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One Day South of Tirgoviste
LADA KNEW IT WOULD be impossible to find Mehmed in the dark and the chaos. Though there was significantly less chaos than she had been counting on. Nearly all Mehmed’s men were staying in their tents rather than rushing out into the fight. It made things harder. She should have known better than to count on a lack of discipline in Mehmed’s men, though. He always controlled everything. Why would his men be any different?
The gunpowder stores had already been attacked—the explosion was good timing, too, as it allowed her to escape. She knew she would find a large group of her men attacking the pack animals and wagons. There were five thousand already here or on their way, every soul she could muster streaming out of the hills and attacking from the darkness. She heard their shouts, their music playing, using the Janissary’s own tactics against them. As soon as there was enough chaos in camp, Lada would send up the signal for the rest of her troops in the hills to attack. Five thousand more. It was only ten thousand against fifty thousand, but it could work. If everything fell into place, Wallachia could defeat the most powerful army in the world.
She could beat Mehmed.
Of course, things were already off schedule. The biggest tipping point into mayhem and despair was supposed to be the death of their sultan and leader. She had not accomplished that. She ground her teeth in frustration. Radu had beaten her.
Then again…
“The sultan is dead!” Lada grabbed a torch and set the nearest tent on fire. “The sultan has been murdered!” She continued thus, running through camp screaming about the death of the sultan while ensuring as many men as possible could not stay in their tents.
There was more activity around her—more and more men entered the mayhem. “Hey!” one shouted, grabbing her arm. She stabbed him in the side and kept on toward the animal pens.
Toward the back of the camp, the fighting was happening in earnest. She had hoped to draw the bulk of Mehmed’s men here with her initial five thousand, mire them in fighting, and then hit them from behind with the reserve. From her vantage point, it looked like the Ottomans had several thousand engaged in combat. Not enough yet. Crossbow bolts, fired by her men in the hills, sang through the air, claiming Ottomans running around her. She risked being claimed by one herself if she did not hurry.
Women screamed as they ran through the main section of tents. Seeing them, Lada wanted to laugh. They were not Ottoman camp women, but Wallachian women, armed to the teeth, pretending to flee while cutting down as many Janissaries as they could. When they reached the far end of camp, they would circle back and meet up with the forces coming down from the hills.
Everywhere was confusion. Chaos. Blood and fire.
For once in her life, Lada longed to join the women. They were doing exactly what she wanted to. But she was needed elsewhere. She was not here as a soldier, but as a prince.
She skirted the tents, then ran into the hills, where she found her rendezvous point with Bogdan and her other leaders. They were waiting, anxiously watching the progress of the assault.
Lada shouted as she ran up, “Anyone with a Janissary uniform, go into camp to take up the cry that the sultan has been murdered!” Several dozen men took off. Bogdan raised his eyebrows hopefully.
Lada hated to admit defeat. She shook her head. “They were waiting.”
He looked concerned, but he nodded and moved on. “Are we ready, then?”
Lada bit her lip. She wanted more time for order in Mehmed’s troops to break down, but she also knew if they waited much longer they risked the opposite. The Ottomans could organize and form ranks. The fighting had intensified on the supply end of camp. It was a full battle now, one her men would not be able to sustain for long.
“Do it,” she said.
Bogdan gestured to the trumpeters. The notes were brassy and clear over the tumult of noise in the camp. Lada watched the hills, waiting. Runners stood beside her, ready to take commands at a moment’s notice. From here, she would direct everything. From here, she would watch Mehmed’s army fall.
Something was wrong, though.
“Do it again,” she said.
Again, the signal sounded. Lada’s heart sank within her. The camp burned, but not bright or fast enough. Her men at the wagons fought, but not enough Ottomans had been committed there. Where were her boyars with the rest of her men? With the Hungarians Matthias had sent?
As the trumpets gave one final, trembling plea, Lada remembered Radu’s response when she said he had no idea what she had planned.
He had.
He had known all along.
Her eyes desperately combed the hills for some hint, some sign she was wrong. That they were coming. That they could end it all tonight. If they had but trusted her, if they had followed her plan. The faithlessness of men, to take whatever false advantage Radu offered instead of choosing the valiant course. The course of blood and victory, the course of struggle and triumph for Wallachia.
No one ever chose Wallachia.
Lada dropped to her knees, throwing her head back to the smoke-choked stars. She screamed her rage and despair. Then she stood and drew her sword. If no one would help her, she would do it herself.
She took two steps forward when someone grabbed her around the waist.
“Let me go!” she shrieked.
