Bloodfire (Empire of Fangs) Read online

  BLOODFIRE

  Andrew Domonkos

  Check out other books by Andrew Domonkos at: http://andrewdomonkos.blogspot.com/

  Copyright © 2013 by Andrew Domonkos

  All rights reserved

  ***

  Prologue

  1462, Wallachia

  It was cold in the little room when Szellem rose wearily out of bed to perform his morning chores. He could hear his uncle Rano shouting outside, cursing his nephew’s laziness.

  Szellem got dressed, putting on his tattered woolen pants that had been patched so many times they resembled a quilt. He passed through the sparse room and stepped out onto the stone porch and into the brisk autumn morn. A strong wind blew from the south and made him shiver. There was moisture in the air and the sky was silvery with dark streaks in it. He looked out on the land. The once soft and green farmland was now rough with mud that had frozen in the night. Szellem closed his eyes and listened. Aside from his uncle’s curses and the occasional howl of wind, it was quiet. No chicken clucked, and no cow lowed.

  A platoon of no less than one hundred Turks had arrived a week earlier. They had come carrying the banners of Mehmed II, the Ottoman ruler to the south. Wallachia’s own rulers had too flagrantly ignored the wishes of the southern sultan, and now there were talks of great armies crossing the Danube into Walachia to express Mehmed’s discontent.

  The soldiers that arrived at the farm numbered in the hundreds. Szellem had never seen such a terrible force in all his life. The commander of this army, a solid man with more beard than face, told Szellem and his uncle that he and his men awaited instructions to move to meet a much greater host of their comrades to the north, where a grand siege was being planned. The squat man added that Szellem and his uncle would do best to serve his new guests without complaint, or they would be killed without any hesitation. Szellem kept his eyes on the dirt and nodded.

  During their weeklong stay the soldiers had slaughtered and eaten all of the livestock, ravaged the fields, and had beaten both Szellem and his uncle frequently.

  Szellem stood on the porch and looked towards the barn where Rano sat glumly on a flat rock. He sipped wine from a small wooden cup. His dirty, battered hands shook as he drank. Szellem observed him and wondered if his uncle would ever mend, or even survive the winter. Rano always seemed to reflect his land. In times of drought he too would look parched. In times of bounty he would take on the resplendent glow of youth. And now, with the fields holding only the faintest of pulses, Rano had begun to resemble the lifeless corn husks that littered the land.

  He approached his uncle cautiously, wondering if the old man had enough strength left in him to swat at him, which was his customary way to punctuate any command or remark directed at his nephew.

  His uncle looked up from the little puddle of wine he had been staring at. His eyes were yellow and sickly and had settled into a nest of worry and wear. A solider had bashed him with the hilt of his sword right above his left eye, perhaps to quell some pre-battle jitters, and the bruise it left had begun to resemble a plump turnip in both size and color. Rano looked up at his nephew, with that pale face marked with bruises, and those strange, haunted eyes the color of both red wine and hot steel. Thunder grumbled miles off, and another chilly wind blew across the farm and made both men shiver.

  “I suppose I look as bad as I feel,” Rano grumbled.

  “They’re gone than?” Szellem asked, looking out over the wasteland towards the tree line.

  “To Hell I hope,” Rano answered sharply. “Although I suspect they have just left it.” He lumbered to his feet and leaned on Szellem. With his other hand he held his side and grunted in pain.

  Szellem stood stiff to support his uncle. “Will they return?” He asked when he was sure Rano had his balance.

  “I wager not.” The old man spat. “I know enough Turkish to know they move to meet their main force and then to strike against Vlad Tepes to the north. Such a collision of evil I will not willingly imagine.” Rano caught his nephew’s pitying gaze and shoved him away. “But enough of this talk. Let them butcher each other for all I care, the dirty savages. We need wood for the stove. I don’t intend to have survived those brutes just to freeze from your laziness.” He drank his last sip of wine and threw the cup against the stone wall where it shattered. He then ambled slowly away, his head hung low, out towards the fallow fields, grunting with each step.

  Szellem nodded dourly at the rock where Rano had sat. His uncle’s insults seemed to have grown feeble since the Turks had come and gone. There was a time when his voice cracked like a slaver’s whip and made Szellem jump from across the farm. Now the old man’s attacks grazed Szellem like a tail of wheat in the hands of a child.

  Szellem walked over to the barn and pulled open the big door, which broke off its hinges and crashed noisily to the ground. He instinctually looked over at his uncle, expecting a volley of accusations to be hurled, but Rano was already halfway across the farm and paid no mind to the noise.

  Inside the barn Szellum dug under a mound of hay until he felt the splintered handle of the axe in his hand. The tool was worn and dull but the Turks would have taken it just the same had he not hid it. He put on his threadbare robe that hung on from a hook by the door. All that was left in the barn was the small mound of hay and the dirt under his tender and sore feet.

  He went out of the barn and walked carefully over the rugged mud, towards the tree line. His stomach growled as he went, and he wondered what game could possibly be left in the forest.

