Death of Kings
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
“Son of the Dragon”, Book One of Dracula
Chronicles (December 2012)
“Empire of the Crescent Moon”, Book Two of
Dracula Chronicles (March 2014)
“House of War”, Book Three of Dracula
Chronicles (May 2016)
Death of Kings
Book Four of Dracula Chronicles
By
Victor T. Foia
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Dracula Chronicles
Book Four: Death of Kings
By: Victor T. Foia
First edition
Published by: Dracula Press, LLC
www.draculachronicles.com info@draculachronicles.com
Copyright of the Bestiary Scriptorium Product #169781 is held by Ragnarok Press
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Cover artwork by Justin T. Foia
The image of the dragon on the cover property of Bayerisches Nationalmuseum
Reproduced with permission based on a slightly modified image of Inv. No T 3792,
“Badge of the Order of the Dragon”
Copyright © 2018 by Victor T. Foia
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the
above publisher of this book.
ISBN-13: 9781983902901
ISBN-10: 198390290X
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900993
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
For Diane
Table of Contents
Maps of Dracula Chronicles
Houses of Dracula Chronicles
CHAPTER 1: Let Your Blood Erase Your Sins
CHAPTER 2: Ismail’s Gift
CHAPTER 3: Tembel the Idler
CHAPTER 4: Son of a Cardinal
CHAPTER 5: The Mint House
CHAPTER 6: Memories of Donatella
CHAPTER 7: Gershom ben Judah
CHAPTER 8: The Letter Written
CHAPTER 9: The Bridge of War
CHAPTER 10: Heart of Lion
CHAPTER 11: Bull Baiting
CHAPTER 12: A Memorial Procession
CHAPTER 13: Fire at the Gate
CHAPTER 14: Loss of a Friend
CHAPTER 15: Grendel
CHAPTER 16: Fog in Venice
CHAPTER 17: Padriciano
CHAPTER 18: Incidental Fortune-Teller
CHAPTER 19: The Poet Laureate
CHAPTER 20: Lunch at the Chancellery
CHAPTER 21: The Tale of Two Lovers
CHAPTER 22: The Poet’s New Clothes
CHAPTER 23: The Strong Box
CHAPTER 24: A Dragon and a Pharaoh
CHAPTER 25: Heidi and Amber
CHAPTER 26: Frederick in his Laboratory
CHAPTER 27: From Neustadt to Buda
CHAPTER 28: Unexpected Reunion
CHAPTER 29: Signs of Conspiracy
CHAPTER 30: A Transylvanian Dish
CHAPTER 31: Khalil Pasha
CHAPTER 32: Szilágyi’s Library
CHAPTER 33: Mesut the Messenger
CHAPTER 34: Monogramma Christi
CHAPTER 35: Soldier of Christ
CHAPTER 36: Bonfire of the Vanities
CHAPTER 37: The Wrath of the Mob
CHAPTER 38: Tembel’s Mission
CHAPTER 39: Ambush at Dawn
CHAPTER 40: Brothers Reunited
CHAPTER 41: A Genovese Apothecary
CHAPTER 42: The Royal Palace
CHAPTER 43: Audience with the King
CHAPTER 44: Fellow Sufferers
CHAPTER 45: Strict Preconditions
CHAPTER 46: The Letter Read
CHAPTER 47: The Unfinished Tower
CHAPTER 48: Arguments and Counter Arguments
CHAPTER 49: Two Farewells
CHAPTER 50: A Grisly Gift
CHAPTER 51: Tisza River
CHAPTER 52: A Brother’s Taunt
CHAPTER 53: Oyster Stew
CHAPTER 54: Sufficient unto the Day
CHAPTER 55: Seeing Old Friends
CHAPTER 56: Hunyadi’s Bribe
CHAPTER 57: The Sultan’s Funeral Shroud
CHAPTER 58: Thoughts of Ā’isha
CHAPTER 59: Light in the Sky
CHAPTER 60: Bearer of Bad News
CHAPTER 61: Swollen River
