Much Fall of Blood-ARC (51 page)

Erik was silent. And then shook his head. "I have considered it, Manfred. Look, it is possible that I may still have to try and get you away, and leave the rest to make as long and messy stand as possible. I don't like the idea, but Falkenberg has already suggested it. But the reality is that the knights would be easy prey on their own. Only Kari and myself have much in the way of skills needed to move undetected across enemy terrain. Talking to Bortai, they'll use their ten man squads—Arbans—to hunt us. They've cleared a lot of the forest for grazing lands. The country is fairly open as a result, and they're mobile and fast. This is, sadly, what they do best. They train their soldiers in these massive hunting exercises in which they enclose a huge area and then literally close in and kill everything. The entire point of the excercise is not to let any game at all escape. We're going to be that game, unless we can keep breaking their line and heading north.

"Looking at the stars, we're heading west."

"Northwest. There's rougher country up there, towards the border of Hungary. Still a few areas of dense forest—apparently more so further south, unfortunately. Better for us to fort up if we can find a defensible site—because that's the other possibility. We get the Mongol away—Bortai and her brother, with Tulkun. The woman has already showed she's pretty expert at evading pursuit of any kind. They may, or may not, be able to raise her clan to come to our assistance. Tulkun seems to think that they would. I suppose it depends on what actual credibility the clan puts on the word of a woman and a boy, and a Mongol from another Horde. Tulkun is a good fighter but he's no ambassador. And the truth is that the Mongols don't seem to put much value on non-Mongols."

"It does seem a little extreme, and a fairly thin hope," said Manfred.

"Our hope here is very thin," agreed Erik.

"Judging by the temperature tonight—having roasted us a few days ago, we might just get snow to rescue us too," said Manfred.

Erik nodded. "It'll be dropping off a lot faster in those mountains we can see. I've wondered just whether it might not be worth taking our chances up there with Emeric's Hungarian forces. They might allow you to be ransomed."

"Emeric . . . not after Corfu," said Manfred. "Not for all the money in the west." Anyway, he thought to himself, perhaps he had some value, but the others would be killed. They might as well take their chances here in lands of Golden Horde. And with a bit of luck . . . get away to Illyria. While there was life, there was hope. It was a platitude, but he was not Celt enough to give in to fatalism just yet.

* * *

Erik was not relying on hope. Rather he was relying on rivers, forest and booby traps, and the knights' experience in signaling to each other by means of horn-calls. Kari was off scouting soErik split his small force in two . . . which, on the face of it, seemed like insanity. But there was logic in his insanity. The two parties had the same point as an objective. They'd be relatively close to each other. And if one of the two columns encountered scouts who were foolish enough to engage or be seen, horn-talk would see to it that they could act as relief for each other. Even if one group ran into a large group that surrounded them, the Golden Horde Mongols would scatter from a direct charge. That seemed a given and sensible tactic. The heavier horses and armor of the knights meant that they could punch through Golden Horde ranks—it just wasn't expected to do the heavier knights any good. The Golden Horde would reform and pick them off, one by one. Numbers, and a lack of any near-at-hand refuge were on the side of their pursuers. But perhaps, just perhaps, flexibility was on theirs.

* * *

Bortai struggled with her decision-making. She and Kildai could move faster than this. They had remounts. Not of the quality of the Knight's horses but still better than no remounts. And the Golden Horde ponies had more stamina, and carried less weight. Should they leave the knights? Allow them to ride rearguard? Go to call the Hawk Clan—or rather the remanents of it, to their rescue? The flaw, besides the lack of honor in this course, was that the orkhan was not that stupid. She'd bet that flanking Mingghans had been sent riding north. There would be, of course, an element of doubt in the minds of the orkhan's generals. Would these foreigners flee north or try to recross the great river? But her presence—and Kildai's presence, would make Northward seem likely. She saw how the party was split, and the direction they were taking. The heavy country against the mountains would favor the smaller party in some ways. Erik was a shrewd Orkhan. He just needed more scouts. It seemed logical to offer her services, as well as Tulkun's. Erik seemed a little taken aback. "But . . . you are a . . . ." he struggled, either with the concept or the language, "lady," he said, eventually.

