Page 157 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad tested the air. The man smelled nervous – but a normal amount, considering what he’d just been told. Good old-fashioned fear for one’s safety, and not the acrid stink of deception and guilt.

Vlad found that he believed him.

He extended a hand. “I’ll hold you to what you’ve said tonight.”

Malik clasped his hand with his own. “Yes, your grace.”

~*~

“You should drink.”

Vlad looked down at his bandaged hand, curling his fingers. A tiny movement that brought great pain. Eira had wanted to wrap the whole thing up, like a club, but he’d told her to leave his fingers free so he could use them – even though doing so left him breathless. The pain made it difficult to sleep. He sat by the hearth in his bedchamber, examining his ruined flesh by the firelight, replaying the night’s events in his mind. Beyond the window, dawn crept across the horizon on slow, silver feet.

“I will do no such thing,” he said. Exhaustion took the bite out of the words.

Cicero snorted and dropped a heavy fur over his shoulders.

With his good hand, Vlad reached to pull it tighter, pressed his face into it and inhaled. An old, old wolf fur, musty with age; he imagined he could still smell his brother on it.

Cicero limped over to the other chair and eased down into it with a wince.

“Look at you – you can barely walk,” Vlad said. “I should be the one taking care of you.”

Cicero settled in, his smile small, tired, but true. “That isn’t the way this arrangement works.”

“It should be,” Vlad insisted. “Familiar’s aren’t slaves. They shouldn’t have to serve if they’re hurt or sick.”

Cicero tipped his head, expression soft, fond…sad. “Did your mother teach you that?”

“You know she did. Don’t be coy. And she’s right.”

Cicero held up a hand. “Not coy, just…you were away from home for a long time.” Among enemies. Away from Eira’s life lessons, and her relentless, ironic gentleness.

“That’s irrelevant,” Vlad said. “I am the same person I was always going to be.”

“Only a little angrier, I should think,” his Familiar said, gently.

Vlad slumped back in his chair, fur pulled tight around his shoulders. “You’re very old and wise. I’m in no mood for it today.”

Cicero chuckled, and then sobered. “If that mage truly was sent by your uncle–”

“Then we have more than Vladislav to contend with.” A fresh wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He fought it, blinking, curling his fingers so the pain would keep him alert. “I think,” he said, “that things will get much worse before they get better.”

“Unfortunately, that’s usually the case.”

~*~

Hunyadi’s son Matthias married the Serbian princess.

The Hungarian was free.

As the weather grew colder, Vlad’s small force at Tîrgoviste began preparing in earnest. He drilled his troops, and his troops in turn began training the boys who willingly joined his tiny army. Some were strong – blacksmith apprentices and farm boys with wide shoulders and thick arms. But most were too young, or too sickly, or so old they weren’t boys at all, but ragtag fathers and husbands in need of a job. All of them had spirit – but spirit wouldn’t hold a palace.

They began stockpiling: hay and grain for the horses, carted up from the city in wagons pulled by oxen. Craftsmen made arrows, barrels of them. And there were barrels of wine, and ale, and casks of cured meats and pickled vegetables and fruits.

“Will the walls hold?” Malik asked one day, as Vlad stood atop them, bitter wind tugging at his clothes and hair.

“Unless they have sappers or siege towers, yes.”

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