Much Fall of Blood-ARC (57 page)

Erik hadn't noticed the dust plume—even in the wettest country hundreds of horses will raise dust. It was grim luck for the traders, but . . . "We'll need to rest our horses soon, Lady."

"We will call a halt and mount your men on the spares we have," said Bortai, decisively. She was a forceful woman, Erik had to admit. She didn't even ask the officers. She had the makings of a great one herself, he had to admit. And the Mongol were very effective during the halt, and remounting the knights. Erik knew and understood the need. But he couldn't help feeling sorry for the Mongol ponies and also hoped that they would not find themselves having to fight from their backs. A Knight and his warhorse were a unit. That was why the knights of the Holy Trinity made the knights care for their own beasts.

They rode on towards, what Erik could see now, was a small enclosure of wagons. Perhaps the poor traders had made a sheepfold out of it. Gatu's troops were plainly driving their horses hard, and had gained slightly while the the knights were being re-horsed. Now they were perhaps two miles back.

* * *

Vlad shaded his eyes and peered again. "Tell me my eyes deceive me," he said. "Those are not Mongol. They're western Knights."

"Some are Mongol. The same banner—the Hawk as the men we encountered this morning. They're being pursued." The Székely Primore looked professionally at the scene. "A few hundred men, being chased by several thousand. The men chasing are starting to deploy flanking companies."

"What is the device on the shields of the knights?" demanded Vlad. He could see it well enough. He just wanted some else to confirm it.

"Three crosses, Sire."

The Knights of the Holy Trinity. It fitted with their archaic-looking spiky armor. But what were they doing here, in the lands of the Golden Horde? Well, whatever they were doing, they were the enemy of Hungary. Vlad spoke fluent Frankish. And he was seized by one of those impulses he had at first tried to ignore, but had learned not to. "I need my horse," he said. "And a lance with, if we have one, the flag for truce."

"You're not going out there, Sire? They'll have to turn and fight soon."

"Yes. And we're going to be over-run. And so are they," said Vlad, swinging himself into the saddle. "So let us see if we can stand together."

He rode out of the small sally port gap they'd made, alone, towards the oncoming horsemen. Somehow it felt right, even if he was about to get killed. He had always been alone . . .

* * *

"One of the traders is coming riding out to us. Good horse," commented Falkenberg. "Now if the Mongols had nice fresh steeds that size, we'd have real mounts to give the chasers a run for their money."

That was, Erik knew, the basic problem they faced. The two companies that had come to their rescue had ridden long and hard to do so. Even their spares were tired horses. The knights were too big and heavy for them, really. And their pursuit plainly hadn't ridden as far or as hard."

"I can't see that the Mongol are going to want to talk to him."

The man pulled the magnificent black horse to a halt. He did not, Erik admitted to himself, look in the least like a trader. Tall and dark haired with very pale skin, he was dressed entirely in unadorned simple black, except for his cloak, which had a rich purple lining. "Hail, Knights of the Holy Trinity," he called out, in slightly accented but clear Frankish. There was no trace of fear in his voice, and he sat as straight backed as a lance on his fine horse.

"You are in the middle of a battle, sir," called Erik.

"I know. I am Vlad, Duke of Valahia. I have two hundred arquebusiers and twenty cannon there," he pointed at the square of wagons and carts. "And a handful of cavalry. I propose an alliance of convenience."

"You've got TWENTY cannon?" That was the bombardier.

The man on the black horse nodded. "Small cannon. Four pounders. But loaded with grape-shot."

The bombardier beamed. "Worth twenty men each, I would think."

The column of Knights and Hawk Mongols had come to a halt. "What does he say?" demanded Bortai.

"He has cannon. He wants an alliance of convenience." Erik explained. She translated and elaborated. "Cannon" plainly made some impact among the Hawk clans. "The Székely fortresses have them, on the border. They can do much damage."

"Those will be larger cannon, but yes," said Erik. "What do you want from us, Duke?" he called out. Was Valahia not part of Hungary?

"Draw them onto us, and counter-attack once they have felt the the cannons." The pale man seemed very sure of that strategy.

"I think we are doing the first part anyway," said Manfred, looking back. "I say yes. We should do this. We have very little choice."

