Much Fall of Blood-ARC (64 page)

For a charge that never came. One of Székeler Primores rode up. "They're retreating, Drac. They obviously think that this is one big ambush!"

With a screen of scouts behind them, Vlad and his men and the Hawk Mongols also retreated on the Székeler fort, in the dark. The knights and the rest of the Székely Horseheads were there, already tending to the wounded and the rescued women and children.

"How did it go, Manfred?" asked Vlad, seeing the Prince. "I did not mean to drag you into my wars."

Manfred waved a hand dismissively. "This is more like the Mongol wars. We hit them a little late, after your volley. But they were still badly disordered by it. We sliced through them like an axe through a cabbage. No serious damage at all. Well. Barring Erik."

"Erik is injured?" asked Vlad, worriedly.

Manfred beamed. "Yes. Bleeding and being tended to by a lovely Mongol lass."

"It is not serious?"

Manfred guffawed. "Oh it is serious, all right. But the wound isn't. And now I need a drink and we need to discuss what steps to take next. You just tweaked the beard of quite a large army down there."

"I will deal with it."

"Of that I have no doubt. But friends are around to help with these little things. And I gather the Hawk Clan think they owe you, now."

"Three hundred sheep."

"Oh they might throw in a few horses, with fighting men mounted on them, now."

Bortai examined the cut carefully. "You were very lucky, Orkhan Erik," she said severely.

He winced. And then schooled his expression. "That is not actually the way it feels right now."

"There are bits of fabric in the wound. They must come out. "

The arrow had slipped, somehow, between the _ames of the shoulder spaulder, and cut across his shoulder and chest, the point stopping against his collar-bone, close to his throat. It mus have been fired from very close and by someone who had dismounted—or been unhorsed, more probably. Another inch more force and it would have cut into Erik's neck. As it was, if he survived Bortai's ministrations, he'd live.

"I am going to have to sew this up," she said firmly.

"What? It's not that serious."

"It will heal much faster. And with less scarring." She looked at his muscled, scarred torso. "You have enough scars already. Don't worry. I have sewed up a number of horses." She turned to her assistant—one of the rescued women. "I will need some snow. It slows the bleeding and numbs the skin."

The little woman bobbed. "Yes, Princess." Then she looked at Erik. "We call everyone Princess in our sub-clan. It's not as if she were royalty or anything," she giggled and ran off.

"What was that about?" asked Erik.

"I have no idea," said Bortai firmly, blushing. "You should worry instead about what tomorrow will bring instead. The Orkhan will come here in force tomorrow."

Erik moved, winced slightly and was told to sit still. "He may. But I think he'll regret it. I smell snow on that wind."

She nodded. "It is that time of the year. But what provoked the Khan over the mountain to intervene? To ride to the rescue?"

Erik shrugged, and regretted that too. "I think it is the sort of thing he does, Bortai. He's a complex man."

"One better to have as a friend than an enemy. I have heard from several men who saw him in battle. He is very brave. Very strong."

"I saw him too. He fights like a madman."

"Yes. But I think a very honorable madman. There is someone in great trouble about those sheep that were not delivered," said Bortai. "Ah. Here is Mira with the snow. You will have to hold still."

Erik did. But it struck him that being shot was a lot quicker.

The next morning showed that Erik had been right about one thing. The weather was atrocious. However a force of Mongol did get up the pass. Cannon and even more snow forced them back.

The Mongol, the rescued women and children, the knights and the Székelers and the infantry spent another two days of heavy weather at the fort, before things lifted much. And then it was a Székeler relief force of some thousand men and horse, and sleds, who forced their way through the drifts.

It was an interesting time, Erik reflected later, for people being forced to get on with each other, and to be forced to swallow prejudices and soup together.

Deep in the snowy forest, General Nogay saw the battle-magic of Borshar fail in its purpose. That had been the centerpiece of his ambush, too.

