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                            VAMPIRE NIGHTS                     
                          

 
                                            
From the upcoming issue:



                                      PRISONER INCOGNITO


                                                        by Toni V. Sweeney

    "Corporal Zelaszny reporting for duty, sir. The young Hungarian saluted the guard who stood before the cell.
    "You're the new replacement?"' Pavel Nagy asked.
    He looked the young man up and down. Pretty young, with a hayseed freshness about him, but that didn't matter for this kind of work.
    "When did you get in?"
    "Our detachment arrived last night. Transferred from Nuremberg. With part of the calvary going to Romania, ‘twas a madhouse, I swear!"
    Nagy laughed.  "Be glad you're here, and not fighting those Moldavians! Ever since Prince Stjepan wounded the Emperor in that battle at Baia Mare, he seems to think he can take on both Hungary and Romania--with his sword arm tied behind him!"
    Zelaszny laughed also and looked around, "So this--" waving a hand at the surrounding cells, "--is to be my responsibility?"
    They were in the Tower of Solomon, that part of Emperor Matthias' summer palace holding political prisoners. Though inside the walls of the compound, the Tower was on the banks of the Danube, far from the castle proper. From where he stood, Corporal Zelaszny could see the doors of six cells--solid and heavy with small barred peephole windows--and he was barely able to stifle a sigh of irritation.
    This wasn't why he joined the Emperor's army-- to stand in a cold prison corridor and watch over a group of felons. If he wanted to herd sheep, he'd have stayed on his father's farm!
    "This is it," Nagy agreed, "and I can't say I'm sorry to leave. After a while, this place wears down a man's soul."
    "How many prisoners are there?"
    "Just now, only one, but--" From the cell behind them came a startling high-animal screech and a sudden spout of laughter.
    "Holy Saviour!"' Zelaszny shuddered slightly. "What was that?"
    "That?" Nagy didn't even react. "That's him--the only one here--the Emperor's pet prisoner!"
    There was another shrill shriek and a third, like a bird In distress.
    "Is he a lunatic?"
    "A good question!" Nagy smiled slightly. "They say he's as sane as you or me--most of the time--,"
    That, to Zelaszny's way of thinking, wasn't very comforting.
    Placing his spike against the wall, Nagy put a hand on the corporal's shoulder, drawing him toward the door, "Come, I'll introduce you," and opened it, and as the young soldier hesitated, pushed him inside.
    The first thing he saw was that this was no ordinary cell. Against one wall was a single bed with several blankets tossed over it. The bed was unmade; he could see the imprint of the prisoner's body on the sheets, and was surprised that there were sheets, as well as a mattress--and a puffy feather one instead of the usual straw-stuffed type.
    On the opposite side of the room stood a washstand with pitcher and basin, a clothes press, and a bookcase filled with many volumes. In front of the bookcase was a campaign desk, such as a commander might use while in the field. It was littered with writing utensils, quills and an inkpot and sheets of vellum, as well as a large oil lamp, and--a totally unexpected sight--a small cage, in which three large rats cowered.
    All in all, the soldier reflected, it was a very comfortable-looking place. Men would fight to be imprisoned in a cell like this one!
    The prisoner himself was standing near the single barred window but as Zelaszny looked that way, his attention was drawn to the window itself.
    Arranged along the sill, their bases driven into cracks in the mortar between the bricks, were tiny stakes, and upon those pointed pieces of wood hung the bodies of rats and mice, the shafts driven through their bellies or nether parts.
    As he stared at this sight in confusion--and more than a little revulsion--there was another squeal of pain and he jumped slightly, his hand striking the sill.
    One of the stakes trembled and tottered, falling against the one next to it. The furry corpses struck the sill with a soft sound like overripe fruit hitting stone.
    "Careful! You've toppled King Matthias and the Sultan!"
    The prisoner's voice was soft.
