THE NAME OF FEAR

THE NAME OF FEAR
LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS

FLIES buzzed in the twilight, but ignored the sumptuous meal displayed on the white-draped trestle. They were drawn instead to the forest of stakes that stood on every side, to the slow trickles of blood that still ran redly down the wooden shafts, to the dangling hands and livid faces of the corpses that were impaled there.

The men seated at the table ignored the flies, and all but one strove mightily to ignore the bodies as well, to pay no attention to the dead faces that stared down at them from all sides and the ghastly stench that pervaded every breath.

The last man, seated at the center of the table, wasted no effort on anything but the meal spread before him. Despite the stink he ate with relish, dabbing up gravy with chunks of rough bread and licking beef fat from his bristling mustache. The corpses did not bother him in the least; every so often, while chewing, he would glance up at the nearest and smile.

After all, were they not there by his own order?

And was it not for fear of him, and him alone, that the others struggled to force down their dinner in this gruesome setting, and pretended that they were not troubled by the dead?

They surely remembered the brave fool who had once dared to complain of the odor. The prince had seen to it that the fellow was put where the smell would not upset him—impaled on a stake twice the height of the rest, above the stink, where he screamed until he died.

That was several months ago. Since then, no one had objected to any of the prince's little habits.

The sun was down behind the hill, now, and servants were lighting torches so that the meal could continue. The prince toyed for a moment with the notion of using the torches in some new atrocity, but then dismissed the idea and reached for his wine.

From the tents below a sentry watched as the meal dragged on, the prince enjoying the discomfiture of his court.

The sentry was bored. The dead did not frighten him; they merely disgusted him. He was a fighting man, and had seen his friends hacked to pieces by the Turks, had done his own share of hacking in return, but that forest of impaled corpses—he grimaced, turned away, hawked and spat.

Something moved in the darkness, and he started. He stared.

The Turks? A night raid? Surely not! Not here, not so soon after today's rout, when they had fled in disarray back toward Constantinople.

A spy? Hardly likely.

He peered into the gloom, and saw a pale face.

"Who goes there?" he called—not too loudly, for he didn't care to alert the whole camp if it was merely a local peasant girl, out after a little remunerative fun.

"None who would harm you, soldier," replied a voice—a male voice, to the sentry's disappointment, speaking in a tone of supplication.

"A beggar?" the sentry asked, annoyed. "Be off with you, quickly, if that's what you are—the Prince will have none of that in his lands."

"Not truly a beggar," the voice replied, the face seeming to drift a little closer. "I have a home, and a place. Still, I am hungry, and I thought I smelled food here."

The sentry's eyes narrowed in distrust. Something did not feel right about this. His right hand crept toward his sword-hilt, but his left slipped inside his shirt.

"Come forward, where I can see you," he called.

The face drew nearer, and the sentry kept his gaze away from the eyes, centering his attention instead on the stranger's mouth.

"What name do you bear?" he asked.

The stranger shrugged, a flowing, liquid motion. "My name means nothing," he said.

The sentry smiled, and pulled his left hand from his shirt. "True enough," he said, "For who concerns himself with the names of the dead?" He opened his hand and displayed the fine silver crucifix against his palm.

"I know you, nosferatu," he said. "I saw the fangs when you spoke, and even over the reek of the corpses I can smell your foul breath."

The stranger shrank back, saying nothing.

"What do you want here, vampir?" the sentry demanded. "What brings one of your cowardly kind skulking about a camp of armed men, instead of preying on village idiots and lovesick old women? If you try anything here, you'll be up on a pole with the rest, but with the stake through your heart instead of your belly."

"Well do I know it," the vampire replied through clenched teeth, as he averted his gaze from the gleaming talisman. "It is as I said—when the sun sank and I arose I smelled food, and came to see why."

"What food do you mean?" the sentry asked.

"Blood, of course—what other food is there, to me?"

"Of course," the sentry said. "Well, yes, blood was spilled here in plenty today."

"Why?" the vampire asked.

