Then they heard the sound of hooves. Hard-ridden horses. "Stand aside, you scum!" yelled someone in Hungarian. Did he think that the gypsies would understand? By the yells and the braying and the gabbling of the geese, the soldiers were making them understand.
"You!" shouted a voice authoritatively.
"Yes, Lord?" It was the gravelly voice of the man who had hidden them. It would appear that he at least spoke Hungarian.
"Have you seen anyone come past this morning?"
"No, Lord. Not since last night."
"When?" demanded the Hungarian.
"It was dark. We heard them come past, riding hard."
"Hell's teeth! What other trails are there around here?"
"I do not know, Lord. Many, maybe. We only come here once a year. To the field below the castle."
"Is that where you're headed now?"
"Yes, Lord. We stay for three days and then we go on."
"Not a day too soon, I'll bet. We're looking for two women. A woman with grey hair, a little stout, and a girl you can't make a mistake about. White face, and dead straight black hair. She'd be about on the edge of womanhood. If you see them, send word up to the castle."
"They beat us if we go there, Lord," the gypsy said dubiously.
"Tell them you have a message for Lieutenant Hasrafa. Now get yourself out of our road!"
They waited in the dark for a few minutes. "You can come out now," said the crone. "They're gone."
"We must get onto our horses and go," said Bertha. "They'll catch Hermann. He will tell them . . ."
The old woman snorted with laughter. "He's lost his horse. The boys have led him up into the gorge. The horse won't tell them much. And by the time he gets back to the castle we'll see he doesn't either." She peered at Dana. "You look all in, little one. When last did you eat? You can tell old Tante Silvia. I have four granddaughters your age."
"Where are we going?" asked her mother fearfully.
"Poienari Castle. We have the right to camp in the field at the base of the cliff."
"But we just fled from there . . ."
The old woman smiled wickedly. "If you are going to steal a chicken, the best place to hide it is inside the owner's hencoop while he looks everywhere else."
Chapter 24
"This," said Falkenberg, "is not the kind of country you want to have to cross with siege cannon."
Erik looked at the mountainside and the trail that had wound its way up. It was beautiful country, in a stark kind of way. "It's certainly not the kind of place you'd want to try and cross if there were hostiles ready to ambush you."
Falkenberg nodded. "Even with a lot of light cavalry scouting for you. There are too many good spots to drop arrows or rocks onto the trail."
"It's a good thing that we have the locals scouting for us." Manfred pointed to two of the Illyrian escorts on the upper arm of the hairpin bend. "Although it does raise the question of why they should feel the need to."
Erik shrugged. "It's a bit like the feuding tribes and clans in the mountains in Vinland. Most of them have some kind of grudge with their neighbors, usually so long ago that they've forgotten quite what it was about. They'll come together to fight a common enemy, or to raid a profitable target, but the rest of the time they fight each other. Just to keep in practice."
"I'd rather that they fought with each other than with us. They've got no armor to speak of, but this is good country for archery and ambushes." Falkenberg surveyed the slope with a professional eye. "Still, I will grant that whoever this Iskander Beg friend of Benito's is, he can organize. We are making better time than I'd expected."
* * *
David rode close behind the three Knights, listening. He was scared half out of his wits. He had thought that he was adapting to the strangeness. But that had been in the closed confines of the ship, where he'd still been his normal confident self. He'd recaptured that confidence quickly enough once he got over the initial shocks, and had done some learning: basic things like how to muck out well, and how not to try anything clever on Kari.
That hadn't stopped him taking enormous delight in setting up the tall blonde Ritter with the Mongol lessons. On thinking about it, though, that had probably been quite stupid. Kari, who in David's opinion would pick a fight for fun with a dragon, treated Erik with serious deference. But David had really thought that in among the rubes in the tiny town on that godforsaken island, that he would be cock-of the-whoop. Then that old woman had caught him. He'd been pathetically grateful at being rescued by what passed as the local police! If word of that ever got back to Jerusalem he'd probably have to stay away for ever.
