Much Fall of Blood-ARC (47 page)

"I hope you'll demote him and let me discipline him for you, Prince. That's what your army needs. More discipline."

Vlad disagreed, but said nothing. And he was going to have to find some way to avoiding this happening. Mirko was a good and valuable man. He wasn't quite as good as Emil, but Vlad had felt that he owed Elizabeth some duty of care. There were some rough men in his command, and she was a lady of high degree. Besides, she'd freed him from the tower; he would never forget that, and he would always be in her debt. It made him uncomfortable just thinking about her. She did odd things to his feelings. He should not lust for her, but he did.

A rider came up out of the dark—one of the scouts. "All clear ahead, Drac," he said respectfully. "And good hiding places next to the ford. Lots of cover."

It had been hard to guess that from the map. Vlad was relieved. Now all he needed was the scouts to report on the retreat-routes. Vlad was fairly sure this was not a trap. But he took no unnecessary chances any more. Information trickled in from all over now—it was amazing how it had picked up, in the weeks since Gara. He had this convoy, wagons under heavy escort, confirmed from two separate sources, let alone the tip-off that had come from the Smerek cousins down south. He had to move south too, and soon.

They positioned themselves carefully on both banks of the river in the gray light of a misty dawn. The ford was little more than a broad shallow area, with an entry and exit cut into the steep bank. The place really could use a decent bridge, Vlad thought. Like the roads it was not something that Emeric believed in spending money on. Vlad had had to swim and ford far too many cold mountain streams to not appreciate bridges.

And then there was just the inevitable waiting. Waiting with this annoying boyar, who kept asking him questions. Vlad tried asking a few of his own. The man had seen some military service as an officer with the levies that Emeric had raised from Valahia. But his experience and knowledge of military strategy seemed to amount to obeying the orders he had been given, and disciplining his soldiers. That didn't seem to stop him wanting to know all about Vlad's strategy and plans. "So what do you plan Sire? When do you hope to meet him in battle? What cities are we going to lay siege to?"

Vlad had not discussed his plans with anyone. Part of the reason for this was that he had not had a clear strategy when he had started, besides trying to survive. Now it had evolved into at least a medium-term strategy in his head. It still amounted to 'survive' but extended to 'and look after your troops'. Eventually, tired of being polite, Vlad sent the man across the river to the soldiers he had positioned to cut off the retreat.

First came three squads of Emeric's cavalry, sixty men in all, clattering and splashing through the ford, cursing the water. Then came the two heavily laden wagons, both with a driver and an armed guard next to him. Behind them, another squad of twenty cavalrymen. Bored cavalry. No one ever tried to steal from King Emeric. He had the unpleasant but effective habit of killing, slowly, and visibly, a suitable number of the closest locals. If that didn't work as an adequate deterrent, he would massacre a little further afield. Vlad had to admit that he had chosen this ambush site to pay the King back in his own coin. The nearest settlement was one of German and Hungarian miners. If Emeric reacted with his normal tactics he was going to lose the support of those foreigners too.

Vlad by now was reconciled to the fact that no military operation followed any sort of plan, after the first shot had been fired. All he could do was to train his men well and plan for as many contingencies as possible. When, inevitably, something you hadn't thought of came up, at least the training would stand you in good stead.

This ambush was no exception. Gunfire, a single shot, began just too soon. The second wagon was not quite down the slope into ford. The driver however tried to urge the horses on rather than trying to turn. Even if the massed volley of fire did not catch the cavalry bunched and unaware, it was still very effective. The water reduced the ability of a cavalry to maneuver, reduced their speed to that of a walk on dry land, and gave them no place to run or regroup. Out of the morning river mist Vlad heard the sergeant Mirko's "fire at will."

With his handful of horsemen Vlad waited to deal with escapees. Sure enough a few made it, having driven their horses up the bank rather than up the cut roadway. They were brave men, and now, behind the ambushing arquebus infantry, tried to ride them down.

Vlad rode into them instead. " Drac!" yelled his men—and that, and that alone, before the clash of arms, seemed to take the heart out of the surviving cavalry. They panicked and tried to run. It was a short, bloody fight. Vlad learned another lesson. A retreat in good order might be survivable. Panicked flight was not.