Bortai turned to Erik. "You are a great Orkhan. Well versed in this kind of war. Banchu and Feyzin they are leaders of Jahgun. One hundred men. They are good fighters. But this is not what they know, Orkhan."

"Orkhan tortoise says yes," said Erik. Bortai looked enormously embarrassed. He turned his attention to the two Mongol commanders and addressed them in his best attempt at the language. "They catch us. We can run, but they catch us. We have to fight. Why not here? It will win us some time." He pointed. "More Hawk clan come." He pointed at the black-haired pale skinned man: "He asks to do what we must do anyway."

The two Mongol officers looked at the duke and then at Erik. And nodded.

"We have a deal, Prince Vlad," shouted Erik. The man rode closer, smiling. There was a magnetism about him, for all his odd looks.

"Good," he said. "There are no women and children among those who pursue you, are there?"

"It . . . seems unlikely," answered Erik, taken aback by the question.

"Excellent," said the duke of Valahia. "I would want it remembered by the Hawk Clan. If you have any wounded . . . or women and children, we will give them shelter. Position your people behind the wagons, so they will have to ride around two sides of the guns. Be careful—It's very boggy down to the east of us." He waved and turned his horse and rode away.

"What he say about the clan?" demanded Bortai.

"Something about there not being women and children among the enemy. And giving shelter to the wounded, and women and children."

"Oh."

Kildai shook his head. "NO!" he said, firmly.

Erik got the idea that the boy was just as strong-willed as his sister.

Gatu's forces were sacrificing formation for speed. They'd be in bow-shot soon. Erik drew a deep breath. Time to marshal the troops. He knew the right attitude would be to send some of them on, with Manfred, but Gatu's troops were already moving to flank them. Instead he trotted them around to the back of the encampment. The knights returned to their own slightly rested mounts. And Erik sent two of the knights, both too wounded to have been riding, had there been any choice, and Ion, and the bombardier Ritter Von Thiel to the wagon and cart stockade. David, however, refused. The boy was looking terrified, and stuck close to Ritter Von Stael, one of the two men he'd ordered to accompany Bortai and the escape party. The big taciturn man pointed a gauntleted hand at the boy. "He is learning to be my squire, Ritter Hakkonsen. His place is behind me."

Well, Kari and latterly Falkenberg and Von Gherens had informed him the boy had the devil in him and a grave reluctance to learn anything but devilry . . . Von Stael was welcome to try. Erik had more on his mind. Bortai was not going either. But the Mongol hated to be penned. And even resting their horses a little . . . well, they had some chance of escape during the chaos of a battle.

There was not a great deal of strategy to explain to anyone, which given his grasp of Mongol, let alone of battle term, Erik was grateful for. It amounted to getting Mongol companies to form up behind the knights. Shoot at will. Charge when given the order. Erik did not add 'and hope like hell the rest of the Hawk Clan military show up soon.'

"The sun is already past the noon-mark," said Manfred. "We have a handful of little cannons and unknown allies in that fragile little fort, the hope of relief, and nightfall. I am not sure which to pin my hopes on."

"That's a lot of cannons, if they can use them. And Gatu's men are not expecting it," said Erik.

The enemy, seeing that their prey had stopped, stopped themselves and marshaled their own men. Sending companies out to form a neat flanking on both sides. Erik had the satisfaction of seeing the riders sent east return to the main mass of men, which was beginning to move slowly forward. Good. The bog to the east must be such that the horsemen thought it was broken-leg-for-horses country to charge across. The plain back on the other side was black with riders, riders vying for position to get at them first.

A war drum and it began. First at a trot, and then accelerating.

They intended to roll right over—or at least close around the little wagon and cart square. They had the entire plain to circle around the obstacle—with the exception of the bog to the east, and they chose to charge straight towards it under, it was to be admitted, the cover of archery.

They did not expect the defenders of the wagon-and-cart square to not even fire an arrow back at them . . . . until they were less than seventy yards off and beginning to sweep around the sides, with some riders even heading for the narrow eastern flank.

And then, in near unison, the cannons were fired.

