Page 222 of Dragon Slayer

Vladislav had, however, rolled over and showed his belly to the Ottomans. Doubtless these families had lost sons to the janissaries – and to Sultan Mehmet’s appetites. They’d given over portions of their crop, and their coin, and some of the daughters had been raped or taken as the wives of Ottoman soldiers.

Vlad did not wave to them – not yet. Because he hadn’t done anything for these people. Hadn’t proven himself to them. But he sat tall in the saddle, and loosened his reins a notch, let his horse prance and chew at the bit a little. The big bay gelding was not anxious – but excited. As was Vlad.

His group reached the center of the city, the cobbled square in front of the bank, where a gibbet awaited treasonous necks. Vlad reined up and regarded it a moment, letting the press of the wondrous crowd fade to background noise. That simple wooden arm, its platform, and its trap doors.

Sultan Mehmet impaled his enemies on long spears of sharpened wood. Just as his father had before him; just as Vlad had seen during his time in Edirne.

A hanging was a terrible thing to witness, but an impalement…

The clear cry of a horn reached his ears.

He turned his horse, and Malik reined in beside him.

The horn sounded again, three long, foreboding blasts, the sound carried on the wind all the way from the palace. An old horn, Viking made, his mother’s.

And then came the howling. Three separate voices, because even Helga had shifted to four legs today. A triangular pattern, ahead, and to either side.

“Wolves!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Wolves in the daylight!”

Mama, Vlad thought, hands tightening on his reins.Be careful.

The horn meant she’d played her part: slain the guards and opened the drawbridge. Up ahead, high on the hill, Vlad saw a cloud of dust rise, and the sun winked off the metal of armor and the tips of spears. Vladislav was sending his men to meet the foe.

It was the wolves’ job to fall in behind them, spook their horses, and chase them down into Tîrgoviste.

One last wolf howl, not the mournful cry of cold nights and full moons, but a deep-throated, almost joyous call to arms: Cicero. Vlad knew his voice. The chase was on.

Vlad climbed down off his horse and drew his sword – his father’s Toledo blade. He marched to the head of his men, all of them in a tight phalanx, just as they’d practiced.

“Make ready,” he ordered. “If they’re wearing Vladislav’s colors, cut them all down. I’m not interested in taking prisoners.”

They bellowed an assent, thrilled and boiling with energy. He could smell their adrenaline.

The troops came down on foot, only their captain mounted, their plate and mail gleaming in the sun. They came quickly, running, and Vlad could scent his wolves; these men weren’t so much charging at him, as fleeing what came from behind.

The captain’s gaze fixed on Vlad, and he must have recognized him, the way his eyes sprang wide, a clear ring of white around the brown irises. Then he lifted his sword, and spurred his horse.

Vlad stood his ground. And waited, and waited, and waited. Sunlight flared along the sharp edge of the captain’s blade.

At the last second, Vlad stepped sideways, and ducked, just low and quick enough to miss the swing aimed at his head. He braced his foot, and rose in a lightning fast arc, his own blade swinging, and caught the captain just above the knee, at the gap between the top of his boot, and the bottom edge of his mail skirt.

It was a hard blow, and the sword was nearly ripped from his hands. Vlad heard the captain grunt, and smelled blood; he tightened his hands on his blade and dodged backward, barely avoiding being trod upon by the horse’s back hooves.

The horse leapt into the phalanx of Vlad’s men, head tossing, bit tugging cruelly at its mouth as its rider fought to stay in the saddle while his leg gushed blood.

Vlad turned away to meet the furious rush of a foot soldier.

The fighting was fast, and brutal, and bloody. Vladislav’s men were well-trained, but they’d been spooked, and grew only more frightened in the face of Vlad’s superior strength, speed, and maneuvering. He took a man’s arm off at the elbow, and spun before his companion could deliver a strike to the back of Vlad’s neck; drove his sword through the man’s throat amidst a spray of hot blood. Vlad licked it from his lips and whirled to meet another foe.

You are not better than mortal men, Mother had always said, trying to keep him humble. But in that moment, he was. The enemies around him moved as if their boots were weighted; their limbs grew tired, and their attacks became defenses, and they weren’t strong enough to stop Vlad’s swings, his vampiric strength.

In the midst of it, he shouted orders to his own men, and sent a dozen up the hill to help his mother hold the palace gate.

Finally, it was over.

Vlad stood, chest heaving, skin wet and prickling beneath his clothes and armor, surveying the carnage around him. He applauded his own efficiency; he hadn’t wasted his strokes, had killed as quickly and directly as possible. Still, there was blood, and limbs. And he was glad to see that his men had followed orders: there were no prisoners.

Malik approached him, wiping his sword on the edge of his cloak. Blood dappled his face, but Vlad could tell that it wasn’t his own. “There will be more soldiers at the palace. This wasn’t all of them,” he said, gesturing to the bodies.”

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