And then there was the very young man that they called—so respectfully—Milor' Valdosta. He'd been laughing at Jerusalem's finest, David was sure. Well, he was sure of it now. At the time he'd been terrified. He'd been, David had to admit, nauseatingly grateful to see Kari and Erik. Even if they were going to beat him. Which they hadn't, oddly enough.
And then, just when he thought he could reassert his self-confidence with yet another neatly placed language trap, Erik had set him up. Thank God that he had made him use the phrase on Lord Tulkun. The Mongol was too plump and too good-humored to take it the wrong way. Besides he understood far more Frankish than he ever let on. But Erik now seemed onto his tricks.
And Erik and Tulkun were clumsily talking. David had resolved to be a lot more careful in the future. He was going to listen and learn a little before he tried anything.
He was so busy listening and learning that he nearly got himself killed when things next went wrong.
"Scatter!" yelled Erik.
David blinked. What was "scatter"? Some kind of wild animal? Then, as the column of knights divided and spread, putting their heels into their huge mounts with the calm skill of professional soldiers, who know when to obey orders, he realized that what Erik meant. Scatter because someone is shooting at us, and there are a lot of arrows in the air . . .
The knights were armored. He wasn't.
Both the Mongol party and their Illyrian escort had drawn bows. The difference was that the Mongols were already riding hell for leather and the Illyrians were trying to still their horses. Several bangs and puffs of smoketestified to wheel-lock pistols being used.
David's horse did not like the noise. It was not a warhorse and had not been training for battle. Ironically, that probably saved his life. The horse reared, and David fell off.
A black-fletched arrow cut into his shoulder as he sat up, just as Kari galloped past and snatched him off the ground. "You damn fool! Didn't you hear Erik? Pamolai's claws! How badly are you hit?"
Almost fainting with pain, David tugged at the arrow. "Leave it. It'll have to be pushed through," Kari said, pulling his horse up behind a huge boulder. Somehow he managed to dismount, still holding David in one arm. "Erik said that he wanted you to be a lesson to me," said Kari grimly. "The first bit of decent action we've seen, and I'm babysitting. Now let's see that arrow."
He tore aside the cloth of David's cotte and shirt. "You're a lucky brat. It'll have to wait a few minutes but you'll be fine. Those Mongols are the finest horse archers I've ever seen. Better even that the skraelings on Vinland's plains. I think there are some very surprised and very dead Illyrians."
* * *
The knights had divided neatly, according to their training. Manfred's bodyguard kept in tight formation around him. The rest of the heavy horses thundered up the pass. Their attackers had hidden in some rocks where they had thought that they could escape up the next hairpin zigzag. What they hadn't anticipated was just how fast the knights' horses could gallop once they got moving. They also hadn't anticipated just how agile the ponies of the Mongols could be. The Mongols had not stuck to the trail—and they were capable of shooting very accurately from the back of a cantering horse.
The panicked ambushers tried to flee. But the knights were less than a hundred yards off by then. That was not enough time to get their own mounts up to full speed.
The rushing wall of lance points caught up with them and swept them off their horses.
There was little for the Illyrian escort to do, except dismount and cut throats, which they seemed to do with great relish. In the meanwhile, the Mongol were scouring the mountainside. The entire ambush had resulted in one dead packhorse and one injured horseboy—and fifteen dead bandits.
"We were supposed to panic, and flee, and then they'd loot the pack-train," said the Illyrian captain, kicking one of the bodies. "It's a favorite trick around here. What gave you warning, Lord?" He asked Erik curiously.
"I heard the arrows coming," said Erik. "One of them had a loose fletching. It makes a characteristic noise."
The Illyrian looked at him with wary respect.
