Vlad by C.C. Humphreys Read Free Book Online Page A

as the Dragon’s green; while his nose was small and in proportion to a face whose skin was unblemished and rose-hued. “Besides,” he said, settling, imitating his brother’s stance, arms to the side, one leg slightly forward, weight spread, “I learned a new move yesterday—‘How to Break a Bosnian’s Back.’” He looked at Constantin. “I cannot wait to try it.”
    Vlad shifted slightly. They had fought as a three before and it always came at a cost. Radu was just eleven, his body still more child than youth. And his beauty made others both desirous and envious. In a fight they would try to mar it. Vlad and Ion, defending him, often left themselves vulnerable. Yet he was also proud to have his brother there, the Draculesti united.
    “Then, brother, let us see what you have learned.”
    Vlad waited. The Mardic brothers shuffled their feet. It was clear they had no plan, hadn’t thought they’d need one.
    The eight youths looked at each other. Then each became aware of the noise that had been building for a while, the vibration under their feet. Closer it came, closer. The two groups simultaneously moved two paces back,beyond the range of sudden attack. Then they all turned to look.
    Before them were the equestrian grounds and sweeping across them was a cloud of dust, shapes moving within it, cries emerging from it. All wanted to move from its path, this whirling cone that only thickened as the horses that caused it were brought up onto their hind legs in a sudden halting. Dust filled with debris smashed into them, blinding, stinging, bringing tears and choking. Then it began to settle, and those who rode the whirlwind became clear.
    Horsemen, of course. One, in particular, kept his superb white Arab’s front hooves flailing long after the others had dropped.
    “Mehmet,” Vlad breathed, choking on the name, on the dust.

– THREE –
     
    The Challenge
     
    Vlad stared at the Turkish prince, who finally let his grip slacken and allowed his mount’s hooves to fall. He had not seen him for over a year, but he hadn’t changed much—at least in his looks. His beard was a little redder, thicker, better trimmed. His nose was still a parrot’s beak, thrust out over full lips. There was a definite change in his bearing, though. He had never been a modest youth. But two years before, his father, Murad, had inexplicably abdicated, making his son sultan in his place. Mehmet had been bred to power from the crib, but he was still just a fourteen-year-old ruling one of the most powerful empires in the world. He had ignored his advisers, alienated his most loyal troops, the janissaries, encouraged wild mystics from the mountains, waged foolish wars. The Divan, the Sultan’s council, had begged Murad to return, and Murad had agreed. Mehmet was a mere prince again, heir to the throne he’d occupied for two years. Humiliated by being forced to bend again to tutors, to obey rather than command. And Vlad could see how that sat in the boy-man’s face: not well.
    “Dracula,” he exclaimed, returning the stare. “Two Dracula. Two sons of the Devil…and their little gang of imps.” He glanced around at the others, dismissing them, his gaze returning to Vlad. “I am glad your father still behaves like a sheep, so his lambs can live.”
    “And your father rules again, Mehmet,” replied Vlad evenly, “to universal rejoicing.”
    The prince’s redness deepened. He brought his horse a step closer, forcing the group to give ground. “I will be sultan again,” he hissed, “while you will still be a hostage. My hostage! And I will make you suck the dirt from my feet.”
    “You’ll find it hard to walk then, missing a toe.”
    Ion tensed, waiting for the explosion. But after a moment, Mehmet just smiled. “Little Dragon,” he said. “Always so bold. Easy to be when you hide behind your status as a hostage. You know I cannot touch you…for now.”
    “I know you never will, Little Prince.”
    “No?” Mehmet’s