    As Zelaszny stared at him, wondering why Nagy was watching him with such an amused smile, he went on, "Don't worry--I know what I'm saying! They're the two I hate most in the world and since I can't harm them, I give rodents their names and slay them and, for a while, feel avenged!"
    He raised one hand and Zelaszny saw that it held a bird, its body almost bare, only a few feathers still remaining on its tail and wings. "Just as I do when I pluck the feathers from Prince Radu here--and hope that one day I may do the same to that back-stabbing little bastard!"
    With that, he lifted another feather from the bird's back and with a shsrp tug, pulled it free while the creature again screamed and struggled weakly, pecking at his fingers. He released the feather, letting it float to the floor.
    His voice suddenly became hard. "I'd like to remove that pretty bird's feathers one . . . " another fell, " . . . by . . . " two more fluttered to the floor to join the pitiful little pile already there, ". . . one!"
    The bird was making faint cheeping sounds now. He opened his hand and it rolled to its feet, flapped its scraggly wings wildly and launched itself into the air.
    "Don't let it get away!"
    Without thinking, Zelaszny caught it. It almost too exhausted from its struggles to fly hand, warm and bare, beak open, its little body panting with fear. He could feel the frantic beating of its heart against his palm.
    Turning, he tossed the frightened creature through the bars and watched it fall, right itself and fly an erratic course over the wall.
    "You shouldn't have let it go," the prisoner said, reprovingly. "'Naked like that--when night comes, it'll probably freeze!"
    Zelaszny looked back at him and didn't speak, and he went on, "So, Nay, ‘tis time for you to leave?"
    Nagy nodded. "That it is, sir!"
    "And eagerly, too," he commented. "And this--'' he nodded at Zelaszny, "--is my new jailer?"
    The boy spoke for the first time. "Gabor Zelaszny--"
    The prisoner looked back at him, acknowledging his introduction with a quick inclination of his head, then gave the startled corporal a sudden short bow, asking as he straightened, "but you've no idea who I am, have you?"
    There was a sardonic sadness in his eyes.
    Silently, Zelaszny studied him. An old man--though not as old as his father, who was in his nine-and-fortieth year, for the darkness of the long curly hair barely frosted with gray. He was well-dressed in dark hose and a linen shirt under a black jerkin and in spite of a crooked nose--someone, some time, had broken it for him--above a full moustache, was fairly ordinary-appearing . . . until one looked at his eyes.
    They were the most incredible green, pale as pieces of Cathay jade. Zelaszny had seen a figurine made of that precious mineral in a jeweler's shop in Nuremberg and the prisoner's eyes were truly as unusual . . . and disturbing.
   "No, sir," he answered, almost apologetically. "Should I?"
   "How old are you, Corporal?"
   "Twenty, sir."
   "Twenty." For a moment, the green eyes looked even sadder, no there's no reason, no reason at all. "My acts of infamy were committed long before you were old enough to take notice of them, and now, they're as dead as I am!"
    He laughed, a short harsh bark of sound.
    "I'm the Prisoner Incognito, Boy, and that's all I am, now!" Zelaszny felt a sudden chill wash over him as if someone had trailed a cold finger down his spine.
   Behind them, a tiny clock upon the desk chimed the hour.
   The prisoner looked at it.
   "Ah. 'Tis an hour until mealtime and I like to read beforehand. It helps to prepare the stomach to receive Hungarian fare! Gentleman, if you'll excuse me?"
   Bowing again, be walked to the bookcase to become very busy in selecting a volume.
   Nagy also bowed, "Goodbye, air," and was answered with a vague wave of one hand, though the prisoner didn't look up. Gesturing to Zalaszny, he left the room.
   Outside, the corporal turned to the guard quickly, "What did he-- mean--prisoner incognito?"
   "He means you won't find his name on any prison roster," Nagy answered, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard though they were the only ones present, "so don't bother looking, and don't dare point out the fact to anyone!"
