House of War Read online

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  “Son of the Dragon”, Book One of Dracula

  Chronicles (December 2012)

  “Empire of the Crescent Moon”, Book Two of

  Dracula Chronicles (March 2014)

  HOUSE OF WAR

  Book Three of Dracula Chronicles

  By

  VICTOR T. FOIA

  Kindle Edition

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Dracula Chronicles

  Book Three: House of War

  By: Victor T. Foia

  First edition

  Published by: Dracula Press, LLC

  www.draculachronicles.com [email protected]

  Copyright of the Bestiary Scriptorium Product #169781 is held by Ragnarok Press

  Cover artwork by Justin T. Foia

  Editors: Arlene W. Robinson and Terry Lee Robinson

  The image of the dragon on the cover property of Bayerisches Nationalmuseum

  Reproduced with permission based on a slightly modified image of Inv. No T 3792,

  “Badge of the Order of the Dragon”

  Copyright © 2015 by Victor T. Foia

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN-13: 9781523636785

  ISBN-10: 1523636785

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900572

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  For Chloe

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Maps of Dracula Chronicles

  Houses of Dracula Chronicles

  CHAPTER 1: A Debt of Honor

  CHAPTER 2: Tale for the Sultan

  CHAPTER 3: Two Daring Women

  CHAPTER 4: On Hannibal’s Footsteps

  CHAPTER 5: The Hunchback’s Shack

  CHAPTER 6: Stern Warning

  CHAPTER 7: Mullah Gürani

  CHAPTER 8: Undesired Good News

  CHAPTER 9: Sheik al-Masudi

  CHAPTER 10: Unexpected New Beginning

  CHAPTER 11: Osman’s Qur’an

  CHAPTER 12: Public Execution

  CHAPTER 13: Omar’s Prey

  CHAPTER 14: Akhal-Teke Mare

  CHAPTER 15: Shahada

  CHAPTER 16: Angel Jibra’il

  CHAPTER 17: Munāfiq – Hypocrite

  CHAPTER 18: İbrahim’s Precedent

  CHAPTER 19: The Earring

  CHAPTER 20: Tibi Laus et Gloria

  CHAPTER 21: Enemies of Jihād

  CHAPTER 22: War Logistics

  CHAPTER 23: I am the Truth

  CHAPTER 24: Fire Starter

  CHAPTER 25: Royal Carpenter

  CHAPTER 26: Ramadan

  CHAPTER 27: Sugar Festival

  CHAPTER 28: Jalāl’s Puzzle

  CHAPTER 29: Ambassadors’ Reception

  CHAPTER 30: Karaman

  CHAPTER 31: İbrahim Bey

  CHAPTER 32: Status Quo

  CHAPTER 33: Eye of the Needle

  CHAPTER 34: A Debt Recalled

  CHAPTER 35: Amulet Power

  CHAPTER 36: Paris’s Heir

  CHAPTER 37: Blessings of War

  CHAPTER 38: Thorns and Snakes

  CHAPTER 39: Permanent Jihād

  CHAPTER 40: Terror on Ordu Alan

  CHAPTER 41: A Secret Sign

  CHAPTER 42: Eid Prayer

  CHAPTER 43: Black Ram

  CHAPTER 44: The Night of Eid al-Adha

  CHAPTER 45: Omar’s Gift

  CHAPTER 46: Mournful Dirge

  CHAPTER 47: Misdirected Vengeance

  CHAPTER 48: Muradiye

  CHAPTER 49: Firman

  CHAPTER 50: She-Devil’s Island

  CHAPTER 51: Test of Manhood

  CHAPTER 52: Theotókos Monastery

  CHAPTER 53: Mara’s Letter

  CHAPTER 54: The Power of Tradition

  CHAPTER 55: Absolution

  CHAPTER 56: RIP

  CHAPTER 57: Deadly Threat

  CHAPTER 58: Worthy Custom to Bequeath

  CHAPTER 59: Boy in Distress

  CHAPTER 60: Lapis Lazuli

  CHAPTER 61: Fishing Day

  CHAPTER 62: A Hundred Questions

  CHAPTER 63: Aristotle’s Hometown

  CHAPTER 64: Unexpected Visitor

  CHAPTER 65: Ten-Year Peace

  CHAPTER 66: Pirates’ Silver

  CHAPTER 67: Consul Benedetto

  CHAPTER 68: Deserted Farmhouse

  CHAPTER 69: Akincis on a Mission

  CHAPTER 70: Dangerous Frontier

  CHAPTER 71: Dominus Albanie

  CHAPTER 72: Flagellants

