Much Fall of Blood-ARC Read online

  The Knights of the Holy Trinity worried her most. They were protected, curse them. On the other hand . . . they could be trapped. Confined to a wing, while she did her work on Vlad and the girl. Then the two could be magically prepared for the rape, murder and bloodletting that she planned to turn their ancient ritual into. Oh yes, the Prince and Princess of Valahia would share blood. Her share would be all of it. Every drop drained from those bodies. And a dark rite and a binding of the water-dwellers. First of course they would need to be driven into her net. Betrayal and self-disgust would break their wills. She could start on the girl tonight . . .

  Then she realized she couldn't. Not even with her abilities. There were just too many of them. She couldn't even walk down her own corridors. And she would need all her power tomorrow. She would even forgo the seduction—stopping just short of actual penetration, that she had planned for Vlad. But he was no longer a virgin. Would it matter? The book had clearly stated 'innocent and willing' were requirements for the blood-letting. Count Mindaug had assured her that bending Vlad's and Dana's wills to her purpose would work. They would be "willing."

  * * *

  On the snowy hills beyond the barrier she had set up, very nearly the entire pack—only old Silva, left to tend Dana's mother—men, women, and children roamed. The barrier held them back. But . . .she would have to lift it. Have to move them to the place at the head of the Jiu valley where it all began.

  And somehow they had to stop her. The wyverns might have the power to cross the barrier. But they were busy, busy with the call. Calling the ancient dwellers of the forest to come to the open place, the place of stones . . . to be betrayed, enslaved and killed.

  * * *

  In the filthy cell, Dana cried. No one came. But there were others, weeping. Screaming too. Eventually, Dana found something. Her courage. Her pride. And she began to sing. A hymn. A prayer. It seemed the only thing appropriate for this place."Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen. "

  "Hush," said someone in nearby cell. A frightened tearful child's voice. "They will hurt you if you sing . . . that. Maybe even kill you."

  "They dare not let me live," said Dana, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "So I may as well sing. God may hear me. And when they kill me, God having heard me will be of more use to me." She began again. This time, by the third repetition, the other child in the nearby cell began singing too. More voices joined. Some called for them to shut up. Some still screamed or cried.

  * * *

  Vlad had found a place to be alone, and outside the walls. On the top of a turreted tower, he had them erect his little Ger. And he stood, breathing great breaths of icy air that no-one shared, that was not confined by walls. He felt faintly guilty at taking over Elizabeth's castle like this. But the welfare of his men came first.

  A wolf howled out the night. Vlad gave in to his inner self. He howled back. And was answered by a chorus . . .

  "Talking to the wolves?" said Erik.

  Vlad smiled. "They can go south. I must stay here."

  Erik looked at the Ger.

  Looked at Vlad. Looked at the Ger again. "Do mind if I share your quarters tonight?" he asked, abruptly. "I can't take it down there. I have a bedding roll."

  Vlad felt a little nonplussed. He liked his privacy. But . . . He nodded. "Of course."

  Erik smiled. He looked a bit pale. But perhaps it was the moonlight. "Thank you."

  Somewhere, far away, Vlad could hear someone singing the Ave Maria. A sad, young woman's voice. Sad yet strong. It must be one of the nuns.

  * * *

  "Where is Erik?" demanded Bortai. "The tall blond man . . ."

  "I know who you mean," said the shaman grinning at her. "Where are your chaperones, Princess?"

  "Down the hall, eating. They do not worry about you," said Bortai calmly. "Now, have you seen Erik?"

  "The witch-smeller was looking unwell. Maybe he went to look for some air," said the shaman.

  "You really think he is a witchsmeller?" It was something of very high status among the Horde.

  "I think so, yes. He is untrained though. No one has taught him. But I see magic and the workings. He smells it. There is much here. This place is full of spells."

  "I don't like her," said Bortai, abruptly, feeling foolish. She sounded like a jealous young fourteen year old. "Her smile isn't real. It doesn't go to her eyes."