   Zelaszny thought that over. Before Nagy left for good, held better get a few answers, he decided.
   "What can you tell me about him?"
   Nagy shook his head. "Nothing."
   "Nothing?" Zelaszny echoed, disbelievingly. "You've been his jailer for nearly seven years and you know nothing about him?"
   "Aye, I've been here seven years," Nagy agreed, "but he's been here much longer-and he's been at others, too . . .
   "But why--"
   "The Emperor keeps moving him so his whereabouts won't be known, I suppose."
   "Then he must be important," Zelaszny persisted. "Who is he?"
   "I'll tell you the official story--that he's a worshiper of the Ordog Satan and so powerful he can't be killed and our good Catholic Majesty keeps him imprisoned here with sacred relics--but only fools would believe that!" Nagy shrugged.  "All I was told by my predecessor is that he's Transylvanian--perhaps related to that Prince Radu who's treading a tightrope between the Holy Roman Empire and the Sultan of Turkey right now."
   Remembering the prisoner's misdirected violence to that Prince, Zelaszny thought it must not be a loving kinship.
   "And--?"
   "And perhaps the Prince wished him out of the way . . . "
   "But why not simply slay him? Why this--?" He gestured at the cell.
   Nagy shook his head. "Who can fathom how the minds of Royalty work? Perhaps they feared to have him killed. A dead martyr is sometimes better than a living ruler. Especially a mad one, and he is mad, I fear. You saw, Would you want such a one running loose?"
   "What's his name? Surely you know--"
   "Aye, I was curious--as I think you are--and I found out what I shouldn't." The guard hesitated. "It would go ill with me if my superiors discovered that I knew--"
   "I can be trusted to keep silent," the boy assured him.
   Nagy picked up his knapsack and walked toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
   "The truth is he was Prince of Romania until his brother convinced the Emperor to betray him. With only twenty thousand men, he drove the Turkish army out of his country, though Prince Radu, has long since welcomed them back . . . "
   With one hand on the latch-strap, he paused, and smiled slightly.
   "His name is Drakula."
   Zelaszny stared at him, mouth falling open.
   "Answer quickly when he calls. He angers easily. And keep his supply of rats and mice well-stocked." He looked toward the cell again. "I think I may miss him!"
   He opened the door and walked out.
   From below, voices began to float up the stairs as the prisoners on the first and second levels received their meals.
   Zelaszny walked to the cell, peering in through the Judas window. The prisoner was seated at the desk, head bent over his book, appearing mild and harmless as a scholar as he waited for his meal--how many books had he read during his years here?
   The young Hungarian's grandsire had been a soldier in the Emperor's army, had told him of this Romanian prince, driven to awe-filled but terrible acts by a fanatic love of country, and how he had been illegally imprisoned though the Pope himself demanded his release, and he had spoken with a mixture of fear and respect. Briefly, the boy felt a disturbing sadness, that this great man could be locked away for so long both he and his deeds forgotten.
   Zelaszny shivered, then shrugged mentally. He was here to guard the prisoner, not lament his lost glory or fall from Grace --and see that he was cared for.
   As if hearing his thoughts, a servant appeared, but instead of carrying the soup kettle which held the usual prisoner's fare he bore a serving tray holding a silver plate and goblet and a bottle of wine.
   Turning, Zelaszny fitted the key into the lock.
   Inside the cell, Vlad Drakula closed the book and dropped it on the desk, looking toward the barred window.
   For a moment, he envied the escaped bird. Even if it froze to death tonight, at least ‘twould die free.
   Silently, he touched his chest, feeling the hard ridge of the dragon lion through his doublet. They had confiscated his armor, his sword, and his crown, humiliating him by stripping him of everything that bespoke his royal status, but held fought the man who tried to remove his medal. "This is mine by Divine Right--given by God," he told them, "and only God shall remove it!" And, seeing the mad fury in the pale eyes, they let him keep it.
