Much Fall of Blood-ARC (32 page)

Across Europe there are places where old stones remain in cleared places. Moss grows on other rocks and even on the trees. Not on these stones.

Particularly not on the stones standing in their ancient ranks here. This was not a great or impressive circle; the stones were small and worn. Irregular. If it had not been for the lack of moss, they might just have been a random arrangement of rocks, not at all unusual for these mountains.

Humans often made the error of thinking there were merely two intelligences that shared this world: those who were human and those who were not. Of course, in reality, it was infinitely more complex than that. To begin with, there were facets of reality that mere flesh and blood rarely perceived, much less walked in.

But even on the earth shared with ordinary mortal men . . .other creatures, not precisely "mortal," walked. Some walked in darkness, others in light. Some were cloaked in flesh, others were less defined by the material world. Here of course, in her dark green heart, the wood sang ancient songs too. The forest was neither benevolent nor even truly understanding of animal life. It used and survived it, and sang slow songs of wood, water, wind and stone.

And blood.

Blood could bind.

Green cool eyes stared from the forest shadows at the glade and the ancient stones. Their blood was blue. There were others among the trees, further back, not wishing to be seen. It was twilight—a time when those of the day were prepared to meet the night creatures. And they had all come—or at least many of them. There were those who had chosen their own path and made their own arrangements with powers, such as the Vila. But the others . . . From hollow places in the hills, from the lakes and the streams, they came. Some would come forward when the syzygy called. Others would not.

The wolf-kind came to honor their side of the bargain, bringing the young ones to see and be seen, to receive the blessing and the binding of the forest, of the water and of the stone. Of all those who gave allegiance to forest that once stretched from shore to shore before the ice-time . . . and again after, while men still huddled fearfully on the edges.

Men had grown more numerous and bolder since then.

The forest and its ancient denizens had given way.

Everywhere, but here.

With a hiss the dragon-headed wyverns entered the glade. They were still of an age when every new thing was a delight—and possibly edible. Angelo and his kin stayed back, as was their right, on the north side of the circle. They were still. The time for howling was not yet.

There was no wind, but the dark forest moved and groaned.

Two sets of red eyes looked out at it. Eyes that burned like coals.

Utterly heedless of the magic and the dignity of the occasion, the two engaged in rough and tumble and then bounced around. The old ones looked on. There were few young ones anywhere anymore. These two had vast license, and both of them knew it.

They tasted the rocks too.

The forest creaked, almost as if it was clicking its tongue in disapproval

"The dragon comes. They know it." said Angelo.

"But will he come here?" asked Radu.

"And then there is the question of blood," said Grigori, his long red tongue lolling.

Angelo sighed. "Go and chase down a buck or something. How do I know? How do any of us know? He will do what he will do. That too is in the compact."

"It's in his blood," said Radu.

"But will his blood be in it?" asked Angelo looking at the shadows in the trees.

In his throne room in Vilnius, that which sat behind the eyes of the grand duke was concerned by the continued absence of his new shaman. True, he could do without one. He had in the past. But having a shaman was less fatiguing. He would send fresh messengers to Karelia, with dire warnings. He did not like being kept waiting, or—although this was unlikely—being defied.

Jagiellon wondered briefly if there were some way to suck Count Mindaug—or better, Elizabeth Bartholdy—into the conflict he was stirring up in the lands of the Golden Horde. With the magical forces being unleashed, either one of them might with some luck de destroyed or at least damaged.

Neither of them existed in the spirit world to the degree he did. Mindaug dug for knowledge in print. He was clever, in that way, but in the end such knowledge was inherently weak. For her part, Elizabeth's power came from borrowing against her bargain. That made her formidable, for the moment, but eventually she would have to pay her side of that bargain.

But Jagiellon-Chernobog could not believe either could be that stupid. In the meanwhile he waited for his other plans to come to fruition. His targets walked cheerfully into his traps. What rich prizes to be so foolishly risked! Pawns, true, but pawns of some considerable value.