  He walked deeper into the woods. His mind was far from the farm and the misery that had fallen on him as of late. He was thinking of a man who had come to the farm some months ago—an Italian merchant making his long journey home from the bustling trade city of Constantinople. The man wore colorful clothes and had a mustache that twisted at the ends. Despite his inclination to be rude to strangers, Rano allowed the man to stay a night on the farm since he appeared to be a man with coin to spare.

  The night of the Italian’s visit Rano had boiled a stew for the occasion. The Italian shared his wine and his stories at Rano’s table. He was scholarly and his words came steady like the patter of hooves in a gallop. He knew much of the world. He talked of his home and of artistic revolution. Rano snorted cynically whenever the man touched on the latter topic—to Rano, all forms of creative expression were sinful. While the stranger talked Szellem forgot entirely about the steaming bowl in front of him and the farm and his dreary little life. The man’s words filled a sail in Szellem that had lain inert in his soul, and all he could think about was his desperate wanderlust.

  Before the boisterous man left the farm—much to Rano’s pleasure—the man took Szellem aside and unfurled a large piece of parchment and held it against the side of his caravan. The map showed a great section of the world. A thick black line traced around many of the countries, and the land within this boundary was shaded darker than the rest. He told Szellem that the dark area on the map belonged to the empire of the Ottomans. Their kingdom was vast and consuming. The man warned Szellem that Wallachia and all else who stood against the sultan were resisting the inevitable, and that a man with any sense at all would not linger in this obstinate country. Szellem watched the man whip his horses and drive his little caravan up over the hill that led north, and standing there he couldn’t help but envy the merchant, as well as the horses.

  That was a year ago, and since then the Ottoman Empire had spread not just to the south, but now everywhere, spreading like wildfire even into the dark reaches of places that had no names. Szellem wished he had heeded the merchant’s warning, but he had his reasons for lingering in the path of war.

  He walked pensively
through the woods while lost in this memory, pausing only for the strong gusts of wind that would occasionally race between the trees. The thunder was closer now, and Szellem hurried along, hoping to finish his task before the storm moved overhead.

  He reconstructed every moment of the Italian’s visit while he walked, and before long he found himself at the log pile. Miraculously, it was untouched by the Turkish horde.

  He began to work without delay, splitting the logs expertly. He attached one of the Turkish tormentor’s faces to each log before he brought the heavy axe down on it.

  He split more than he could possibly carry, and found himself cursing loudly at each log as he swung. His arms soon became too heavy to lift and his back grew sore, and he sat down on the splitting stump and rested among the split heads of a hundred enemies.

  He held out his hands in front of him and several drops of rain hit his hand. He stood and readied himself to leave, but a sound indicating movement in the woods made him stop cold.

  The sound came again, a twig snapping underfoot. He whirled around, facing the source of the sound and preparing himself for a fight. He drew up his axe with his exhausted arms, and waited.

  Parting a tangle of branches that had intertwined in her path with two small, ivory hands, a woman stepped gracefully into the clearing. She was wearing a white cotton dress that had been ripped in several places and had spatters of dried brownish blood on the sleeves. Her face was beautiful and slender with two blue eyes that seemed slightly larger than usual. Strands of curly black hair hung down from her head, framing her face sharply. She looked startled when she noticed him.

  Szellem lowered the axe and extended his free hand towards her. “My love,” he said, before he rushed over to her and embraced her. His relief was matched only by his exhaustion, and he let out a long breath of air that he had been holding.

  They held eachother for a long time, and he kissed her trembling lips and stroked her hair with his rough fingers as she began to cry.

  “What has happened?” Szellem asked. “You were not supposed to come so soon. I have not had enough time to pre—”

  “They took everything!” she cried, falling to the forest floor and sobbing into her hands.

  “The soldiers,” Szellem said with a sigh.

  “Who else!” she wailed.

  “Your father…” Szellem said. He felt guilty for his relief that the blood on her dress was not hers.

  She simply looked up and nodded and wailed again. Szellem pictured the old man, several hard years older than Rano, and he shuddered.

  He lowered his hood so that she could better see him. His face was bruised but his strange eyes still shone like two set gems. She stood and touched a gash on his forehead and he winced.

  “There is no more time to wait,” he said, taking her hand. “This entire country will be in flames soon enough.” He pulled her close and squeezed both her arms. “This isn’t home anymore. We must leave.” She nodded.

  Szellem frowned. He had been planning their escape for months now, and had made the best of the past week by picking the pockets of drunken soldiers on the farm, but there were still so many preparations to be made.

  The girl tightened her jaw and sniffed. “Where can we go? Who would have us?”

  Szellem had given this subject a great deal of consideration for most of his life, and had never quite found an answer. It wasn’t charity he seeking, such a thing was as foreign to him as compassion. He only sought tolerance, which too, seemed in short supply.

  “Anywhere but here,” he said finally.

