Page 226 of Dragon Slayer

~*~

Vlad paced the length of the Turkish carpet in the central room of Albu’s sumptuous house. The fire crackled in the grate, but not loudly enough to drown out the sounds of frightened, frantic breathing. Albu and his entire family knelt on the carpet, heads bowed, shaking with terror. They’d all watched Cicero shift back to his two-legged form, and Fen, still a wolf, sat on his haunches, smiling at them with all his gleaming ivory teeth.

Vlad glanced at Eira, just to take her measure in this moment; her expression surprised him, though maybe it shouldn’t have. It was closed off, her face smooth, her mouth colorless and immobile. Her eyes, though, burned with a kind of focused, cold hatred that Vlad had only ever seen in the mirror.

He’d wondered, occasionally, where his great capacity for anger came from, because his father had been a gentle soul, all things told. He’d worried that it was a trait he shared with his uncle Romulus. But he saw now, with startling clarity, that his rage was his mother’s. She’d given it to Vlad, and given Val her beauty, and sweetness, and creativity. It wasn’t an even parceling of gifts, but Vlad would take it; he needed all the rage he could get.

He knew, then, what he needed to do here. What he had to.

He halted and turned to face his captives, hands loose at his sides. Calmness descended. “Albu,” he said, “if you’re brave enough to raise a revolt against me, then you can be brave enough to look me in the eye.”

Albu lifted his head, shaking, his eyes wide. He met Vlad’s gaze, though his shoulders slumped another fraction.

“Why do you want to overthrow me?” Vlad asked.

The boyar hesitated. He licked his lips, and glanced toward Cicero, who had moved to stand beside Vlad, the hood of his pelt pushed back, but no less wild for it. There were twigs caught in his hair.

“I would have an honest answer,” Vlad prompted.

“Because – because you are not a man. You are not a natural, mortal, Christian man. You are–” He looked to Cicero again, to Fen, and back to Vlad, miserable and terrified. “Life is good. Vladislav brought us peace with the Ottomans. Life is good, and you will ruin that. Your grace,” he tacked on at the end, ducking his head once more.

“Peace,” Vlad echoed. “Peace for people likeyou, you mean. For rich boyars, who do not need to give their sons and daughters over to Mehmet’s lust and soldiery.”

Albu lifted his head once more.

“Peace always has a price,” Vlad said. “Vladislav’s was other people’s children. Mine will be the blood of traitors like you.”

Vlad impaled his first man that night. Albu and his family.

“Let them see,” he said to Cicero. “Let Wallachia see what the sultan will do to them.”

“Right now, it’s what you are doing,” his wolf said, evenly, staring steadily at him.

“What I’m doing to my enemies. An eye for an eye, Cicero. A scar for a scar. A knife for a knife. That’s how I mean to rule this land.”

And that was how he did.

~*~

It was Easter, and boyars unfurled blankets, and unpacked portable feasts on the shaggy, wildflower-studded fields that lay just below the ruins of the old castle in the foothills of the Fagaras. They had been invited, by the prince himself, to enjoy the warm weather. All the boyars who feigned loyalty. Who’d gladly helped to kill the prince’s father, Dracul. They brought their wives, and children, their heirs, these nobles who had wanted to join in with Albu.

They stood when Vlad strode into their midst, all in crimson and sable and fine, dyed-red leather.

“Happy Easter,” he called, and the wind carried his voice through the field, loud, but not merry. “Welcome to the site of what will someday soon be one of my great fortresses.”

There were cheers. A smattering of applause.

Someone, a wife, turning to look for her wayward child, finally saw the soldiers moving into place. She touched her husband’s arm, and pointed, and then others looked. And then they all noticed. Wallachian foot soldiers in full armor, spears braced on their shoulders, swords belted at their hips.

The happy chattering shifted in tone; grew distressed, worried.

“My men have brought stone, and mortar, and timbers,” Vlad continued. “And you, my loyal boyars, will be the manpower.”

They all turned to him, wearing faces of shock, and horror. Disbelief.

“Roll up your sleeves, ladies and gentlemen. You’re going to build me a castle. And after, if you can still stand, you may fall on your knees and beg me to spare your miserable, traitorous lives.”

~*~

None survived that Easter of forced labor. The boyars who’d killed his family were dead; the few who didn’t collapse were impaled.

An eye for an eye.

After, Castle Dracula stood proudly silhouetted against the clear spring sky, a testament to the patience of Vlad Dracula.

Of VladTepes. The Impaler.

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