VOIVOD Book Three: Forest of Spears by Kyle B. Stiff

Author:Kyle B. Stiff [Stiff, Kyle B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-07T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Hatred Is Our Salvation

Vlad attended liturgy in a new church he had built in Bucuresti, his eyes fixed on a painted icon of Emperor Constantine the First. The ancient warrior-saint stood on the walls of Constantinople, once the center of the Greek faith. Vlad’s attention wandered from the chanting of the Psalms as he imagined those very walls falling around Emperor Constantine XI. He imagined the terror and fury the man must have felt as the horde swept over his people. The sense of failure as his shoulders proved unable to bear the burden of protecting his people from cages, manacles, and Turks salivating as they separated men, women, and children among themselves...

Vlad came back as the train of clergymen passed by bearing crosses and standards of six-winged angels, and he and Viorel both knelt as the priest drew near. The priest held a chalice over their heads to bless them, then continued on, his robe gently swaying in a cloud of incense.

Vlad glanced at the people in the church as he stood. He saw well-dressed boyars, architects and stonemasons, peasants in brightly colored vests, and women clutching children, more small children than he had ever seen in any Wallachian village. It was a sign that the people believed in him and what he was doing. He realized that they looked nothing like the beaten-down, poverty-stricken Wallachians he had once known. He wondered what his father would think if he could see them gathered in this church that Vlad had built - one of many churches and monasteries he had built, all in villages that were now surrounded with at least some form of wooden wall or defensive structures all manned by locals.

We have so much now, he thought. And yet now we all stand on the edge of a knife. If we lean this way, or that… utter destruction.

Once the liturgy ended, Vlad met with Viorel outside, near the entrance. Bucuresti was not what it once was. The surrounding stone wall and ramparts grew steadily, and several large wooden houses owned by new boyars stood over other fine-looking homes. Finally Viorel caught Vlad’s eye. Vlad noted the young man’s short cape and darkly patterned vest. He had a full mustache and his hair was combed. Vlad could not help but remember the wild-looking youth in a vest of sheep’s wool tied to the wheels of a Turkish wagon, his scruffy face bruised and bloody.

“Forgive me for saying,” said Viorel, “but your mind has been wandering, Voivod.”

Vlad nodded. “I’m thinking of what’s coming.”

Viorel was a member of Vlad’s inner circle, and knew full well the choice that he would soon be forced to make. “Whatever you do,” said Viorel, “all the boyars of Bucuresti are by your side. I’m sure that goes for all of Wallachia as well.”

He locked his clear blue eyes on Vlad, and thrust out his hand. He was a man of few words. Vlad shook his hand, then they both went their separate ways. A young servant stood ready, holding the reins of Vlad’s horse.

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