  CHAPTER 73: Thirty Pieces of Silver

  The Journey Continues

  Glossary

  Who is Who and What is What

  Story World of Dracula Chronicles

  About the Author

  South East Europe & Asia Minor in the Time of Dracula

  Balkan Space in the Time of Dracula

  Wallachia in the Time of Dracula

  Transylvania in the Time of Dracula

  Constantinople in the Time of Dracula

  House of Basarab

  House of Novak

  House of Alba

  House of Hunyadi

  House of Brankovich

  House of Cilli

  House of Luxemburg

  House of Osman

  1

  A DEBT OF HONOR

  September 1442, Galata, Genovese Colony

  “Stop!”

  The shout, shrill and urgent, came from somewhere at the right end of the wharf, beyond the range of the torchlight. Though in a young voice, the order froze all movement around Vlad.

  “I’ll have all of you fed to my dogs for daring to touch my friend,” the same voice said, now cold and cutting as an obsidian shard.

  Vlad’s eyes hadn’t left Zaganos’s kiliç suspended in midair, a malignant promise yearning for fulfillment. When it began to descend, with the slowness of a feather floating on still air, Vlad felt the blood rush into his heart. His muscles relaxed and his body began to quiver as if exposed to a sudden chill.

  Yunus let go of the rope that secured Vlad’s wrist and dashed to hide behind Zaganos.

  Hamza too disengaged from Vlad and bounded after Yunus.

  The torchbearers parted, but not quickly enough to avoid being pummeled and kicked by Mehmed, who thrust himself through the passage.

  “Give me that,” he said to Zaganos.

  The vizier gripped his kiliç by the blade and offered Mehmed the hilt. Vlad noticed Zaganos’s face was tight, washed over with an ashen hue.

  Mehmed snatched the weapon, and pivoting on one foot, planted it into the belly of the nearest torchbearer. The man dropped his torch and crumpled to the ground screaming. The three remaining torchbearers shrieked and jumped into the water.

  “Calm down, Mehmed,” Zaganos said, himself far from calm. He picked up the fallen torch and pointed at Vlad with it. “Your friend was about to get only what a thief deserves.”

  Mehmed took Vlad’s right wrist and examined the bloody trace left by Zaganos’s blade.

  “Come with me and I’ll bandage your wound,” he said.

  Vlad rose and they left, arm in arm, in the direction whence Mehmed had come.

  “You come too, Lala Zaganos,” Mehmed said, a harsh menace in his tone.

  At the end of the wharf, a gangplank led to a galley lighted from stern to prow by a string of l
anterns. They found Tirendaz standing stone-faced in front of a tent erected upon the poop deck.

  I owe you my reprieve, Vlad thought as he bowed his head to Tirendaz. One day I shall repay the favor.

  Tirendaz gave Mehmed an approving look then returned to the wharf.

  The tent too was lit, and Vlad noted that Mehmed’s blanket lay in a crumpled pile, testimony to the haste of his departure.

  “Get me hot water, honey, and a bandage,” Mehmed said to a page who poked his head into the tent. When the youth disappeared, Mehmed turned to Zaganos with a frigid stare. “I’ve promised to make you Grand Vizier one day. Instead I should stick your head on top of this galley’s mast.”

  Zaganos threw himself to his knees, touched the ground with his forehead, then remained kneeling. The man knew when to be silent.

  “I swear by Allah you’ll never be Grand Vizier if I just suspect that you or your men have harmed Vlad in any way. From now on he’s under my protection.”