   Often, as now, it was his only comfort.
   Zelaszny and the servant entered the cell.
   He didn't move as the servant cleared the desk and set the plate upon it, but waited until the man departed before picking up the fork and beginning to eat, making a slight face--Damned Hungarians and their garlic!--while Zelaszny stood by the door.
   Presently, without looking at the guard, he spoke.
   "I'm not pleased, you know," he said, chewing slowly, "being guarded by a child who was in leading strings when I was ruler!"' He raised his eyes to the ceiling and made an inpatient gesture with the fork. "God, how quickly a man and his accomplishments are forgotten.
   "I know who you are, My Lord," Zelaszny said softly "Now."
   "Then be careful where you admit it," he was warned, coldly. "‘Tisn't healthy to know what you shouldn't."
   "I think I may have enough sense to know when not to speak," the boy told him, a little defensively.
   "Ah--but young brains don't always think fast enough to prevent young tongues from speaking!" There was a hint of a smile on the grim mouth. "Remember, Gabor--a prisoner whose name is on no known list can simply disappear, and no one will be the wiser . . . he looked at the boy and the jade eyes were almost teasing as he shook a finger, "and so might his guard!"
   "You can trust me, sir."
   "Trust has cost me a decade of my life, boy. I trust no one--not even in a prison cell!" Drakula lay down and pushed away his plate. "I've finished my meal."
   Zelaszny looked at the barely-touched food. "You haven't eaten much."
   Once, he partook of his meals with his usual gusto, but as confinement conspired against him, he learned to abstain. I may grow old in Matthias' snare, he decided, but I'll not grow fat!
   Now, he pushed the plate toward the boy. "Eat it if you want. I once commanded an army. I'm aware how unpalatable soldier's fare can be."
   The boy needed no second urging. He picked up plate and returned to his place by the door, shoveling the food into his mouth seemingly without taking time to swallow. Drakula smiled.
   "The appetite of youth! Greedy for everything. I was that way once . . . "
   His voice trailed away as he studied the boy. Awkward, gangly, but there was something, he could sense it--beneath that innocent exterior, there was raw power and courage. If he were free and could take this child in hand . . .
   Zelaszny paused long enough to say, "This mamaliga is good. Not like my mother makes, of course, but tasty!" He looked up.
   "Was your mother a good cook, sir?"
   "Princesses don't cook, Gabor."
   "Oh. No, sir." He thought about that. "What do they do?"
   Drakula considered. "A princess marries, gives her husband heirs . . . and then, she
dies . . . "
   The jade eyes darkened and he stood up quickly, walking to the little hearth.
   "And then their father hands over his sons to his enemies to do with as they wish."
   Zelaszny frowned at the bitterness in the words. "I'm sorry, sir."
   "Don't be so damned apologetic, Gabor! You've caused none of it!"
   No, it wasn't the boy's fault, no more than it had been his or Radu's. It was merely their bad fortune to be Vlad Drakul's sons--innocent pawns of ruthless men pitted against each other--sacrifices in the name of Power. No one knew how they had been abused, the children never told, but every time The Impaler had ordered a death, every time some miserable wretch shrieked his last agony as his body slid down a pole made slippery by his own blood--in Drakula's mind, it was a Turk being repaid for his own body's defilement.
   "But my question seemed to remind you of something sad--"
   He was interrupted almost angrily. "My entire life's been something sad if the truth be known, boy!"
   Feeling chastened, Zelaszny finished the mamaliga in silence and placed the plate on the table. Suddenly, he felt as if he should say something, something encouraging. "Well, it won't always be so, sir!"
   The pale eyes turned toward him, sparkling. "You think so, do you?"
   "Yes, sir. One day you'll be free again and . . . "
   "You believe in miracles, then?" There was a sardonic smile on the dark face.
   "I believe in justice, sir," Zelaszny answered, earnestly, surprising himself with the sudden surge of emotion he felt for this man. "The Emperor will free you--and soon. You'll see!"
