Page 85 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad’s pulse kicked. That was no practice sword, was instead a sharpened blade.

Mehmet turned toward him, sunlight gliding down the length of his sword. He adopted an innocent expression. “A problem?”

Vlad settled into a ready stance, his blunted sword held in a sure grip. “No.”

“Mehmet,” George started to protest, and then apparently thought better of it, falling silent.

“Well?” Vlad said.

Mehmet grinned. Lifted his sword. In a delighted voice too low for anyone else to hear: “You know, I think your brother missed you while you were healing. He looked so lonely. All by his pretty lonesome…”

Vlad tightened his grip on his sword and refused to take the bait. Mehmet wanted him to take the first swing, but he wouldn’t do it. He’d learned his lesson last time, and he was patient. Had always been patient.

He edged to the right, circling, slow, forcing Mehmet to turn with him. “Tell me.” His voice was even. “Does your holy book allow you to find boys ‘pretty’?”

Mehmet’s smile became a baring of teeth, instead. “You wish to talk of religion?” Words laced with insult.

“No,” Vlad said. “My grandfather was a god. I don’t give afuckabout your religion.”

“The god of what? Submission? Servitude?”

“God ofWar,” Vlad growled, and made his first move.

A vicious swing, one that Mehmet blocked just in time. He grunted when their blades clashed. A high metallic screech as Vlad powered past the block and his sword slid against the other one.

Mehmet leapt back, and they faced off again. The heir was panting now, sweat gleaming at his temples from just one meeting.

Vlad took a measured breath and moved against him again.

In the time since their last encounter, Vlad had realized something. Mehmet was an ambitious, clever, learned boy. An ideal heir in that respect. And he was a vampire, so he was strong, and quick; a formidable opponent to be sure.

But Vlad was a son of Rome. Brought up like a Spartan child; taught to fight, and shoot, and ride, and run, and kill. And he wasn’t an heir. He was a second son. And second sons were bred for one purpose: war.

When he thought about it like that, his previous defeat was an embarrassment.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Vlad launched an aggressive offensive, strike after strike, cutting in from a new angle each time, pushing forward with sure steps. Mehmet could only parry and block, stumbling back. He bared his teeth, and the tendons stood out in his neck as he worked to deflect the kind of blows that would cut even with a dulled blade; that would shatter bones. Vlad wasn’t training anymore, and he knew it.

Vlad had pushed the heir an entire circle of the training yard when he felt his strength begin to flag. Even vampires couldn’t go forever. He needed a break, now, before his arms started to shake and he left himself an opening.

He dropped low, under Mehmet’s intended block and swept his blade at his ankles. It connected.

Mehmet shouted and went down, turning the fall into a controlled tuck and roll. He popped up a few meters away, unsteady on his feet, breathing hard through his mouth, fangs fully extended.

“Yield?” Vlad asked.

Mehmet growled; loud, and deep, and panther-like. There would be no mistaking what he was after this. If any witness hadn’t already known, they would know now.

What the hell. Vlad growled back.

A soft gasp, off to the side. “Brother.” Val.

Vlad ignored it. This time, he let Mehmet come to him.

A run, a leap, a high, arcing swing.

Vlad dodged it neatly and brought his own sword up, a flash of silver in the sunlight. He heard the crunch of bone as Mehmet’s shoulder shattered.

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