  She agreed and the two began to make their way through the woods back towards the farm. The girl wanted to flee east and spat at the mention of Rano, but Szellem said he had to bring his uncle the firewood. Rano was sometimes cruel, but he had still taken in Szellem when nobody else would. The firewood would be his last gesture of gratitude to his uncle—a farewell present. He didn’t want his uncle to die cold. He had toiled and sweated enough for Rano, and whatever debt he owed was paid. He had someone else to look after now.

  When they neared the edge of the woods and came to a small hill that led up to where Rano’s farmland began, Szellem heard a strange commotion ahead and motioned to the girl to duck down. Laying on their bellies the pair crept up the hill to get a better look.

  They cautiously raised their heads so they could see what was happening on the farm. Szellem whispered “fire,” and squeezed the girl’s arm, which was quivering wildly. Across the fields where Rano’s humble home once stood, an inferno poured dark smoke into the turbulent sky. About five hundred armored men surrounded the blaze. Those not admiring the blaze were setting up tents and giving orders.

  Szellem noticed that one group of men were adorned more regally than the rest. They had the inflexible posture of nobility that lowborn men did not, and sat atop great steeds similarly clad in shining armor. Banners tied to the tips of long pikes whipped noisily over their heads. Szellem knew the insignia on the banners. House Drcule_ti. The crest of Vlad Tepes. The Impaler himself.

  The mounted men were laughing and pointing to something. Szellem leaned forward and squinted at the object. Atop a tall spike that had been planted in the ground, something writhed. Its arms moved slowly and aimlessly like a dying insect’s. Szellem squinted and suddenly could make out what the object was. It was his uncle Rano.

  He felt a pool of sick rise in his throat and doubled over in disgust. He felt dizzy and wretched as quietly as he could into the dirt. When the girl saw his reaction she too leaned in and squinted at the distant pike. By the time Szellem regained his senses and saw where the girl was looking it was too late, her horrified wail had rose from her and reached the army.

  One of the stately riders looked over curiously at the source of the noise. He was a slender man with a long curved mustache. He stood out among the other riders for some reason. He smiled and pointed a long curved sword at Szellem. For a moment, Svellum could hear the man’s voice whisper to him. “I see you ghost,” he said.

  The voice was a new horror to Szellem. He grabbed hold of the girl by the wrist and fled from the source of this terror. As they stumbled and tripped through the woods Szellum felt as if his heart might break from his chest.

  The storm had found them, and heavy rain now whipped down on them. Thunder cracked ferociously overhead. They jumped and crawled over the many gnarled obstacles and down and over each ravine. Szellem’s robe seemed to snag on every branch he passed, and he cursed nature and wondered if she too was conspiring to destroy him.

  The axe was cumbersome in his hand, so he tossed it and focused his efforts on navigating the girl more efficiently, which required much diligence. Behind them he could hear shouts that promised a quick death if they stopped. Szellem knew this was lie, and that if caught, they would suffer in ways they could not imagine. He knew the woods better than his pursuers, who would be slowed by their heavy armor and war fatigue. He could hear their clumsy movements as they fought their way over and through the tricky terrain. Within a few minutes their kind voices became malicious, and they rescinded their offer of a quick death with booming voices.

  The two slipped down a ravine and turned sharply to the east; following the ravine’s path as fast their legs could move them. They maintained this frantic pace for another mile or so until finally they both collapsed wheezing. The confused shouts of the soldiers were now distant and seemed to be heading in the opposite direction. Lightning lit up across the sky and the downpour began to fill the ravine.

  They crawled up to higher ground and lay on a bed of moss, under a canopy of leaves, clutching onto each other, desperately trying to catch their breath. The storm surged all around them and the rain filled the ravine until it became a small river and water began to pool on the sides.

  Just when Szellem began to think the rain might flood them all to the heavens, the storm’s fury calmed and the downpour suddenly stopped as if whatever divine wrath had issued it had been spent.

&nbs
p; Szellem stood up in the eerie calm, soaked and cold, and looked around for an indication of where they were. All around water dripped and babbled. He couldn’t stop shivering. He looked at the girl, and noticed her ivory skin had taken on a bluish tint. He spotted a tree he had marked with a rock some weeks ago. It had a long carved gash in its base, and from this marker he knew that the Danube was only a few miles to the southeast, and from there they could follow it northeast into Moldavia where Szellem was certain he could acquire two horses and enough food to flee north. With horses, they might even make it to Germania, a place his father once spoke longingly of.

  Szellem had pinched plenty from the Turks and he imagined the coin would go a long way if Moldavia was in the same desperate state as his own lands. He could feel the heavy coins woven into a pouch in the sleeve of his robe.

  He rallied the girl to her feet. She coughed and looked at him with frantic eyes. She was now shaking uncontrollably. He told her to be calm, that they were almost home free. His hope was bolstered by the sound of his own words. Vlad Tepes would not waste the time or resources to track two peasant farmers very far. Szellem began to march across the wet moss on the ridge with renewed hope, when a voice spoke and plucked his hope from him like a grape.