  “You’re wrong to give your friendship to this infidel, Mehmed,” Zaganos said. “He’ll use it to steal your money, then escape and take refuge in the city, as he did today.”

  Mehmed raised his hand as if to strike Zaganos, but after a moment of hesitation let it drop. “It was my idea we should sneak into Constantinople, not his,” he said with the excessive conviction of the inexperienced liar. Then he noticed Vlad’s talisman dangling on Zaganos’s chest and yanked it off, breaking the leather thong. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and kill you.”

  Zaganos’s face reddened, but he said nothing and left the tent shuffling backward. At the last moment he gave Vlad a glance of fathomless hatred.

  “You’re pretty bold to be talking like that to the Third Vizier,” Vlad said.

  “I’m the sultan’s son and the Governor General of western Anatolia, with a dozen provinces under my control.” Mehmed sounded impassioned. “Zaganos is but a kul, my father’s slave.” Mehmed tied the talisman around Vlad’s neck then washed his wound with a cloth dipped in scalding water. “Did you really intend to remain in the city and escape Father’s control over you?”

  Vlad touched the knife wound on Mehmed’s neck and chuckled. “Did you really fight your way free in the city, all alone?”

  “When it got dark and you failed to show up,” Mehmed said, “I thought those bullies had caught up with you.”

  “So, absent a witness who might contradict your story, why not embellish it a bit, right?”

  They laughed with the lightheartedness of two good friends unexpectedly reunited.

  Mehmed drizzled honey on Vlad’s wound. “Tirendaz told me you were caught climbing down the seawall by Emperor John’s men. Now that’s an adventure I wish I’d shared with you.”

  “Being captured on my way out of the city proves I didn’t intend to seek asylum there, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t believe Zaganos when he said you went straight to Emperor John’s palace and begged for his protection.”

  Mehmed licked his fingers, then tied a cotton strip around Vlad’s wrist.

  “I owe you my right hand,” Vlad said and wondered what implications such a debt of honor entailed. If Mehmed became sultan, would Vlad’s sword have to be at his service?

  “And I owe you my neck,” Mehmed said, earnest.

  “Then I declare we’re even,” Vlad said.

  They laughed again and Vlad was able to banish for the moment the dark thoughts regarding his future as a hostage of the empire.

  2

  TALE FOR THE SULTAN

  September 1442, Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

  “You’ve killed me, woman,” Grimaldi screamed in Donatella’s face, so loud her ears rang. “Just as much as if you’d stuck a knife into my heart.”

  He’d barged into Ca’ Loredano’s lower portego the morning after Bianca’s departure, shoving Donatella’s servants aside and calling out her name. She’d been expecting him, yet she bothered neither with dressing for company, nor with putting on makeup. There was no longer a need to manipulate the podestà with her charms. Instead, she just pinned her hair up in a chignon, wrapped herself in a house robe, and descended from the piano nobile, braced for his recriminations.

  “You’re as alive as when I saw you last time, Ser Grimaldi.” She knew that was a banal thing to say, but couldn’t think of anything else. And she felt silence would give the false impression she was afraid of him.

  “You’re a conniving, lying cunt,” he growled, voice aquiver. “I should’ve never trusted you.”

  Donatella glanced around and was pleased to see her servants had the decency to withdraw and eavesdrop from behind closed doors.

  “You came to me with a false story,” he said. “Begging for a galley to save your business, while planning your daughter’s escape, all along.”

  “I’ve already paid you the lease for two months, brother-in-law. And when the galley returns, you’ll have it back. Now leave and don’t ever return.”

  “It’s my life I’m worried about, not the stupid galley,” he screeched. “You don’t renege on an agreement with the sultan and get to keep your head.”

  “He’s got other young girls promised him by men currying his favor,” Donatella said, repeating something she’d heard Mara say. “He’ll soon forget Bianca, and you’ll be safe.”

  Grimaldi shook his head and leaned toward her, spiteful.

  “Those girls are just names he might or might not remember. But Bianca—he’s seen her. Had you not paraded your daughter at Lady Mara’s court, none of these troubles would befall me now.”