Erik too had learned something in the ambush. He had heard just how well the Mongol could shoot from a moving horse, and now he had seen proof of it. That, and the agility of the men and their ponies had probably made a good few of the knights of the Holy Trinity reassess them. Admittedly, this was a hand-picked and elite group, both of Mongols and of Knights.
He turned to Kari. "You'd better start teaching that hell-born brat some basic military discipline and skills. I'll not have his death on my hands and conscience, just because he sits around going 'huh?' when he's told to move. I'm surprised he didn't try to argue about it."
"The very thought that had gone through my mind," said Kari, swatting David relatively gently on the uninjured shoulder. "Mind you, we could just use him for target practice. That way he would at least die for a purpose."
Erik favored both of them with twisted half smile. "On second thoughts, let Von Gherens and Falkenberg train him. They have not enough work to do. They normally instruct novices."
* * *
Iskander Beg, masquerading as the captain of the party's Illyrian escort, watched and listened. He had been somewhat embarrassed by the ambush that his men had missed. Fortunately, it had failed spectacularly, and he'd learned a little more about the two parties he was escorting. Enough to realize that there was a large difference in quality between these Knights of the Holy Trinity and King Emeric's heavy Magyar cavalry. The spiky armor might look archaic, but there was nothing archaic about their drill. He had noticed that, even though they were on the march, they still practiced every morning. The fact that they, and not a pack of servants, tended the horses was interesting. Benito had said they were a monastic order, but still . . .
He was glad that they were mostly engaged in combat in the far north.
The Mongols were less of a surprise. In the uncertain border region near the Danube, where you could as easily encounter Bulgars, Hungarian patrols, and the occasional Golden Horde Mongol, the Illyrians had had first hand experience of Mongol horsemanship and archery. It would appear that, despite differences in dress and appearance, these Ilkhan were much the same as their cousins in the Golden Horde. Iskander did not think that he would like them for southern neighbors. Better that the Byzantine Empire remained as a buffer between him and them. He had a feeling that they would be intolerant about raids and far better at dealing with steep hill country than the Byzantines.
Still, best to be shot of the lot of them. This had been, in terms of gold, a profitable exercise. Benito had been quite right about that. But there was also something to be said for keeping them out of the heartland of his people. Although that that could just be prejudice. And a little embarrassment.
Chapter 25
Vlad had arrived in the village as a vagabond. Now, it would seem that he was their prince. But he was deeply troubled over what he had done. He was even more troubled that he could not remember doing it. And the death of the freeman—the first man to ever volunteer to serve him—cut him to the quick. Yes, the fellow was barely a step up from the peasantry, not that different from the servants who had been assigned to him in Buda—but being there at his death, Vlad had realized that he was human too.
The priest had been little help with this inner conflict. He was a simple country cleric, as much afraid of Vlad as was possible without physically turning tail and running. The villagers and the small farmers and handful of peasants seemed to hold their prince in a kind of reverent awe. Not respect. Not even terror, as he had partly expected.
He'd thought at first that it was merely the reaction from an old soldier, who had reason to know gratitude. But it seemed to be a general reaction. The local point of view obviously differed greatly from that of the Hungarians.
The other thing that Vlad had found deeply troubling was the fact that, except in name, he still was a vagabond. And it appeared that in the world outside his tower, money was a real need. Not, it would seem, for himself, or at least not now. He had been given the finest raiment the village people had to offer—spare breeches and a cotte from the priest, who wore a cassock most of the time. They were black, as befitted the priest's profession. He was given a special shirt saved for weddings by a small landowner. With those gifts, Vlad had come to understand poverty a little better. Someone labored over cleaning his old clothes while another had darned his shirt, marveling over the fineness of the cloth.
Food, too, was their gift, as was drink. He'd been unprepared for the fiery plum liquor. He was even more unprepared for the women who seemed to be making certain overtures. He was uncertain how to take them.
But there were other things. They had come to him, that very afternoon. Two of them, young, tousle-haired and scared. "We wish," said the slightly shorter of the two, "to join your army, Drac. We can fight."
