Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 38. Chapter 38: Executor

Chapter 38: Executor

Razvan Ionescu awoke with a start.

He sat up in bed and listened. All was well. There was no one in his chamber; all seemed right in the castle, and yet he was sure something had woken him up, so he concentrated.

"Razvan, come to me…"

The voice beckoning was that of his mistress. She was in trouble and needed him.

He leapt out of bed and slipped on a hooded cloak.

"Where are you, Milady?" He whispered directly into the still chamber air.

"Come…" A breathless murmur sounded. "Follow my voice – come…"

Goose flesh arose on the minion. He would go to her; he would do any and all of his mistress' biddings.

He crept down the corridor, towards the round stairs, which descended deep into the deepest vaults of the castle.

Down he went, and with each step, he felt his lady's pull upon him increase.

"Come…" It said. "Come…" It urged him on with unseen strings of iron.

Soon he was creeping along the passage that led to a series of barred cells.

Inch-by-inch, he moved along the silent walkway and approached the point where he could look into the first enclosure with trepidation. He peered through the turbid darkness, and could see nothing.

"Come…"

He made his way cautiously to the boundary where he could look into the second one. Nothing.

"I need you, Razvan…"

A tinge of doubt licked at the back of his consciousness. Was this setting the right one for his mistress..? But, he moved towards the third cell; the cell where the Turkish slaves had lived.

He stood before its open gate and squinted in. At first only more featureless night seemed to occupy the enclosure, but then, a shadow moved.

It stepped forward, and Razvan sighed in relief.

"My Lady!" He strode up to Lady Gretza. "What do you down here, and at this hour..?"

To his relieved surprise, Lady Gretza placed a warm hand on his naked arm and stroked it.

"You, Razvan, have always been a loyal retainer to my duties and my ministrations to your budding mastery of the dark arts. Is that not so..?"

"Why…yes, of course it is, Your Ladyship. You have been nothing but generous to me."

The woman's hand slipped down to the minion's crotch.

She moved in close to his ear, and moaned seductively, "Do you want…your…reward..?"

Her sultry tone sprang his member to instant attention. She latched on and caressed it.

"My Lady…if you would honour me…"

She swallowed, and came forward to kiss the side of his neck.

His whole body flushed with a lustful heat, his pulse raced and his hands slipped onto her shoulders.

A part of him – a quickly fading and distantly-felt part – experienced the fatigue natural to when one's energy is being drained, but he shut it down. If his lady's touch made him swoon, then so be it.

His eyes began to close; the kissing sensation on his neck turned unpleasant – searing.

His hands feebly tried to push back on Lady Gretza, but could not. What he felt was muscle, strong muscle, and what his nose suddenly perceived was stench – human stench.

He rotated a bit more, pushed much harder, but then felt a bite.

He struggled, and although the distance was too close to properly focus, he recognized the horrible thing latching onto him.

It was Vlad Dracul.

Razvan's energy was drained.

He slumped to the stone floor once Vlad had finally stopped supporting him.

Then, lying on his side, his unblinking eyes saw there was a second figure waiting at the cell's gate. It was Louis, the lord's favourite.

Vlad stepped over Razvan, and after he left the cell, Louis closed the gate.

Razvan Ionescu lost consciousness as he heard the heavy key turn within the lock of his prison cell.

˚˚˚˚˚

A light pressure inundated her head, one akin to being underwater. She believed she was asleep – had been for hours – and yet the images she saw were so real, and they were so wonderful, she wanted to believe they were actually unfolding.

The council chamber in Buda was filled with all the best and brightest of the Hungarian nobility, for today was a special day, and they lined up one by one for a chance to pay their respects.

Gretza stood upon the dais and relished it all. Her left hand rested easily upon the shoulder of the one sitting on the throne just in front of her. She massaged the silk fabric under her grasp and whispered words of encouragement: "Sit up tall. Now is our moment of glory; the moment we have been longing for; the moment I knew could come as I embraced your father's lustful seeding of you in my belly."

The lord chamberlain entered the room, and all the crowd hushed their murmurs and parted like the Reed Sea did for the upraised presence of the staff of Moses.

In the man's extended hands was a sacred relic, and unlike most relics in the world, this one was also the repository of human authority. Setting upon an amethyst pillow of the finest silk imaginable, rested the holy crown of Saint Stephen.

He advanced into the chamber, and behind him appeared a teen boy with a smaller, but just as regal crown, upon its own cushion of purple honour.

'Too bad,' Gretza mused to herself as she watched the procession approach the dais. 'That 'he' had met with such a tragic accident before this day could arrive, but still, it was all for the best. Best for the nation, that was for sure.'

The chamberlain arrived at the bottom of the dais, and bowed deeply to the two dignitaries peopling it. He then turned and had the young man with the other crown stand by the man's right hand side.

He addressed the crowd in the pompous tone suitable for grand, state occasions. "Today, the Hungarian Empire will be blessed double-fold. May God's grace guide my hand as I proclaim His will."

"Amen," the assembly muttered, disgruntled.

The chamberlain slowly proceeded to the side of the dais and began mounting its steps.