The soldier hesitated. Vampires were foul, unclean things, and the proper thing to do would be to send this one away, or to raise the alarm and have it destroyed—but he was bored, and his watch had hours left to go.

"There was a battle here this morning," the sentry said, "and my prince carried all before him. We swept through the Turk like flame through the fields; they fled at the very name of my lord. And when we were done the prince had our Turkish prisoners, together with those of his officers who he said had not fought with sufficient valor, impaled, as a warning to any who would oppose him." A certain pride crept into his voice as he added, "I swear that I think he will drive the Turk from all Walachia, from all of Europe!"

"Impaled," the vampire said, staring up the hill at the dangling corpses. "How many?"

"Thousands," the sentry said, "I don't know. We spent the whole afternoon at it, all of us, the entire army, setting the stakes and lifting the condemned into place and whipping the horses."

"This prince of yours is ruthless," the vampire said, still gazing up the slope.

"Ah, he's a great man!" the sentry replied, eager to boast. He knew his own feats were little to brag of, as yet, but those of his lord and master were worthy of all the praise he could speak. "The best to ever reign in Walachia, greater even than his father, who won such honors. Do you know, in his capital at Tirgoviste, there is no crime of any sort?

No theft, nor beggars, nor any of the other plagues that the poor set upon so many towns—and all for fear of him."

The vampire was skeptical. "Oh, but surely men are men, and there are limits to fear ..."

"No, it's the truth, I tell you," the sentry said, his honor stung.

"You tell me a tale, that is all," the vampire replied. "I have existed for many years, and I know mankind. How could even the greatest of princes stamp out beggary and theft?"

The sentry smiled. "Easily, when one has the courage and audacity of our prince! He issued a proclamation, inviting all those who could not work, who begged or stole or whored for their living, to a great feast—he said that he saw their hunger and poverty and would put an end to it. He gathered them all in a great hall, and had served the finest banquet you ever saw—it fairly made me sick to see such food wasted on those ragged wretches. But then he gave us our orders, and we marched outside, and closed and barred the doors, and then put the torch to the hall and burned it to the ground."

The vampire's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed.

"They screamed for mercy, and wailed and cried, but none escaped— those who tried, my comrades cut down with their swords and thrust back in through the windows where they had escaped. And when it was done, there were no more beggars, no more thieves, no more whores, in all of Tirgoviste. Do you know, in the market square, there is a well, as in any town, where a traveler may stop and drink? And there is a cup at that well, as in any town. But in Tirgoviste, it is no common wooden mug, but a golden goblet, set with gems, worth a king's ransom."

Seeing that some response was expected, the vampire said, "Indeed?"

The sentry nodded. "Gold and jewels, untended, in the market—and it is still there, because no one dares take what belongs to the prince. He has said that any who moves that cup from the well will be hunted down and impaled, slowly—he has been known to make an impalement last a full day, you know. No one doubts it, and the cup remains."

"It seems that this prince is feared, indeed," the vampire said. "As we of the night once were."

"You!" The soldier laughed and dangled the cross. "In my grandfather's day you were feared, but we know better now. You are so weak, you vampiri—you cannot bear the sun, nor silver, nor the cross. Even the humble garlic will keep you away. You cannot enter where you are not bidden, nor cross running water; holy water burns you like vitriol. Why should we fear you?"

"We have the strength of ten," the vampire replied. "We can change our form, and call to all the creatures of the night; our gaze saps the will. Should you not fear us, then?"

The sentry laughed again, and brandished the crucifix. "Come nearer, then," he said, "and show me why I should fear you!"

"I cannot, while you hold that," the vampire admitted.

"Run away, then, weakling," the sentry told him. "I do not fear you or yours. Only peasants and weaklings fear you. Those who serve the prince know what true power is!"

"I go, then," the vampire said. "But first, one thing."

"What might that be?"

"Your prince's name, soldier. Who is this man who is so feared?"

"You don't know?" The sentry's astonishment was obviously genuine. "Why, Dracula, of course—Prince Vlad Dracula!"

