By C.C. Humphreys
"Trust not anything that you've got heard."
Winter 1431, a son is born to the Prince of Transylvania.
His father christened him "Vlad."
His humans knew him as "The Dragon's Son."
His enemies reviled him as "Tepes"-The Impaler.
He turned the hero of a kingdom.
We be aware of him as Dracula.
Vlad: The final Confession is a singular concerning the genuine guy in the back of the Bram Stoker fable. It tells of the Prince, the warrior, the sweetheart, the torturer, the survivor and, finally, the hero.
"A nice story, finely woven with motion, palpably actual characters and excellent twists of fate." -Simon Scarrow
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Extra info for Vlad: The Last Confession
Sample text
It was often easiest, and less bruising, to keep silent. Hamza stepped down from the dais, into a shaft of sunlight. Beneath his black turban, his blue eyes shone in his dark face, a slight smile splitting his blond beard. Seeing him more clearly, Ion saw again that their agha was older than them, of course, but perhaps only by seven years. Until his promotion three years previously, he’d been cupbearer to the Sultan. “Well then,” Hamza said, gesturing down. “Recite it for me, Vlad Dracula. ” Vlad cleared his throat, then spoke.
The bedchamber, despite the breeze, was no colder than his own back in Pecs. Besides, he’d discovered long since that the castle for which he’d traded his soul could never be warmed when no one he loved could survive within it. He dressed swiftly then went in search of warmth. Not for his body, he’d never really required that. For his soul. — “My lord,” the young Spatar said, pushing the door inwards, stepping back. Horvathy entered. The hall, lit by four reed torches and dawn’s light beyond the arrow slits, was as modest as the rest of the castle—a rectangular stone chamber twenty paces long, a dozen wide, its walls lined with cheap tapestries, its floor strewn with skins, both trying to retain the warmth of the large fire at its top, eastern end and largely failing to do so.
Petru stuttered, “I…I…I meant no offense, Count Horvathy. I merely…repeat what I have heard…” The stare held a moment longer. Then the older man turned away, spoke more quietly. “You repeat gossip, gleaned from tales of one Dragon—Vlad Dracula, your former Prince. Yet part of what you say is true—it is his dark deeds that have tainted the Order to which he swore his oath. ” Petru said, carefully. ” The Hungarian breathed deeply. “Until it is slain by St. Mihail’s magic lance, a Dragon cannot die.
