Much Fall of Blood-ARC (40 page)

The Sergeant looked distinctly nervous. "Well, Sire. We're veterans of King Emeric's campaigns, Mirko and me. And the king makes these complicated plans. They go wrong nine times out of ten, and . . . well, we get punished for failing. So we got used to making a second plan or two. Just in case. The king usually isn't near at hand to know that the officers . . . um, modified things a bit. And that if they get a chance, the sergeants and men do it too. But you're here, sire, so you have to know. We had some of the men make ladders and wait for the commotion on this side."

Vlad was silent. Then he sighed. "I have learned three things from this, Emil." The first is that in war, things will go wrong. The second is that I need to have thought of a second plan."

"And the third, Sire?"

"To choose my officers carefully, and to listen when they wish to tell me about their experiences." Vlad could hear the shooting now, from the far side of the small walled town. "Do we ride to join them or wait here?

"They'll open the gate for us, Sire."

* * *

Very rapidly, riding into the small town, Vlad realized that it was not only how to assault towns and conduct wars that he still had to learn about, but that the attack itself was only a small part of what he should have planned. He had won, yes. The small garrison had been outnumbered . . . and the survivors surrendered. And had been murdered out of hand, to Vlad's anger and embarrassment. And now his men seemed to have scattered into the houses and shops in an orgy of looting and mayhem. Vlad tried to round his men up, with limited success. He wanted silver, and he wanted food for his men. There was going to be precious little of either, at this rate.

The woman in the torn dress was screaming in terror as she ran, head down, not looking where she was going. She almost ran headlong into Vlad's horse. And behind her came . . . not the horrors of hell, but three of Vlad's own. "What do you think you are doing?" he asked them, icily.

The men were already drunk enough for one to try and answer the question. "Victor's rights . . ." he said, his voice surly, doubt and shame making him angry both with himself and his Prince.

She clung to his stirrup. "Lord, they killed my man. Save me."

"He's not dead. Jus' knocked him down . . ." A sense of shame now seemed to be returning to the men, the third one was sidling backwards, desperate to be away from what might have seemed acceptable, and a good idea, moments earlier.

"Hell's teeth, are you a pack of ravening animals?" Vlad felt the fury that had been building in him start to rise. "This is my land. My town too. Yours too, damn you." He turned to the Sergeant. "Sound that horn. Sound the retreat. We ride through the streets in one circuit. Any man who does not answer the call, I'll leave to get hung by the locals or Emeric, whoever gets them first."

"Sire . . . the silver."

"Devil take it, man. I'll have my due, brought to me. Not taken at knife-point over the raped bodies of my people's daughters. She could have been your sister, you animals. Sound that horn, Emil. And you three," he pointed at the would-be rapists. "Be happy that she got to me in time, or I'd make an example of you with the butcher's knife. Fall in. "

The woman's eyes were wide. She knelt. But Vlad did not wait to hear what she had to say. He'd plucked the horn from the Sergeant. He did not know how to blow it correctly. But he did. It made a noise . . . a horrible one. It was just as well. It stirred him from his fury, and spared the life of the three, who had not yet managed to get in place behind him. He handed it back to Emil. " Blow it. Properly."

They rode on, with the sergeant sounding the horn, and Vlad's men straggling onto the road behind them. They rode past the burned hay-cart, lying crashed where the panicked oxen had dragged it. The fire had spread to the next buildings. Vlad did not stop. He knew that not all of his men were behind him. He supposed he ought to halt, do a roll-call and send a few squads back to dig out the missing, be they dead or engaged in sacking. But his disgust was such that he just had to get away from there.

Part of that disgust was with himself. He'd known, briefly, a surge of triumph, and a surge of lust. A desire to raven too. He'd turned it into anger with his peasant recruits. He remembered them now, waiting in the darkness. The half-frightened bravado. The odd silences. The whispered prayers—he had very keen hearing. How had it turned into this?

They were met barely half a mile from the town, on a bend just short of the crest of the rise by one of the scouts, pushing his horse as fast as he could. "They're coming, Sire," panted the man. "Thank God you are here. They're between us and the pass, already."

There was nowhere to run to. They could retreat on the town . . . Vlad was damned if he would. "Let us see if these men of ours can stand up to that cavalry charge, Sergeant. It's that or, as you said, be slaughtered like lambs."