"Do ladies not do such things among your people? I am a Mongol of the Hawk clan. In war a woman must do what there are no men to do. That means we must fight and ride now."

"Um." Erik took a deep breath. "It's not quite like that with us. But . . . well when we fought on Corfu . . . I learned that necessity can make deadly fighters of women. Thalia . . . A friend's wife, showed us that. If you will scout a path ahead for us, Lady, we would be grateful. You will ride with her, Tulkun? I would be happier with a warrior . . ." he seemed to realize he was saying the wrong thing, and stopped.

Tulkun beamed. "She could kill me, Erik."

The Ilkhan Mongol at least knew that. But it appeared that he knew her lineage. They had talked about wrestling. Princess Khutulun was a legend. Khutulun had defeated scores of suitors before Ulughachi had arrived at her father's gers, without the horses to make the wager . . . and still she had taken his challenge. Bortai had always wondered just why her great grandmother had lost. Bortai had a strong inclination to take on this mercenary Orkhan and show him a thing or two. Perhaps she would if they won free of this mess, even if he was one of the lesser peoples. An odd thought tickled her mind: what would she do, if, by some fluke, he won? Intermarriage happened . . . but never that way around.

Erik explained what he wanted, what natural defenses he was looking for. He was good, Bortai acknowledged. The Mongol strategy here would be to get onto the flattest most open country and run. But Erik clearly understood that they could not do that, and that the people tracking them followed stray livestock when they were not at war. She wondered what the Hawk clan and its allies—if it still had any, were doing now. Normally the clans would disperse for winter. Family groups would move the herds to lower lands. But now . . . now she would bet the gers were being moved into the foothills and the clan was gathering for the war that seemed inevitable. Inevitable and wrong.

It seemed odd to ride away from the high mountains—and not by night, but in the open. But skulking, the Primore Peter had assured him, would mean an attack. It made a kind of sense, Vlad supposed. Anyone skulking was up to no good. They had a reasonable force—some two hundred men—Twenty horsehead Székelers and another fifteen who had joined Vlad's infantry—enough to fight and yet not be an invading army, and a fair amount of gold. Basically, all the gold he had left . . . he had spent the rest on organizing winter billeting for the remainder of his men. He had requisitioned four wagons and twelve large carts. Vlad wondered why with 'requisitioning' at their disposal so many thieves resorted to theft. He had faggots . . . and sacks. If they had time they could always fill them with soil. And canvas. And a fair number of barrels, which the thirsty had discovered disappointingly, did not contain beer. An arrow would pass through stout canvas . . . but as Mirko pointed out, not going at the same speed it went in, and not with a burning oil-soaked rag. The rag would stay behind. Putting out a fire on stretched canvas was a lot easier than in faggots. Vlad had been surprised at just how much his quartermaster—sergeant had liked the whole idea.

"It's easier for the troops to keep their heads, Sire, when a they've got a barrier between them and men on horseback. We should try it against King Emeric's troops," said the Sergeant.

"But it's only a farm-cart, Mirko."

The man shrugged. "Better than nothing when you're on foot and you've got a knight riding straight for you, Sire. Knights usually eat footmen for breakfast, unless the footmen have numbers and guns . . . or walls. This will take the walls with us. It could work. Especially if we stick some pikes out of the gaps and on the top of the carts. Landing on a pike could put a horseman off trying to jump into any gaps."

So, with lots of fifteen foot pikes, an array of arquebus and horse-pistols . . . and some twenty small cannons, they set off. Vlad had felt that he might be overdoing things. Primore Peter had assured him that he wasn't. And Peter wasn't the sort of man who could be thought timid and overcautious.

So far they'd seen no-one. Not for nearly four days, as they wound down to lower lands. That didn't prove anything, the Székelers gleefully informed him. The Golden Horde clans were very traditionalist. They moved with their herds. And there was, likely as not, to be a horseman watching them from a copse on a hillside. They could ride up out of nowhere and they were good with their bows. Pick a man out of the saddle and be gone before anyone could do anything about it. The trade flags would of course tell them that the party wanted to trade and not engage in warfare. It apparently was no guarantee that the Golden Horde clans would not decide that they would engage in the warfare, and it did say the caravan was probably worth looting. "We're on the edge of Hawk clan territory. They're traditionalists, hold by the Yasa code. On the other side are the Mink. And they're more into opportunistic looting."

