Much Fall of Blood-ARC (30 page)

The man shuddered. "I'll swear our swords barely touched." The soldier realized what he was saying, shut his eyes, and began to mumble a prayer.

It was all Emeric could do not to kill the idiot on the spot. This was exactly what he did not need. The Magyars prided themselves in the belief that they were the finest heavy cavalry in the world—as Emeric himself did. The accursed Knights of the Holy Trinity used magic, that was all. And now, here was an upstart little princeling who had shaken the confidence of his finest, shaken the very foundations of his kingdom. A man who was, it appeared, rapidly building a more terrible reputation than he himself enjoyed.

* * *

In a shallow cave that was barely more than an overhang, Vlad and his fourteen surviving men, neither looked nor felt terrifying. They felt alive . . . but only just. Of the fourteen, only eight were not walking wounded. They were all still stunned by their first real combat, and the sheer ferocity of it all. Yes, they had escaped. Some said they had seen Magyar butcher Magyar in the chaos of rolling rocks and dust. It appeared that those in the dell had taken their rescuers—those that survived the scree slide—as yet more attackers. Whatever happened, Vlad's men had escaped with their lives—those who had not paid with theirs. But they had lost almost all of their food and the better part of their number.

Yet, somehow, Vlad's men regarded him as a hero. Vlad did not know what to make of this, but it filled him with shame. Still, he had learned one thing. Watchers were now posted. And there were several ways to flee carefully scouted. But he did not know quite what to do next.

The one thing he did not expect was for his watchers to be calling him excitedly, happily. He came to look. A sense of some relief washed over him. He recognized at least three of the men leading a party of perhaps fifty others. Not soldiers, or at least certainly not recognizable as such. There were a number of pack ponies, a few donkeys, and most of the men were carrying large bundles.

He tried to place where the three had been during that disastrous encounter. One of them, still with a horse, had been part of that terrible charge. The other two, one now leading a pack pony, had definitely been with the group that had scrambled off on foot. Vlad had thought them all killed. To his relief, he realized that some of them must have got away.

That was a weight off his conscience. Perhaps generals with thousands at their beck and call felt little for casualties. To Vlad, these men were still precious companions. Yes, they were peasants and yeomen farmers. But they were all he had. And they'd been true to him.

He wished that he could make contact, somehow, with Countess Elizabeth. She would have nobles skilled in the art of war—something he knew far too little of—willing to join and help him. She plainly was a loyal subject, a vassal ruling Caedonia, one of his cities, even if she was also a vassal of King Emeric.

He was delighted to see the other survivors. And totally unprepared for the adulation of those who accompanied them.

"Drac!" People bowed and cheered. "Bless you, Prince!" They crowded round, incredulous and plainly in awe.

Vlad smiled worriedly as he squeezed the shoulders of one the men who had fled on foot. "Were there any other survivors?"

"Some others, I think. We were scattered, Prince. But thanks to you, some of us escaped when you taught the Magyars a lesson. They fled like whipped dogs."

Vlad found himself so taken aback by this interpretation of events, that he was at a loss as to what to say. The world inside the walls of his tower had ill prepared him for the realities outside. That much he understood. But did life have to be so illogical and confusing? He had lost most of his men, had had to flee their camp; had, in fact, barely survived. To Vlad's logical mind, that did not make him the sort of beacon to whom men would rally. Yet here they were, with more men than he'd lost, congratulating him on his victory!

It made no sense. Could they not see that he and a bare handful of men were huddling in a cave in the mountains?

"The story is spreading across the country, Lord. Many thousands will answer your call now."

Bit by bit, as he spoke to his new recruits, Vlad began to understand. In the chaos some of the Magyars had fled too. Vlad knew little about war, and of how King Emeric conducted it. But this much he did know: there was only one penalty for desertion—execution. On the other hand, even Vlad knew that Emeric was fond of painful deaths for those who had failed him. Desertion might have seemed a sensible option to some of those soldiers. It might be dishonorable and disloyal, but, for the second sons and minor nobility who made up the rank-and-file of King Emeric's elite, it might also have been better than returning and admitting defeat.

