in his stirrups. “Do you feel, Dragon’s son?” he called, clutching himself at the groin. “Trust me, everything is so much better without the excess flap.”
“I know you are skilled at cutting things off, Mehmet. I have seen the proof of that.” Vlad threw the Turkish prince’s jereed up in the air and the leather cap flipped back. “But I don’t think I will give you that chance.”
The jereed dropped into his hand. In one motion he leaned back and threw. Mehmet ducked, letting out a squeal of rage. “You are not allowed to hit us behind the post,” he yelled.
“And I didn’t,” said Vlad, wheeling Kalafat away. Outrage held Mehmet still, allowing the three Wallachians to get halfway down the field before the Turks burst forward.
“Here,” said Ion, handing him another javelin, looking back. “Now?”
“Wait…now!”
Radu cried, “Yah,” kicked his heels, swung his horse in an arc to the left. A Turk followed, hurled, missed, turned towards his line. Radu surged in pursuit.
Everyone was riding flat out. Mehmet and Abdullah were thirty paces away, a long throw but one a good jereed player could make. But Vlad was counting on Mehmet’s fury, his need for the certain kill. So he crouched low over Kalafat’s neck and rode stirrup to stirrup with Ion, his friend’s tall body a barrier between the enemy and himself.
They were being forced west, towards the horse lines. They could ride out of bounds there, to their shame. Or…
“Now,” Vlad shouted, and Ion swung his mount’s head hard left, back into the pursuit, Vlad paralleling him, still sheltered. Then, at twenty paces and closing, Vlad swung slightly clear and stood tall.
The sudden closed gap, the sudden target; both Turks leaned back. The slave threw first, leaning out to the side, his javelin flying low and hard and taking Ion in the side. Vlad heard the thump, his friend’s harsh cry. But his eyes were on Mehmet, all the way back in his saddle, hurtling forward.
Everything slowed, sound receded, as if the spectators were now whispering their cheers, the horses holding their grunts, the men their cries of pain or triumph. All Vlad could hear clearly was the coming of Mehmet’s jereed , the wind whistling in the leather pad that flipped back and forth on the tip. Vlad let his own javelin slip from his fingers…
Then all was moving fast again. The weapon arriving at his head, his sudden stoop, his arm shooting up to pluck the jereed from the empty space above him. It was a move many strived for and few achieved, drawing cheers, even from Mehmet’s team. Not from the prince himself, as he was so engaged in swinging his horse’s head away from Vlad, turning it back to his own end of the field and the safety of his line.
But he was turning. Vlad was still moving straight forward, closer, closer, till he was three horse lengths away; not so close that it would be thought unbecoming. Close enough not to miss.
A twitch on the reins moved Kalafat’s head to the right. Then, using the full momentum of the charging horse and his own body bent back, he snapped suddenly forward and, just before the Turk crossed to safety, hurled his jereed straight into the center of Mehmet’s spine.
Vlad was pleased to hear wood snap, so he must have hurled it hard enough. Mehmet must have thought so, too, because he gave a great cry and appeared to fly out of the saddle, to roll over and over in the dirt. Looking back, Vlad was relieved to see the body moving—he did not think it was either of their destinies for Mehmet to die, by a hostage’s hand, this day. But he was even more relieved, as he rode towards the horse lines, to reach down and squeeze himself at the groin.
“Still there,” he murmured. And smiled.
– FIVE –
The Concubine
Most of the crowd were rushing forward to stare at that rarest of sights—a fallen prince. Only a few delayed them, hands reaching to clasp their hands, slap their backs. Christian slaves mostly,
“I know you are skilled at cutting things off, Mehmet. I have seen the proof of that.” Vlad threw the Turkish prince’s jereed up in the air and the leather cap flipped back. “But I don’t think I will give you that chance.”
The jereed dropped into his hand. In one motion he leaned back and threw. Mehmet ducked, letting out a squeal of rage. “You are not allowed to hit us behind the post,” he yelled.
“And I didn’t,” said Vlad, wheeling Kalafat away. Outrage held Mehmet still, allowing the three Wallachians to get halfway down the field before the Turks burst forward.
“Here,” said Ion, handing him another javelin, looking back. “Now?”
“Wait…now!”
Radu cried, “Yah,” kicked his heels, swung his horse in an arc to the left. A Turk followed, hurled, missed, turned towards his line. Radu surged in pursuit.
Everyone was riding flat out. Mehmet and Abdullah were thirty paces away, a long throw but one a good jereed player could make. But Vlad was counting on Mehmet’s fury, his need for the certain kill. So he crouched low over Kalafat’s neck and rode stirrup to stirrup with Ion, his friend’s tall body a barrier between the enemy and himself.
They were being forced west, towards the horse lines. They could ride out of bounds there, to their shame. Or…
“Now,” Vlad shouted, and Ion swung his mount’s head hard left, back into the pursuit, Vlad paralleling him, still sheltered. Then, at twenty paces and closing, Vlad swung slightly clear and stood tall.
The sudden closed gap, the sudden target; both Turks leaned back. The slave threw first, leaning out to the side, his javelin flying low and hard and taking Ion in the side. Vlad heard the thump, his friend’s harsh cry. But his eyes were on Mehmet, all the way back in his saddle, hurtling forward.
Everything slowed, sound receded, as if the spectators were now whispering their cheers, the horses holding their grunts, the men their cries of pain or triumph. All Vlad could hear clearly was the coming of Mehmet’s jereed , the wind whistling in the leather pad that flipped back and forth on the tip. Vlad let his own javelin slip from his fingers…
Then all was moving fast again. The weapon arriving at his head, his sudden stoop, his arm shooting up to pluck the jereed from the empty space above him. It was a move many strived for and few achieved, drawing cheers, even from Mehmet’s team. Not from the prince himself, as he was so engaged in swinging his horse’s head away from Vlad, turning it back to his own end of the field and the safety of his line.
But he was turning. Vlad was still moving straight forward, closer, closer, till he was three horse lengths away; not so close that it would be thought unbecoming. Close enough not to miss.
A twitch on the reins moved Kalafat’s head to the right. Then, using the full momentum of the charging horse and his own body bent back, he snapped suddenly forward and, just before the Turk crossed to safety, hurled his jereed straight into the center of Mehmet’s spine.
Vlad was pleased to hear wood snap, so he must have hurled it hard enough. Mehmet must have thought so, too, because he gave a great cry and appeared to fly out of the saddle, to roll over and over in the dirt. Looking back, Vlad was relieved to see the body moving—he did not think it was either of their destinies for Mehmet to die, by a hostage’s hand, this day. But he was even more relieved, as he rode towards the horse lines, to reach down and squeeze himself at the groin.
“Still there,” he murmured. And smiled.
– FIVE –
The Concubine
Most of the crowd were rushing forward to stare at that rarest of sights—a fallen prince. Only a few delayed them, hands reaching to clasp their hands, slap their backs. Christian slaves mostly,
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