The Conqueror came up the Danube. The scourge of Rome, the breaker of walls…the taker of brothers. He came.
Hold fast, Hunyadi’s letter to Vlad read, when he opened it on horseback, mountain wind threatening to tear the paper from his hand, Cicero on one side, and Malik on the other.Whatever happens, hold fast, and if I can’t break him, then by God, it’s up to you.
“He only has Capistrano’s peasant soldiers,” Cicero said grimly.
“He has his own men,” Vlad said, folding the parchment, tucking it into his belt. “His professionals. And he has motive, besides.”
It turned out that motive was a hell of a thing, when the forces clashed at Belgrade.
~*~
Val watched from the deck of the sultan’s private ship, anchored out in deep water, well away from the fighting. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and he watched, breathless with excitement, as, on the shore, a bloodied Mehmet was put into a boat and rowed back out.
He’d failed.
He’dfailed.
Up on the hill, the fortress of Belgrade sat unmolested, Hungarian flag snapping in the breeze, and, below it, the flag of House Hunyadi.
The governor of Transylvania had turned back the Conqueror.
Val had watched as Ottomans swarmed the shore, steel glinting bright in the sunlight. Had watched, stomach heavy with dread, as they’d pierced the city’s walls and entered its streets. He’d stared fixedly up at the fortress, waiting to watch it fall, to watch its banners struck. But that hadn’t happened. No, in fact, Ottomans had begun to fall back, bit by bit.
The guns were mounted on the ships in the river, and they’d been engaged by Hungarian vessels. Two cannons exploded, in the way they were always wont to, and the ships had gone up in bright orange flames, men screaming and leaping overboard. And without the guns on the ground, there was no way to pierce the fortress walls.
Impatient, face going red with rage, Mehmet had ordered himself rowed to shore. “I’ll show them how it’s done,” he averred.
But now here he came, back again. Even more furious than before, and smelling of fresh blood – his own.
It took three men to get him up over the rail and onto the deck; partly because it was awkward hauling dead weight up on ropes, but also because Mehmet was far from lean these days.
“Put me down, I can stand!” he bellowed at his attendants.
They pulled their hands back, slowly, and Mehmet collapsed and went to his knees.
“Ah! Damn it!”
The wound was in his thigh, Val saw, deep, and bleeding freely. Val frowned; it should have begun to repair itself by now.
Mehmet lifted his gaze and found Val. Save the spots of hectic color on his cheeks, the flush of fury, the rest of his face was bloodless and pale. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and he squinted from the pain. “What are you staring at?” he snapped. “Hoping I’ll bleed to death?”
Yes, Val thought. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly to the poor attendants. “Run ahead of us and prepare the sultan’s cabin, and tell the captain to make ready for a departure. I can only assume that, not having taken the city, we’ll be leaving shortly?”
Mehmet growled – a true vampire growl – but didn’t argue, which meant that, yes, they were done here.
“Send the signal to the other ships,” Val said, going to the sultan’s side and bending down to pull one of his arms over his shoulders. “Have the ground troops fall back. Pull anchor and let’s be done with this.”
“Yes, your grace,” the men chorused with a bow, and went to follow orders.
“Come along,” Val said, towing Mehmet forward.
He grumbled, but allowed Val to help him, which proved the seriousness of his wound.
Belowdecks, a pair of slaves hovered in the doorway of the cabin, bearing clean linen; a pitcher of steaming water waited on the small, bolted-in desk. “Leave us, please,” Val said, and they gladly fled, leaving the linen on the berth.
“Fuck you,” Mehmet said without any real meaning as Val eased him down onto the edge of the berth. “Get me some wine.”
“It will only make the bleeding worse,” Val said, picking up the linen and bowl of water, and kneeling down to better inspect the wound.
