Page 243 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad gave himself a mental shake.To see you as a man. Romulus wanted him to go back to the past. To feel small, and weak, and captive.

But a forest of Ottoman dead along the roadside spoke to his manhood. And Romulus was one blood relative who could not sway him.

“You haven’t changed, though,” Vlad said. “Landless, wifeless, crownless. Just as always.”

Romulus laughed, loudly, his head thrown back, his eyes dancing when he leveled them on Vlad next. “Oh, Vlad, you’re charmingly terrible.” He grinned with all his teeth, positively beamed. But Vlad caught a whiff of disquiet; something unhappy in his scent. “I could have used you in the Rome of my day. So many lickspittles, all liars and traitors, but not you. You’re honest, even when you shouldn’t be. I like that. Insults are easier suffered than the knives of conspirators.”

Vlad gestured toward the door. “Those men you rode past on your way in. Do you think insults killed them?”

Another laugh, this a soft chuckle, and the smile dimmed. “I could tell nothing of their faces.” He composed himself, properly somber. “Who were they?”

“Don’t play ignorant. You know who they are. Ottomans. Enemies. And,” Vlad said with sudden relish, “one French mage. Sadly, he had a quick death; I impaled him myself.” He lifted a hand, and flexed his fingers to demonstrate.

“How proud you must be.” But something flickered in his eyes, almost like fear.

“What of you? Are you proud, Uncle? Of me? Or of your heir?”

The last of Romulus’s good humor seemed to melt away. He stared forward, stony-faced, and shifted his stance so that he stood with heels together, hands folded before him. “My heir–” he began.

“Tucked tail and ran,” Vlad continued. “I killed his men, and he fled before me. Some heir that is. Some choice you made.”

Romulus lifted his brows. “Are you finished?” When Vlad kept silent, he said, “Yes, Mehmet is my heir, and yes, I’m proud. He’s done wonderfully. He conquered Constantinople. Whereas you have…” He spread his hands to indicate the throne room. It was no great soaring space like some, but it was grand enough by far for Vlad. “This,” his uncle said, dripping contempt. “I chose Mehmet because he is ambitious. Because he has a thirst for greatness. And I knew that you would always be happy grubbing in the mud of some backwater territory. Just like your father.”

Vlad pulled the dagger from its sheath on his thigh, and threw it.

Romulus dodged it – but barely – and it clattered to the stones of the floor.

“That” – Vlad stabbed a finger toward the door, toward the spectacle that had sent Mehmet running – “isn’t anything like what my father would have done. What do you want, Uncle? Someone to conquer the world for you? You picked the wrong warrior.”

Romulus inclined his head a fraction. “Perhaps I did.”

“Close the doors,” Vlad said to the guards at the door, and they complied.

Romulus lifted a hand, though, and they paused. “A moment, nephew. If you’ll allow my advisors to join us.”

Vlad stood. “No.”

“Really?” Romulus asked, as the heavy doors thumped shut, and Vlad descended the dais, already reaching for the sword that Cicero offered him. “You’re going to execute me?” He sounded both bored and amused.

“No.” Fenrir pulled another sword, and offered its hilt to Romulus with a glare and a low growl. “I’m going to duel you.”

He scoffed.

Vlad drew his father’s Toledo blade with the hiss of steel on leather. “Let’s see what the King of Rome is really made of.”

Romulus stared at him.

“That’s your great secret, isn’t it? The truth? You might have been a king, but you were never a warrior, and a poor vampire on top of it. You always need someone else to get blood on their hands for you.”

Romulus opened his mouth, and his fangs descended. He reached for the sword, and drew it.

The wolves stepped back, and they circled one another; Vlad’s pulse leaped in anticipation; he felt at home like this, pacing, sizing up his opponent. He didn’t truly live in his own skin until he was about to throw himself teeth-first into a fight.

“I’ll give you the first strike,” Vlad offered. “Elders first.”

Romulus lowered his head and growled, a deep, awful, inhuman sound, like a tiger in the gladiator pits of Rome.

Vlad answered with aroar.

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