   "He hasn't these ten years!" Drakula replied. With a shrug, he turned to look at the fire. "Well, if this is to happen, may it be soon, for Tara Romaneasca needs me!  Now, more than ever!"
   Briefly, the flames lit his face, reflecting in his eyes and filling their paleness with a murky flickering, highlighting the high cheekbones and the dark hair with balefire . . .
   . . . and Drakula smiled . . .
   . . . and Zelaszny couldn't prevent the shudder that suddenly shook him . . .
   Surely this is how the Ordog looked when he took possession of Hell!

 
Satan was loosed upon the world.


The flames from the burning roofs of the Turkish-held city of Srebenica reddened the sky as The Impaler gave orders for the town to be razed to its foundations.
   Zelaszny's miracle had happened; Vlad Drakula was free after more than a dozen years. The efforts of his cousin Stjepan and the other monarchs had forced the Emperor to release his prisoner, sending him southward with a Hungarian to regain his throne, and in doing so loosed a caged wolf to once more attack and ravage.
   With him had gone Zelaszny--companion of his confinement, now trusted bodyguard. They'd become close during those years, no longer jailer and jailed but mentor and pupil, until now, the boy was bound to the Prince with almost slavish devotion. When he'd been told he was to accompany Drakula, he'd fallen to his knees, kissing his Master's hand and crying out, "I'll follow you anywhere, My Lord! To Hell, if necessary!"
   Now, here he was--in Hell, surely--and willingly, for if Drakula was a raging wolf, Zelaszny was the wolf's cub, a mirror-image of his Lord's ferocity. His Master had taught the boy well.
   He pulled his horse to a dancing halt beside the Prince who was watching one of his soldiers hack off the limbs of a badly wounded Turk. In one hand he held a bottle of wine, striking it against a nearby wall and breaking off the neck, then raising it to drink.Of late, he'd been plagued with dreams; the faces of those he killed in battle rose at night to haunt his mind and the only way he'd found to exorcize the bloody images was to drown his brain in spirits--though sometimes even that didn't help . . .
   He gulped the wine loudly, and forced himself not to look away.
   The man shrieked aloud, body floundering, then screamed again as the soldier seized his leg and wrenched it free of the socket, slashing at the remaining shreds of flesh holding it in place.
  In a moment, he was unconscious, dying a few seconds later when a second Hungarian's sword struck off his head.
  The leg, along with one of the prisoner's arms--its fingers still twitching--were skewered onto a spear, bleeding tendons and white splinters of bone striking the shaft with a hollow tinkling.
  Zelaszny forced a laugh as he raised the bottle, gripping it tightly to keep his hand from shaking. "To your first victory, Domnul! And to many more!"
  Drakula pulled it from his hand and drank also, then tossed the bottle over his shoulder.
  The soldier was busy driving a stake through the dead Turk's headless, armless body. He held it aloft, the genitals swaying.
  "No!" Drakula called, and gestured, "I want those on a separate pole!" and the man dropped the trunk to the ground, lifted the limp organs and sliced through them with his sword.
  Drops of red began to drip from the mangled pieces.
  Behind them came a strangled gasp, "Sweet Jesus--it looks as if ‘tis pissing blood!"
  Glancing over his shoulder, Drakula saw Rakoczy, a mercenary from Wallachia, hand to his mouth, face white. "Squeamish, Wallach?" His voice was scornful. "Did the years of fighting in the Hungarian army turn your own blood white?"
  Rakoczy dropped his hand to stammer, "‘Tis inhuman, Sire--to chop off a man's privates, though he's dead!"
  "If it discomfits you," the Prince's hand slid to the hilt of his sword, "I can see that you're put out of your misery!"