  The old Shaman nodded. "She is full of spells. All over."

  "I'd better find him. We should leave this place."

  The shaman nodded. "The tengeri here . . . are afraid."

  "I'm not going without him," said Bortai, knowing that she was being stupid and utterly transparent.

  He nodded. "I think that would be a mistake." He pointed to Manfred, making his way past. "Perhaps he will know."

  Manfred did. He laughed. "On top of one of the turrets, with Vlad. Both fast asleep in that felt tent. How they got it up there I do not know. They're a sight. Both sleeping with their swords laid like crosses on their chests."

  "They are all right?" That was how they had laid the knights for burial . . . "They are not dead?"

  Manfred shook his head. "Trust me. No one snores quite like Erik. He and Vlad were doing a beautiful duet. He woke up when I looked in. He sleeps like a cat. I was worried about him, so I went to check," said his overlord. He grinned at Bortai. "You'll get used to the snoring, really, after a week or two. Francesca had a very ladylike little trumpet. She used to get very angry when I told her about it."

  "I do not know what you mean," said Bortai a little stiffly. Maybe she didn't understand as much Frankish as she thought.

  He grinned. "We'll see. Good night. I don't think I'll find entertainment or even strong drink tonight."

  Chapter 72

  Elizabeth's morning was no more pleasurable. The city of Caedonia was one of the largest and richest in all Valahia. It was also her back yard. Emeric had made sure it would stay loyal. He had troops garrisoned there, and a loyal council, and town elders.

  She had to turn all that around. Of course she didn't really want to surrender it. Just get rid of the bulk of Vlad's troop. And given the short time she had available, it would be hard to set up as a trap . . . still, with magical communications, she thought she could do it effectively.

  Vlad had ridden to Caedonia that morning. All the fools in the city had to do was hide and wait until the billeted troops were asleep that night.

  The gates were open, as she'd ordered. Vlad's troops entered the city, with him at their head.

  And then it had all gone wrong.

  The city had greeted him like a long lost savior. Vlad got the sort of rapturous liberator's welcome that Elizabeth was sure Emeric had never got from these ingrates. They'd also greeted Vlad with a gibbet.

  With her people hanging from it. And far from hiding the troops which had been there to deal with matters that night, the towns-people were desperately eager to help flush them out. Even though it meant burning a few of the town's buildings. Most of the Slovene troops had been far too willing to surrender, offering their own officers' heads as tokens of this.

  And Vlad had been far from pleased with them. He seemed to take no pleasure in the hangings, and ordered the bodies taken down for a decent burial immediately.

  "There will be no more hangings without the process of law," he told the town-representatives, bluntly.

  They were stunned. As she had been. But . . . once it sunk in, they were not displeased . . . except , as the head of the goldsmith's guild pointed out, one of the men they'd hung was the chief justice imposed on them by King Emeric. "And he'd have hung us, not those that deserved it," said the goldsmith.

  Vlad had rubbed his chin. Nodded. "A reasonable point. I like the Székeler way of doing it. You will elect your own chief justice in future. He will answer f
irst to God, then to you when he faces re-election. Every ten years, shall we say. And of course finally to me."

  There was a another silence. The goldsmith—Elizabeth resolved to remember him, coughed. "Wouldn't that diminish your authority, Drac?"

  Vlad shook his head. "No. Not if you think about it. It will, I hope, increase the respect and affection my people hold for me."

  The goldsmith took a deep breath. "It does mine, Drac."

  Vlad had them eating out of his hand, damn him. And he didn't seem to care what power he was giving up, and how long it would take her to set the city to rights again. She might just have to burn it down and start afresh.

  And worse, the process took time. It was after none, the ninth hour of the day, and already heading into dusk, before she got back to her estate. To add to her irritation, they had not shed enough of his retinue to make her happy. The knights were still with him. And so was the little contingent of Mongol she hadn't noticed before. There were several women with them, who might be usable.

