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Chapter 20

Moldavian army headquarters

Twenty miles east of Csíkszereda


Vasile Lupu was glad to be out of the saddle and into a tent. Since his Moldavian forces had crossed the Transylvanian border and engaged a small, hastily conscripted Székely peasant force near the town of Csíkszereda, it seemed all he ever did these days was sit a horse. His rear end and spine were begging for relief. To have his boots touch solid ground was enough for now. Tomorrow, well, he’d see what the sunrise gave him.

The thought of the sunrise turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Is Matei certain of this?” he asked Stroe Leurdeanu who had come at Voivode Basarab’s behest to deliver both good and bad news. “Is that Jew’s army in full march toward the plateau?”

Stroe shook his head. “Not in full, my lord. Our Lithuanian contacts near the upper Eastern Carpathians indicate seeing a sizeable force, but not, they suspect, his full army. Just a wing, if you will, a vanguard. A screening force for the inevitable move of the entire army from Kassa. They report seeing infantry, cavalry, and some cannon in the advance column. And it would seem that they are moving toward—”

“Szatmár,” Vasile interrupted. “Yes, for it is a logical place to march to before entering the plateau.” He leaned over the map on the makeshift table in his tent, scratched his beard, cleared his throat. “I suspect, then, that they would move from there into Transylvania and on to…where, do you suspect?”

Vasile already had his suspicions, but he wanted to see what Matei’s golden child might say on the matter. Stroe’s answer could reveal a lot about how serious Matei Basarab and his Wallachian court viewed the Bohemian threat.

Stroe shrugged his round shoulders. “It is hard to say, my lord. Turning their column south from Szatmár could force them to move through this gap here”—he pointed to a valley cutting through a southern portion of the Eastern Carpathians—“or they could move around the ridgeline altogether and follow a more southerly direction.”

“I am concerned about their next move from Szatmár, yes. Right now, however, I want to know where you, where Matei, thinks this advance force will ultimately end its march.”

“Kolozsvár, my lord. And then, of course, Gyulafehérvár.”

“I am pleased to hear that, Stroe.” Vasile moved to the other side of the table so that Matei’s prized advisor could see the agitation in his eyes. “Most pleased. You and yours seem to have a fundamental grasp on where this Army of the Sunrise is headed.

“Yet, I am concerned as to why Voivode Basarab is moving so slowly to put his Wallachians into the field. At our last meeting, we agreed that he would move in haste against the Saxon See of Sibiu Hermannstadt, and yet I hear that your forces have just crossed the border into that See, a delay of at least a full seven days. What is the reason for the delay?”

The expression on Stroe’s face suggested that he was personally insulted by the question. Vasile did not care. As much as he admired the young man and wished he were one of his own advisors, the matter at hand was far too important to worry right now about being kind and accommodating to a potential future confidant. Moldavian forces were currently engaged and dying near Csíkszereda. Voivode Basarab needed to marshal his forces and get them moving.

Stroe breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, and said, “My lord, there have been unavoidable delays in mustering men along the southern border with Transylvania. The Wallachian populations along that border hold as much allegiance to their Transylvanian brethren as they do Voivode Basarab. They have been slow to support our cause.”

Vasile was about to interject, but Stroe continued. “However, the matter has been rectified for the most part by Hungarian and Polish mercenaries who have arrived over the past two weeks. Our numbers continue to swell. Soon, a column of Serbians will arrive along with the forces promised by Sultan Murad. At that point, we will be ready to move, and in force.”

The only thing that kept Vasile from reaching over the table, yanking Stroe Leurdeanu’s beard, and slamming his tattooed bald pate into the map was the fact that the Sultan had agreed to give him an airship. A Serbian messenger from the Sultan had arrived recently stating that the ship was en route and would likely arrive within a day or two. The question that remained, though, was what ground forces would arrive with the airship. The messenger from the Sultan had not been specific about that. He better gift me with Janissaries, Vasile thought as he calmed down and rejoined Stroe Leurdeanu on the same side of the table. I know how to use them.

“Does Matei understand what kind of army we are dealing with?” Vasile asked. “I am not speaking about Prince Rákóczi’s army; they are of little concern. I speak now of this so-called Army of the Sunrise. It is a construct of the United States of Europe, and as such, it has modern capabilities that Voivode Basarab and I do not possess. Capabilities that we do not even fully understand. In the name of God and Christ his son, they might have a way to convey all of their soldiers by air and drop their entire army into Gyulafehérvár before we can blink our eyes. Time is critical, Stroe. It is important that you convey that message to Matei Basarab.