▼▼▼

The vampire studied the prince from the doorflap of the tent—he could not enter uninvited, as the soldier had reminded him a few hours earlier, but he could look, and his eyes, like the eyes of any predator, were keen.

Slipping past the sentries had been easy enough, once full darkness had arrived; he had been merely a mist in the night, drifting on the breeze. Finding prey was another matter—every tent was hung with silver and garlic, a cross over every bunk and around every throat.

But then, he had not come in search of prey, he had come for a closer look at this man who aroused such awe—and such fear. He could not say just why he was so interested; human politics were no longer of any concern to him, since he had become what he was. Still, a man who could spill so much blood, who could dine cheerfully amid the corpses of his enemies—such a man was something new, something to learn about.

A man who inspired such fear, who slew so casually—it brought back memories of himself, decades ago, before the people had learned how to defend against his kind.

The sleeping prince was not tall, nor handsome. His hair was dark and wavy, worn shoulder-length, as was the current fashion; his skin was pocked here and there, but unremarkable in color and texture. He wore a great bristling mustache below a Roman nose.

As for his eyes, they were closed in sleep, so that the vampire could not see their color, but they were deep-set and large, that much was plain. His lips were full, his mouth wide, his face rounded.

Not a handsome face—but a striking one.

The vampire raised a hand to his own features. He knew his skin was as pale as a corpse, of course, since a corpse was what he truly was, just a cadaver that could not lie down and be still. His nose was long and ridged, his lips full with stolen blood, his mouth wide to accommodate his fangs. His eyes were sunken into their sockets—large and deep-set, more so than when he had lived a peasant's life, long before.

Even after his death—or undeath—his face had retained the roundness that had brought him childhood taunts about full moons. His hair was long and ragged.

The two faces, that of the sleeping prince and that of the undead observer, were not dissimilar. Vague thoughts stirred in the vampire's mind.

He had existed for almost a century, now. At first it had been easy— the peasants had cowered in fear at the slightest glimpse of him, at the mere mention of the names vampir or nosferatu, and he had merely to demand in order to receive. Beautiful maidens were yielded up to him, that he might leave the rest of the village alone, and he had fed well, very well indeed.

But then had come the priests, with their crosses and holy water, and the village witches, with their garlic and their stakes of ash, and the villagers had learned to defend themselves, and feared him no more.

He had thought that they no longer feared anything—but now he knew he was wrong.

They feared this man, a mere mortal like themselves—this Dracula, Son of the Dragon, Prince of Walachia and Scourge of the Turk.

They feared his very name.

A plan came to him, a good plan, a simple plan, and he turned to mist and let the night winds carry him away.

▼▼▼

The battle was a long one, and a fierce one, but it went well, it went well. The Turks were falling back in disorder, fleeing into the night. Perhaps it would be this year, the year of Our Lord 1476, that would finally see the Turk driven from Europe.

It was hardly the custom to continue fighting after sundown, but the prince wanted to finish this, so as not to fight another day, when perhaps the fates would favor the enemy.

He could not see the battle well enough in the gathering gloom, though—the clash of arms was all about him, the torches and campfires far away, and he could not see the battle as a whole.

He caught sight of the hilltop, and spurred his horse toward it; from there, he would be able to observe, to plan, to see if there was any way to cut off the Turkish retreat and trap them all.

In a moment he was free of the melee, and riding up the slope.

The hill was held by his men, just a handful of them watching to be sure no Turks slipped by; he waved to them as he passed, and they waved back.

At the top his horse would not be still, so he dismounted and strode to the shattered ruins of a peasant's hut. He stepped up atop a fallen chimney-stone.

A strong arm circled his neck, choking him, yanking him backward from the stone.

"Turk!" he gasped out, snatching his dagger from his belt.

Behind him someone laughed.

"No," a voice said, "I am no Turk; I am more a native of this land than you are, you with your Magyar blood and Magyar king. I have been following you all this long time, waiting for my chance, Prince Vlad— and now I have it."