  "Nay, Sire--he means no disrespect." Numbed by the wine, Zelaszny chose to intervene in the Wallach's behalf, drawing his horse nearer Rakoczy's. No matter what he himself was feeling, he knew better than to protest, but this fool--
  Turning, he hissed under his breath, "Shut up, dolt! Can't you see in a moment he'll kill you?"
  Rakoczy prudently kept quiet.
  The Prince's eyes--wide and dilated in the firelight--caught and held Zelaszny's. In them, the flames danced in grotesque billows.
  "And you--my faithful Hungarian--do you question my methods also?"
  Zelaszny swallowed quickly, forcing back a suddenly rising gorge, well aware that the wrong answer might be his last. He wasn't so drunk that he was stupid--not yet.
  "Nay, Sire! Haven't I sworn to follow you? To Hell, if need be?"
  He forced himself to meet the glittering gaze without flinching.
  "Sire," Rakoczy managed to echo, " I meant no disrespect. What you've ordered is right. 'Tis cruel, but just!"
  "Cruel but just." Drakula turned away, nodding, "Aye--'tis a fitting description--" and laughed aloud and struck Zelaszny on the shoulder with his gloved hand. "And soon the Turks will learn exactly how just I can be!"

  Zelaszny raised the tankard and took a long violent swallow.
  He was in a tavern in Bucarasti, not far from the mansion the Prince had confiscated as his headquarters until the war was ended, trying to drink away the images of Srebenica.
  It wasn't working; they floated in his mind, sharp and clear and horrible, and he couldn't understand why those, of all the scenes of death, should affect him so.
  He had rejoiced when his Master was freed, actually looked forward to serving his Lord but after Srebenica--that had changed. He sat upon his horse and watched the Turkish soldiers--both living men and corpses--being impaled, saw the atrocities done to their bodies and felt sickened and for the first time, in spite of all the acts he heard the Prince order, and had himself joyously obeyed, he felt horror and disgust rising within him.
  It was all he could do to stifle it and not puke up his guts right there, and what kind of explaining would he had done then?
  And now, his Master was once more Prince of this country, and it would start all over again--the impalings, the death, the terror. The madness within him hadn't disappeared. It had simply been hiding, springing into full-grown life again once he was on the battlefield.
  "God have mercy . . . " he muttered, raising the tankard again.
  Someone stopped at the table.
  Zelaszny didn't look up. "Go away. I wish to drink alone.''
  "That's not a good habit!"
  He didn't recognize the voice, looking up at the man blearily--a boyar, no doubt--but a stranger.
  "I've a right to drink as I please!" he answered angrily. He tilted the tankard, but the man pulled it out of his hand as he sat down. "I said I--"
  He got no further. Suddenly, there were several men at the table, surrounding him.
  Zelaszny reached for his knife.
  Immediately, four daggers encircled his throat, their blades unnoticed in the dimly-lit room.
  He decided to be sensible.
  "My purse is at my belt. Take it and be done!"
  "We don't want your purse." The speaker settled himself across from Zelaszny, setting down the tankard and pulling the knife from his hand.
  "Then what do you want?" he demanded.
  "To talk--"
  "You've a strange way of opening a dialogue!"
  The man put away their daggers and sat down also. To an onlooker they appeared as drinki.ng companions preparing for a night of tippling.
  "Talk about what?"
  "About this madman who now holds Tara Romaneasca's throne--"
  "How dare you speak thus of my Master--"
  "Why not?" the man demanded, studying the knife. "Haven't you done the same--in your heart? Else why are you sitting in this tavern guzzling down those tankards like they hold water?"
  He leaned forward, lowering his voice, "I think you don't wish him to rule any more than we do, and if you're willing to listen--and remain silent--perhaps we can help bring that about."
  "You're a fool!" Zelaszny exclaimed, confused at the turmoil of emotions those words wrought inside him. It was as if the man had seen into his mind, knew his secret thoughts--how the killing, the cruelty of it all, sickened him and made him wish the Prince was once more confined--and the world safe.
  How tonight, the wine hadn't helped at all . . .