“Tell him,” Vasile said, moving away from the map and table toward a pallet of fat pillows, “that I insist that he marshal his forces—in whatever numbers they may be right now—and move them to Hermannstadt immediately. Murad’s forces, and those Serbians you speak of, can follow in thereafter.”

“My lord,” Stroe said, and Vasile could see the young man trying to contain his anger and impatience, “Voivode Basarab is a man, and the prince of his own country. It is imperative that you convey your messages to him in a manner befitting his position and status. I can assure you, my lord, that a harsh insistence of action on your part would be met with…resistance.”

Impressive, Vasile thought. The man is young, but he is willing to risk himself, in a foreign land, by snapping back at me, just to defend his voivode from insult. Impressive indeed.

Vasile found a comfortable repose amidst his pillows. He unbuttoned his coat collar, leaned back into the soft plush, and closed his eyes. “Forgive me, Stroe. I misspoke. The day has been long, my army fights and dies just a few miles up the road, and I am hungry. Please convey my compliments to Voivode Basarab, and tell him that I humbly recommend that he consider moving as soon as possible to Hermannstadt in order to achieve what Sultan Murad wishes from us: the destruction of this Grand Army of the Sunrise that threatens not only Transylvania, but Wallachia as well. If it is not stopped before it reaches the capital, I fear for all of our futures.

“Thank you, young man, for your report. You may go now.”

Stroe Leurdeanu bowed and left quickly. Vasile dozed. Twenty minutes later, he was awakened by an assistant with an urgent message.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked.

The humble boy nodded and said, “Sergiu Botnari is waiting to see you, my lord.”

Vasile rolled out of his pillows, collected himself, and said, “Very well. Prepare my dinner table, and bring us food and wine.”

* * *

It was rumored that Sergiu Botnari was the product of a Turkish cavalry officer and a Bessarabian whore. He certainly played the part. His clothing was decidedly Arabic in its color and fit. His beard was thick and black and reached down to the center of his chest. His head was shaved, but he covered it well with a scarf—sometimes blue, sometimes red—that hid numerous scars from sword slashes. At first glance, one might mistake him for a Black Sea pirate. He had the physical carriage and temperament of one. He worshipped Allah. He was thin, but not skinny. He was fluent in many languages. He was good at killing.

Vasile watched as Sergiu cracked the spine of the cooked pheasant and sucked juices from the marrow within its frail bones. Not all of a pheasant’s bones had marrow, so his efforts seemed futile to Vasile. Why bother? And yet, the fact that he’d take the time to find what little there was told the voivode of Moldavia everything he needed to know: Sergiu Botnari was thorough, and that was what one needed in a killer.

“I’m pleased that you find the pheasant to your liking, Sergiu.” Vasile finished his last morsel of cabbage roll and downed his wine. “I will be sure to have my cook give you another on your way out of camp. Of course, you must pluck and prepare it on your own, but that’s a small price to pay for such succulent meat.”

Sergiu nodded, fished around in his mouth with a dirty finger to dislodge a piece of that pheasant from an upper molar, coughed, and swallowed it down with a swish of red wine. He burped, and Vasile noticed that the man looked embarrassed at doing so. He laughed. “Do not worry, Sergiu. It is well that you eat, and completely, before you leave. Your service to me is just beginning.”

Before Sergiu had a chance to respond to that, a robed and stooped man entered the tent and whispered into Vasile’s ear. Vasile took the man’s news with raised eyebrows and a smile. The man bowed again and departed in haste.

“Good news at the front,” Vasile said with a lilt in his voice. He poured himself another wine and offered one to Sergiu, who accepted it humbly. “Those pecky peasants have surrendered near Csíkszereda. The town is ours. Thank you for your assistance in that.”

Sergiu’s assistance had been to ensure that strategic structures within Csíkszereda and its surrounding countryside had been razed to the ground and that leaders within the local Székely See found their deaths in any way necessary to sow fear, indecision, and compliance.

Sergiu took a sip which turned into a swig, then a gulp. His fresh goblet of wine was gone. “You are welcome, Voivode. But I would caution you to take care moving further into Transylvania. It is one thing to terrorize and defeat a peasant force near your border. It will be another to face Rákóczi’s full army as you move toward Gyulafehérvár. He’ll have Hajdu infantry, cavalry, his court guard. The prince of Transylvania is foolish in many ways, but he is no military fool. He has been on campaigns more than once. I suspect his strategy will rely on castles and fortresses along the route to the capital to maintain a ring of defense that will be very difficult to overcome. Castles and rock fortresses, my lord, are more difficult to burn than peasant towns.”