Struggling, with no air left in his lungs, Vlad plunged the dagger behind him, and heard fabric tear. He felt the blade strike flesh—but then he met no resistance. It was like thrusting into mist.

Then the vampire squeezed harder, and the prince's neck snapped, and he felt no more.

The vampire lowered the body and stared down at it hungrily. The blood would still be fresh and sweet, he knew—but to drink it might ruin his plan. If a spark of life remained, if the man died of a vampire's bite rather than a broken neck, then in three days, in mockery of Christ, he would arise as another vampire.

The vampire had no use for competition. Making new vampires was not at all what he had in mind just now. He forced himself to turn away and call, "The Prince! The Prince is hurt!"

Soldiers turned their heads, spotted him, and ran up the hillside; by the time they arrived, he was gone.

▼▼▼

Prince Vlad III, known as Tepes, the Impaler, and known also as Dracula, Son of the Dragon, after his father's honors, was laid to rest in the church at Tirgoviste, beneath a stone by the west door. The manner of his death was a mystery; there were rumors that he had been killed mistakenly by his own men in the darkness and confusion, that he had been dressed as a Turk so as to spy upon the enemy, but no one really knew.

He was dead, and that was enough.

The boyars, the few that remained, breathed a sigh of relief. The Turks, upon hearing the news, were less subtle—they celebrated for four full days, and then set about planning a new offensive to regain the territory they had lost to the bloodthirsty madman.

The peasants of Walachia and Transylvania wept bitterly. Terror though he had been, Dracula had defended them against the ravages of the Turks and the predatory habits of the boyars. The common people had feared Dracula—but they had loved him, too, as a child will love a stern father.

The hundred thousand Walachians who had died screaming on stakes or in fires or in any number of other ingenious ways had only very rarely been honest working peasants, and the peasants had little sympathy for either the underclass or the petty nobility.

And they had no sympathy at all for the thousands of Turks Vlad had slain.

So they wept at his passing, wondered at the rumors, and then went on with their lives.

And then, a few days later, new rumors began.

The stone in the church at Tirgoviste had been moved, and Dracula's body was gone—so it was whispered, though the priests denied it.

The peasants looked at one another and wondered. All of them knew one explanation for such a thing—could it be?

Could it be that even the grave had been unable to hold Dracula?

And then one night, near midnight, at a small house near Pitesti, came a pounding on the door.

The master of the house awoke, startled; his wife sat up beside him, the dog by the door whined, and the children stirred.

"Who is it?" the master of the house called.

"Dracula," replied a voice, deep and commanding, "And you will open this door now."

At the name of the dead prince the man rose immediately, trembling.

He hesitated. A visitor in the night was never good news. The vampiri still existed in the land, and there were tales of how they would trick their way into the homes of the unwary.

But the name Dracula—who would dare to claim it, other than he to whom it belonged?

The man staggered to the door and lifted the latch.

Sure enough, there in the moonlight stood a man—not tall, not handsome, with a round face, hawk nose, full lips, and deep-set eyes, a bristling mustache on his upper lip, a fur-trimmed coronet on his brow. The rich embroidery of his vest gleamed coldly.

"Come in, my lord," said the master of the house, throwing the door wide.

The apparition in the moonlight grinned, baring fangs, and stepped across the threshold.

He feasted well—it had been so long!

The children he spared, and the dog, but both husband and wife he left without a drop of blood in their veins.

That they would rise again as vampires did not trouble him. He no longer needed to fear competition. After all, he was no mere vampire any more.

He was Dracula.

As long as he wore the crown and the clothing he had stripped from the corpse, as long as he kept in place the false mustache he had carefully constructed of horsehair and pig-bristle, as long as he kept his hair trimmed and combed in the royal style, he was Dracula, and the body he had dumped in a valley somewhere in the Carpathians was nobody at all.

And as long as he was Dracula, he would be feared again.

He would make all vampires feared again—and he would be their lord, their master, their king, the greatest of them all.

Someday, he told himself, as he settled into his tomb for the day, someday, all the world would know and fear his name—his new name.

The name of Dracula.