The charge began, and Vlad found himself at one with the Székelers. But he could not let it show. Mirko and his arquebusiers, and the cannoneers all waited on his word. It would be cannon, Arquebus, rank one, rank two and then rank three. Hopefully then it would be cannon again, possibly with some relief granted by the cavalry. They had concentrated their forces on the foes that faced them, even repositioning two of the cannon.
Arrows began to pepper down on the canvas screens, punching through them and into the faggots, as the men waited for his signal. He watched as their death began to gallop towards them. The squat, blue-pockmarked faced Knight coughed. And said "cannon".
It stopped the almost-trance that he had been in. "Fire." he said.
The noise and smoke were enough to have him fighting for control of his mount.
Mirko may have given the order to fire to the first rank of arquebusiers. Vlad did not know. This wast the first field test of the Smerek Cannons—they'd been fired before, and the crews manning them had each done so . . . but never en masse and in a relatively confined space.
The crews looked as stunned as he was.
The arquebusiers were, however, loosing off at Mirko's signal. And the Knight of the Holy Trinity was prodding the gun crews back into action. In control of his horse now, Vlad looked out at the field of battle.
Gone were the ordered companies. Instead it was all chaos and blood.
* * *
"That prince must have nerves of steel," said Manfred, when the cannon finally roared. "I thought he must be in collusion with them."
"I was about to call the charge myself," admitted Erik.
"Now?"
Erik nodded. "It'll take a while to get the cannon ready again." He shook his head. Looked at the little wagon-fort: "I thought it looked like a stupid idea."
Manfred raised his lance. "It is. Unless you are stupid enough to run headlong at it. But there are always plenty of military fools. Sound the charge."
"A quick in and out, eh, Prince Manfred," said Falkenberg, raising the horn.
Manfred nodded. "Hit them while they're confused. And then let's hope they want to try again, rather than attack us. "
Gatu's forces were indeed confused. And badly mauled. This had seemed an easy, quick victory, one they had been in a hurry to achieve before any relief arrived. They'd expected the defense of desperate merchants and of a vastly outnumbered small group. Cannon . . . belonged in castles and fortresses. Not here on the plains. They were relatively unfamiliar with them anyway.
So: The last thing they expected was cannon and then massed fire, and then, finally a disciplined charge. The knights smashed through and rode over the resistance, the tightly packed and totally panicked nature of Gatu's troops taking away their advantages of mobility. It was horrid carnage, and largely one-sided too. And Erik, too learned something about the use of combined forces that he would keep in mind for the future. The Mongol horse-archers were ideal for covering the retreat.
Manfred had sounded that, just when it seemed they had routed the enemy. Erik had to smile. The Prince had learned from Corfu, and listened to the description of the favored Mongol tactic. 'Flee and let your foes over-extend. Turn and cut at their flanks.' Not this time. Soon they were back behind the lee of the little wagon fortress. And the cannon, in a more ragged volley this time, fired again.
"Now what, Manfred, gentlemen?" asked Erik, as the knights marshaled again.
"They won't try a frontal attack again," said Von Gherens. "That has cost them dearly."
Falkenberg snorted. "Never underestimate the stupidity of some commanders."
As it turned out Falkenberg was right. They did try again, before attempting a wide flanking movement.
* * *
Inside the wagon fortification, Vlad also could not believe that they would attempt to charge again. Looking out on field of battle, still full of the dying . . . the horses had had the worst of it, it would seem. Or perhaps no-one would drag an injured horse off. And yet, here they came again. Now, there was no thought of bypassing the fortress to attack the men on the far side. No, they flung their arrows and then themselves at the wagons—concentrating their attack on one side, meaning that they had less cannon-fire to face. They came on, and on. And died, in the grave ditch and up against the pikes.
And still kept coming. Until, this time, the knights and Hawk Clan Mongol came around both sides of the fortification. Vlad's hard-pressed men, under the instruction of the bombardier carried a cannon from one side of the square enclosure to the other, and, using a dead horse as a rest, fired over the top of the ramparts, up in an arcing shot, and into the press of men beyond the actual fighting. That again caused a rout. What had begun as a totally one-sided conflict, in terms of numbers, was not that any more.
Vlad watched as they regrouped, plainly at a range where they felt safe. The squat bombardier was of another opinion, and wanted them to share that opinion. He had, by hand-signs and yelling, got one of the Smerek guns positioned on an earth mound so its barrel was at a steep angle. And he had one of the few solid balls that the Smereks had provided Vlad with. And what looked like a touch too much powder to both Vlad and the gunners. Maybe it did to the Knight too. He made them all back off and take shelter when he lit the touch hole.
Vlad watched. The shot actually grazed the far edge of the massed troops. In terms of damage it was probably the least effective shot they fired that day. But it scattered the forces that had been being marshaled.
"If they get any further away they'll lose sight of us, Prince," said the bombardier. "You have very good guns and terrible gunners. Have they never fired a cannon before?"
"Once. In practice," admitted Vlad.
The man slapped his thighs, laughed and shook his head. "They'll need a lot more practice."
