threw back their shoulders and stood at attention, proud, wanting to impress in a different way. Old women wrung their hands and turned their eyes heavenward, murmuring prayers of thanks.

For a moment, he was frozen, terrified in a way that he’d never been. No enemy had ever frightened him; but this, making people rally behind him, cheer for him – he’d never been the lovable brother. That was Val, miles away in a sultan’s bed.

They already love you. Cicero’s words echoed through his mind.All you have to do is love them back.

He took a deep breath, and willed the fear away. Savage. He must be savage, even in his love and defense of his people.

“Tîrgoviste,” he called. Loud, authoritative. His voice bounced off the building walls around him.

All fell silent as one.

He continued, and the words formed one after the next, until they were effortless, and he knew this was what he needed to say. “I shall not introduce myself, because you all know who I am. My father, Vlad Dracul, a distinguished knight, a man of battle – and of learning – loved this city better than any in the world. He raised my brothers and me here. He died here, deep in these forests, cut down by the knives of a usurper and a pretender. And by the very nobles who claim themselves to be loyal Wallachians.”

Boos, hisses, jeers.

“They robbed you of a prince and an heir, and for what? For the goodwill of John Hunyadi, a Hungarian who doesn’t know you, or care for you. Who doesn’t understand what it’s like to live on the borderlands. To give your wealth and your young boys to the Ottomans. Hunyadi would use this place as a pathway to the east, never caring if war comes here, to your doorstep.

“It’s Hunyadi’s wish to consolidate all of Romania, and absorb it into Hungary. To drag you into his kingdom. To take you from one master, and force you to be subjugated by another.”

Raucous sounds of disapproval.

Below him, Malik pressed his shoulder back against the edge of the platform, and tipped a questioning look up to Vlad. Yes, Vlad was prince, but under Murat’s authority, wielding an army of Turkish soldiers.

Vlad didn’t care. The words became a tide inside him, and he couldn’t stop them.

“But I grew up here,” he continued. “I bought bread from you, and watched traveling performers in these streets. I played and hunted with your boys. And I sat beside my father each time a new treaty came to his desk, and the Ottomans twisted his arm for just a few more sons, and just a few more gold ducats. More raids, more taking.

“That’s what Hunyadi wants to do: take. Someone is always taking from us.”

A collective shout. He saw red faces, open mouths, feverish eyes. He had them.

And he was one of them.

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