Page 220 of Dragon Slayer

Janissaries and soldiers wore salvar of a heavy weave into battle, but the sultan’s were fine silk. Thin, easily penetrated. Val pulled apart the fabric, and it split the rest of the way, revealing a meaty thigh that had been cut clear to the bone, blood still pumping with each beat of Mehmet’s heart.

“This is deep,” Val murmured, pressing the cloth to the wound to staunch the flow.

“Of course it is. I was stabbed!”

“It shouldn’t still be bleeding.”

Mehmet paused a moment; blood soaked through the white linen, bright crimson. “Don’t just sit there,” he finally blustered, fear sharpening his voice. “Do something.”

“I am.” Val kept pressure, and slowly, the bleeding slowed; became a gentle seep.

Pity, he thought. But he went to fetch a salve, and some herbs for disinfecting. He wouldn’t have to stitch the gash, but he could hasten its healing.

“What do you mean ‘it shouldn’t still be bleeding’?” Mehmet asked, when his back was turned. Note of fear in his voice.

Val was careful; kept picking through packets of herbs, movements slow. Kept his voice light. “Only that the artery was missed. Vampires begin to heal rapidly; the wound should have clotted by now.”

Mehmet was silent a moment, and then snorted. “What do you know?”

“Nothing much,” Val said lightly, and returned to him, supplies in hand.

It had been three years since Val turned his young slave and helped him escape with Nestor-Iskander. It had filled his heart with gladness to know that he’d removed them from Mehmet’s grasp, that they were, hopefully, living quietly in Siberia now, safe from harm, free of another man’s ownership.

But Mehmet’s wrath had been terrible. First had come a flogging, and then, when his back was raw and bleeding, he’d been pressed down onto it, and ravished. Like all of Mehmet’s tempers, it had only lasted a night, and he’d been sweet the next morning, hand-feeding Val breakfast, telling him of the new suit of armor he was having commissioned for him. His most beautiful possession; his lovely prince.

He’d cupped Val’s chin in his hand, rings warm from his skin against Val’s jaw. “Why do you insist on testing me? Is it fun for you?”

The only fun Val had had in years had been today, watching Mehmet’s men fall back. Knowing that somewhere beyond the defiant flags flying above the unconquered fortress, across mountains and green hills, Vlad waited. And someday, perhaps, they might even see one another again.

~*~

News of victory at Belgrade arrived to Vlad via runner the night before his own forces moved on Tîrgoviste.

“Very good,” he said, humming with satisfaction. He dashed out a reply personally and handed it back to the boy. “Send your lord my congratulations. Head over to the cookfires and get some supper. You can sleep here, and depart at first light. We’re making our move, then.”

“Yes, your grace.” The boy was exhausted, and streaked with road dirt, but he bowed deeply, and flashed a true smile.

Vlad settled back down on his makeshift seat of a felled log, leaning into the shoulder that Cicero pressed to his.

“It’s miraculous,” the wolf said, voice colored with awe. “How did they manage?”

“The fortress at Belgrade has sturdy walls. And they couldn’t get the guns on land, Hunyadi wrote,” Vlad said, accepting the bit of roasted hare that Fenrir extended toward him across the fire on a stick.

“What of Val?” Fen asked, hopeful. “Do you think he was with Mehmet?”

Vlad snorted as he bit into the meat, and spoke around a mouthful, grease running down his chin. “He’s the bastard’s favorite paramour. Of course he was.”

Fen made a face. “Vlad, you can’t think–”

“I think my brother is a whore, and a traitor. He’s a vampire; he can dream-walk. Why has he not come to us?” He gestured to the forest around them, its edges bathed in flickering firelight. “He does not care. He’s in league with my enemy, and hedoesn’t care.”

Fen’s frown deepened. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

Fenrir had been Eira’s bound Familiar for centuries, him and Helga both, and by the time Vlad was old enough to be aware of his surroundings, Fen’s scent had been ingrained in his consciousness. There was Mother, and Father, and then the wolves. Fenrir had never, admittedly, been his favorite, but his boisterous laugh and his constant smiles had been a comfort. His presence like a warm quilt on a cold night.

But right then, in that moment, Vlad wanted to leap across the fire and strike him.

He swallowed the urge, but he met the wolf’s stare levelly. Challenging. His voice came out low, half a growl. “We sit here in a rough camp, ready to take a throne that should have been mine years ago – that shouldn’t be mine at all, because Father should still be alive – and you want to talk of fairness?”

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