Wallachia, 1462
Commander Alexandru Racovita, even more tired and shell-shocked than the quivering wreck of a horse upon which he rode, had known better days.
In spite of the valiant efforts of Prince Vlad Dracula’s army to repel them, the heathen Turks were even now advancing across the Danube and over the corpses of many fine soldiers, including everyone, boyar and peasant alike, who had been under Alexandru’s command. Now, cut off from whatever remained of the prince’s army, all he could do was try to cut an inglorious retreat to Targoviste, and accept the considerable risks faced by a lone, weakened rider in lands infested with wolves, bears, bandits, and outlaw gypsies who would as soon look at any boyar as slit his throat and strip his carcass. Alexandru had, at least, managed to salvage a matchlock arquebus and a quantity of lead shot from the battlefield, and had kept his own sword, which would certainly come in handy if he needed something with which to run himself through before wild animals could maul him to death.
Lost in such miserable thoughts, and close to fainting in the saddle in any case, he paid little attention to his route. He had deviated from the road some time ago, and was now plodding forgotten and overgrown tracks through dense woodland, with no fellow-traffic save the occasional rabbit (although the occasional not-too-distant howl suggested that he would soon have plenty of ravenous company). He was quite oblivious to the slight changes in the scenery, as ivy and moss-clad drystone ruins gradually became a feature of his surroundings, until it seemed that he rode through some long-abandoned city. When he did start paying attention, it had little to do with these magnificent if entirely foreboding shells of temples and sepulchres, which might have dated back to the Dacian empire itself, before even the Roman invaders set their foot on Wallachian soil. Far more interesting to him were the voices – whispering, incoherent, but depressingly audible – coming from up ahead. Well, it’s about time, he grimly conceded, and with fumbling motions took out his tinderbox and lit the taper of his arquebus (which he had made sure to keep loaded from the outset of this wretched journey). Granted, a single shot would profit him very little in the face of an ambush of determined highway robbers, but there was always the hope that these were just a ragtag bunch of cowards who had never seen a firearm in their lives… God willing.