  "Surely, you know I'll tell my Master . . .
  "Will you?" The man held out the dagger.
  For a moment, they stared at each other in the semi-darkness.
  Zelaszny took the dagger, slamming it into his scabbard. When he released it, his hands were shaking.
  "Go on," he said slowly.


  Three days later, on a snow-covered plain outside Bucaresti, the armies of Vlad Drakula and Mehmed the Conqueror came together, with the Turks' superior numbers immediately gaining the upper hand.
  Those of Drakula's man not struck down by sword were slain by arrows or shrapnel from cannon fire, but then the battle turned.
  Briefly, the Infidels were in retreat, and in the confusion, Zelaszny saw the chance he'd been waiting for. It was a simple matter to ride his horse close to the Prince' and guide it away from the others and toward a little rise overlooking the field.
  "Here, Master. View your triumph!"
  Though Rakoczy was with them, he wasn't worried. The boyars said they'd be waiting nearby. All he had to do was isolate the Prince, disable him, and then . . .
  "Look at them run!"' Drakula stood in the stirrups, shaking a fist at the retreating figures and laughing. "By God, we're winning!"
  Now . . . now was the time. Do it, don't hesitate!
  Zelaszny's hand slid to the high fork of his saddle, resting inches from the dagger at his belt.
  "No, Sire--"
  "No?" Drakula turned to look at him "What do you mean?"
  "You can't win! I won't let you!" The words burst out in a frantic babble. "I can't let it start again!" He drew the knife and drove it downward, aiming for the opening in the neck of the Prince's armor.
  "Zelaszny!" Rakoczy's exclamation distracted him. "What in God's name are you--?"
  Drakula's arm came up, blocking the knife, deflecting it so it struck his shoulder instead but somehow--miraculously--the blade penetrated the steel. It sank into soft flesh, was jerked from Zalaszny's hand as the Prince fell from his horse.
  The Hungarian drew his sword.
  Rakoczy wrenched his horse around, making it strike Zelaszny's. For a moment, they struggled against each other, the Wallach preventing him from reaching his target, hands grasping the young soldier's wrist.
  Zelaszny pulled free, swung his sword and drove it through the mercenary's chest.
  Rakoczy died with no more than a quick gurgle, tumbling backward off his horse into the snow.
  "I wondered when you'd try this!" Drakula scrambled to his feet grimacing as he seized the dagger by the handle, wrenched it free of his shoulder and tossed it to the ground.
  "Y-you knew?"
  "You're such a fool, Boy! Of course I did! Didn't I tell you I trusted no one? Especially not someone who who meets dissident boyars in taverns and talks to them for hours! And doesn't even notice he's being watched!" There was a slight shrug. "I didn't expect you to act quite so soon, however!"
  Briefly, his tone was reproachful. "Why, Gabor?"
  "I--" He couldn't tell him, didn't know how to put into words the way he had felt that night. "You must be stopped . . . "
  "But not by you!"
  "No--by us" From the marsh bordering the knoll, a group of horsemen galloped toward them, swords drawn.
  Four of the men slid off their horses, surrounding the Prince, and he turned, his own sword raised, daring them to come nearer.
  Zelaszny dismounted and dropped his reins.
  "I've wounded him--" he began. "He'll be easy to overpower . . . "
  The circle began to close.
  He could see that the Prince wasn't afraid--even marvel at it--and Zelaszny was transported back to the day they met, an unnamed prisoner twisted by Life and a young and untried soldier waiting to be molded.
  "You've no idea who I am, have you?"
  "Should I?"
  "I'm the Prisoner Incognito. Boy, and that's all I am, now!
  God, if he could go back to that moment! He truly didn't want this! One of the men lunged forward.
  The other three began to circle.
  Drakula's sword blocked his blade. Twisting away, he slashed at his attacker. The strings of one pauldron broke, its protective disk falling to the ground. Another boyar leaped from the side, driving his sword into the unprotected space.