Vlad's Sergeants had been a silent group on their retreat from the town. Now they took charge, positioning the arquebussiers on the ridge either side of the road, and in a block, kneeling, standing and waiting in the middle of the trail. Vlad and his handful of 'cavalry' waited too, off on the left flank. If anyone broke through, they would have to deal with them.

They did not have long to wait. The fleeing scout had plainly been seen in his panicked flight . . . but it was also obvious that the cavalry had not expected to find Vlad's soldiers so far outside the town, arrayed for battle. Moving at a distance-eating canter, the Magyar cavalry were a little strung out, but still in fairly close formation when the leaders, coming up to the ridge, saw Vlad's arquebusiers. To give the Magyar credit, they did not hesitate. Lances dipped. And to give Vlad's arquebusiers equal credit . . . the sight did not make them break and run. The first volley was a little ragged. But the second rank fired in an almost simultaneous discharge. Wreathed in powder smoke, the third rank fired—and the flanking arquebussiers cut loose too. The charging cavalry fell, but did not stop.

Neither did the massed fire. The green irregulars worked as if this was a drill, and they were an experienced drill team. As if the Magyar lances were not out, dipped and racing towards them.

Gun-smoke and thunder, and his men standing like a wall before the wave . . . would it overtop them? But the wave faltered and broke before the massed fire of the Smerek arquebuses. If the cavalry had realized that they were flanked earlier . . . or if they had realized just how shallow those flanks were . . . but they had not. The terrain had favored Vlad's men. The Magyar retreated—in bad order. They'd pushed the charge too hard and too far, believing that the enemy would break. When they had not, it had been they that had been broken.

"Stand!" yelled one of Sergeants, when Vlad's stunned men saw the charge turn to a rout. "Stand, damn you. Recharge your weapons."

It looked then as if the discipline, so strong in adversity, might just break . . . the line was breaking up into men chasing after cavalry, cheering and yelling. Vlad had seen his troops come to pieces once that day, in victory. It wasn't going to happen again. He rode up. "Back. NOW. Form up, and ready your weapons." His voice halted and held them.

Sure enough, the second rush came, this time with the riders caracoling and firing horse-pistols. Vlad exhaled sharply. Had they encountered a scattered rabble chasing after them, even this scanty remanent would have had no trouble riding them down. But the massed fire and the extra range of the Smerek arquebuses . . . turned the second advance into a bloody retreat too.

Now Vlad's troops made no move without an order. The heavy arquebuses were recharged. Vlad sent his scouts out, and a few minutes later they began to march forward, through the killing zone. Vlad realized that they had in the course of one fractured morning passed from recruits to into being soldiers. "They fought well," he said to Emil who seemed to have elected himself as his Prince's aide-de-camp . . . well that, or watchdog.

"Yes, Sire. Shall I have a squad detailed to collect weapons from the dead. We're a bit short, sire, though we have good guns, I'll grant. And we've got a few wounded there. Ours and theirs."

"Ours we take with us. Theirs we will disarm. We cannot care for them. I just hope we reach the trail back into mountains before we have to fight again." He turned to Emil, letting his guard slip, briefly, "How is it that they were such lions here, and such jackals back there?" he said, plaintively.

"Reckon there is a bit of animal, all kinds of animal in all of us, Sire," said the Sergeant uncomfortably. "Most officers don't set the standards you do. It's . . . it's kind of normal. Armies do that."

Vlad looked at him coldly. Yes. There was a beast within him too. But he kept it leashed . . . because . . . because if he ever simply let go he knew that it would destroy all in its path. And it would destroy him too. "Emeric's army behaves like that. But these are my towns, and my people. I have come to liberate them, not use terror to make them my slaves."

Sergeant Emil was either a very brave or very foolish man. He shook his head. "You can't stop an army looting a bit, sire. I'm sorry. I've spent too long as a soldier to believe otherwise. Maybe you, Sire, can stop them short of rapine, and murder. But ordinary soldiers . . . will take small things, Sire. They're poor men. And only human."

Vlad was silent. Then he said: "I will put up with them being only human. It's them being ravening animals that I will not. I will put up with them being humans because they have shown me that they can also be men." He sighed. "The animal and the man do war within each and every one of us, Sergeant. Me too. We may not be strong enough to win every battle there, but if we lose more than the smallest skirmishes . . . if we give ground, the animal wins."