CHAPTER 62: The Barge
CHAPTER 63: Stay Calm, Stay Alive
CHAPTER 64: A Timely Intervention
CHAPTER 65: Dei Gracia
CHAPTER 66: A Modest Request
CHAPTER 67: Hekim Sabuncu
CHAPTER 68: Hannibal at the Gates
CHAPTER 69: Mehmed’s Harquebusiers
CHAPTER 70: Elma Island
CHAPTER 71: The Flight of the Cranes
CHAPTER 72: Green-Eyed Lover
CHAPTER 73: A Generous Reward
CHAPTER 74: Danakil Reappears
CHAPTER 75: A Lesson Request
CHAPTER 76: A Surprise Visitor
CHAPTER 77: Back from the Brink
CHAPTER 78: Ambitious Dream
CHAPTER 79: Reconciliation
CHAPTER 80: The Sultan’s Guns
CHAPTER 81: Uprising in Buda
CHAPTER 82: A Narrow Escape
CHAPTER 83: Pax Mehmeda
CHAPTER 84: A Thanksgiving Mass
CHAPTER 85: The Papal Bull
CHAPTER 86: Bad News
CHAPTER 87: A Very Brief Lesson
CHAPTER 88: Mehmed’s Tuğ
CHAPTER 89: Trust and Secrecy
CHAPTER 90: King Dracul in Nicopolis
CHAPTER 91: A Coffin for a King
CHAPTER 92: Golden Horn
CHAPTER 93: A Visit with Donatella
CHAPTER 94: The Peach Kiss
CHAPTER 95: The Son of a Merchant
CHAPTER 96: A Confident Lady
CHAPTER 97: Wine and Gold
CHAPTER 98: The Cannon Foundry
CHAPTER 99: Master Orban
CHAPTER 100: Anadolu Hisarı
CHAPTER 101: Fortuna Audaces Iuvat
CHAPTER 102: Night on the Bosphorus
CHAPTER 103: Terror in the Dark
CHAPTER 104: The Demands of Honor
CHAPTER 105: Radu in Uniform
CHAPTER 106: King Norbert Turns Twenty
CHAPTER 107: The Shepherd and the Map
CHAPTER 108: Mehmed’s Assignment
CHAPTER 109: Wolf’s Knoll
CHAPTER 110: Taken by Surprise
CHAPTER 111: A Foolish Provocation
CHAPTER 112: Duel in Thieves’ Valley
CHAPTER 113: Witness to the Battle
CHAPTER 114: The Battle Begins
CHAPTER 115: A Moment of Uncertainty
CHAPTER 116: Plans for a Victory Feast
CHAPTER 117: An Involuntary Parting
CHAPTER 118: Nulla captivis
CHAPTER 119: Between Light and Darkness
The Journey Continues
Glossary
Who is Who and What is What
Story World of Dracula Chronicles
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Southeast Europe & Asia Minor in the Time of Dracula
Balkan Space in the Time of Dracula
Wallachia in the Time of Dracula
Tr
ansylvania in the Time of Dracula
Constantinople in the Time of Dracula
House of Basarab
House of Novak
House of Alba
House of Hunyadi
House of Brankovich
House of Cilli
House of Luxemburg
House of Osman
1
Let Your Blood Erase Your Sins
December 1443, Albania
As Vlad stared at the approaching Akinci he held his breath and dug his nails into the heels of his hands. An icy draft pouring through the gap in the siding made his eyes water. The Turk wore an oversized conical helmet with chain mail earflaps and a nose guard that reached to his lower lip. The original owner of this war trophy had been a large man. Behind the Akinci the yard remained empty. If his companions emerged from their search of the house before he entered the barn, all would be lost for Vlad and Gruya. Oh, they’d fight even though unarmed; but with three Akincis facing them it would be a short and inglorious struggle.
Vlad glanced at Gruya, flattened against the barn wall on the other side of the door, but had no time to signal his intentions to him: the door flew open under the Akinci’s kick.