Borshar had the ability, acquired suddenly from his god—or so he informed them—to cause fits in the riders he touched and to fling small thunderbolts. The Mongols had been impressed, for they were deeply superstitious about thunder and lightning.

Unfortunately, Borshar's range was limited and he was a poor rider. So they had missed the ambush, by being in the wrong place. And then they'd been too slow to catch up with the fleeing Hawk clan rescuers, which had kept Borshar from using his magics. That might also have kept him alive, of course, when the pursuit had run into withering fire from enemy arquebusiers.

Nogay's limit was finally reached. The Ilkhan emissary had demonstrated his power, showed it on a rebellious arban . . . and now, in the mountains, he said that the power had deserted him.

"I should do the same to you. Leave you here to die in the snow."

Nogay had learned a lesson, then. However ineffectual the Ilkhan man had been in the ambush, he was a deadly hand-to-hand fighter. He'd had Nogay off his horse and on the ground before he realized what was happening. With his blade against Nogay's throat, the tarkhan had spoken softly. "This is my skill. Not open warfare."

"To think that we came to bind our sub-clan, to the Hawk banner," the nearest man said, smiling cruelly, "and here is the richest prize in all the lands of the Golden Horde. Gatu Orkhan will cover us in gold."

David knew that he was in dire trouble. His first thought was to flee. His second was to tell them they had the wrong person.

And neither was going to work.

Instead he tried pure arrogance. He must show no fear.

"Do you really think," he said, "that I am here, unwatched? I came to consult with the tengeri, with the eternal blue sky about this war. For this I must be alone. But the Khesig is never far away. Listen."

It stopped them. Stopped them right there.

And there was silence.

"You wish, Khan," said the leader of the group.

Just then a branch did crack higher up the slope. It could have the weight of snow. It could have been anything.

But the group froze, again.

But the leader was made of sterner stuff. "Let us take his head and ride!" he said, spurring his horse forward. He was only seconds in front of the next man.

 . . .And sprouting an arrow through his throat. David not wait to think where it had come from. He had his sword out—following the drill Von Stael made him exercise so painstakingly. He and the next man clashed—and he was lucky, or Frankish sword drill was different or better. He cannoned into the next man and both of them lost their seats . . . and David the sword. They rolled together. David, desperate, bit. And somehow broke free. And as the man on foot and the remaining two closed . . . he had the pistol out of his boot. Cocked the lock and fired.

At that range he could hardly miss, but he did his best. The recoil pushed him back, and spun the attacker around—blood and tissue flying. It startled the hell out of the other two rider's horses.

David stood there, spent wheel-lock in one hand, Kari's knife in the other.

"Who will die next?" said another voice. There was the sound of a galloping horse, too. David risked a quick glance. There was a Hawk man, an arrow to his bowstring, up slope. Presumably a scout or a guard. And riding up the trail, hell for leather, was Kari.

The two men stood. But David was a thief. Used to reading his victims. He knew they were going to try something. And it didn't look like run. "Dismount," he said, imperiously.

They wanted to do no such thing. "You came to see me. What kind of respect do you show, when I am on foot? Dismount or die, now."

He raised the empty pistol, hoping they could not see how badly his hand was shaking. One of them slid off his horse, keeping it between himself and the pistol.

"You too. And do not try to hide behind your horse. Unless you wish to die. Do what I say, and you will live."

There were other riders coming, coming to see what the shot had been about. The second man got off his horse. Went down on his knees.

David thought he was going to keel over in the snow, right there. But it wasn't over quite yet. "We will need men who are good at seizing the initiative," he said quoting Eric, in an entirely different context, a few days earlier. He pointed the knife at a dead man. "But not fools."

The Hawk guard had now ridden his horse over. Kari was just up slope, a pistol in each hand . . . . something David wished he had. The Hawk dismounted. "Take my steed, Young Khan," he said.

And somehow David managed to get himself into the saddle. It was no small feat, as his head was whirling. A patrol of several men had closed with the group.

"These men came to offer their clan's alliance," said David. "See to them."