Vlad nodded. "I had not realized . . . I did not know how effective they would be. My gunsmith wanted us to have them. I thought they would be good against fortifications . . . I thought they might impress the Golden Horde."
"Oh they're impressed, all right," said Bombardier." I don't think they want to come back. Their commanders are having a hard time persuading them, right now. They'll probably try and attack Prince Manfred and the Mongol with him, avoiding you next. We need to elevate some of the guns and get a bit of range. The Prince and Knights can stay close and we can keep the Mongol out of bowshot. If they want to close with them, they'll have to come in range of the arquebusiers and grape-shot."
"Who is Prince Manfred?"
The bombardier looked a him as if he were missing his wits. But nonetheless he explained. "The son of the duke of Brittany. The Holy Roman Emperor is his Uncle. We were his escort to Jerusalem."
Vlad had struggled with concepts of distance and geography, probably because he'd been confined so long. But one thing he was sure of: this was not the usual route between the Holy Roman Empire and Jerusalem.
The Bombardier proved correct. The Mongol took a wide arc, before coming riding in from the northwest. And now they were spread in a wide skirmish-line to allow for less massed targets. "Now it comes down to fighting, man to man," said Vlad. "I have twenty good men. I think when the conflict gets closer, we will go to the aid of our allies."
The bombardier grinned. "Just don't let them use you as a shield from your own guns. I'd be wary. I think there are more problems coming."
"For us?"
"Now that's a hard question, your Highness. But I saw signs of large numbers of horses out there earlier, and I don't now. Means someone is resting them for action, probably."
"We passed I would say a thousand men. Well, ten companies of Hawk Clan Mongol back there."
"Could be. It would equal the odds very nicely if it was. But I've been a Knight of the Holy Trinity for twenty-three years, mostly up on the Swedish borderland, and if I have learned anything it's that you never gamble in conflict, your highness, pardon my saying so. You know who is there when you see them. Until then, expect the worst and prepare f
or it. I like this idea, with the carts and the wagons. But what of some good oaken boards? Instead of the canvas."
"If we survive this, I intend to make some improvements. The wagons are better than the carts. And we need better ways of moving the cannon around . . . Look. They're rushing."
"And our men are proving the superiority of column over line."
That was indeed the case. In order to avoid the murderous fire from the wagon and cart fort, the Mongol attackers had spread out into a long skirmish line . . . Which the knights with their superior weight and reach of their lances, had simply ridden straight through, cutting the line in several places, taking Hawk clan Mongol through with them. "They're going to herd them in to the guns. You'll want to range them carefully."
And then there was the sound of horns to the north and east. They could see the dust, now.
"They circled," said Primore Peter. "Typical Mongol trick."
The effect of the horn-calls and distant war-drums on the attack was as catastrophic as the cannon fire.
The attack, already in trouble, became an exercise in rapid departure.
"Let's help them along," said Vlad to the Primore. So they sortieed, although, frankly it was an unnecessary exercise. And then . . . it wasn't. The foemen turned again—trying to flee west. For a brief while it was hot and heavy fighting against men who wanted to be elsewhere, and were not prepared to let the twenty Székelers with Vlad stop them. Vlad was glad when they were joined by a number of Knights of the Holy Trinity. They and the knights were content to let the Mongols flee. The Hawk clan were not.
And riding across the field came the reason the flight had turned to a chaotic rout. More Hawk clan warriors, some joining their fellows in hunting down the invaders. Some coming closer. Vlad stood his ground. A ground littered with the corpses of those who had fallen during the initial two assaults on cannon, carts and wagons.
He was surprised to recognize the lead horseman as the man who had ridden over to tell them to leave. The warrior pulled his horse to halt. "Are these your women or children?" Asked Vlad grimly, pointing at the dead and dying on the field of carnage.
The Hawk officer blinked. Plainly recognized him. That was hardly surprising. Vlad had realized that he did not look like many others. "No . . . these are the Gatu Orkhan's men."
"Oh. They were so easy to kill, we thought they might be women and children," said Vlad, dismissively.
The Mongol looked at the body strewn field. And shut his mouth, which had hung open like a cave-maw. He shook his head. And then said humbly: "The Hawk clan is in your debt, foreigner. I spoke without knowing."
"We had some help from your clansmen," said Vlad. "They are chasing what's left of Gatu Orkhan's men."
"We had heard . . . the young khan was here. And the princess Bortai."
Chapter 60
Bortai had been among the first to work out what the mingghan of Hawk warriors that came to their aid was doing. They surely realized that Gatu had at least three or four thousand men to thus venture into Hawk territory. They—from what the the two Jahguns had said, knew that they were outnumbered, mustering barely a full Mingghan—a thousand men. Yet they could not desert her and Kildai. So they had sent a few men and horses to use General Subatai's trick. Harnessing horses to logs to make dust. Sounding horns and drums where they were not. That was what gave it away to her. No Mongol general would betray an attack until it was too late. Creating the impression that they were a far larger host and coming from exactly where they had not seemed to be. It was a masterful stroke. She'd told Tulkun. And one of the knights. He'd looked puzzled and steered her toward Erik.