The man leaned through the doorway and belched, as he peered into the semi-darkness of the barn. Vlad punched him hard in the side of his head. The Turk’s knees buckled and the kiliç fell from his hand. Vlad dragged him away from the threshold and said, “Leave the door ajar.”
“Is he dead?” Gruya whispered.
Vlad took hold of the kiliç and swiped the blade across the Akinci’s throat. “He is now.”
“What’s taking you so long, Aslan?” a voice came from the yard.
“Are you pleasuring yourself again?” another voice added.
Though he’d expected the two Akincis to surface soon, Vlad still experienced a shock at hearing them so nearby.
“I’m taking a shit,” he shouted in a strained voice he hoped would fool the men. “You can pleasure yourself too by wiping me.”
The Akincis laughed and lobbed ‘Aslan’ a string of curses.
Gruya peered through the space between two wall boards. “They’re leaving.”
Vlad began to remove his clothes with frantic moves. “Quick, strip to your breeches.” He tossed his cloak and tunic to the ground, then removed his shirt and dipped it into the pool of blood at his feet. “Keep your hood and scapular.” He tied the bloody shirt to his waist.
Gruya imitated his moves.
“Now take your cincture and whip my back with it.”
Gruya laid his knotted rope ineffectually upon Vlad’s back.
“Harder.”
Gruya repeated the strike with more energy, but failed to satisfy Vlad.
“Think of something I’ve done that peeved you, then hit me like you mean it.”
When Gruya’s third strike was still too lame, Vlad snatched the rope from his hand.
“This is for that time you ate all the plums you and I stole, without waiting for me.” He lashed Gruya across the back.
“Ouch,” Gruya yelped. “I was only ten.”
“And this is for spending the silver you were supposed to bring me for my escape.” Vlad struck Gruya hard three times in a row then tossed the rope to him.
Gruya bared his teeth in a mean grin. “Ah, you want to bring money into the discussion? Well then, this is for your turning down the gift of silver which could’ve set us free long ago.”
This time Vlad had no reason to complain about Gruya’s lashing.
“And this is for getting me circumcised against my will,” Gruya added.
By the time they’d dredged out all the mutual outrages they could remember, their backs had become crisscrossed with bleeding welts. They hauled the Akinci’s corpse to the darkest corner of the barn and covered it with their own cloaks. Afterward they blotted out the pool of his blood by kicking dirt over it. Then they left the barn at a run and joined the mass of flagellants still milling about in the road. No one paid attention to them.
The half-naked penitents were frustrated by their inability to resume their march. Blue-lipped and shivering, they were shifting their weight from one foot to the other, mumbling to themselves. Some were scourging their backs without conviction, as if to warm themselves up.
Smoke began to rise from a house at the entrance to the village.
“Hamza’s trying to flush us out,” Vlad whispered to Gruya. “Soon he’ll have all the houses on fire.” He shouted in Greek, “I want to be martyred in the crusade, not in this stinking village. In the name of the True Cross, move on Brothers. Let’s show these heathens that nothing can stop our journey to the Holy Land.”
Vlad’s cry was reprised by several voices and repeated in dialects Vlad didn’t recognize. Someone launched into chant in broken Latin:
Beat your bones and tear your skin
Let your blood erase your sin.
Many voices replied in unison:
Our pilgrimage is right
Christ will help us with his might.
“Onward, Brothers,” Vlad shouted.
“The crusade doesn’t wait for us to drag our asses,” Gruya hollered in his defective Greek. Then he dove into the thickest part of the crowd and began to lash men at random with his knotted rope. “And whip your backs in Christ’s name as if you were whipping Satan’s wife, not stroking her tits.”
The mob reacted to Gruya’s prodding by chanting louder. Then, as if pushed by a strong wind they set simultaneously in motion toward the village exit, four abreast. They trudged on, ungainly with tired feet, bloody shirts bunched around their waists. Some carried heavy wooden crosses; their neighbors assisted them by lashing their backs. Gruya was particularly helpful to such a cross-bearer marching ahead of him. He laid his knotted rope to the man’s back with the zeal of a true believer. The penitent’s cries testified to the sincerity of Gruya’s charitable work.