"We'll just have to hope we run into the Hawk clan then."

The Székeler Primore nodded. "They've got their own code of honor. But the Hawk are far, far tougher in a fight. The Mink are all right. Just less disciplined."

The man had hardly said that, when a warning horn-blast shattered the apparent tranquility. It was followed by a scout riding hell for leather back to the carts. The raid came quickly, but, thanks to the Székeler outrider's warning they had time to circle the carts and wagons. Men were still trying to un-hitch when the first arrows came.

The Mink warriors learned a thing or two about disciplined, massed fire in the next few moments. Vlad's men even managed to get one of the small cannon unlimbered and primed and ready.

The result of this, and the arquebusiers firing from shelter, was that a rather ragged attack turned into a rout, after barely two volleys and a single cannon-shot.

The Székeler Primore Peter tugged his chin. "We'd best be moving on. Fairly fast. Those were young bucks out for some looting. What's left of them will be heading for the clan's Orkhan."

"Orkhan?"

"War leader. You just gave some of the Golden Horde warriors a bloody nose." He pointed. "I would say that there must be ten dead and twice that wounded out there. We have only a few arrow-wounds, nothing life threatening. They're going to be angry, and upset, and just a little bit afraid. That'll make them keen to deal with this new threat." He grinned. "Mind you, it could cost them dear, by the looks of it. This idea works better than I thought it would. We need to organize some sally-ports."

"There were far less of them than of us," said Vlad, warily.

"Yes, maybe seventy. But that would be enough, normally. One horseman is worth a good few infantry, and more so of mere merchants. The worst the Mink expected was to be fought off, but with us having to abandon some of the carts and goods and flee. They expected the balance of the losses to be with us."

"Well, let us head towards another clan's lands before they make it true," said Vlad. "We can still be attacked by night, or on the move. And a larger force will overwhelm us then, I think."

The Székeler Primore looked at him, thoughtfully. "You know, Drac, the stories that reached us about your military victories . . . I'm a fighting man on the borderland. I thought that they were just stories. That you were lucky and a better military tactician than King Emeric's commanders . . . but that's not hard. They typically use an anvil to crack a walnut. In places where there is no space for an anvil, the walnut can survive. But I was wrong."

"No. You were right," said Vlad, glad to admit it. "I need help. So far I have learned all I know of war from my sergeants."

The battle-scarred captain laughed. "It's a good place to learn from."

"I have found that," said Vlad seriously. "But it is difficult because they do not realize that I am ignorant."

"They know, Drac. You can't fool sergeants. Not for long. But they must believe in you."

"They do. And I cannot fail them. I need to learn more generalship."

The Primore nodded. "I see why they follow you, Drac. I think the Székeler people will, when we hold our council of seat-captains at Udvarhely."

This was something Vlad had hoped for, but not expected to happen easily. "I still need to learn more Generalship, Primore," he said, as the scouting Székelers rode out and the first cart began to roll. "Can you teach me?"

The man laughed again. "I am just the captain of a handful of horsemen, and a border fort, Drac. I will teach you what I can. But you need more."

"I know that. But it has been hard to find anyone to ask."

That, several days later, was something that Vlad could have said about the Golden Horde too. They'd seen rich lands, and huge numbers of sheep and enormous herds of horses. They'd seen a few—very few—riders with them. Showing discretion could also apply if you were a Mongol shepherd, they'd kept away from the well armed party. There were plenty of rutted cart tracks from the Golden horde's own migrations. There were signs of where encampments had been, recently. They just weren't there, now.

Vlad had talked a great deal about combat with the Primore, getting a grasp on the tactics of light cavalry. The Székely drew their origins from some earlier wave of horse-warriors sweeping out of the east, and had kept many of the traditions and organization and warfare-style, although they were more settled now. He also learned how the Székely stayed a people who were so apart. Feudalism as such did not exist in their lands. Lands were held in common, and a man could work what he could till. It made for relatively less powerful leaders, and a strong commons. "There are less Horseheads than we need, Drac. We have had no taxes until Emeric, but also no roads or bridges. It's a hard country."