Magical communications were always fraught with risks. In common with several other religious sects, the Baitini believed themselves especially good at it, and protected. Chernobog knew otherwise, but if that was what they wished to believe, or that the drug enhanced their skills, he would not stop them. Like the belief that he would return them to power, they were welcome to their delusions as long as they were of use to him. As a fifth column within the Ilkhan they were very useful.

Jagiellon had received news of the progress of Prince Manfred of Brittany and his knights with some satisfaction. Although he had shattered the eastern dominions of the Golden Horde into a number of little khanates that served him, he knew that his hold on them was fragile. He needed to subjugate the Horde for once and for all. At a stroke now he would create a new ruler and a vassal, together with new enemies for them—the Ilkhan and the Holy Roman Empire. That would make the new western Horde's ruler very dependent on Lithuania's support.

The Baitini thought that, because of the visions of paradise he'd supplied them, that they were dealing with their god. That was amusing, insofar as the Black Brain Chernobog was capable of being amused. The Baitini earnestly believed that they were doing the righteous and honorable thing. Which, indeed, it was—for Chernobog. It was all about perceptions. Like their name, which had been a derogatory term until they embraced it.

It would be necessary to allow some of the lesser knights to escape. Perhaps a few, to give them a better chance of returning the news to the Holy Roman Empire. And at least one of the Ilkhan envoy's escort must return to the Ilkhan. Preferably they would have terrible tales of the other's vile duplicity and perfidy. He must brief his servant about that. He hoped the tarkhan's mind would not be so drug-mazed as to forget.

"We need arms. And gold or at least silver. More horses. And probably food." Vlad spoke to himself. He did not dare say so to any other person. That would betray the weakness of his position and his own lack of knowledge. He knew he was the Prince of Valahia. He knew from Countess Elizabeth—he kept thinking of her—that his father was dead and that King Emeric was going to have him killed, as he had no further use as a hostage . . . He was not entirely sure why he was of no further use. His mother still lived, didn't she? A tear pricked at his eye. For years he had avoided thinking of her. It hurt too much. He'd had a baby sister too. Where were they? Still in Poienari castle, high above the ravine? Why could Emeric not just have forced her to act as regent?

He would go south, he decided. He had an army of sorts, growing daily. He bit his lip. He was aware of the problems in logistics. Just feeding them all up here in the mountains was a problem. Could he expect his good sergeants to solve that? They seemed very adept at solving other problems. It seem a great deal to ask . . . and he had a feeling that he might not like their solutions. A raid on a village would not enhance his popularity. Nor was it honest. And that, he had discovered, was as important to his peasant army, as it was to him.

Someone coughed, well off down slope. The Sergeants had discovered . . . as had he quite by accident, and nearly fatally—that they should not try to sneak up on Prince Vlad. Where the speed and strength came from, he was not sure. But his men had learned not to toy with it.

It was one of the Sergeants. "Begging your pardon, Sire. Sorry to disturb." What did they think he was doing? Plotting deep doings? He had too little to do. Too much time to think. Of the horror of men and their dying. Of the flames. Of gypsies that everyone seemed to despise. Of the creamy softness of the countess. Of the confusion of feeling she caused in him. "Yes, Sergeant Emil?"

"The outer perimeter guards found a man with a wagon on the trail. He said he was looking for you, Sire."

"Oh?"

"He says he is a loyal vassal. He has goods to sell." The Sergeant sounded suspicious. "He sounds like a German. You can't trust them Sire." The Sergeant looked as if he wanted to say more . . . and then shut his mouth.

Vlad waited and then, when nothing more was forthcoming pressed the issue. "What is Sergeant Emil?"

"Well, Sire," the Sergeant said uncomfortably, "We could use food. And other goods . . . waxed flax, cloth. It's cold here and not even autumn yet. I'd have confiscated all his goods and chased him off for a thieving German. But some of the men say you . . . you'd not like that, sire. That you paid good silver for everything. Only . . . I have no silver, Sire."

"Then let us go down and see what he has to offer. I've been told my Grandfather believed in honesty and that the country people still love him for that. I owe him for that legacy."

The Sergeant twisted his hat in his hands. "Begging your pardon, Sire, that's true. But he was a mad bastard too . . . uh." he swallowed convulsively as he realized what he'd said.

