Women
are disappearing off the streets of Vienna in 1684 and Captain Mathis Zieglar
vows to find out why. Defying orders to break off his investigation, he
discovers they are being trafficked into the Muslim slave market. His only hope
of ransoming them from a life of abuse is to find the treasure of the Raven
King. The treasure is a secret code lodged inside an ancient text that will
rock the Ottoman and Holy Roman Empires to their foundations.
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About the Author
C. Wayne Dawson writes for The Williamson County Sun, and has written for History Magazine, Focus On Georgetown,
and SAFVIC Law Enforcement Newsletter. He also founded Central Texas
Authors, a group that helps authors promote and market their books through
media and collaborative efforts.
C. Wayne Dawson was a Professor of History for ten years and
created the Chautauqua program at Mt. San Antonio College. There, he invited
scholars, government officials and activists from clashing perspectives to
engage one another in a rational, but passionate public forum.
The discussions took on the burning issues of the day:
Immigration, Islam and Democracy, Israel or Palestine, The Patriot Act, and
Human Trafficking. Attendance ranged from 200-350 people, including students,
faculty and the general public. These events attracted representatives from the
press, several radio stations, and Telemundo television.
In 2009, the students of Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society
honored him with the Glaux Mentor Teacher of Year Award for his efforts in
bringing the Chautuaqua program to Mt. SAC.
In the fall of 2012, he delivered six lectures at Sun City’s
Senior University on “Muslims and Christians, the Struggle for Europe,
1453-1697.”
He recently completed writing his historically based
novel, Vienna’s Last Jihad and
begun his second, Treasure of the
Raven King.
Chapter One
November, 1462
Wallachia, near Castle King’s Rock
“The Mohammedans
have found us, Sire.”
Vlad Dracula, War Lord of Wallachia and
Transylvania, jerked his horse to a stop. Dracula snapped his head around to
look at his companion. “How close, Grigore?”
An excited buzz broke out amongst the warlord’s
ten bodyguards. They came to a halt, sending up billows of dough-colored dust
that contrasted with the forest’s darkness. Sweat dripped down their leather
armor. Their horses pawed the ground impatiently, straining to resume their canters.
Grigore steadied himself with one hand against
the back of his panting horse and caught his breath. He turned his steed around
and pointed to a mountain pass five hundred feet up the road. “They’re there, Prince.
If we pause for a short rest, they’ll be upon us and have our necks.”
“Damn. Reversing our horse’s shoes didn’t throw
them off our trail for long,” gasped a trooper beside Dracula, fighting to
control a mount that grew nervous as the
pitch of desperation in the men’s voices intensified.
Dracula nodded as he tightened his grip on the
reins. He focused on the road climbing sharply to the west. “No one can outrun
Turkish cavalry forever, Luca. The spahis
never quit.”
Cold hatred stiffened him in his saddle. He
would love dashing into his pursuers and tearing into as many as possible
before they could bring him down. It would be sweet revenge. They had taunted
his fiancée until she flung herself from the castle window to her death. But
no, not now. There was something more important to finish, something that would
deliciously even the score.
Dracula called out to a man holding the reins
of a packhorse. Bulging saddlebags draped over the animal’s sides. “Imre, you
and Cosmin must take the next road away from us and keep the treasure safe.”
Dracula looked toward a basket lashed to the
side of a mule, which was tied to the
packhorse. A small head with wide eyes peered over the brim. “And take my son
with you. Remember, you hold the fate of Christendom in your hands. Make your
way to Buda and meet me there.”
As the men rode away with the boy, Dracula
pulled chainmail over his head and tossed it to the side of the road. “Lighten
your load, brothers. If we can make it to the next pass, the Hungarian army
will save us.”
The small band of Dracula’s retainers cast
aside their armor, then spurred their sweating mounts up the grade.
His heart
pounding like a drum, Dracula racked his memory. There was a special trail up there
somewhere. He’d outwit the Mohammedans, he always did.
Halfway up the grade, an arrow flew over his
shoulder. Another struck Grigore in the leg.
“Radu.” Dracula cursed. “My brother has shown
the Turks the shortcut.”
A minute later, a band of Turkish spahis
emerged from the woods close behind them. Luca screamed as an arrow knocked him
off his horse. The shafts buzzed closer as the men approached the top of the
ridge.
Suddenly, the Turks halted and the arrows stopped. Rows of mounted soldiers in black
armor appeared at the crest, led by a standard-bearer holding a brilliant red
flag with a raven in the middle flanked by diagonal squares containing lions.
Archers raised their bows, ready to let their arrows fly over the Wallachians
and into the Turks behind them.
“God’s mercy,” one of Dracula’s companions
cried out. “The Hungarian Black Army.”
Shouts of greetings roared from the rescuers,
who met the refugees and led them to a base camp in a clearing on a nearby
ridge. As the Wallachians dismounted, a heavily armored man emerged with a
measured pace from a tent, flying the army
banner.
Dracula cast his reins aside and opened his
arms as if to embrace the man. “General von Brandeis, how good to—”
Von Brandeis raised his hand to block his
visitor’s embrace. “Throw this man in chains.”
***
June, 1466, Four Years Later.
Beneath the king of Hungary’s summer palace in
Visegrad, Hungary
“Walk
quicker, daughter, we haven’t all day,” Father Adan urged.
Ilona stumbled haltingly over the rough earth,
steadying herself against the tunnel’s uneven earthen walls. She could barely
keep up with the wraith-like figure in front of her who stepped rapidly down
the descending passage as surely as if he lived there. After tripping over
stones twice, she lowered her flickering candle to light her path. But her
carefulness only slowed her pace. Father Adan soon pulled ahead and
disappeared, the winding tunnel cutting off his light.
