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Chapter 22

Matei Basarab’s headquarters, north of Târgovişte


Matei Basarab was awakened by a clamor of competing sounds before Stroe Leurdeanu poked his head into the tent and gave him the good news.

“The Sultan’s forces have arrived, my lord.”

Matei nodded and rubbed his sleepy eyes. “Thank you, Stroe. I’ll greet them directly.”

This news was much better than the demand that the young advisor had given him a few days ago upon his return from the Moldavian army camp. Vasile commands me to move forward? Stroe had not phrased the command so directly, but Matei knew the voivode of Moldavia well enough to know that, underneath Stroe’s more muted and complimentary recommendation, was a direct order for action. Which fell on deaf ears, for Matei had already ordered his army forward to Hermannstadt. Soon, he figured, as he rolled out of bed to prepare for the day, his forces would reach the Olt River. Soon, they would cross it and engage Prince Rákóczi’s Saxon forces. Who would win that engagement? Yesterday, Matei had been worried that his army would be routed from the field. Now that the Turks had arrived, he felt better about his chances…assuming they could get to his army in time.

He donned a doublet of dark red with gold buttons and embroidered gold leaflet chains. The gray shirt beneath revealed matching silver buttons and chains. His hat was a mixture of black-and-red-dyed bear fur, tall and thick, suited more for winter months, but more than appropriate for the occasion. A blue-black feather was tucked in on the side of the hat and it fluttered in the breeze that blew into the tent. He checked himself in the mirror. He had better attire, clothing more opulent and befitting a man of his stature. But he was a military man now, a general. The cleaner and more prepared look of a statesman would have to wait.

He stepped outside his tent into a morass of Turkish faces.

The valley before him was filled with Janissaries and cavalry both elite and light. Beyond the sea of bodies lay wagons fat with supplies, and beyond them, a strange device of tubes that he had never seen before. Beyond them, more cavalry. Matei smiled.

Not only had Sultan Murad delivered on his promise—albeit a little late—but Serbians had arrived as well.

“Is this all?” Matei asked the wind, in jest. The man stepping forward from the first rank of Janissaries apparently didn’t get, or hear, the joke.

“Voivode Basarab,” he said with a bow, “my name is Usan Hussein, and I am the corbaci of this orta. I greet you in the name of Sultan Murad IV.”

The eye patch that covered the man’s eye and the scar running across his face indicated a person of some experience. The men behind him, however, all arrayed in their tidy rows, looked like children. Most of them, if not all, had seen no battle whatsoever, and it was clear to Matei immediately that the Sultan, for all his good intentions, had sent nothing but conscripts.

And in fact, now that he had more time to look them over, there actually weren’t that many Turkish regiments present. He asked his question again, and this time, with sincerity. “This is all Sultan Murad has sent me?”

Usan Hussein looked left and right and behind him. He rumpled his brow and seemed annoyed. “Sultan Murad is honoring you with the lion’s share of forces, Voivode Basarab. A regiment of sipahi; a regiment of Akinji; two katyusha rocket launchers; all three tanks; and my orta. A sizable number of Serbian cavalry joined us in our march.”

Matei leaned up on tiptoes and tried to get a better look beyond the Janissaries. He put his hand over his eyes to keep the sun’s glare from obscuring his view. “I only see normal wagons. Where are these so-called tanks?”

Usan Hussein cleared his throat. “They are five, perhaps six, days behind us. They will arrive soon.”

Which meant ten to twelve days in truth. Matei was no military man, indeed, but he understood well how men like Usan Hussein, under the extreme pressures of the Sultan, exaggerated their numbers to shed the best light on a situation. “And did Sultan Murad send Vasile Lupu his requested airship?”

“Yes, and all the rest of our forces.”

Perhaps, Matei considered, once Vasile receives his silly little air toy, he’ll be less inclined to play with his terror group.

Stroe had said that these evil men were being called the “Impalers.” Upon hearing this, Matei had taken a kind of morbid pride in the label: associating these men with a previous—and very formidable—Wallachian prince should, indeed, fill the Transylvanian countryside with terror, and perhaps that alone would keep the citizenry heeled.