Vlad nodded. "I know. I remember that even my father was afraid of him."

The sergeant nodded. "But he fixed those foreigner gougers properly. And he was harsh . . . Sire, but fair. Not like King Emeric, who'll punish a man for telling him bad news, even if it is true. Or who'll kill the closest people to make an example."

They had begun to walk down the mountain toward the rutted track that cris-crossed the stream, using whatever flatland was available to continue up into the mountains. "I gather you have had experience of King Emeric, Sergeant Emil?"

The grizzled sergeant nodded. "He's like a rabid weasel, Sire. He kills for pleasure or for no reason at all."

There was a already a crowd around the wagon, and business was brisk, by the looks of it. The jowled merchant and his assistant were busy.

The Sergeant shouted something so close to a bear growl that Vlad did not quite catch the word. But the chaffering and noise stopped. Men stood rigid as if suddenly frozen to attention.

"And what is happening here?" asked Vlad, feeling his hackles rise looking at the trader.

The man bowed very low. "Your Majesty's loyal servant. Kopernico Goldenfuss, is my name Sire. I trade in various fine goods . . ."

"At a price," muttered someone.

Vlad looked him over, not liking what he saw but unable to put a good reason to it. Yet . . . those feelings had been right in the past. "You know my grandfather's reputation, Goldendfuss? Honest weights, measure and fair dealing, or he made some appropriate adjustments to the weight and measurement of the merchant, I believe. He took the short weight off the scoundrel's belly."

"S . . .sire. I but took a reasonable profit for the risks and the transport . . ." The merchant stuttered.

"There are no risks. I accept that transport must cost something. What goods have you?"

"S . . .some fine cloth, Prince. And schnapps. And dried beef. I would be pleased to make a gift of a fine bright outfit for you, Sire. Not somber blacks. Scarlet and purple. Fit for a noble to wear . . ."

The rough wool had irked Vlad, as had the austere black of the priest's spare clothing. But this . . . scum thought he could bribe him. "My clothing is adequate," he said shortly. "I wear it with pride."

He was surprised to hear the troops cheer. He realized that for this conflict anyway, he would be wearing simple black clothes. "I could use a cloak, as could a number of my men. But I will have no more of your exploitation. I will buy your entire cargo at a fair price. It will be given to those who have most need. Give them their silver back. And consider yourself lucky. You will not be so fortunate twice." He turned to the Sergeant. "I will have those goods back in the wagon, Sergeant, and each man to get his money back."

The Sergeant nodded. "And a close guard on that Schnapps, Sire."

Vlad had not thought of what strong drink could do. He nodded. Looked at his small army and the expressions on their faces. "Every man will get some. But we cannot have any drunkenness. The Hungarians will cut your throats while you all sleep it off. The first man I find drunk . . . I will drown in it. "

There was an almost imperceptible nod of approval from the Sergeant. "Right. Form up. A straight line. With the goods and we'll see you get your money."

The merchant coughed, and bobbed his head awkwardly. "About my money, Sire . . ."

"You will paid," said Vlad curtly, thinking of his scanty supply of silver.

"Of course, Sire. Your script is good."

Vlad suddenly put something he'd read into place. He'd read of promissory notes and usury without understanding them fully or bothering to find out much. So this was what it meant. He had the vaguest grasp of finance: he'd never really had the occasion to use money in the tower, and he was unsure just how Princes got it. Taxation . . . but how did it work? What did he have to do? A series of accidents had lead to a reputation as leader. As Prince. He'd been lucky. He'd made the right decisions . . . he thought. He desperately needed someone to advise him. He just didn't know things any fifteen year old peasant boy would know, let alone a twenty year old Prince. But Vlad knew two things. Firstly, his hold on these people was strong but tenuous. Secondly, he needed them. Without them he was a child, lost and floundering. That much he'd learned among the gypsies, even before life became so much more complicated. He would be taken by his enemies. They might kill him. That he could endure. But they might imprison him again. He needed these people, if only to keep him from that. Besides, it would seem that he had inherited noblesse oblige. His father had drummed that into him from very young, and he had never quite forgotten it—and oddly, the old priest that had been allowed to visit him in prison had re-enforced it.