The slow procession again put Gretza in mind of the one who was never destined to see this glorious moment.

"Mama," the five-year-old boy on the throne said as he turned up to look at her. "Are you thinking of Papa?"

Gretza squeezed the dark lad's shoulder. He had all the brooding looks of his father, and apparently all the powerfully insightful psychic gifts of both of his parents. She beamed with doting pride, and then bent down to his ear and whispered, "Your father, valiant Prince Vlad, would be so proud of you."

"But what about him?"

"As I say, your real father was strong – a real man – one who took what he saw and desired. Your stepfather, Laszlo, was weak, and you do not need to think about him anymore, as he died both irrelevant, and with only one wish in his heart – to see the events of today unfold for us. He died in a tragic accident."

"What kind of accident, Mama..?"

Gretza relived the event and tried not smile. After word had come that all of his military campaigns had succeeded, one lonely and dark night at Castle Corvin, poor, hapless Laszlo and she had been walking. "He tripped, dear. Broke his poor neck on the grand staircase, and landed in the courtyard as an empty, used up shell of a man." She did smile; she had to do so as she remembered the man's shock and dismay at being shoved to his death by the woman he so dearly loved and honoured. 'Oh well, all things must serve a useful purpose, and then come to an end, mustn't they?' she silently mused.

The chamberlain arrived, and it was time. He handed the pillow with Saint Stephen's crown over to a waiting noble, while Gretza had her son stand. Then she had him kneel in front of the chamberlain. That man gestured for and picked up the smaller crown. He ceremonially lowered it on the boy's head, saying, "All hail Prince Deszsö Corvin! Long may he reign, safe and protected."

The young man was bid rise, and by that time, Gretza had assumed her rightful place; she had sat herself upon the throne.

The chamberlain walked behind the cathedra and motioned for the Holy Crown to be brought to him. He raised it above Gretza's head and slowly lowered it into position. He spoke with solemn gravity, "All hail the supreme regent of the Empire; all hail Queen Gretza, absolute monarch of the land!"

"All hail," the crowd roared. "All hail; all hail Queen Gretza!"

˚˚˚˚˚

She awoke with a start. Although her senses were still leaden with sleep and the quickly fading bliss of her future glory, Lady Gretza tried to understand who was touching her.

Partially sitting up in her bed, she stammered, "Maria..?"

"Yes, Milady."

"Why have you awoken me, girl? I was…dreaming…of – "

"It's his lordship. He…he has…"

Gretza perceived her lady-in-waiting's voice trail off to nothingness with annoyance, but then she allowed her sight to follow the arching line Maria was making as a gesturing movement.

A softly flickering light was emanating from behind her closet door, that and the faint sounds of sobbing.

A final glance at Maria, and the girl's head nod confirmed that the Lady's attention was needed urgently. The girl held open the lady's peach-coloured dressing gown, and Gretza pulled back her covers and got out of bed.

She allowed her servant to enrobe her, using that pause to scan the area. She did so not only with her eyes and ears, but with the formidable psychic resources of her mind; nothing was amiss. Nothing except what her ears were picking up as a slight sobbing sound accompanied by an emotional tumult.

Lady Gretza left Maria's side and lightly tripped across her chamber's floor towards the origin of this sound.

She came to rest before the door of her closet, which was slightly ajar. With one hand, she pushed against the heavy wood, and it creaked open.

Laszlo was standing against the wall opposite her. His hands were by his face, and impotent tears fell freely.

"Husband…" Her tone was one of only slightly contrite annoyance. She had been awoken from her glorious vision for this? Gretza stepped into the room, asking, "What ails you so?"

As she approached him, Gretza saw her spouse's eyes dart up at her with shy fear at her scorn. The man gasped, "Vlad calls to me constantly from his cell. I cannot endure it anymore, wife." He latched out for her lower arms. "He is hell-bound to drive me insane!"

Within her heart, she hated this man. She hated his contemptible weakness, and despised how easy it was for her to control his feeble mind. She did not doubt that a powerful man like Prince Vlad could reach him from the confines of the oubliette.

A small thought intruded upon her hate; it was a nebulous one about her husband's tone…something about the way he was speaking…but she shut it out as irrelevant for the task at hand.

She felt Laszlo's grip tighten on her wrists. His grief was making him sink to his knees, and she followed him down to the floor.

"Listen, husband. He has no power over you. Not as long as you allow your mind to be mine."

To Lady Gretza's surprise, Laszlo's expression turned vindictive. She heard him say, "I know."

Now the previous thought appeared fully formed and insistent at the front of her brain. She asked him almost in amazement, "Laszlo, why are you not stuttering?"

As she puzzled over this for a moment more, a sudden stench overtook her thoughts. A manic presence of danger heightened all of her senses, but just at that very second, Laszlo's grip on her wrists pulled her all the way to the floor and pinned her there.

Someone was behind her.

She rotated her head to see that Vlad Dracul had a red silk cord in his hands, and oddly she recognized it as coming from one of her garments – the only one who could have given it to him was her chief lady-in-waiting.

As the prince took a step forward, he cleared the door and Gretza could see Louis and Maria standing arm-in-arm. He slipped the cord quickly before her face, and within half-a-second, she felt it tighten around her windpipe.

