Vlad by C.C. Humphreys Page A

they ride from their lands…” He jabbed the stick into the Turkish safety zone. “…And challenge us one at a time. And which Christian knight could refuse a challenge to single combat? So one accepts, chases the challenger, throws, usually misses…and another Turk rides out and spears him! But there is nothing in the rules to say we have to fight separately. What if we ride out as eight, call eight of them to the chase? Fight together for once? What if you, Mardics Maximus and Minor, lead us for the honor of Serbia and we others…”
    “Hide behind us,” interrupted Gheorghes, “and let us take their jereed for you. Then we sit and watch you slide out to take a sneak throw and save your manhood!”
    “No! Listen! Listen! This will work. A screen, yes, but armed and—”
    “And you behind it,” jeered the Transylvanian. “Just as your father was when my uncle, Hunyadi, the White Knight of Christendom, needed him at Varna. Kept the Dragon standard folded, let others take all the risk, skulked—”
    “Skulked?” yelled the younger Dracula, pushing his horse forward. “My father? I’ll pay you for that—”
    “Listen!” shouted Vlad, to no avail. And it was too late anyway. His voice could not quell the tumult. But the sound of a hunting horn did.
    They all looked. Two riders sat forty paces away. The one lowering the bugle from his lips was Abdullah-i-Raschid. He was Mehmet’s current favorite, a Greek-born slave. Ringlets dropped in well-ordered ranks down either side of his olive-colored face. “Petty princes! Low hostages! Scum!” He bowed mockingly, his voice as oiled as his hair. “Are there two men among you? Would any dare to challenge Mehmet’s warriors?”
    “Wait,” warned Vlad. “Let us choose—”
    “Choose for yourself!” The elder Mardic jabbed in his spurs, jerked his reins, his mount letting out a shrill neigh as it came up onto its rear hooves. As they dropped he cried, “For Serbia and St. Sava!” and kicked hard. His brother did the same. Both spurred onto the field.
    The Turks were not surprised. They were ready. With a flick of reins they had turned, within three strides they were at a gallop. The Serbians’ charge had brought them close enough for a throw and the younger Mardic leaned back, jerked forward, his jereed flying hopelessly wide. He tugged his mount’s head around but one Turk turned far quicker, paralleling the desperate Serb’s sweep as he tried to get back past the red post. Not swift enough, his frantic bobbing was no distraction. The javelin took him in the side, three paces before safety.
    A cry came from the far end, and from the many spectators who crowded the raised walkway above the horse lines. A cry that doubled in triumph as the elder Mardic, pursuing the weaving Abdullah, threw just as the Greek crossed into safety, missed anyway, and was immediately hit by another Turk riding out. Head drooping, he joined his brother and trotted over to the stables, trying to ignore the jeers of those who watched.
    “Now,” cried Vlad, “will you listen? There are still six of us, we—”
    “Too late,” said Ion, pointing.
    All looked. Two other Turks had joined the one who’d thrown, galloping beside him as he leaned out of his saddle and down his horse’s side, snatching up his jereed , shaking it aloft in triumph, to more acclamation. He passed twenty paces before the hostages’ safe zone and blew his lips out in the unmistakable sound of derision.
    “I’ll finish him!” cried the Croatian, Zoran.
    “Mine!” yelled the Bosnian.
    “No. Mine!” shouted the Transylvanian.
    “Wait,” shouted Vlad.
    Too late. As all three charged forward, their opponents split, two left, one right, but not at full gallop, slow enough to give hope and a target. Three jereed flew; three missed. The Christians tried to divert their horses away from the Turkish safety line, gallop back toward their own. But Mehmet, Abdullah and another rode out, not so fast,