Come to Me (33 page)

"Remember!" Nicolae screamed above the emerging chaos.

The villagers let out an unholy roar of fury and charged toward the army. Ogres took slow, loping strides, beasts bounced and scampered, dragons lumbered and clawed the air and belched yet more fire. Samira and her demons screeched and gnashed their teeth and advanced hungrily. And slowly. All they had to fight with was fear, and Dragosh's army had to be scared off before the first soldier met the first beast and discovered that there was nothing to battle but air and unarmed peasants.

The stunned first third of Dragosh's army was pushed forward by the men behind them, but then they dug in their heels and turned, screaming at their comrades to
stop, stop, go back
!

The villagers advanced, their human legs beneath the illusions slow but determined. Nicolae waved his arm in the air, directing his men to follow his lead. At the head of his monstrous army, Nicolae rode his wolf straight toward Dragosh's thousands.

Nicolae felt as if his heart were going to beat free of his chest. This was the bluff to top all bluffs; a game to see who would turn and run first. Should Dragosh's army muster the discipline to stand and fight, it would be over in an instant.

His mount snarled and growled and dripped drool from its jaws. God save him long enough to reward the stalwart horse with a bucket of grain.

Horn blows and whistles and shouts went through Dragosh's army, as his captains tried to rebuild order. They were as Constantin and Petru had said, though: an undisciplined lot, and a field full of monsters was more than even the sternest of fighters could face without quaking.

Curses and horns and drumbeats urged the soldiers forward, toward the gaping maws of the village beasts, beasts who moved inexorably on.

"Remember," Nicolae urged under his breath. "Remember." It was for himself as much as them that he said it. One slip of his mind and the illusion would go awry, and over two hundred villagers would lose their lives. And so would Samira.

He rode steadily, calmly toward the army, and then he saw a pennant flying high with the Wildcat of Maramures embroidered on a field of bloody red.

Dragosh.

Nicolae felt a flood of hatred wash through him. He shook it off in a panic, bringing Samira's image to his mind's eye, holding it there like a talisman as he rode forward. He could not let hatred swamp him; he could not allow thoughts of revenge.

He clenched his jaw and tried to hold his heart open, Samira and the villagers and his friends first in his awareness.

The rabble of Dragosh's army turned and ran, fleeing even when Dragosh's captains slashed their swords at those in retreat. The air was filled with the cries of the terrified and the roars of mythical beasts. The rabble ducked and swerved and dropped their weapons, scrambling to put distance between themselves and the fiends from Hell that pursued them.

The pennant remained, surrounded by armed soldiers. Nicolae rode toward it, his faith in his own ability dropping with each step. How did a man approach his greatest enemy while keeping only love in his heart?

As Dragosh's army fell away, leaving him alone in the center of his cadre of loyal guards and with only a hundred or so brave soldiers scattered behind him in nervous uncertainty, Nicolae raised his arm and commanded his monstrous troops to hold. The villagers, drilled the day before in basic commands, drew to a teeth-gnashing, howling stop.

Nicolae, almost at the crest of the hill now, glanced at Dragosh's remaining hundred-odd soldiers, aware that they were enough to wipe out the villagers. The rest of the army itself had only retreated half a mile, soldiers on horseback riding around the edge of the rabble, holding them in place should another advance be sounded.

Andrei, Petru, and Constantin took up places to either side of him and just behind, their wolf mounts pawing the ground and growling.

Dragosh rode forward several paces until he, too, was separate from his guards and facing Nicolae man-to-man. It took almost all Nicolae's concentration to keep his focus centered on Samira and the villagers, his hatred and revulsion swirling in a black river deep inside, dammed up against the present.

With what free thought was left to him, Nicolae looked Dragosh over, noting that his hair was thinner and even whiter than two years past. Dragosh looked to have aged a decade, the lines etched more deeply in his face, his cold eyes sunken and shadowed. His carriage was still proud, but he looked like an old man.

"What trick do you play?" Dragosh asked roughly. "What game is this?" he sneered, gesturing at the horde at Nicolae's back.

"No game. I have not been idle these past two years, Dragosh. I have taught myself the black arts, and found myself better suited to them than to commanding living men."

"I should have killed you when I had the chance, just like I killed your brother Mihai. Did you hear about Radu's death? Vlad Draco was responsible for that one. Dimitrie and Alexandra—those were your other brothers, weren't they?—are reported dead, although as I haven't seen the heads, I cannot say for certain."

Nicolae shut his eyes as he felt the pain of loss wash through him. It ebbed and flowed, a helpless anger mixing with it. The hatred swirled, the tide rising within him, threatening to break through the dam he had so carefully constructed. He fought the hatred and anger back, focusing inside on Samira. He saw her lying naked beside him, a soft glow of contentment on her face. Her eyes opening, looking at him with trust.

"Leave here," Nicolae whispered, barely holding on. If he lost control, Samira would be the one to pay the price. He could not let that happen, however badly his palm itched to take up his sword and separate Dragosh's head from his neck. "Take your army back through the pass and do not return."

"Will you follow me again if I do? I would relish the chance to finish what I started. There is still half your filthy Orthodox hide to burn before I kill you, too, like your mewling brothers."

