Read Online Dark Labyrinth 1 by Kevin J. Anderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
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them have already fled upon seeing their comrades impaled on this hillside, my Lord Prince. They will report back. It will enrage the sultan’s army.”
Vlad Dracula pinched his full lips between his fingers. He looked at Lugosi, who stood watching and waiting. The messenger seemed confused at what the Impaler thought he saw.
“Or it will strike fear into the sultan’s army. We can use this. Go out to the victims on the stakes. Cut off the heads of those dead or mortally wounded—and be quick about it!—and catapult the heads into the Turkish vanguard. They will see the faces of their comrades and know that this will happen to them if they fight me. Find those whose injuries may still allow them to live and set them free of the stakes. Send them back to the sultan to tell how monstrous I am. Then he will think twice about his aggression against me and against my land.”
The retainer blinked in astonishment, still trembling from having his life returned to him, curious about these new tactics Vlad Dracula was attempting. “Yes, my Lord Prince!” He scrambled backward and ran to the stone steps.
Lugosi felt the walls around him growing softer, shimmering. His knees felt watery. His body felt empty. The morphine was wearing off.
Dracula tugged at his dark moustache. “This is interesting. The sultan will think it just as horrible, but God will know how merciful I have been. Perhaps next time I smoke the opium pipe, He will send me a true angel.”
Lugosi stumbled, feeling sick and dizzy. Warm flecks of light roared through his head. Dracula seemed to loom larger and stronger.
“I cannot see you as clearly, my friend. You grow dim. Our time together is at an end. Now that we have learned what we have learned, it would be best for you to return to your own country.”
Lugosi tried to shake the thickening cobwebs from his eyes. “The morphine must be wearing off. . . .”
“And I can barely feel the effects of the opium pipe anymore. But I must dress for battle! If we are to fight the sultan’s vanguard, I want them to see exactly who has brought them such fear! Farewell, Bela of Lugos. I will try to do as you suggest.”
“Farewell, Vlad Dracula,” Lugosi said, raising his hand. It passed through the solid stone of the balcony wall. . . .
The lights flickered around his makeup mirror, dazzling his eyes. Lugosi drew in a deep breath and stared around his tiny dressing room. A shiver ran through him, and he pulled the black cape close around him, seeking for some warmth.
Outside, Dwight Frye attempted his long Renfield laugh one more time, but sneezed at the end. Frye’s dressing room door opened, and Lugosi heard him walking away across the set.
On the small table in front of him, Lugosi saw the empty hypodermic needle and the remaining vial of morphine. Fear. The silver point looked like a tiny stake to impale himself on. Morphine had always given him solace, a warm and comfortable feeling that made him forget pain, forget trouble, forget his fears.
But he had used it too much. Now it transported him to a place where he could see only the thousands of bloodied stakes and moaning victims, vultures circling, ravens pecking at living flesh. And the mad, tormented eyes of Vlad the Impaler.
He could not guess where it would take him next, and the possibilities filled him with fear—not the fear without consequences that sent shivers through his audiences, but a real fear that would put his sanity at risk. He had brought the upon himself, cultivated it by his own actions.
Bela Lugosi dropped the syringe and the small vial of morphine onto the hard floor of his dressing room. Slowly, with great care, he ground them both to shards under the heel of his Count Dracula shoes.
His legs ached again from the old injury, but it made him feel solid and alive. The pain wasn’t so bad that he needed to hide from it. What he found in his drug-induced hiding place might be worse than the pain itself.
Lugosi opened
Vlad Dracula pinched his full lips between his fingers. He looked at Lugosi, who stood watching and waiting. The messenger seemed confused at what the Impaler thought he saw.
“Or it will strike fear into the sultan’s army. We can use this. Go out to the victims on the stakes. Cut off the heads of those dead or mortally wounded—and be quick about it!—and catapult the heads into the Turkish vanguard. They will see the faces of their comrades and know that this will happen to them if they fight me. Find those whose injuries may still allow them to live and set them free of the stakes. Send them back to the sultan to tell how monstrous I am. Then he will think twice about his aggression against me and against my land.”
The retainer blinked in astonishment, still trembling from having his life returned to him, curious about these new tactics Vlad Dracula was attempting. “Yes, my Lord Prince!” He scrambled backward and ran to the stone steps.
Lugosi felt the walls around him growing softer, shimmering. His knees felt watery. His body felt empty. The morphine was wearing off.
Dracula tugged at his dark moustache. “This is interesting. The sultan will think it just as horrible, but God will know how merciful I have been. Perhaps next time I smoke the opium pipe, He will send me a true angel.”
Lugosi stumbled, feeling sick and dizzy. Warm flecks of light roared through his head. Dracula seemed to loom larger and stronger.
“I cannot see you as clearly, my friend. You grow dim. Our time together is at an end. Now that we have learned what we have learned, it would be best for you to return to your own country.”
Lugosi tried to shake the thickening cobwebs from his eyes. “The morphine must be wearing off. . . .”
“And I can barely feel the effects of the opium pipe anymore. But I must dress for battle! If we are to fight the sultan’s vanguard, I want them to see exactly who has brought them such fear! Farewell, Bela of Lugos. I will try to do as you suggest.”
“Farewell, Vlad Dracula,” Lugosi said, raising his hand. It passed through the solid stone of the balcony wall. . . .
The lights flickered around his makeup mirror, dazzling his eyes. Lugosi drew in a deep breath and stared around his tiny dressing room. A shiver ran through him, and he pulled the black cape close around him, seeking for some warmth.
Outside, Dwight Frye attempted his long Renfield laugh one more time, but sneezed at the end. Frye’s dressing room door opened, and Lugosi heard him walking away across the set.
On the small table in front of him, Lugosi saw the empty hypodermic needle and the remaining vial of morphine. Fear. The silver point looked like a tiny stake to impale himself on. Morphine had always given him solace, a warm and comfortable feeling that made him forget pain, forget trouble, forget his fears.
But he had used it too much. Now it transported him to a place where he could see only the thousands of bloodied stakes and moaning victims, vultures circling, ravens pecking at living flesh. And the mad, tormented eyes of Vlad the Impaler.
He could not guess where it would take him next, and the possibilities filled him with fear—not the fear without consequences that sent shivers through his audiences, but a real fear that would put his sanity at risk. He had brought the upon himself, cultivated it by his own actions.
Bela Lugosi dropped the syringe and the small vial of morphine onto the hard floor of his dressing room. Slowly, with great care, he ground them both to shards under the heel of his Count Dracula shoes.
His legs ached again from the old injury, but it made him feel solid and alive. The pain wasn’t so bad that he needed to hide from it. What he found in his drug-induced hiding place might be worse than the pain itself.
Lugosi opened
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