So. Desertion, and not just the scree slope, confusion and the few casualties that he and his men had been able to inflict, had made the difference—and painted a different picture of the battle. Very few of the survivors were in the two columns returning to face the penalties that their commanders, or worse, their king, might inflict upon them. But those who had chosen the course of honor, it would seem . . .

Had not chosen the course of veracity. They had vastly exaggerated the size of the force they had faced. These new recruits earnestly believed that Vlad had inflicted a stunning military defeat onto the hated occupiers. Also, that he commanded a large force, and that he was a military genius. Their own eyes soon persuaded them that Vlad had no vast force. However, that just reinforced the belief that he was the greatest military commander that had ever breathed, to be able to inflict such a crushing defeat on superior numbers.

Besides, they wanted to believe. They would not let common sense stand in the way of that.

Vlad had little enough silver, very few horses, scant rations, and no arms. He did have, however, twice the army he'd had before. And there were more men on their way, apparently. Vlad wished desperately for wiser and more experienced counsel. He wished he knew how to make contact with the countess, or even the gypsies. He could talk to them. But he was wise enough to know that he could not truly take these people into his confidence. He needed them. And, even if their belief was false, he needed them to believe in him. So he walked off up the bare mountainside, to a place that he could sit alone and think. And pray. Father Tedesco had said that God would provide answers. Right now, those seemed to be avoiding him.

He would just have to do his best on his own, knowing almost nothing. What ever that best was, it would have to include finding a larger camp and posting sentries. He had read of sentries. In a way experienced them, in the shape of the guards that had watched his tower. He just was not too sure of the exact details—such as how many of them, and what they should do, and for how long they should do it.

He walked back down to the encampment. It was, to his meticulous eye, a mess. Of course, it had been a mess previously, but then, as desperate fugitives organization had seemed a little futile. He cleared his throat. "Have we any men here," he said loudly, instantly stilling dozens of conversations, "who have any military experience?" He hoped he could find at least one common soldier from whom he could—without betraying too much of his own ignorance—get the details of how to set out sentries.

He got some seven men. And four of them, all comrades, were former sergeants from one of the levies that Emeric had raised in Valahia. "I need sentries posted, I need a better camp—this one is poorly ordered, and I need to train these men," Vlad began, wondering—as he knew little of how the military actually worked, if such men would know anything of what he needed. Perhaps they would have some ideas from watching their own officers.

They saluted. And turned away . . . But he had not yet finished speaking to them . . .

They seem to believe he had, however. And moreover they seemed to assume that he had ordered them to arrange these matters. To his amazement, Vlad discovered that they seemed to know precisely what to do. He watched them, covertly, determined to learn what to do next time. After a while he wryly concluded that the correct method was probably to tell several sergeants that you perceived a problem. Even if this was not quite the right way, and Vlad did not know if it was or not, it had certainly worked extremely well.

The cave with its handful of desperate survivors transformed—at an almost magical speed—into a military encampment. The two sergeants drilling the newly formed squads might think that they resembled hopeless black beetles . . . and other fascinating and bizarre things, many of which Vlad had never heard of before, but suddenly they began to resemble fighting men. And strangely, despite the abuse heaped on their heads, they appeared proud, even if they were merely armed with staffs of green ash.

It left Vlad free to ponder other important questions, and to wonder if perhaps he should tell the sergeants about those too—and how he could do so without shattering their confidence in him. He could hardly say 'well, what do I do next?'

The one thing he was sure of was that they could not stay in one place for long. If the Hungarians had found and nearly destroyed them once, they would do so again. The others could delude themselves about his military genius, but Vlad knew he had none, and he knew it. All he had was a logical, and very precise and tidy mind.

Erik had noticed that the Ilkhan hunkered down on their haunches to talk. So he did the same next to the girl and her brother. Struggling to express himself in a language he barely had a handle on, he gestured quite a lot. "I have given the order. A thing to carry him on will be made for the boy. We have to travel. We look after you."