  She excused herself fairly soon after they got back, leaving them to dine without her. Firstly, she needed to make sure that the knights would be trapped in the wing they were to be quartered in. Then she would go down to her dungeon and begin work on the girl. At midnight, she would summon Vlad to the chapel.

  * * *

  Bortai had refused to stay in the comfortable lodgings that a wary—but eager to impress—town had offered the Mongol. No, they must remain with the Khan-over-the-Mountains, she had said in what she hoped was a polite fashion to the translator. It was odd that her Frankish was now far more fluent than the few words of Vlachs that she had. Of course a number of Vlachs words had crept in to the Mongol vocabulary via the slaves. That brought a moment of guilt to her. If Ion had been with them he could have spoken to these people. But of course you could hardly take a Vlachs slave into Valahia. He would run away . . . He deserved more than the rewards he had been given.

  She felt like a prisoner herself in this place.

  * * *

  The guests had finally retired . . . and Elizabeth's work was done. The knights would not leave that wing. They were walled in.

  On the handful of Mongol and Vlad's Székely guards, she'd merely settled for locking them in, and binding the doors with minor magics.

  Elizabeth had taken Dana and the girl from the next cell for the start to her work. They would almost certainly have spoken. And her watchers reported that they'd been trying for heavenly aid. Both of them.

  "One of you broke my rules," she said. "One of you was praying. One of you two will be cleaning human excretement from the cells with your hands. After your face has been rubbed in it."

  To the peasant child that would be disgusting. To the daughter of a noble house far worse . . .

  "It . . ."

  "Be quiet until you are told to speak, peasant brat. Lady Dana. Was it you?" That first denial. That first lie. The first choice to let someone else take your punishment . . . oh it would be sweet.

  "Yes," said Dana. "It was." And she began to sing again.

  "Gag her," hissed Elizabeth. "Gag the little bitch. Strip her naked. I want her intact. But a beating and then you can sodomise her, Janos. Bring me my whip."

  She would break her. If need be she would do it by magic. But first she'd bleed a little.

  The little thing fought like a wildcat when they tried to take her clothes. They ended up tearing them off.

  * * *

  "It is pulling me apart," said Vlad.

  He was, Erik noted, sweating. It was cold enough to frost the battlements. In the background the wolves howled.

  "Let us go down to the chapel. It's at the entry to the nunnery," said Erik. "Prayer will help."

  So they walked down. The place was oddly quiet, as if something was swallowing even the sound of their footfalls.

  They went. Someone was plainly preparing to clean the enormous chapel. Perhaps because of the attached nunnery it could take several hundred people. The pews had been removed, and it was very big and empty. The huge carpet that had given such unexpected comfort to their knees had been rolled back. They walked up the steps to the dias and knelt at the altar below the ornate sliver cross. Fat candles burned there.

  Vlad bowed his head . . . and then stopped. "Erik. Do you read Latin?" he said.

  Erik nodded. "Yes."

  Vlad pointed to the small inscription below the cross. "What does that say? Was I taught wrongly?"

  Erik had seen the familiar words. Not really read them. Now he did, translating. "Our father who was in heaven . . ."

  He turned around to look at his companion and his eyes were caught by a pattern. He looked instead at the floor behind them. "Vlad," he said quietly. "We need the knights. I think we have stumbled on something that we need their help with."

  "What?"

  "Look at the floor."

  Exposed now, they could see they stood in a pentacle, inset into the floor. The altar was inside it, the point going up into the nave of the chapel.

  Neither said anything. But Erik could swear that he heard a dark chuckle.

  And somehow the passages seemed to have twisted on them. Ten minutes later they found themselves back at the doors to the chapel.

  "Draw your sword," said Erik.

  Vlad did, warily.

  "Reverse the blade and touch it to the ground."

  Erik felt a vague jolt as he did so. "I wish we were in full armor," he said. "Now . . . It's that way."

  It wasn't easy because the candles kept going out ahead of them . . . but this time they found their way to the door to the wing where the knights were housed.

  Only there was no door.

  Just massive stone blocks and mortar, visible in the moonlight from the arrow slit.

