Page 237 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad pulled his sword from the neck of an Ottoman soldier – the man fell over, choking on his own blood, sword falling from a now-limp hand – and spurred his gray stallion forward. He was a new acquisition, one Vlad liked better every day. A big animal, smoke-colored, with fat dapples on his flanks and a thick, black mane and tail. Beautiful, but thought cruel by his previous master. He did have a temper, but he and Vlad got on well, and it had been easy to train him to bite and kick for battle.

Vlad touched him lightly with the rowels of his spurs, now, far back behind the girth, and the stallion – he’d named him Steel – kicked out with both hind legs as he leapt over a fallen soldier. A scream told Vlad the kick had connected with the enemies behind them.

But it was time to leave.

In the initial minutes of the raid, they’d managed to loose all the Ottoman horses, fire more than half the tents, trample, maim, kill, and destroy any semblance of order. But the generals were finally whipping their men to attention, arming them; bucket brigades were assembling to douse the fires; and the janissaries were on the march, as professional as always.

Cicero appeared at his side, four-legged, falling into stride beside the horse. Ahead, Malik rode into view, sword bloody, shining in the firelight.

“We can’t stay longer,” he said as Vlad reined in alongside him.

“I know. Where’s Eira?”

Fenrir howled, and they wheeled in that direction, riding two abreast, slashing at the lances and swords that reached for them, Cicero running ahead, snarling and terrible, sending Ottomans scattering. Men on horseback they knew how to engage, but the wolves frightened them near-senseless.

When they reached them, Fenrir and Eira were facing what looked like a whole company of janissaries.

But they weren’t alone. Vlad hesitated a moment, confused, when he saw the lean figure crossing swords with a janissary, gold hair loose and gleaming in the firelight, flash of metal around his throat.

Val. Defending Mother.

Vlad hadn’t ever watched him fight, not as a man grown, and for a moment, he sat, staring, dumbstruck. Because Val wasgood.

Val was more slender, and less obviously muscled than Vlad himself, but he was still a vampire, and still strong, and he was a quick, fluid sort of fighter, always moving, dancing, almost. The janissaries didn’t seem to know what to think about the fact that he’d turned on them, but that wouldn’t last.

Vlad heeled Steel forward, and they crashed into the janissary line from behind. Shouts, and the crunch of armor collapsing, and the snap of bone. Enough chaos for Vlad to catch his mother’s eye, and motion for her to retreat.

Val, she mouthed, eyes darting to him.

Vlad shook his head.

She glared at him, long and hard, furious, but then she wheeled her horse and was away, Fenrir following her.

Malik joined him, and Cicero, and they pushed through the line, and then loose, pounding out of the camp, and into the dark of the forest.

~*~

They rendezvoused at the appointed place, a clearing on a rise a half-mile from the Ottoman camp. Vlad slid from the saddle and loosened his girth so Steel could catch his breath; let his reins out so the horse could drink from the trickling little creek that burbled to life amid the rocks here.

Eira left her horse in Helga’s care and stalked toward him, eyes fairly blazing. “You left him,” she accused, voice laced with a growl.

“So did you,” he said, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. She trembled beneath his palm. “We had to leave him. Once we kill Mehmet, we’ll bring him back. Mother, Iswear.”

She turned away from him. “When we kill Mehmet. You keep saying that.”

“We’ll do it.”

Cicero shifted back to his two-legged form, and pushed back the hood of his pelt. “They suffered losses tonight.” He sounded proud, still breathless from running.

“They did,” Vlad agreed. But he couldn’t smile. “But not enough.”

Because now they would retreat again. Every day, they fell back farther toward Tîrgoviste, and there, Vlad knew, would be the last stand.

~*~

A slave offered Timothée a cold, damp cloth, wetted from the creek, and the mage pressed it gingerly to his swollen eye with a hiss.

“What do you mean, you were attacked?” Mehmet demanded for the second time.

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