Be Careful What You Wish For
Immortal Me

Transylvania (Present day Romania) Spring 1438

The stone corridor was dank and dimly lit. Torches every dozen steps or so provided an eerie shifting light that threw shadows along the walls that danced like so many tormented ghouls. The rank smell of mold, mildew and decay permeated Vlad’s nose tempting the bile in his stomach to lurch out of his body. He stole a glance at his brother, Radu, beside him. Radu was younger than him, and looked for all the world the scared little boy he was. His tousled brown hair fell in curls around his face, covering brown eyes moist from crying. Their father, Vlad II, Count of Walachia, had decided to send two of his sons off to his sworn enemies, the Turks as insurance of a pact of peace. Even though he was young, Vlad understood his father’s betrayal to the Order of the Dragon, the secret order of Knights whom only the Holy Roman Emperor could command. They were sworn to uphold the customs of their land, and to fiercely reject Turkish rule.

It was warmer here in Turkish lands. Even though Vlad was underground, he could feel the warmth seeping into his bones, which made the situation even worse. He supposed they must be under some sort of Turkish fortress. Vlad ran his hands along the slick walls of the underground tunnel. Slimy lichen covered the walls of the tunnel. They had traveled the countryside for days, and Radu was becoming quite restless. Vlad felt anxious himself. What would they encounter in this new land? The palace at Tirgoviste was the only home he really knew. His father had taken over the throne when Vlad was five, and now at seven he was traveling across forest and desert to some unknown land.

“We come close to the palace, be on your best behavior.” The Turkish soldier had a gruff voice and a thick accent. His full beard was complimented by a full set of yellow teeth. Vlad wasn’t scared however; at least he had his little brother here with him. As they ascended a stone stairwell into the palace, Vlad wondered how long he would be forced to live here, among the Turks.

Many years later…

“Good show Abdeem, but I’m afraid a little too slow.” Vlad grinned as he pulled his practice sword in an arc over his head to strike his foe. As Abdeem raised his own sword to block the strike, Vlad flicked his wrist ever so slightly to bring it down instead on his opponent’s forearm. Abdeem yelped in pain. He took a few steps back from Vlad and bowed.

“Master Vlad!” A messenger called as he trotted through the practice courtyard. He was a young boy, no more than thirteen. Vlad recognized him immediately as one of Hassan’s personal messangers. The boy bowed as he handed the parchment to Vlad, who returned a slight bow and waved the boy away. Vlad took note of the hastily scrawled message. It was from his father’s personal servant. He could feel his heart racing as he read. His father, the king of Walachia, had been assassinated, and the throne usurped by the Boyar family. The Boyar’s were a very powerful family in Walachia, and had incessantly vied for power. The message became even more grim towards the end. Vlad’s older brother, Mircea had his eyes gouged out when he was captured after opposing the Boyar’s assault on the palace. Vlad was now the rightful heir, not the treacherous Boyars who had placed John Hunyadi on the throne.