She stared at him, wide eyed. And responded with a high-speed chatter of which he understood only one word in three. It was not easy to string those words into anything coherent. How did he say "slow down?" The best he could manage was "do not gallop."

She looked at him, puzzled. And then started to laugh. That hadn't been quite the reaction he'd been looking for, but she did have one of those infectious laughs.

He saw that the pestilential horseboy had gotten back. "You. David. Come help to translate. And none of your silly tricks."

* * *

Bortai had wondered just what she would do next. There was a little church and village up the slope. But it would offer at best temporary shelter. Given the numbers that now hunted for them, such a little village could not protect them, even were its people willing. And the foreign knight had said that Kildai should not ride any further.

She was rather puzzled when the tall blonde foreign knight came and squatted next to them as if he were from the steppes himself. His accent was as strange as his words were limited. But there was no mistaking the kindness behind the words. It made her eyelids prick with tears, tears that she was determined not to show. He gave orders. He must command these mercenaries. It was odd that Ilkhan should resort to using a mercenary escort. But she could think of no other reason for these knights to be accompanying a tarkhan's party. Given the fact that they were coming from the west, either the Ilkhan had vastly increased their territories, or these knights had been hired to see them across lands not under Mongol control, lands where the locals were so ignorant that they would dare to attack a Mongol envoy. It was unlikely that either the Illyrians or Bulgars would have dreamed of it; they had had contact with the Golden Horde. But perhaps there were other tribes and kingdoms further west with less respect. The heyday of Mongol power, Bortai knew, had passed.

Nevertheless, they were still a force to be reckoned with.

Then she got the actual meaning of what he was trying to say. He had ordered a litter to be made for them to carry Kildai in. And he made no mention of consulting the tarkhan. Well, perhaps that was just his lack of skill at her language.

She was a princess of the Hawk clan and she recognized his honorable conduct. He might be a foreigner, a sell-sword, but his behavior was far better than that manifested recently by many Mongols. Her reply, a little embarrassed, was perhaps voiced faster than it would otherwise have been.

By his puzzled look, she realized that she must be speaking too fast. And then he told her to stop galloping. It was so earnestly said that she had to laugh. She was behaving like a hysterical girl, and part of her was embarrassed by her own reaction.

He did smile when she laughed, though.

* * *

David looked at the Mongol woman. He was a Jerusalem born thief. He had lived under the shadow of the Ilkhan all of his life. He was good at spotting details. Her clothing might be travel-stained, and torn, but it had been some of the finest weave. Her accent and tone reflected the same reality. This was one of their highborn, the kind that he avoided with as much care as possible. One step out of line and there would be no leniency. His first reaction was that he ought to back off and get lost. But he had learned by now that Erik's orders were to be obeyed, so he came forward and bowed very low, no matter how much his feet wanted to run in the other direction.

"She doesn't seem to understand what I'm trying to say," said Erik. "Explain to her that I'm having a stretcher made. I'll detail a few men to carry the boy. He'll get jolted around much less like that. We really need a well sprung cart, but that doesn't seem possible. Tell her we'll get her back to her clan. I daresay somebody will be pleased to see her. The two of them seem to be good, ordinary people."

Unholy glee stirred in David's breast. Erik plainly did not realize that this was a high-ranking woman. Direct tricks, like the one that had nearly had him killed in the terrible criminal haven Corfu, were out. But he could certainly let the knight talk himself into a tricky position. And he would have grounds to claim complete innocence! Oh, bliss. It would serve them right for bringing him so far from Jerusalem. And it would be funny.

He would have to be careful, though. Stay close to the exact meaning. But Erik was going to be very embarrassed when it turned out that this was a very high muckety-muck, and he'd been treating her as if she were a commoner. Mind you, David had noticed that the Ritter treated Prince Manfred in much the same fashion. He knew that Erik was no noble. He'd asked Kari. But while he was at it he could tell her that Erik was of great rank. That meant a lot among the Ilkhan Mongol.