Vasile nodded, but his patience with Sergiu’s gruff demeanor and blunt honesty was beginning to wane. “I’m aware of Prince Rákóczi’s reputation as a military leader, Sergiu. Do not presume to lecture me on that score. I and Voivode Basarab will take care of anything Rákóczi will send our way, once Sultan Murad’s assistance arrives, which will be any day now. We will handle all military concerns as we move forward.

“Your services to me and to your country now must turn to greater matters.” Vasile rose from the table and moved to the map that he and Stroe Leurdeanu had reviewed earlier. He waved Sergiu over. “You must send your Impalers northwest, above the capital, toward Kolozsvár, Déj, Zilah, Doboka, and any other route that that Jew’s army might travel. Even as far north as Szatmár if necessary.” He sighed. “Because our Wallachian brothers are moving slower than I had anticipated, it is even doubly important that he be stopped; or, at least, slowed down such that we can reach the capital before he gets there. In defense, I’m confident that we can hold against his Grand Army of the Sunrise.”

Vasile said that last part with the appropriate amount of derision. How absurd for an army to be called that; what arrogance! On the other hand, calling Sergiu Botnari’s irregular troops “Impalers” seemed most appropriate.

The Székely along the Moldavian border had begun calling them that when the first home had been razed, and when the first man was found with his throat cut, the moniker solidified. The only thing Vasile did not like about it was that, indeed, the moniker’s namesake, Vlad Dracul, often called Vlad the Impaler, had been a Wallachian Voivode more than once. Vasile had no desire to give Matei Basarab and Wallachia credit for this most important work. Over time, people might forget that it was he, a Moldavian voivode, who had deployed the Impalers. It was imperative right now for the Transylvanian people to know who this terror squad was and who had sent them. History mattered, Vasile knew.

Sergiu studied the map, ran his fingers across the long line of towns and villages between the northern border of Transylvania and down to Kolozsvár. He nodded. “And you are certain that he will move in this direction.”

“As certain as my faith in God.”

Vasile waited to see how the declaration of his faith might affect this Muslim before him, but Sergiu took it in stride, ran his hand back up to the northern border near the Eastern Carpathians, and said, “I will dispatch men immediately, my lord. And how far can they take their activities?”

Vasile considered. He rubbed his beard and felt the alcohol in the wine tingle his face. His eyelids grew heavy. He was ready for a full night’s sleep. “Despite his frustrating lack of speed, I’m duty bound to respect Matei Basarab’s request that we treat lightly with the Transylvanian citizenry.”

“We have already violated that request many times over, my lord,” Sergiu said, baring his notorious evil grin.

“Nevertheless, I ask that you show patience and respect to them all.” Vasile paused, then said under his breath, “However, if it is necessary to violate that request to secure victory, then I don’t need to know about it. Do you hear me, Sergiu? And we don’t need to extend any mercy to foreign invaders.”

“Loudly, my lord. And what kind of activities would you like my men to conduct against this Sunrise army?”

Vasile smiled. “Everything you and they can think of. Everything necessary to stop them in their march. Force them to stack up and hold in place. If this is achieved, then we can beat them into Gyulafehérvár.” He placed his hand on Sergiu’s shoulder. “And if you do this for me and succeed, my friend, the reward that you will receive will make what you have already received look like a peasant’s wage.”

Sergiu stepped away from the map, stood straight. “Very well, my lord. When shall I send them?”

Vasile moved away from the map. He resisted the urge to return to his pillows and lie down. “Now that we have secured Csíkszereda,” he said, “I will send a portion of our army to Kolozsvár. It will be a long, challenging march, but if your men do their duty, we may, by God’s grace, get there quickly and hold it, thus completely cutting off the Sunrise’s approach. You will move ahead of our army and lay the needed groundwork for such an action. You’ve done it before. See that it is done again.”

Sergiu looked as if he were going to argue the point, but then thought better of it. Vasile was relieved. The day was over for him. It was time to rest. It was time for this killer to leave his sight.

“I will advise my men to follow your columns into Kolozsvár.” He turned to leave. “And do not worry, my lord. The Impalers will do their duty. We will make the Sunrise bleed.”

Now, silence. What a joy to hear nothing, Vasile thought, as he removed his clothing and fell back into his pillows. He was happy. Everything that he had had to do up to this moment had been accomplished. Things were going well, despite Matei’s lack of speed. And soon, his airship would arrive. Tomorrow, or the next day. Murad’s ground forces would arrive shortly thereafter, and then he would have everything he needed to achieve the throne of Transylvania. In time, he would have to eliminate Matei Basarab and that Bessarabian monster that had just left. In time, others might need to be eliminated as well, but for now, everything was unfolding as planned.

Vasile closed his eyes, fell asleep, and dreamed of flying through the clouds, like a bird, on his airship.


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