Ilona shivered. Was the priest leaving her
behind? Despite her fear, she had to pause a moment to massage her sore foot.
She lowered her headpiece to her shoulders and felt dampness soaking the hem of
her dress. Disgusted, she rolled the skirt up to her knees. The candlelight
revealed a small stream trickling down the tunnel’s floor. “Another miserable
irritation,” she muttered.
She drew in a long breath, inhaled the musty
air, and fought her anxiety. She would make it to the Tower of Solomon if it
killed her. Then she would cast her net around the legendary man everyone
traveled to Visegrad to gawk at. Her charms would overcome him and he would make her his consort. From now
on, whenever visitors from Venice to Paris visited, they would speak of the
beautiful Princess Ilona. “Then I’ll
be rescued from my wretched existence,” she vowed.
Father Adan’s voice drew near again, speaking
with restrained intensity. “Now, now, daughter, your life is far from wretched.
Come along. We have to make this quick or we’ll be
noticed and have to face the king’s wrath. If he finds out I showed you
this tunnel, he’ll put me in prison and not one as nice as the one we’re going
to."
“Father, you are a true saint for helping me.
The day will come when I’ll thank you by
getting you promoted to a higher position in the church. You are an incredibly
wonderful man.”
Father Adan grunted wearily as if he had heard it all before. “Yes, yes. Let’s just
finish this.”
Ilona resumed walking. The priest slowed a
little, enabling them to stay together. Finally, they reached an enlarged area
containing an iron gate lit up by wall torches and guarded by two sword-bearing
sentinels.
Father Adan motioned to Ilona to retreat into the tunnel behind them. His voice rose
into a scolding falsetto, something he did in times of stress. “Lower your veil
before they see your face. Don’t say a word until we reach our destination.
Remember, our purpose is to bring Vlad Dracula into the arms of the Church.”
Well, Ilona would see to it he’d fall into
someone’s arms, all right. She tugged the veil over her face. Her heart pounded
as they re-approached the soldiers.
“Father Adan?” one of them called out.
The priest nodded, reached into his cassock,
and pressed coins into an officer’s hands. He swung the barred door open, revealing
a narrow stone staircase leading upward.
“Shouldn’t we ask who this woman is?” another
sentry asked his superior.
“You should trust the priest and be satisfied
with your portion of the fee,” the officer snapped.
Father Adan and Ilona ascended the steps to the
first floor. The priest paused at the top of the staircase, slowly opened a
door, and looked both ways down a hallway. He motioned to Ilona. They went a
few feet down to their right until they were at the foot of a winding set of
steps. They climbed until they reached a landing on the top floor.
There they encountered five guards, three of
whom had nodded off in their chairs above mugs spilled over the floor. Two
others wearing blackened breastplates stood alert, each one steadying a
gleaming halberd. Adan turned to Ilona, warned her by raising his finger to his
lips, and then paid the two men.
The soldiers turned around, opened a grilled
door, and stepped inside. They reached for curtains hanging from an arch
inside, but an erect figure threw the
folds open before they could act. The man had a thin, wolf-like head divided by
an aquiline nose over a brushy mustache that rose in a grin. “Father Adan, Princess Ilona,” his voice seemed to echo
inside his throat.
Ilona’s legs began to buckle, she stared blankly, transfixed like a bird caught in a
viper’s gaze. Who else could this be but Vlad Dracula? She gasped. His eyes
sparkled like emeralds.
Father Adan recovered sufficiently to point
excitedly to the sleeping guards. “Quiet. For heaven’s sakes, you’ll wake
them.”
“Small chance of that.” Vlad laughed with
disdain. “Those drinks would knock out a gargoyle.”
He stepped forward, took Ilona by her hand, and
kissed it. “You honor me with your visit, Princess.”
Surprised Vlad recognized her, Ilona nodded,
and then slid her hands sensuously down the sides of her neck where they found
the edges of her scarf. She brushed it and her veil to the floor with one
motion, exposing an embroidered beige dress. The neckline plunged low, exposing
rounded breasts that rose and fell with each breath.
Dracula’s eyes startled her; they seemed to
shine with satisfaction rather than excitement, not the reaction she got from
other men. Was he not pleased?
“Forgive her, St. Agnes.” Adan rushed to Ilona,
stopping only to scoop up her veil and scarf. He attempted to put them back on.
“Modesty, woman.”
“St. Agnes never found a husband, Father.”
They struggled briefly
until she waved her hands in disgust and gave in. She would let him have his
way for the moment. There would be plenty of time for Vlad in the future.
“Let me speak to him,” she pleaded as Father
Adan dropped the veil over her.
The priest folded his arms and retreated, but
only a few steps. “You may speak as long as you remain properly dressed, daughter.”
Ilona sighed and turned to the man she came to
visit. “Vlad Dracula, my visit here was supposed to be a secret between Father
Adan and myself. How did you recognize me beneath my veil?”
Dracula’s smile exposed a row of white teeth.
“A man who inherits his throne from his father learns very little about how to rule.” He heaved a long steady breath and
moved close to her, his voice low. “But a warlord, a voivode, must earn the right to rule. He can only survive if he
knows the future before it happens.
And then, he must seize the moment.”
Vlad’s energy gripped Ilona and held her. She
struggled in vain to talk. Finally, she squeaked out a breathless sentence.
“Tell me how you knew about my coming, Voivode.”
Vlad drew back Ilona’s veil and put his lips to
her ear. “I share my powers only with those who share theirs with me.”
She put her hands to her tingling throat. After
taking a breath, she whispered back. “Of what benefit will it be for me to share
what I have with you?”
Vlad stepped back, grabbed the edges of the
curtain, and closed them, leaving only his head visible. “We have much to
discuss, Princess. Until that time, dream
of tomorrow.”
The drapery closed,
and he vanished.