A little later he met up with Mirko. The sergeant-cum-quartermaster was plainly uneasy. "Sire . . . I have to tell you something. That boyar. He tried to sneak off just before the attack. I told him I'd shoot him dead if he didn't stay just there, Drac. He threatened me, and . . . well. You heard the shot before it all happened. He started yelling at me. Said I was peasant scum, and had no right to tell him what to do."

"So you shot him."

Mirko looked startled. "No Drac. He tried to shoot me. One of the boys hit his pistol arm with an arquebus. That's why I'm still talking to you. Then the shooting started."

"Where is he?" asked Vlad.

Mirko chewed his lip. Looked awkward. "He ran off, Sire. Someone shot him again. But he got away."

Vlad nodded slowly. "I want two men, Mirko. I want the man who struck him with the arquebus . And I want the man who shot him."

"Sire . . . they only did it for the best," said Mirko, standing up for his men. He had survived Emeric's army, where he would never have done that. But he had—gradually—learned that his new commander was different.

Vlad illustrated how different he was. "I know. That's why I am promoting them. We need more sergeants. They need to learn to shoot better, though. And to deal with such idiots faster," said Vlad.

"He . . . the boyar is one of our overlords, Sire."

Vlad shook his head. "At best he was a fool. At worst a spy and a traitor. And he seemed to forget that
I
am
his
overlord. Well. He is a boyar no more. He's a peasant and a deserter. Five gold forint for the man who brings me his head."

Mirko grinned. "It's a public service that most of the men will do for free, Drac."

"In the meantime, we need to get a move on, to get those wagons unloaded and onto the horses and to heading back into the mountains. I think we'll take the road along Drumhos valley. That boyar may know too much about the other possible routes. We'll also be moving camp again. Send a man on a good horse with my instruction. I told Emil we'd probably do it."

"Sire!" said Mirko, saluting respectfully and grinning.

A few moments later Vlad heard Mirko telling the troops to jump to it. And two wary looking you peasant recruits came out of the mist and saluted. "Sire. Sergeant Mirko sent us to see you. He said to say it was about that boyar."

"Ah. He is not a boyar any more."

"No Sire. He is. He was alive, S . . .Sire." stammered the one with the thatch of black hair and a single solid eyebrow.

"He is, yes. Unfortunately. He just is not a nobleman in my realm anymore. I will have both his lands and his head for cowardice and treachery. Now, what are your names?"

The surprised looking soldiers took a moment to absorb this. "Viorel, Sire," said the solid-browed one.

"Brudhos, Sire," said the stolid second man.

"Very well, Sergeants Viorel and Brudhos," said Vlad with a smile. "See that you work on the accuracy of your shooting. And now get back to helping load the pay chests out of those wagons. I'll not have them looted. That's your pay and the pay of rest of our men up in the mountains, in there."

It was the sort of work, Vlad noted, that men could go to with a will. He reluctantly admitted that there was an element of bandit in even the best of men, even himself. Like the animal, the hard part was keeping it subservient to the good man in there too.

* * *

King Emeric, in the temporary quarters he had appropriated from one of the local overlords, got the news of his missing pay chests later that same afternoon, along with an injured boyar. The man had lost some blood and ridden more than thirty miles. He was pale and clinging to the saddle when Emeric saw him from the windows of the room which he had set up as his operations center. The Croat officer with him was not much more cheerful looking when they arrived and dismounted. "Now what is it?" demanded Emeric irritably, as the two men were shown into the drawing room. He'd been going through reports from the various districts and towns in Valahia. He had invested little money or effort on spies here, in this subject kingdom. Now he wished that he had done more.

"Your Majesty. The army pay wagons have been attacked and robbed," said the Croat Captain, not wasting any time in getting to the point, getting the worst over with.

Emeric flung a fragile inkstand—a beautiful piece of Venetian glass and silver—hard enough to smash onto the thick turkey carpet. "Damn your eyes. Did I not order them escorted with at least three squads of cavalry! This country is rotten with thieving bandits. Find the nearest settlement. Crucify five men, five women and five children until they talk. The local peasantry and burghers always know, and always sing. And then burn their homes. You know that. You've served with me long enough. I remember your face from Corfu."