  Donatella took a couple of steps back to evade the sour smell that clung to him like a shroud to a corpse. But he pursued her, relentless in his quest to drag her into his vortex of despair.

  “And I’ve learned you got some runaway hostage of Murad involved in your imbecilic scheme,” he said. “That puts you at the center of a conspiracy against the Ottomans’ interests. You’ll find no place now to hide from the sultan’s wrath.”

  The word “conspiracy” conjured for her torture chambers and savage executions. Grimaldi’s fear infected her, though she dreaded Vlad’s fate more than hers.

  I must shield the prince from this affair.

  With ebbing confidence, she said, “The soldiers who captured Vlad don’t know Bianca was on the ladder with him.” She blushed at the intimacy implied by the mention of Vlad’s name, but Grimaldi seemed too worked up to register her discomfort. “So unless your own servants talk, Murad won’t see a conspiracy in Bianca’s disappearance.”

  Grimaldi waved his hand, dismissive. “Murad will want to know how your daughter escaped the vigilance of the minders I provided on his behalf. Then the truth will surface.”

  “Don’t wait for him to ask you how that happened,” Donatella said, refusing to let his hopelessness rub off on her. “Come up with an explanation that will keep both of us safe.”

  “Don’t you understand Murad’s besotted with lust for Bianca?” Grimaldi whined. “What lie could I serve him to gain forgiveness for losing her?”

  An improbable idea struck Donatella, and she clung to it like a castaway to a piece of driftwood. Bianca doesn’t bring Murad a political alliance. Nor does she have a dowry worthy of the sultan. All he cares for is her beauty.

  “Bianca didn’t run away,” she said. Her breath was quick as she hung onto the front of Grimaldi’s doublet and whispered, “It was you who shipped her to Venice.”

  He tried but failed to shake himself free from her grip. “What?”

  Donatella, now oblivious to Grimaldi’s repulsiveness, tightened her grip on him. “She was struck with smallpox on the return trip from Edirne. When you saw her face covered with repelling blisters, you realized the poor girl was no longer worthy of the sultan’s affection.”

  “But—but—”

  “Then you heard of a Venetian doctor who claims to make smallpox scars disappear, if he applies his magic potion within a month of the di
sease’s onset.” She spoke fast, afraid Grimaldi would break loose and bolt before she could make her point. “So you dispatched Bianca to Venice and will bring her back to Murad as soon as her beauty’s restored.”

  “I did no such thing,” Grimaldi said, eyes bulging with outrage. “How dare you credit me with actions I haven’t commi—” The last word stumbled inside his gorge and he swallowed it with a resounding tongue-clacking. A reddish tint spread over his face, and his mouth gaped. “Yes—yes—such a story will cool Murad’s ardor for Bianca and save both you and me.”

  Donatella let go of Grimaldi’s doublet and surreptitiously wiped her palms on the sides of her robe.

  He beamed. “You’re not as empty-headed as I thought, sister-in-law.”

  For the next few minutes Grimaldi paced along the portego, no longer giving signs of his earlier defeatism. He talked to himself, inflated his chest, and pounded his right fist into his left palm. When he finally stopped and gazed haughtily at her, he was no longer the sniveling old man who’d burst into her house a short while ago. He’d become, once again, Podestà Grimaldi, a man of vast wealth and power, a trusted friend to the sultan.

  “The real purpose of my visit was to set a date for our marriage,” he said, in a tone meant to discount all that had just happened between them. “The earlier the better, since I plan to visit my warehouses in Crimea soon and I shan’t return until the spring.”

  Donatella had put out of her mind the provocative game she’d played with Grimaldi a few days before. On that occasion she was ready for any sacrifice, even marrying her brother-in-law, just to replace her shipwrecked galley. But now, with Bianca safe on her way to Venice and Vlad out of her life, she had no intention to submit to Grimaldi’s matrimonial ambitions.

  “You inspired pity in me, cowering in fear just now,” she said. “But when you speak about marrying me, all you elicit is my derision.”

  She turned her back on him and left the portego with a confident stride.