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 Szekelers 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 Szekelers 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 Szekeler 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 Szekeler 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 Szekeler 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 Szekeler 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 Szekeler 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 Szekelers 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 Szekely 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 Szekely 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."
Vlad could see how much richer this lower land was. Much of the forest had plainly been cleared away and burned to make more grazing, and there was a lot of it. And a lot of grazing animals on it.
So where were the all the people?
It was plainly worrying the Primore, too. "It smells like trouble, Drac. I'm beginning to feel that we should head back up into the hills, horses or no horses. And please, Sire. Don't even suggest helping ourselves."
Vlad shook his head. "I would not do that," he said, seriously.
The Primore nodded. "I'd heard that. You know, Drac, it's a good thing you ran away. King Emeric would have put his appointees between you and the people. We need you."
"I was helped to escape. Emeric was going to kill me."
"Oh. We were told that you were going to be made our Prince. Why did they wish to kill you, sire?"
"Because my father was dead," explained Vlad. "I hear that the King planned to put the Danesti in my place."
"Oh. It was one of them who told the Szekely council you were coming back," said the Primore, surprised. "He seemed very certain. And quite… relieved, Sire. So I was just surprised."
So was Vlad. He'd accepted unconditionally the certainty that he was to be executed. Surely Elizabeth Bartholdy could not have been wrong?
Like the way that Rosa had disappeared… there were too many mysteries. Too many things he did know or understand. He felt he was being moved about a game board he couldn't see by forces beyond his control, and he really did not like that.