"Your Majesty, I took steps against the nearest villiage. Then . . . this man came to us."

Emeric looked at the obviously wounded man. He looked and dressed like one of the minor nobility of this benighted principality. The wounded man was not in chains. If he'd been one of the brigands, he would have expected a brutal and efficient officer like this Croat to make sure of that. In fact the officer would probably have made him sing, and then followed the pay chests already, if that was the case. "Who are you?" said King Emeric, his eyes narrowed.

"The boyar Pishtac. From Cluj." said the man uneasily. His right arm hung useless at his side.

"And what do you have to do with my army's pay chests?" asked Emeric.

"They were taken by Prince Vlad. I tried to stop it . . . to warn . . ."

Emeric walked up to him. "Taken by Prince Vlad indeed. He is in the high Carpathians. His ragtag peasant army don't dare come down."

The Croat officer coughed. "Your Majesty, there were four squads with the pay wagons. Eighty men on horseback. They were all killed bar two—and they bear out what this man says. They were attacked by well-armed well-disciplined men, who fired in massed volley. The villagers heard it too. And the two survivors confirm the attackers calling 'Drac'. "

Emeric scratched his chin. He hated losing his gold, far more than he hated losing men. Men bred. Gold had to be dragged out of a reluctant population. His tax men were good at it, and he had given them almost unlimited powers, but there was never as much as he wanted. "Tell me what you were doing there," he said to the boyar. "And how come you failed to save my gold."

"I tried, Your Majesty."

"Tried is not good enough," Emeric said, preparing to vent some of his rage on the man. The fellow's next words changed his plans.

"Countess Bartholdy said I was to go with him," said the boyar cowering back. "I couldn't help it. Honestly, Your Majesty. I did my best."

Emeric let his hands fall, and turned to his factotum. "Get this man a chair, before he falls down. And then all of you get out of here. I need to question this man alone." He looked at the quaking boyar. "And give him some brandy."

Soon, the boyar was seated in a comfortable armchair. A large glass of very good brandy, held clumsily in his left hand, clattered against the boyar's teeth, and spilled down his shirt. Emeric smiled. "Now I need to know where Vlad of Valahia is. And I need to know exactly what he is planning. And, of course, I want my gold back." Emeric paused. "And I also want to know just what my dear aunt is up to."

The glass nearly ended up on the floor. It was good Venetian glass, Emeric noted. He would have his people to look into just what the local lordling was paying in taxes. "She's a witch."

"No, strictly speaking I believe that she is an enchantress. She dislikes and despises witches. She has done a great deal to eliminate pagans from my lands, and has destroyed the Streghira. But that is beside the point, right now. First Vlad of Valahia. What does he plan?"

"I tried to get him to tell me, Your Majesty. But the man . . . if he is a man, and not a demon . . ."

"He's a man. He's going to be a dead man when I catch up with him. So what does he plan? Did you glean anything of value? Your own life depends on this, Boyar. Give me what I need and you'll have lands and life. Otherwise, I may become angry. You wouldn't want that."

"Your Majesty . . . mercy."

Emeric sniffed. The man had fouled himself. Bah. Where there no real men out there? "Of course. Just tell me all that you can. And I will decide if it is enough for rewards . . . or punishments." He wondered if torturing one of her creatures was worth the risk. Probably. She really did not care.

"I can show you where their camp is. On the map. I made sure that I could find it again."

Emeric let him show him, and two of his Generals, who carefully ignored the stink of the man. If Vlad knew this fool had run off, he'd already have moved. But he was moving a large encampment. There would be traces.

The rest of the questioning did not go so well. The one real and substantive piece of information the boyar had to offer was that Vlad had been very interested in the cost of horses, and where to buy them. Well, that little avenue could be closed. Emeric would forbid the sale of horseflesh. But the man could tell Emeric little that he didn't already know. The boyar was not deep in Elizabeth's confidence. Emeric suspected—indeed detected with his own rudimentary knowledge and skills that Elizabeth had taught him, some form of compulsion set on the man. He would do whatever she ordered him to do. That unfortunately didn't tell Emeric what Elizabeth wanted this man to do.