Much Fall of Blood-ARC (48 page)

Eventually Emeric let the boyar leave. Or rather, be taken away to a chirugeon. Not because he'd been as co-operative as possible but because he stank and kept fainting.

"The seasons move, the stars dance in their ancient courses and fiery portents are seen in the sky," said Radu, who was prone to a poetic turn of phrase.

"And besides that, it is getting damned cold," said Grigori. "The first snows will be here soon. We need to move."

"And the foraging is getting thin around here," said Radu.

Angelo shook his head. "Another week at least. They are still too small. They need the vents at night. Soon they'll be big enough to walk the woods on their own. We need to teach them to hunt."

"It will be easier than feeding them. They're getting more voracious by the day."

"They're just growing. They'll slow down soon enough." said Angelo who had been through two hatchings before. The pack lived far longer than most ordinary humans as a result of the magical blood, but he was beginning to feel his age a little.

"Just as well, or there would not be enough game for them in all Valahia, let alone on this mountain," said Grigori, stretching.

"It's just forcing you to run a little more," said Radu. "You said you liked to run. You said that we spent too much time riding when we were with the Drac."

"So who is going to take the Dowager Duchess's letter to the Drac? It's time he came south anyway," said Grigori.

"You. It'll give you a break from hunting for food for the young ones," said Angelo.

"So I get a longer cross-country run instead. Alone, no doubt." He didn't sound too unhappy about it. Well, Angelo knew that the new Drac, his survival and future preyed on their minds. Once the Drac had merely been the man of a river priestess, and then, his sons, hill-chieftains. And back then the protection he afforded the pack was small. But for centuries now, that protection had been growing. And with the coming of the travelers from the south . . . well, they were convenient cover for the pack. But they did carry the potential for persecution with them. And the pack knew they were outnumbered, and if they failed, if the wyverns failed, and if the Drac failed, the other non-humans would not help them.

"Take one of the youngsters with you. You can teach him a bit about hunting on the way," said Angelo. Radu would complain later, no doubt. But Grigori was the best at fitting in with humans. He was more flexible than Radu. And it was time to start to groom some new blood to lead the pack. They could be in for some very tough times, if the Drac failed . . . but for the first time, they had a second throw of the dice with the younger sister.

Later that afternoon Grigori and young Miu set off, loping quietly through the trees. The little Besarab noticed they were missing. She didn't miss much, that girl. Tante Silvia said she'd been fiddling with the all the rubbish in the cart, obviously looking for something. Well, the blood grail would just have to be hidden from her.

* * *

When Vlad arrived back at their camp with the pack-train, the camp had already been largely dismantled. For the last month it had been practical to divide the camps up. This was far from the only base that Vlad had ready. He had hidden food stores, and spare weapons. He even had the Smereks safely secreted in a cave which had been refitted as a makeshift smithy. The men were used to moving. Used to not knowing where they would go, until they actually left. Vlad thought it worked very well. It would make them hard to find.

It appeared that the gypsy and his young companion hadn't found it so difficult. They were lounging next to a large rock when Vlad rode up.

Vlad leapt down from his horse in delight and hugged Grigori, rather to the gypsy's surprise and disapproval of their other watchers. Vlad did not care. He'd missed the ragged men, and the music . . . And he owed them. He owed them a debt even greater than that he owed to Countess Elizabeth Bartholdy. "Angelo? Radu? Are they here too?" he asked eagerly.

"Too lazy to make the run, Drac," said Grigori with his usual wicked wolfish grin. "This is my young cousin, eh. Young Miu. I brought him along for company."

The young man bowed. He was a younger version of Grigori, even with the same grey eyes. "Drac," he said, bowing. "They did say that you were very tall. But you are even taller than I thought. You look very like your sister."

"My sister?" said Vlad, puzzled. The last time he'd seen her she'd been a big-eyed toddler. He could barely remember her.

Grigori fished in his ragged patchwork cotte and pulled out a sealed letter. "We have them—your mother and your sister—hidden and safe on Moldoveneau mountain, Drac. This is a message from your mother."