A quiet voice within him said 'but sometimes the man may not be strong enough to defeat the enemy outside. Sometimes we may need that animal.' He banished the thought. It frightened him. Like the animal darkness that rose in him sometimes, he could neither understand nor control it.

It was much later on the ride, when they were heading deeper into the safety of the mountains and his head was replaying the events of the day, that it occurred to him: why had the relief column come at all? And if he had not become so angry, they would have caught him with his men scattered through the small town, drunken and dispersed. He pointed it out to Emil. The Sergeant nodded. "Yes, Drac. The men are already asking how you knew it was going to be a trap."

Vlad did not know how to answer. He felt a suspicion that legend was writing itself around him, in spite of himself.

He suspected it would betray him, one day.

Elizabeth finished the last of the rites that would allow the dark messenger out of his entrapment in the pentacle, in safety. Safety for her, anyway. Crocell waited for her, at least with the appearance of patience. "You seek my master's assistance in the capture of Vlad, the Prince of Valahia," he said with a lift of the dark eyebrows, once he was free.

She nodded. "I have tried earthly means—Emeric's troops—first. When it became obvious that they were being misled by magical means I turned to my allies and the demons at my beck and call. We held the rite in my residence outside Caedonia. I tried a summonsing. It failed. He is peculiarly resistant to my magics."

"He would be largely immune to magics intended for humans. His blood is not entirely human . . ."

"I have for some years entrapped lesser creatures of air, fire and water to my bidding. Those summons did not work either."

"Because he is not that, fully, either."

"I have created mixtures before. I have forced the lusts of fire on wind. I commanded and constrained the results of that. I still have captive some of the results of those and other experiments."

"This is not the same. His is a willing sharing, an abandonment of some of the rights and powers of both to join in a union. It is a powerful magical bond, the greatest perhaps, the innocent giving themselves to the other in a willing self-sacrifice. The power generated by that willing union will transcend the givers. It may kill them or make them something more powerful. Powerful enough to resist the lesser demons you sent after him."

"Then I will need more power. I need power over him."

Crocell smiled. The was no humor or joy in that smile. "You already have. He is human enough to be seduced. And get him into a place of power, and by using the rite of Cthasares, you can strip some of his power from him. He is mortal. He can be killed as easily as the next mortal. Well. Fire and poisons are less than effective. But a bullet or sword thrust could kill him. Do not, however, try direct magics against him. Or even in close proximity to him. They may recoil and act instead on you."

Not to use her magical skills? That would be hard. She said as much.

"Passive constraints, spells on those who surround him may work. He is a danger. Why do you pursue him?"

"I want to capture a wyvern. I wanted him as bait. I have been informed by Count Mindaug . . ."

"He dabbles in dangerous and demonic traps, Elizabeth. He may be engulfed by one."

"So do I. And like him, I intend to outwit it," said Elizabeth, her voice chill. "Is the wyvern directly dangerous to me? You are constrained to speak the truth."

"Not directly, no. It is a vessel."

"I can break vessels if need be."

"True," said Crocell. "And these ones are quite young and fragile."

* * *

Elizabeth stared coolly at King Emeric. "You called me to ask me what to do next because Vlad of Valahia burned a town and shot one of your regiments of cavalry to flinders."

Emeric held his temper in check. He still was uncertain of his ability to deal with her. If he had to . . . it would be at long range. "I thought you might need to know, Aunt," he said, trying to match her coolness and failing. He'd been so certain that this trap would work, would deal with the problem rapidly and effectively. The deserter from Vlad's forces had sung beautifully. Vlad's scouts had been watching the town so . . . Emeric had come up with what such an elegant solution. What was one small town? One little garrison? Vlad's scouts had watched the town. Emeric's scouts had watched the trail down from the high mountains instead. When they were sure that Vlad's rag-tag army had gone . . . they'd borne word to the waiting troops at Lesu. Emeric wanted the little town to fall. While the sack was on . . . the rebels would be in one place. His Magyar could fire the entire nest, and kill any that tried to flee. Instead . . . it had failed. That Valahian swine had fired the town—ineffectually admittedly, and waited in ambush for the Magyar. Vlad of Valahia had never learned such tactics in his elegant prison. He must have an advisor who was as cunning as a snake. And thus Emeric turned to his own snake.