  Erik pounded on it.

  It was no illusion.

  "And now?" said Vlad.

  Erik took a deep breath. "Dark magics, friend. Very black." He pondered for a moment. "It is the antithesis of Christianity. It opposes us well. Let's try the Mongol. That shaman of theirs . . . was something different. The door should be down those stairs and to the right. Let us see if that is stone too.

  It wasn't.

  But it wasn't opening either.

  There was not even a crack that they could get their swords into—although they could see the crack in the moonlight. To the touch it was smooth. It felt like glass.

  * * *

  Bortai had endured a tough evening. Not only was she less than comfortable in this place, but their hostess had talked to her. That had meant in Frankish—a second language for both of them. The countess spoke it fluently, however. She was . . . polite. She had pried into Bortai's private life. Whether she had any suitors. It was something many women might wish to know. But not on first meeting! Bortai had been coy about her relationships and her rank. She'd stuck to the theme of 'simple Mongol warrior's daughter who speaks some Frankish': that was why she was here." She'd been uneasy speaking to the woman. She was, quite literally, flawless. Her skin showed none of the tiny signs of wind, sun and weather that Bortai was aware that her own skin showed. And everything, from her teeth to her eyebrows was perfectly symmetrical. That wasn't natural, surely?

  Then the woman had excused herself, saying she had work to do. What work? Those hands had never as much as pushed a needle. She had just wanted to get away from them. Bortai had not found it possible to talk to Erik. He'd kept away at the only time they could have mingled, when their hostess was talking to her.

  And now . . . her unease was terrible. She took Magdun, one of her accompanying chaperones, and went to find the shaman Kaltegg. She found the old man laying small stones on the floor in a complex pattern by the door. He kept tapping his little quodba drum.

  "Some bad things out there," he said. "But this is a strong country if you reach deep enough. The bad is new."

  * * *

  "Let us try our swords as crosses against it."

  Erik nodded. "And maybe . . .
I think a psalm?"

  Vlad had a deep, clear tuneful baritone. Erik was not very musical, but he had a strong voice to follow . . .

  And there was a sound from inside.

  * * *

  They both heard the singing. The shaman smiled. "Ah. He reaches for the deep bones of the land. And it gives him strength.

  "That is Erik's voice too," said Bortai and tried to open the door. It would not open. She called to him.

  The shaman came and tried it as well.

  Then his eyes narrowed and he reached into his pouch. He pulled out a small doe-skin bag, opened the drawstring and took out a pinch of something. He blew it at the door. And the door slammed open to reveal two startled looking men, Vlad and Erik.

  Without thinking about it Bortai ran out and hugged Erik. And then backed off, hastily.

  "My magic is stronger than her magic," said the shaman grinning like a rather mischievous boy. "Really, I think it is just different. She draws on demons. I draw on the land and the tengeri of it."

  The noise had roused the entire Mongol contingent, and, armed and half dressed, they had come out into the passage.

  "We have a problem," said Erik, simply, with no further ado. "We have found some terrible magic, vile and black, and somehow there is a wall shutting the knights in. Can you help us?"

  The Mongols only waited long enough to arm up completely and get boots on—which was wise, because a man that stepped on something sharp in a fight was a cripple and useless. They followed Erik and Vlad through the hallways. It was dark, all the candles in the sconces having gone out, and the moonlight being limited by the paucity of windows. The shaman muttered. He reached into his pouch. Felt about . . . and came out with something that looked like a little fluffy ball of light. He teased some strands off it. Handed each of them some of the threads. "Moonlight," he said. "I catch it in the fine lambs-wool and keep it. Tie it to your helmets." It helped.

  Thus lit, they came to where the door to the wing that the knights were in should be . . . and now a very solid wall stood, keyed in to the arch.

  The shaman nodded thoughtfully. "Very clever. Real stones," he said, tapping them. Erik was not tapping. He was pounding. It did make a noise, but not much. If there was any sound from inside, they could not hear it.