Vlad had been startled. Yes, Janoz had volunteered to be his man, but it hadn't strictly occurred to Vlad that that meant soldier, or that the prince of Valahia's presence in the Carpathians meant certain war.
"I . . ."
"You will need them," said Angelo.
"You will need a lot more than just them," said the old soldier. He seemed to be escaping from the grief of losing his son by casting himself into the role of Vlad's advisor. Vlad absorbed it all like a sponge. Perhaps he was coming at rule from a different and wrong perspective. It was not something Emeric had had him tutored in. He would take whatever advice was available, and gratefully.
"You will need a lot more men, and good weapons, sire. The best you can hope for around here are a few boar spears or an old halberd or two."
"I had not thought about all of this," said Vlad humbly. Yes, the man had just been a peasant levy, but he still knew more of war than his prince did.
"Well, Sire . . ." The old man rubbed his temples. "In my day, this was good country to recruit from. There were lots of bowmen needed, and most of the boys around here can pull a bow fairly well, although light bows and fowling pieces are what they have mostly used. But these days, seems to me, you need arquebuses. They can be had, there are some fine weapons being made, especially by those damned Poles, but they'll cost you a fair amount of gold. You will need cavalry and some cannon, too. You'll not find any of our people who would make fit cavalry, Sire. The only trained men are in the service of the boyars.
"My sons will come to join you, sire," said the old man proudly. " Only, I was hoping we could get some of the harvest in. There is Janoz's widow. We'll need to provide for her too, and it will be hard."
Vlad knew that it was in fact his duty to provide for her, now. Father Tedesco had instilled that in him. Perhaps the old priest had been looking to his own future, but Vlad had already seen, first hand, the value of loyalty. The problem was that at the moment he had not as much as one silver piece to his name. Money rested in two groups in Valahia: the tradesmen and the nobility, not the peasants, villagers or a handful of small freeholders. Somehow he must win the support of at least one of the groups of the powerful and wealthy.
A liveried serving man knocked respectfully at the door of the inn which had, by force of circumstances, become his headquarters. The old soldier scowled at the newcomer. "And now, Benedickt? I thought you had become too good for us village people?"
"I have a message," said
the servant loftily, "from my master for Prince Vlad. He would offer the duke hospitality. Where do I find him, you old fool?"
The insolence galvanized him. "You speak to him," said Vlad coldly. "And I suggest if you wish to keep your head on your shoulders, you rapidly learn some respect for your betters."
The lackey did a double-take. Quickly he assessed the posture, tone and attitude of the man he was facing—and bowed hastily. "I beg your pardon, Sire. I just came in out of the brightness. I thought it was only the old . . . ah, gentleman."
Vlad had noticed one thing about himself. Although he had been out in the weather, and even some sunlight, his skin was not browned like the gypsies or the locals. His skin was very pale and his hair and moustache were jet black. If this fellow could see the old soldier in the somewhat dim lighting in the inn, he could certainly see Vlad.
Still, he reminded himself sharply, the boyars could provide him with cavalry. And as the major landowners, they had money. He knew that much.
"Very well," he said. "I will come."
The man bowed again. "The master will have a horse sent for you."
"That would be appreciated," said Vlad, thinking that the boyar Klasparuj was very well informed.
* * *
Later that afternoon, two footmen returned with a spirited black stallion, tacked up with a beautiful saddle of the finest leather. It was such a horse that Vlad had always imagined he would ride. The joy of mounting it set aside any doubts that he might have had about the wisdom of visiting the boyar. So, accompanied by a footman on a bay gelding—itself a horse that was a long step up from most of those he had ridden in the last week—he set off for the home of the local overlord.
There was certainly nothing lacking in the welcome he got at the fortified manor house. Klasparuj himself came out to greet him, bowing deeply, and kissing his hand. "It is indeed as the rumor from the peasants had it, my Prince. You honor my humble home."
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 18