When they reached the last pair of houses marking the end of the village, the flagellants found their way barred by a row of mounted Turks, lances pointed at them.
Vlad peeked from under his hood to see Hamza at the center of the row, lips tight, eyebrows furrowed.
“Let this rabble clear the village, Hamza,” Vlad heard Ameses shout from somewhere behind the horses. “It will make it easier for us to ferret out the Wallachians.”
Hamza said something Vlad couldn’t hear. A gap opened in the row of horses, just wide enough for one person to pass through. One of the Turks dismounted and stood on the side of the passage.
“One at the time,” he shouted.
The crowd began to drain slowly through the opening ordered by Hamza.
Vlad pulled his hood down over his nose and bent forward; he continued to whip his back and chant. Gruya did the same, a few paces ahead of him. When they got close to the checkpoint, Vlad observed the Turk would closely examine each penitent’s back. Satisfied, he would then strike the man across the back of his knees with the staff of his lance. The vetted penitent would inevitably fall to his knees and crawl through the passage on all fours.
“Forgive him Father for he knows not—” Gruya managed to intone before he too fell to his knees.
When Vlad received his own blow as sign he was cleared to pass, he felt as if he’d been caressed with a feather, so full of gratitude was he for this reprieve.
A mile farther down the road, the flagellants came to a crossroads where they stopped and began to bicker over the direction to follow. Behind them the sky was dark with the smoke rising from the burning village. Vlad and Gruya put on their shirts and continued to walk along the eastern bank of the Black Drin. Soon they arrived at a rickety bridge and were about to cross it when a shout startled them.
“Master Vlad! Master Gruya!”
Lash emerged from behind a nearby bush and rushed at them, face stretched in a toothy smile. He took Vlad’s hand into both of his and kissed it; his joy resembled that of a father whose child had been restored to hi
m against all odds. He wrapped Vlad in his own mantle.
Only then did Vlad realize his hands and chest were numb, while his back was aflame. A glance at Gruya, whose lips had turned blue and whose teeth were chattering, told him his friend was in the same shape.
“Help me share your mantle with Gruya,” Vlad asked Lash. Then the three of them trudged across the bridge.
An isolated farm beckoned them from the far riverbank with a wisp of smoke rising through its thatched roof. An old peasant was splitting firewood in his front yard. When he saw the three strangers approach he raised his ax in a defensive stance.
Vlad retrieved Skanderbeg’s medallion from Lash and showed it to the old man. “Unë jam një mik i, George Castriota, I’m a friend of George Castriota.”
The peasant squinted suspiciously at the shiny disk; then a sign of recognition flickered in his eyes.
“You aren’t Albanians,” he said in Greek. “But if you’re friends of our hero, I’ll treat you as if you were my sons.”
The cottage was lit by sunlight entering through an unglazed window, that was covered with a pig’s bladder. Though cramped and malodorous, the tiny space appeared to Vlad more welcoming than many a noble chamber he’d seen. An old woman, bent almost in half, stared at them in silence from near the hearth, her eyes milky with cataracts. The man said something to her in a kind tone and she shuffled to a corner of the room. There she felt her way to a concealed cubbyhole whence she extracted a cloth bundle.
The man unwrapped the bundle to expose a few slices of onions and three fist-sized balls of yellowed cheese. “It’s not much, but it’s yours. I’m called Kostandin.”
Gruya shot his arm forward and grabbed one of the balls.
Vlad slapped his hand. “That will feed these folks for a week.” He took a pinch of cheese and crossed himself before putting it into his mouth.
Reluctantly Gruya followed suit. Lash would not partake in the repast until Vlad gave him an encouraging sign.
“Ragusa?” Kostandin said when he learned of Vlad’s intended destination. “That’s nearly two weeks’ march from here. You’ll never make it without proper clothing and food.”