Romulus charged.
Vlad braced his feet, raised his blade, and met the stroke. The swords came together with a cymbal crash that echoed off the stone walls.
Romulus was strong.
Vlad was stronger.
He’d taken his uncle’s measure the moment he walked into the room; had judged his pace, and his movements, watched the way his clothes had fit, and evaluated the level of muscle beneath the fine silk and wool.
Romulus parried his stroke like someone who knew how sparring worked, but who’d had very little real experience with it. It was an unfair fight, to be sure, and Vlad was going to make every use of it.
When their blades slid apart, he launched an attack of quick, flurried strikes, connecting each time, forcing Romulus back step after step after step.
The blades crossed, and Vlad’s slid down, and managed to nick the back of Romulus’s hand.
Romulus spun away, a full retreat, and brought his hand to his mouth to lick the wound. He coughed a laugh, panting. “Well done, nephew.” He lifted his sword in a kind of salute. “I yield. Let us have a cup of wine and toast your superior swordsmanship.”
“No.”
His eyes widened, and showed the first real flash of fear. “Vlad–”
Vlad charged again.
Romulus barely got his sword up in time, but it was an unsteady, one-handed grip. Vlad caught the blade with his own, a forceful stroke, and sent the borrowed weapon spinning off and away, landing on the floor with a crash.
Romulus put both empty hands up, palms-out, one bleeding freely. “Vlad! Vlad, no!”
Vlad swung.
Romulus screamed, and fell back. Blood sprayed out, a hot flashing arc of it; Vlad caught some on his lips, and licked it away as he went to his knees, kneeling over his uncle’s chest, blade pressed to his throat. One of Romulus’s arms lay flung out beside him, gushing blood, barely connected at the elbow; bone visible, meat and muscle severed.
He made an inarticulate, animal sound of pain, that cut off abruptly when Vlad pressed in closer with the edge of his blade. He breathed in ragged gasps, throat leaping, tears streaming from his eyes.
“V-v-vlad,” he pleaded. “Nephew –son. Please. We’re family! You, and Val, and I – we’re the only ones left! The last sons of Rome!”
Vlad had imagined this moment at least a dozen times. Had envisioned himself attacking his uncle, slaying him, taking revenge for his father, and Mircea, and Val, and the heartbreak of his mother. And of Fen, and Helga, who’d loved father, too. And poor Cicero, who’d been his most devoted wolf. He’d thought that if he got the chance to put Romulus on his back, and drive a sword through his throat, that he would be a snarling, furious, raging beast, more animal than man. A blood-drinking, dirty-handed vampire beyond words or reason.
But here he was, the bastard completely at his mercy. And he felt only calm, and cold, and certain, and the words came easy.
“Stop your sniveling,” he ordered. “I want to know why you tried to kill Father while you were king.”
Romulus sucked in a few deep, trembling breaths, but calmed himself. His free hand landed on Vlad’s thigh, and squeezed, tight, fingertips digging in. But it was a sad attempt at fighting back. “What?”
“Father. Why did you try to kill him? He didn’t want to rule, he said. You were king uncontested.”
Romulus panted a moment, hot, humid breath rushing up into Vlad’s face. “You – you think,” he finally gritted out, face tight with pain, “you know what it was like. You believed – his stories.”
“Why?”
Romulus tightened his hand. Gripped hard. “Because” – he snarled, and the pain left his face, replaced by hate – “he wasweak.”
He bucked Vlad off of him, as forcefully as any horse. And Vlad was so shocked that he could do nothing to prevent it.
He held onto his sword, though, and managed to tuck and roll, springing back up to a fight-ready crouch several lengths away. He braced himself with a growl, ready to leap back to his feet and reengage.
But he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Romulus sat up. He left behind a slick puddle of blood on the floor, but his arm, nearly severed, reknit before Vlad’s eyes. He heard the crack of bone growing, saw muscle and flesh regrow. One last pop, and Romulus flexed his fingers, and rotated his wrist. Healed.