He felt the hatred breaking through, rising up in a black gush. His wolf mount began to grow long ears, its fur changing from black to soft brown. It was turning into a rabbit.

Dragosh laughed, and turned to one of his captains. "Regroup the—"

Dragosh didn't finish, the words stopped by surprise in his throat as a wavering forty-foot-tall naked demon put herself squarely in front of him.

Samira
. Nicolae felt the black tide of hatred washed back as a surge of protectiveness came over him. What was Samira doing up here? She was supposed to be in back!

Her forty-foot, blood-dripping illusion solidified, and her voice was like screeching claws of metal as she spoke. "Go!" she demanded of Dragosh. "Go before I bite your head off and crunch your bones between my teeth. Go!"

Dragosh laughed again. "I see no reason to retreat from this trickery. Not even my horse is frightened of you, or those wolf things. If these creatures were real, they would have devoured us long since. I am not one to be so easily duped."

"As you were not fooled when you dreamt of Lucia being taken by the five sons of Bogdan?"

Dragosh's sneer froze on his face, the first hint of true unease coming to his features. "What know you of that?"

"I know that it was a dream sent to deceive you, and to prevent Nicolae's marriage to Lucia. I know that you saw her dancing on a table for the wolves of Dacia; I know you saw her accepting their touch and reveling in it. And I know it was all a lie, sent to you by Vlad Draco."

"Ha! You try to turn me against my ally. It will not work."

Nicolae heard the uncertainty in Dragosh's voice; heard the fright. One small drop of hatred dripped away from Nicolae, disappearing into the ground.

"I could have killed you if I wished, it's true," Nicolae said, and as he spoke Samira stepped aside. "But then there would be no hope of mending the rift in our family."

"There is no hope now," Dragosh said.

"I am the last of my father's heirs. You have burned me and broken my bones. You have schemed to overthrow my country and murder my brothers. And yet here I am before you, my hand at your throat, and I tell you to go home unharmed." The words were as fishhooks being pulled from his throat, but he saw now the truth of it: Even if he had the chance to kill Dragosh, he could not do it. If he did, the fighting would not stop for a dozen generations to come. "There
is
hope. Remember the curse, and remember that there is peace at the end of it. And know that I am the last of my father's line. Kill me, and you kill the future of your own family."

Dragosh was silent for several long moments, his brow furrowed; then at last he slowly shook his head. "Damn you, Nicolae of Moldavia." He looked over his shoulder at his cowering, distant army, and then back at Nicolae. "I will not give you Lucia. She has been promised to another, and I could never bear the thought of your Dacian paws on her."

"I would not take her even if you offered."

"So be it! Peace may come someday, but it is not today." With a final furious glare, Dragosh reined his horse around and galloped back down the hill toward his troops, his captains following behind.

Nicolae stared after them, too stunned to believe that they were retreating. He watched as Dragosh met his army, wary that they should be mustered to turn around and attack again. Instead, Dragosh moved to the front of the rabble and, bloodred pennant still flying, began the march west back toward the mountains.

Nicolae turned, staring wide-eyed at his monsters. "We did it."

A handful of ogres, dragons, and vile beasties crept to the crest of the hill, where they could see the retreating army. The reality of victory sank in slowly, and then all at once there were ogres locking elbows and dancing each other in high-stepping circles; dragons waving tiny lizard hands in the air and laughing; giant succubi hugging and kissing each other; ogres kissing dragons; vile, impish creatures tumbling over one another and being picked up and hugged by delighted ogres; and general all-around joyous chaos.

"
Loomda ee
," Nicolae said, undoing the illusions.

Samira was standing a short distance away, her face glowing with wonder as she watched the villagers celebrate their victory. Nicolae rode over to her.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "You did it. I knew you could!"

He bent down from his mount and scooped her up in his good arm, hoisting her up onto the saddle before him. He took her face gently between his hands and looked into her eyes. "I couldn't have done it without you." He tried to let his gaze say what was in his heart, and then as her eyes widened in gentle question, he kissed her.

It was a kiss of tenderness and possession, and he bent her back with the strength of it, her arms coming around his neck to support herself, her body settling against his armored one in response. In the dim reaches of his awareness he heard the villagers give a great cheer.

He broke the kiss, lifting his head back enough so that he could see her. She was smiling softly at him, almost shyly.

"I was afraid that you hated me, after I told you of the dream I sent to Dragosh."

He shook his head. "That wasn't you. That was a succubus who knew nothing of life. It was not the woman I hold in my arms. It was not the woman I—"

A collective gasp went through the villagers like a gust of cold air, and Nicolae suddenly felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, a chill creeping up his spine. "What in the—"

A streak of blackness on the eastern horizon was widening and moving toward them, as if someone was pulling a blanket of darkness up over the countryside. He felt Samira's fingers tighten at the back of his neck, her whole body trembling.

"
Nyx
," she whispered.

Samira clung to Nicolae, watching the darkness being pulled across the sky. She would have given her life to hear what it was Nicolae had been about to say to her before Nyx appeared on the horizon, but she feared those words were now lost to her forever.

She swallowed, helpless fear making her muscles weak. This was not Dragosh and living men, against whom she could fight; this was Nyx, who held the very fiber of Samira's existence in her hand, and from whose rule there was no more escape than from the course of time itself.