Page 240 of Dragon Slayer

They went out on horseback, all of them, and rode a quarter mile, through Vlad’s new forest, to meet the enemy. When they arrived, the mage and his party sat still in the saddle, horses reined up, their gazes affixed to the spectacle that Vlad had prepared for the sultan. The only sound was the caw and croak of ravens, and the occasional whimper, when the birds pecked at something that wasn’t quite dead yet.

Vlad knew the mage straight off; could smell him, the stink of char. He took immense satisfaction at the sight of the man – gray, and lined, and unimpressive as Fen had said, yes – with his head tipped back, his eyes wide, his mouth open.

Vlad halted his horse, and the others did so a half-pace behind him. They stayed mounted, though, when he swung down out of his saddle, and left Steel with a quick pat to the neck.

“Where’s your sultan?” Vlad called in Turkish.

The man blinked, and dropped his gaze, hastily trying to school his features. His smile fell short of blandly pleasant, though. “My Lord Dracula. It seems I have the advantage of you. My name is Timothée.” He executed a short bow from horseback.

“I didn’t ask what your name is. Where is Mehmet? What sort of sultan sends three men to face a foe?”

The mage chuckled, tightly. “Rest assured, he lies only ten miles or so behind me. He will come. But he’s sent me to make one last bid for peace.”

“Peace.”

Slowly, awkwardly, the man climbed down from the saddle. He was even less impressive on foot, short, and plump, and grandfatherly. If he hadn’t reeked of smoke and singed hair, nothing about him would have projected a threat.

But as it was, all of Vlad’s hackles were raised as Timothée walked toward him, and stopped only an arm’s length away, hands folded together in front of him. He smiled up at Vlad, truer this time, skin around his eyes crinkling. He projected confidence, now, unaccounted for. And Vlad felt apush. Gentle, exploratory; another mind trying to nudge against his own.

“My,” he murmured. “You really are savage, aren’t you? The stories have been impressive, but…” His gaze flicked up, over Vlad’s head, touching the tips of the spears that cast long shadows across the road. “Seeing it in person is an entirely different experience.” He focused on Vlad once more, their gazes locked, and pushed again, harder this time.

Vlad felt it like a chill rippling across his skin, but nothing more. “There’s nothing you can say that will foster a peace. Peace was never a consideration when I was a boy, and hit over the head; when I was stolen from my father. The chance for peace died with my brother’s virginity.”

Timothée flinched at the word.

“Go back to your master. Tell him to come back himself, and we can treat with steel.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I have nothing else to discuss with you.” He started to turn.

Timothée conjured a palmful of fire. All pretense of a smile fell from his face. “Surrender to me, and it will be easier for you.” He sent another push – a shove – at Vlad’s mind, struggling, clawing to get inside it, to bend him.

Vlad’s grip tightened on his sword. “You shouldn’t have come.”

~*~

“We march,” Mehmet said, after three days had passed, and Timothée had not returned. “He was useless anyway.”

But Val saw the spark of fear in his eyes.

They broke camp, and horses were saddled. The force that readied was not the force that had struck at Belgrade at the outset of this campaign; more than half sick, a third dead, those still healthy only so in the loosest of terms. When he gazed across them, Val didn’t see crack troops in gleaming steel; he saw limping, dirty, exhausted soldiers worn nearly to the bone, their helms dented, their armor patched, their clothes tattered.

For his own part, he knew an excited nervousness that left him reeling, sick to his stomach. The last time he’d been on this road, he’d been astride his favorite pony, trying to keep up with Vlad and his leggy gelding, Father and Cicero riding at the head of their small party, bound for Gallipoli, and a doomed meeting with Sultan Murat. It had been so long ago…but he knew these trees, the scents of sap, and cold mountain water; knew the sigh of the wind in the branches, and the red of the dust on the road.

This was home.

And he rode back to it now wearing a silver collar on his throat, and the brand of ownership on his soul.

“With me, Radu.”

Val didn’t have to ask why. With Vlad childless, Val was technically his brother’s heir. What better statement than to ride into Wallachia as a conqueror, with the Wallachian heir by your side?

Caught between hope and despair, Val couldn’t keep relaxed in the saddle, and his mare fidgeted and danced the whole way.

Until…

Four miles out from Tîrgoviste, Val smelled them.

They rounded a slow bend in the road, passed a screen of trees, and then hesawthem.

Tall, pointed-tipped wooden stakes lined the road ahead, two and three deep on either side, packed in close together, their shadows lying long across the ground. And on each spike: a body.

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