Vlad put his knee against her upper back and cut off her air supply.

She frantically struggled to free her hands. She wrenched her right one free, and struck out wildly for Laszlo's face. She gashed with her nails like claws, and felt a flush of delight to see a wound open up above the man's left eye near the hairline; it bled freely.

Laszlo retook her hand, and Louis quickly entered the room to step on it. Gretza could suddenly not catch her breath. She heard gasping sounds, and also the men talking in calm tones. The steely confidence she picked up from her husband's voice made her truly frightened.

"You are not going to kill her like this, are you?" Laszlo asked.

Vlad replied in a low rumble: "You are her lord and master, you decide."

"Yes," Maria said in a hoarse but determined whisper. "Do it here and now so you and I and Louis can be together!"

As Gretza slipped into unconsciousness, she heard her husband's cruel tones murmur with pride, "We will, girl – but, there's only one proper way for this sorceress to die."

And then, there was a ringing in her ears, and a deep, fathomless blackness before her sight.

˚˚˚˚˚

Through his leaden malaise, Razvan heard his mistress scream. It was blood curdling.

He stumbled groggily to his feet in the slaves' cell, and his hand instantly went up to the side of his neck. He pulled back bloodied fingertips and puzzled over them. As he staggered towards the gate, he remembered vaguely that Vlad had bitten him, but as to why, he could not guess.

Ionescu pushed on the cold iron. It moved a bit, but was quickly stopped by the secured lock.

Lady Gretza's psychic scream came again into his head, and this time it was desperate.

He rattled the bars and yelled, "Guards! Guards! Free me."

In another long, drawn out moment, a sleepy-eyed man with keys appeared. He mumbled, "How did you get yourself locked in there?"

As soon as the bolts released, Razvan pushed violently on the gate and struck the guard in the face with it.

He ran full bore through the subterranean corridors and then up the spiral stone steps.

He emerged to a deathly still courtyard.

The early morning hour was still as dark as midnight.

A flicker of distant lightning illuminated the court for a split second.

At the far end, an odd shadow loomed.

Low thunder rumbled.

Razvan began crossing the rough cobblestones towards it.

Halfway through the court, another lick of lightning showed him a scene of almost unaccountable horror.

Tears washed down his face as he stumbled near the wellhead.

Heavy ropes were lashed several times around the entire circumference of the low stone wall. In front, these ropes held a massive wooden stake in place. On the stake, Lady Gretza was impaled.

Thunder grumbled in the distance.

The woman was suspended about the height of a man off the ground. Her hands and feet were bound in front of her, and down the lower length of the stake was a bloody mess.

The sharpened pike end of the stake was protruding before her collarbone, and slowly rising towards the underside of her chin.

The woman was not dead, but her weight was slowly drawing the splintered lance of timber through her body.

"My Lady…" Razvan cried.

Her half-open eyes glanced down at him. A malicious smirk barely lifted one corner of her mouth.

She told him, "With my dying breath, I hereby curse all the heirs my husband may have with that other woman. This curse shall haunt them for all times. I appoint you, Razvan, executor of this curse, and bind you to the task for as long as you shall live. Take my ring, take my powers, and wear it to be faithful to my vendetta."

Razvan swallowed down his emotions, his feeling of guilt for letting himself be deceived and unable to rescue her in time, but he reached out and slipped off her spider ring.

It got positioned on his finger, and he instantly felt a transference of her incredible powers into him. He would be the living vessel of her will to seek revenge, and it would be his proud hand that would deliver it.

"Now," the lady mumbled. "Kill me."

"Milady – "

"Do it!"

She straightened her neck slightly.

Razvan momentarily puzzled at her actions, but then Gretza extended her bound arms slightly out to him, and he understood.

He stepped up to her, latched onto both of her wrists, and hesitated a moment.

"Please," she pleaded.

He inhaled sharply, and pulled down on her with all of his might and body weight.

The stake ripped through her jaw, pierced her tongue completely, and came to rest halfway through her brain.

Razvan crumpled down into a sobbing heap amongst the pool of gore freshly erupted from his mistress.

Lightning lit up the court brighter than the sun for a brief instant, and Razvan collected his thoughts. His motivation to be true to her was all around him, warm and smelling sickly, like sweetness suspended in liquid iron.

He twisted the ring on his finger, and he knew it was going to be the powerful instrument of his lifelong curse. Razvan scooped it down and baptized it with unholy anger in name of Lady Gretza's, and in the dead woman's still-warm blood.

He held the gory thing towards the sky, and thunder cracked over it like an evil blessing from hell's eternal fires.

Razvan thought to himself, "Yes, even the Devil himself attended the birth of this malediction. Long may it reign with my guidance and my perseverance. Every male child who succeeds Laszlo Corvin will suffer because of this night. I shall see to it personally, mark my words."

Lightning and thunder struck simultaneously. Razvan raised his hood to cowl his hate-filled face, and relished the approaching storm as sign, omen, and confirmation that Hell had just accepted Lady Gretza into its fold to be its new and eternal queen.