Once Stroe explained, however, that this group was violating—in the most hideous ways—the agreement Matei had made with Vasile on the matter, the novelty and nostalgia of the term waned. Matei was furious about it, but not at Vasile. Against himself. I should have refused right off, he thought, eyeing Usan Hussein carefully. And if I catch any of these Impalers doing the devil’s work on my battlefield, I’ll feed them to the sword of the man in front of me.

“I welcome you, Usan Hussein,” Matei said, deciding not to argue numbers any longer. “I look forward to our service together in this endeavor.”

The man nodded. “Thank you, Voivode. I am also charged with serving you personally as an advisor and in taking command of your infantry if necessary.”

“As advisor or as a spy?”

The corbaci seemed thrown by the bluntness of the question. He pulled himself away as if he had smelled a foul odor. Then he stilled, calmed his eyeless face, and said, “Voivode Basarab, I serve the Sultan in the capacity that he commands. Let us not quibble over—”

Matei raised his hand, shook his head. “No need to explain further, Usan Hussein. I understand my place is this matter.” He turned and motioned the man to follow. “Come. Let us speak in private.”

Usan Hussein turned and barked an order to his men. They stood at ease.

Matei took Usan around his tent and toward a clear view of the Southern Carpathian mountain range. There, he stopped and let the man see the high, splendid, snow-covered peaks through the distant morning fog. “There,” he said, “is my gift from God, Usan Hussein. The gift he has given all Wallachians and Transylvanians. A gift he has given the world. It is the most miraculous mountain range in all of Europe in my opinion, and it will be utterly impossible for your armored tanks to move through it, if the image I have of them in my mind is correct. It would have been more prudent to give me the airship and Vasile Lupu the tanks. Now, they will arrive here in your five to six days, and here, they will sit.”

“We will find a way to move them forward, Voivode,” Usan Hussein said. “Their crews are skilled men, and their presence on the battlefield can make all the difference in a fight.”

“Perhaps,” Matei said, “but in the meantime, you will have to navigate through those gaps alone to reach my army—which I have already moved forward. It marches through those gaps and toward the Olt River. It has a four-day head start.”

“And what is beyond this Olt River?”

“Hermannstadt, which is, in effect, the capital of the southern Saxon Sees of Transylvania. Take Hermannstadt, and we take southern Transylvania.” Matei paused and turned to face the corbaci. “You have to reach them before they reach the Olt. If they do, their standing order is to attack and lay siege to the city. I have faith in my army, but now that you are here, I see no reason to delay your involvement. Do you agree?”

Usan Hussein nodded. “We shall send riders immediately and tell them of our advance.”

“Very good.”

With regret, Matei turned from the wonderful view of God’s gift and began walking away. “I must now greet our Serbian cousins and welcome them into my camp. Make your preparations, Usan Hussein, and I will meet with you again later to help finalize your departure.”

Before he turned the corner of his tent, the corbaci shouted, “You will be coming with us, Voivode Basarab. You do understand that?”

Matei paused, turned, and with as humble a smile and bow as he could muster without losing his temper, said, “Of course. I serve at the pleasure of the Sultan.”


Communications tent

Grand Army of the Sunrise

Kassa (Košice)


“Len! Len! Can you hear me? Can you hear me…goddammit!

Ellie slammed the receiver down on the desk. More expletives escaped her mouth. Morris Roth ignored them and asked his question.

“What did he say? Did you get anything from him?”

Ellie breathed deeply and tried calming herself. It didn’t work. “I hate this fucking mountain range, Morris. The Carpathians are a pain in the ass. I keep losing the signal.” She fiddled with dials on the radio. “I’ll try to get him back, but—”

“What did he say before you lost him?”

“I don’t know. He said something about von Mercy changing his direction and heading east-northeast toward some town starting with an ‘N.’ Something about a Moldavian something out there.” She stopped turning dials. “Morris, you got to get a plane in the sky to give me a signal boost. Or, let’s get our asses in saddles and on to the plateau.”

Morris nodded. Putting a plane up for a signal boost was no problem, but moving the entire army: they were close, very close. Three, maybe four, days away from making that decision. The APCs that they were awaiting had all arrived and with only minor mechanical problems; medical issues revolving around the fitness of the infantry regiments were well under control; training was going well. He was just waiting for…for what?