Vlad's guilt nearly overwhelmed him as he took it. He had been so busy first surviving and then building up an army and fighting King Emeric's troops that he had not even given a thought to his own family! True, he had not seen, or been allowed to hear from them for ten years. But that was no excuse. He tried desperately to reconstruct the image of his mother in his mind. He had done his best not think of her, for so many years. But he could still remember the songs she had sung to him. She'd been big . . . then. But so had everyone. He had been a small boy.

He opened the letter, breaking the seal of the house of Valah . . . two wyverns supporting the rooted crown. Eagerly he unfolded the page. Just one page of a neat, slightly crabbed handwriting.

"Dearest son," he read. His eyes blurred. She had always called him that.

He tried to get a grip on himself. Surely all mothers addressed letters to their sons thus?

"What have you got there, Prince Vlad?" asked the countess Elizabeth, musically.

He bowed. "A letter from my mother."

"So nice. And what does she have to say? Where is she?"

"I . . . haven't managed to read it yet," he said, feeling foolish.

"Poor boy. Can I read it for you? Where did it suddenly come from?"

"Oh, the gypsies brought it for me," he said, gesturing—and suddenly realizing he was gesturing at nothing in particular. He blinked. Where had they got to while he'd opened the letter. "They've gone," he said, lamely

"To be expected, Prince Vlad," she said, waving a languid hand in front of her nose. "gypsies. Dirty and untrustworthy, everyone knows that."

"Well . . . they have looked after me. They, er, they have helped me a great deal."

"I doubt if they did it for you, Prince. They have their own agendas. And they will desert you when they are done with those purposes." She looked him from under lowered lashes. "They're said to be ritual murderers you know. They use blood magic. Every adult gypsy man must rape and kill a non-gypsy child. The shared conspiracy and secrecy binds them. They have plans, evil plans, for you."

He gaped. Thieves yes. They were . . . although they seemed to have a code of honor, a line which they did not cross. But murderers? Why? Why had they brought him home.

"They practice dark rituals every day. Defile churches . . ."

"I lived with them for weeks. I never saw anything like that."

"You can't trust them, Prince Vlad. They will seduce you into their own evil ways with their blood magic. And then abandon you."

They had left him . . . but they'd brought him home too. Protected him. Perhaps for their own ends . . . He didn't want to argue with her about it. "If you will excuse me, I must read this letter," he said.

"Let me read it for you," she said with a devastating smile.

Reluctantly, but unable to resist, he handed the letter to her. "How is it that you look so young, Countess?" he said admiring her smooth skin. Vlad was not versed in feminine looks or ages. He assumed that she must be a little older than himself. In references to the passage of time at court she'd mentioned things that had happened some years ago. "You could be twenty-five."

She nearly dropped the letter. He was surprised at the poisonous look that came over her face . . . It was the first time he'd seen her look anything other than serene or smiling. It made her look a lot older. "I do not thrive outdoors. Now, let me read this for you. "Dearest son."

She somehow made it sound very commonplace.

* * *

Grigori could scarcely believe that they'd got away. What was SHE doing here? Yes, he knew that the old woman kept out of the public eye too much in the Magyar lands. What was she doing so openly here? The pack had never hunted the Pannoian plains, so they knew her less well than they might. What he did know, frightened him. Grigori wished desperately that Angelo was here, rather than young Miu . . . even if it had been Miu that had smelled her and warned him. By the Old Ones . . . she stank. Age and decay and fear. The terror of others, rubbed into her decrepit flesh. How the people around her could stand it . . . human noses were really inadequate. He shuddered to think of it. They'd barely got away in time, and right now, the further away the better as far as he was concerned. What was the Drac doing consorting with such a one? Had she entrapped him? Were they all doomed, the pack, the Old Ones, the compact?

"And now," said Miu, rubbing his nose as if that would rid him of the scent that still clung there. "What do we do, uncle?"

Grigori wished he knew. His instinct was to run. But they'd been charged by the Drac's mother—rather repetitively, it seemed to him—with bringing back a message from her son. She, and possibly the little one, were their second chance, maybe their only chance if the old woman had her hooks into the Drac. They would run off if no message came back. The two women, Grigori knew, stood very little chance if they left the gypsy encampment.