It did separate her from her brother. She was less worried than she had been. A handful of the the Jahgun had been determined to become the part of the young Khan's Khesig, his imperial guard. And what better way than to surround him and fight bravely? He had a guard of at least twenty. He would just have to cope without her. And she'd told them that if they ran off after Gatu's men, they would wish they were dead.
She saw Erik. And then saw that some of the Gatu Orkhan's men were making a last effort to leave the field with some honor. Or at least with her.
* * *
It was a mess, thought Erik. And this was always when things went wrong, when people got killed. When they thought it was all over. He was keeping close to Manfred for that reason. And then he saw Bortai riding toward them, alone, and straight into trouble.
There were four of Gatu's men, and there was at least seventy yards between her and the knights. Erik put his spurs to his horse, and Manfred was right beside him. Von Gherens was just behind them. But Erik knew they could never get there in time. His heart knew the agony of remembering the same situation with Svanhild's death.
Only . . . this was Bortai, not Svan. She was not going to wait to be rescued. The first of the four got an arrow through his chest. The second barely missed being slashed out of the saddle with her knife stroke. She'd dropped the bow, and had a blade into her hand. She didn't kill him, but his right arm was gashed to the bone. And the third, taking no chances, and using his lance, got the thrown knife through his throat.
That left one man, who suddenly realized this fact. He swung his sword in a vicious arc that would have—with the pace of his pony—probably have decapitated her . . . If she'd been in the way. She wasn't. She'd dropped over the side of her horse, and the blade scythed above her. The fellow suddenly realized that three knights' lance points were heading straight for him, and attempted to turn, to flee . . . to find Bortai had beaten him to the turn and was just behind him. She used her momentum and his weight to cartwheel him out of the saddle, under the galloping hooves of the advancing horses. The knights lifted their lances. And she smiled sweetly at them and waved. Dismounted to recover her knife and bow.
"This is why I disapprove of women in combat, " said Von Gherens.
Manfred guffawed. "Ten more like her and there wouldn't be any combat. No wonder she laughs at you, Erik."
A little while later—the knights massed again—they rode across to the cart and wagon encampment. The duke of Valahia came out to meet them.
* * *
"So, your Highness, what brings you out here on to the lands of the Golden horde?" said Manfred, conversationally, after formal introductions had been made.
"Well, I am at war with King Emeric of Hungary," explained the tall, pale-skinned man. "I have raised a small army, mostly of Valahian peasantry. I came to buy horses for my army."
There was a rather stunned silence. "Er. Don't you have a quartermaster—general to do that?" asked Eberhart, probably the most skilled at filling in gaps
The duke of Valahia smiled diffidently. "I probably ought to have one. Making war is a new profession for me."
Manfred looked at the killing field. Men were out dealing with the wounded, and looting. Putting down horses that were too injured. "God help king Emeric if this is what you do while you're still new to it. Shall we find a place away from this carnage to have a stoup of wine, and talk? Emeric of Hungary is no friend of ours."
Vlad nodded. "I too would like to know what the knights of the Holy Trinity are doing here in the lands of the Golden Horde?"
Manfred laughed. "It's a long story. And a dry one, like all long stories."
* * *
Vlad was torn between suspicion of people who wished to befuddle him with drink, and a desire to get to know these knights, and their Prince. The signs of piety and yet skill in warfare appealed to him. Well, he had found that alcohol had little or no effect on him. If they hoped to dull his senses with it they were in for a shock. "Come into the enclosure," he said. "We have had very few losses in there. It was much more effective than I had hoped. The cannon too were very much more deadly than we expected. As I said, I am still learning . . ." his voice trailed off. "Although such death must grieve any Christian's soul."
Several of the knights nodded.
Vlad found that encouraging, despite his own strange, supp
ressed desire to walk among the dead and dying. He was morbidly fascinated by it.
They sat and talked. Vlad's quartermaster had only some beer to offer, but the knights provided a small cask of wine. Feeling he needed some support, Vlad asked the Székely Primore to join him. "I speak very little Frankish, Drac. Just what I learned from the whores in the tail of Emeric's army when I served on the western border. Not suitable for high company."
"I need you. Even if you say nothing." He wondered, again, for the thousandth time, just where Rosa had got to.
The Székeler shook his head and smiled. "No, Drac. We need you. I think you can count on the support not just of me and the people of Ghîmes, but the Székely. You have what we need. Honor, courage and fairness. Those are rare attributes in princes, and the Székely will follow one that has all of them. But if you want me, I will be there. Besides, I like a goblet or two of wine."
After a while, Vlad had lost his earlier caution and merely enjoyed talking to people whose world was wider than his, and who, it would seem, knew much of what he needed to learn. And they felt . . . wholesome.
The talk went on deep into the night, only interrupted by a respectful Hawk clan officer who came to ask if the envoys and traders needed anything. "I think we need to clarify your status a bit," said Manfred.
Vlad smiled. "We will need to trade with them, if we are to fight Hungary. It will make trading easier."
That brought laughter. "It'll put them off raiding other traders, that's for sure."
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 45