And somehow he managed to turn and ride off. With Kari right next to him. Handing him something. Another one of his pistols. David reached down to take the one out of his boot and realized it was extremely sore. And that he was bleeding.

"Just keep me in the saddle until we're out of sight," he said, clinging onto it for dear life.

He did not remember getting back to their camp. But they must have, because someone had bandaged him and put him to lie down in the ger he shared with Von Stael and three other knights. That was where he was when Kildai came to visit him.

* * *

"I hear I have a reputation for mercy that I do not want," said the boy. "I want to take their heads off, and not accept their homage! They were probably spies anyway. They have never allied with us before." He scowled. "And now I have had to let them go."

David—for whom the last bit of time had been very vague—said: "You're back!"

Kildai nodded. "I nearly found your souls in the land of Erleg Khan. You idiot!"

"Ha. I did a pretty good you. Better than when your sister tried to make me out to be you. Ow. Gently."

"Serves you right," said Kildai. "I get a long cold, boring ride and an enemy that runs away. You get to kill and disarm fifteen attackers. And spare the lives of those who make their obeisance."

"It was only two," said David. "And it was mostly luck . . . and I didn't like it much."

"One actually. The one you shot. He bled to death. I think you came off worse than the one you stuck with a sword. He just landed on his head. But the story is now officially fifteen. And growing."

Kildai looked at him. "I did not realize that there were other people of importance in my world. Except the Clan, and the Horde. I do now."

David had begun to grasp enough of politics to realize just how important that could be.

Vlad found that attempting to cobble together his rule over the Duchy was complicated by the atrocious weather and snow. That and the bad roads. The attempt of Emeric's troops to oppose him was equally hampered by the same. Only Emeric's men also had to contend with a hostile local population and Vlad's highly mobile infantry and light cavalry—who knew the country and knew where and when traveling was possible. Still, Vlad was now the de facto ruler of a j-shaped section of Valahia. The hold-out was in the southwest, where Ban Ilescu of Irongate held sway, and the lands away from the Carpathians where Emeric and his troops effectively enforced the myth of the new true Duke. Rumor—slow and garbled—had it that the boyars were having a hard time of it there, enforcing the will of Emeric. Vlad had already had two gristly packages delivered from new supporters in the lands he now controlled—at least for the winter: the heads of two boyars.

He'd also had more money and news from Elizabeth. Both had been very very welcome. She was incredibly well-informed about the movement of King Emeric's troops.

Vlad knew that spring and summer would be bitter warfare. He would—by the information trickling east, face the full might of an angry Emeric. Many thousands of troops, a lot of heavy cavalry—something he had very little of himself.

Since the incident with the rescue of the women and children from the stockade, relations between the Hawk clan Mongol and the duke of Valahia had been remarkably amicable. It had given him something he'd previously lacked: a source of food for his troops.

* * *

"It's a problem," said Bortai to Erik, at one of their frequent meetings, with the dimple that betrayed the fact that she was trying to keep a straight face. "For the last century at least, the subclans have kept their restive youngsters from causing too much trouble by sending them off to go and raid the Székely. Loot is important. And so is keeping them from starting fights with other clans or going off wife-stealing."

"I thought that was forbidden," said Erik.

Bortai shrugged. "Yes. But the Yasa code was poorly enforced after the Great Khan's death. Clans spent more time fighting each other than anything else. It has crept in a little again. It was the way the Mongol did things. And we are retentive about our traditions and beliefs."

"I suspect that they're popular with men who have little other chance of finding a wife."

She dimpled. "Probably. Older men marry too many wives. Still, if the kurultai goes to plan . . . we will give them plenty of opportunity for warfare to the north and east."

"Your people could do worse than to strike a deal with Vlad. They can provide you with what Eberhart calls a manufacturing base. And they are a good market for your sheep."

"And our breakdown horses," Bortai giggled. "The generals were saying—after the fight in the pass—that we should really sell the Khan-over-the-mountain better horses. And then they were saying 'no, eventually he'd use them against us'."