Morris waved his hand at Ellie. “Forget about trying to get Len back right now. We’ll deal with that later. Contact Eddie Junker or Denise Beasley. Tell them to get a plane in the sky with a radio and fly along the route that von Mercy took to Szatmár; once you get your boost from that, try again. Understand?”

Ellie nodded. “Fine. But I ain’t waiting for the boost. I’m going to keep trying.”

Morris said nothing about that. If she wanted to keep trying to contact Len, that was fine. Trying wouldn’t hurt anything, and she might get lucky. But they had been trying for over twenty-four hours and they’d acquired very little intelligence on what was going on—literally—at the front. Morris fully understood why Ellie was so frustrated. In truth, she could hardly care about where von Mercy was leading his men. What did it matter to her? What she wanted was to hear her husband’s voice, even in crackle or through frequency garble. She just needed to hear his voice to know that he was alive and well.

He left the tent. Ellie didn’t need him hovering over her like an overbearing parent. Ellie would do her job. Through fits of rage and tears, perhaps, but she’d do it. That’s why Morris had brought her and Len back under his service. They were professionals. Rough around the edges, yes, but certified pros.

He stepped out of the tent and into the waiting mass of Doctor Oberheuser.

Morris rolled his eyes and said under his breath, “Oy vey.”

“I need to speak to you, General,” Oberheuser said with a curt snap. “I have a problem.”

Of course you do. You kvetch all the time. Morris smiled. “What can I do for you today, Doctor?”

“It’s Isaac, sir. He’s stolen my best nurse.”

Morris pushed past Oberheuser and continued walking. He screwed up his face, shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Devorah Bayer. She’s gone. I forbade him to take her with him, and she’s gone.”

“You’re just finding out about this now, Doctor? They’ve been gone a long time.”

Oberheuser seemed insulted. “I’m a busy man, sir. I don’t have time to check, every day, the whereabouts of my staff.”

That is your weakness, Karl. “Okay, so she’s gone. What can I do about it? They’re well over a hundred miles away.”

“I want her brought back.”

Morris stopped and stared the old coot in the eyes. “How do you propose we get her back, Doctor?”

Oberheuser pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the east. “Send one of those infernal up-time planes and bring her back.”

Morris stopped himself from laughing out loud. This couldn’t be a serious request, but nothing in Oberheuser’s eyes suggested otherwise. He shook his head. “No, sir. That is not going to happen. We don’t have the time or the resources for that. We don’t have a landing strip established in Transylvania yet, and even if we did, I wouldn’t waste time hauling a nurse back to Kassa. Besides, what makes you think Isaac ‘stole’ her? I presume she’s a grown woman. She might have decided all on her own to join him. And, I would suggest that her presence there is more valuable than back here. If she’s the best, as you claim, then she’s right where she needs to be.”

That shut Oberheuser’s mouth. Morris could see the rage welling up behind the man’s eyes. He looked like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. Morris wondered who would win in a curse-out: Ellie Anderson or Karl Oberheuser? I’d pay real money to see that.

The doctor finally calmed and nodded. “Fine. At least allow me to reprimand him for insubordination.”

“Fine, fine,” Morris said just to get this ridiculous conversation over. “When next you two meet, you have my permission to give him a stern tongue-lashing.”

Oberheuser nodded roughly and stalked away.

Morris paused. Finally, silence. Silence, save for the normal hustle and bustle of camp. That never-ending drone was welcome at the moment. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

His next crisis of the day was to meet with Colonel Velvel Schiff, commander of Second Regiment, Joshua Corps. Then, Provost Marshal Luthor Lange. Then, Colonel Burkenfeld. The meetings were never-ending, but all necessary, of course, if he wanted to get his army in the “saddle” as Ellie would say, to get them moving toward Transylvania and toward von Mercy’s advance force, which had apparently shifted its move somewhere farther east than the planned route toward Kolozsvár. But where exactly, and what might he meet on that diverted course? Ellie had mentioned a “Moldavian something,” and that could only mean one thing: von Mercy was hunting for a Moldavian army. To find it, he’d need more than a signal boost.

Morris turned back to the communications tent and poked his head through the flap.

“Ellie,” he said, “when you get Eddie on the line, let me talk to him. I’ve got an idea.”


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