"Back off and watch," he said, finally. "We need to see him. When she is not around. She'll be watching for us too. And she'll kill both of us pretty quick if she gets her hands on us."

* * *

Elizabeth Bartholdy could barely contain her rage. She had to get away from here. She needed blood
now
. Preferably young and noble. Twenty-five! Damn this upstart boy. But he was too ignorant to lie. He really thought so. She'd given the devil a lein on her soul to remain forever seventeen. Of course he'd set conditions. But these days it seemed that she could barely go a week without her bath. And even moving between her various establishments, and with her rank, and deliberately keeping a low profile—she was beautiful and people did ask suspicious questions when she remained that way—it was difficult to find sufficient victims. She needed their pain and terror as much as their blood. It all took time. And if word got out, real confirmed word, there might be repercussions. Nothing that she couldn't deal with, but enough to make hunting for victims harder. She'd had to fake her own death, once before, before returning as a cousin—just as beautiful, but with golden hair.

And then there were the damned gypsies, as they called themselves. Ha. Did they really think that she did not know what they were? As soon as she got back to her tools and paraphernalia . . . she had enough . . . there had been tiny amounts of wolf-saliva on that message. She'd deal with them. Nets and iron would work.

The nauseating pap in this mother's letter was almost the final insult.

Vlad looked ready to burst into tears. Useless soft fool.

She had to get out of here. Had to. Even to entrap him she could not stay another day—especially as it seemed that they would be doing nothing but moving, and, it seemed as if he would be off campaigning for days after that. She had her agents in place now. They would bring him to her establishment near Caedonia. She needed her blood. She was obviously showing her age. "I am sorry, Vlad," she said, caressing his cheek. "I have also had messages that I go and attend to some business." The dismay written on his face was comical. She had worried, just a little, that he would be able to resist her. He did resist more than a mortal should.

She touched his cheek. "I am trying to recruit you some more men and of course, money. Politics, dear. Not your forte, but something every ruler needs to master."

He made an effort and smiled. "I will ask you to do it for me."

For a very brief moment she was almost tempted. He would make such a good front for her. Better than Emeric. Emeric needed power, and Elizabeth, to stay on the throne. Vlad they might just follow because they loved him. And oh, how she could corrupt that. She smiled at him again. "It's a hard task. But if you are to assume your rightful place you'll need more than just the support of the commons, Prince Vlad."

"Better men than Boyar Pishtac, I hope," said Vlad rather curtly.

He was plainly a little stung by her reference to his troops as commoners. They were, of course. But they were loyal to him. She would erode that, given time. Not that it was important, really. He would be in her clutches and drained long before that became relevant. "Oh?" said Elizabeth, raising her eyebrows. "What did he do? I haven't see him. I will chastise him."

Vlad shrugged. "He fled when we clashed with Emeric's troops."

She was startled. He shouldn't have been able to do that. He was supposed to find out what Vlad's plans were. She thought she'd soothe Emeric with such information. The Prince had said to her twice, that he really needed someone to help him with strategy. That he could talk to. And then he'd run off. It was this place. It had a negative impact on her workings. It was affecting her! She was quite right that it was a good time to leave. "I will send word. His family will be dealt with."

"But . . . just because he was a traitor . . . does not mean that they are," protested the young Prince, showing his naivety. He obviously had not understood any politics yet. "I think, Countess, that he was in the pay of King Emeric. He could betray you."

She sighed. "Perhaps I was too trusting. But he will not dare speak ill of me to the King. I promise that." She toyed with the idea letting Emeric 'capture' her and luring this fool into a rescue. But firstly she needed his blood to stay in his veins until it suited her, and secondly, he might just succeed. He should not have been able to do what he had done, without either support or money. It had to be magic. She wondered, just for an instant, if she
could
harness it. Or if he too had made his compact with her master. It would be typical of the dark lord to set them against each other. A game for his demons to play. A betrayal of hopes. But no. The boy was still an innocent, if not virginal.