  The Prince cried out and staggered. Red spattered his chest plate.
  "Stop!" Zelaszny cried. "You said you wanted to capture him! Not--"
  "You really are a fool!" One of the men shouted. "Of course he has to die! We can't let him live to be set free again! "
  Without warning, Drakula spun quickly, slamming the point of the blade into the second boyar's belly, slinging the body to the ground as he wrenched the weapon free.
  He'd caught them by surprise; the third simply stood there staring at him as he swung the sword against his neck. The noble's head rolled to the ground, a look of astonishment upon its face.
  Three more dismounted to take their slain comrades' places.
  The sound of their swords being pulled from their scabbards was a metallic scream on the frozen air.
  "Surrender, Vlad Drakula--or be killed now!"
  Five blades pointed at him, all poised to drive into his body.
  The Prince's chin lifted defiantly.
  "I am Drakula! Domnul of this land!. Only when I lie cold in my tomb will I abandon Tara Romaneasca!" Beneath the flowing moustache, the thin lips parted in a chilling smile. "'And perhaps not even then!"
  He let out a deep breath, the vapor forming a cloudy halo around his head.
  "No!" Zelaszny flung himself forward, between the Prince and the nearest sword. "Oh, God, Master I'm sorry--"
  Five blades struck home.
  For a moment, their bodies clung together, Drakula's eyes meeting Zelaszny's, "See . . . ? I was right . . . not to trust . . . " The jade eyes filmed, became dull green stones; the Prince slid from Zelaszny's grasp, crumpling into a heap in the snow. The Hungarian stood upright a moment long before he fell forward onto his master's corpse.
  One of the boyars spoke.
  "Finish it . . .
  Zelaszny turned his head. Weakly, he tried to raise himself on one hand, then fell back again, his head resting against the Prince's breastplate.
  "You've gotten what you wanted!" The pain in his chest made him gasp the words. "Why mutilate his body?"
  "The Turks wish proof of his death. They're not going to take our word."
  He could do nothing but lay there and watch as the great blade rose and fell, didn't even flinch as the blood spray spattered himself on one hand, then fell back again, his head resting against the Prince's breastplate.
  "You've gotten what you wanted!" The pain in his chest made him gasp the words. "Why mutilate his body?"
  "The Turks wish proof of his death. They're not going to take our word."
  He could do nothing but lay there and watch as the great blade rose and fell, didn't even flinch as the blood spray spattered his face.
  They lifted the head by its blood-soaked hair. It swung in his hands, slowly turning to face Zelaszny.
  For an instant, he thought he saw pure fury in the pale dead eyes.
  The noble stalked away with his grisly trophy, mounted his horse and rode off.
  Slowly, Zelaszny lowered his head to the Prince's chest, resting his cheek against the coldness of the blood-specked steel.
  Into his mind came a long ago memory . . . an ignorant young soldier watching a hatred-filled man in a dark doublet, holding a frightened bird . . . There was a flutter in his chest . . . the bird trying to free itself . . . Soon, soon it would be able to fly away . . . for now the man was at peace . . .
  . . .or was he . . . ?
  There was a burning in his chest, widening and growing. It was difficult to breathe . . . his lungs filled with fire.
  "Master . . . please . . . forgive me . . . "
  The bleeding stump had pulsed a crimson puddle, frozen and glittering. With a trembling hand, Zel.aszny touched it, his warm blood mingling with the melting crystals, re-freezing so they were one.
  He'd sworn to protect his Lord, betrayed him instead . . . God . . . he couldn't breathe . . . a burning band encircled his chest . . . tightening . . .
  He forced a final pain-filled whisper, "I'll . . . follow you . . . to Hell, My Lord . . . if need be . . . "
  As his last breath left him, Zelaszny was certain Drakula was already there, waiting to greet him.

From an upcoming issue of  REALM OF THE VAMPIRE