* * *

Ritter Von Thiel, the bombardier, had wasted no time in asserting his skill. He'd immediately gone to the cannon. He carried the kind of authority—as well as having unlimbered a small cannon from his pack horse, that said 'I know guns.' Despite having no words of Valahian, and only four of Hungarian, two of which were unfit for a soldier of Christ, Vlad saw that he was getting the men to adjust things slightly. Vlad left him to it, and went about bracing his men. Their survival would depend on cool heads. They were outnumbered . . . Vlad judged by something like five to one, even including the knights and the few hundred Hawk Clan Mongol. But his men were still remarkably calm. He realized, with terrible responsibility, that they believed in him. That they had somehow deluded themselves that he was a great military leader. The only nervous ones were the Székelers, which his men seemed to find very funny.

The charge began, and Vlad found himself at one with the Székelers. But he could not let it show. Mirko and his arquebusiers, and the cannoneers all waited on his word. It would be cannon, Arquebus, rank one, rank two and then rank three. Hopefully then it would be cannon again, possibly with some relief granted by the cavalry. They had concentrated their forces on the foes that faced them, even repositioning two of the cannon.

Arrows began to pepper down on the canvas screens, punching through them and into the faggots, as the men waited for his signal. He watched as their death began to gallop towards them. The squat, blue-pockmarked faced Knight coughed. And said "cannon".

It stopped the almost-trance that he had been in. "Fire." he said.

The noise and smoke were enough to have him fighting for control of his mount.

Mirko may have given the order to fire to the first rank of arquebusiers. Vlad did not know. This wast the first field test of the Smerek Cannons—they'd been fired before, and the crews manning them had each done so . . . but never en masse and in a relatively confined space.

The crews looked as stunned as he was.

The arquebusiers were, however, loosing off at Mirko's signal. And the Knight of the Holy Trinity was prodding the gun crews back into action. In control of his horse now, Vlad looked out at the field of battle.

Gone were the ordered companies. Instead it was all chaos and blood.

* * *

"That prince must have nerves of steel," said Manfred, when the cannon finally roared. "I thought he must be in collusion with them."

"I was about to call the charge myself," admitted Erik.

"Now?"

Erik nodded. "It'll take a while to get the cannon ready again." He shook his head. Looked at the little wagon-fort: "I thought it looked like a stupid idea."

Manfred raised his lance. "It is. Unless you are stupid enough to run headlong at it. But there are always plenty of military fools. Sound the charge."

"A quick in and out, eh, Prince Manfred," said Falkenberg, raising the horn.

Manfred nodded. "Hit them while they're confused. And then let's hope they want to try again, rather than attack us. "

Gatu's forces were indeed confused. And badly mauled. This had seemed an easy, quick victory, one they had been in a hurry to achieve before any relief arrived. They'd expected the defense of desperate merchants and of a vastly outnumbered small group. Cannon . . . belonged in castles and fortresses. Not here on the plains. They were relatively unfamiliar with them anyway.

So: The last thing they expected was cannon and then massed fire, and then, finally a disciplined charge. The knights smashed through and rode over the resistance, the tightly packed and totally panicked nature of Gatu's troops taking away their advantages of mobility. It was horrid carnage, and largely one-sided too. And Erik, too learned something about the use of combined forces that he would keep in mind for the future. The Mongol horse-archers were ideal for covering the retreat.

Manfred had sounded that, just when it seemed they had routed the enemy. Erik had to smile. The Prince had learned from Corfu, and listened to the description of the favored Mongol tactic. 'Flee and let your foes over-extend. Turn and cut at their flanks.' Not this time. Soon they were back behind the lee of the little wagon fortress. And the cannon, in a more ragged volley this time, fired again.

"Now what, Manfred, gentlemen?" asked Erik, as the knights marshaled again.

"They won't try a frontal attack again," said Von Gherens. "That has cost them dearly."

Falkenberg snorted. "Never underestimate the stupidity of some commanders."

As it turned out Falkenberg was right. They did try again, before attempting a wide flanking movement.

* * *

Inside the wagon fortification, Vlad also could not believe that they would attempt to charge again. Looking out on field of battle, still full of the dying . . . the horses had had the worst of it, it would seem. Or perhaps no-one would drag an injured horse off. And yet, here they came again. Now, there was no thought of bypassing the fortress to attack the men on the far side. No, they flung their arrows and then themselves at the wagons—concentrating their attack on one side, meaning that they had less cannon-fire to face. They came on, and on. And died, in the grave ditch and up against the pikes.