Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(57)

“And then?” Mehmed sat up, locking his eyes onto Radu’s. “She will never stop. She does not have it in her. And what foolish hopes I nurtured that she could return to us are gone.” Mehmed had been firmly against killing Lada. Radu saw that his position had changed. They had so much in common, his sister and his sultan. And now they hated with as much determination as ever they had loved.

The bodies were piling up because of it.

Radu knew he had faced this before, knew he had been too weak to make the right decision, knew he could not afford to do so again with so many lives at stake. It had been selfish of him, avoiding what had to be done. What Lada would do in his place. Radu could be strong for this one terrible task. It would destroy him, but he could no longer ask thousands to pay the price of his tender conscience. “Then I will do what must be done. I will finish it.”





31





Poenari Fortress


LADA LEANED OVER the stone wall where it jutted past the edge of the cliff. The Arges River curled distant and silver beneath her. Her fortress was finally complete. It would be her refuge, her sanctuary, her rallying point. Breathing deeply of the cold air still wet with morning mist, Lada fortified herself with the same unassailable strength as her fortress.

There was work to do.

Her men and women were scattered through these mountains in groups of two hundred. It was easier that way, both logistically with camps and strategically with remaining hidden from enemies. Even if one camp was discovered, they would not decimate Lada’s reserves. She and her followers could hide here for months.

Not that she had plans to do that.

She turned to Bogdan and Grigore. She had promoted Grigore after his success in defending Bucharest, though he annoyed her. Everyone annoyed her for not being someone else she loved better. “Have word sent to the pope of our victory,” she said. “Make certain he knows what we did. Fifteen thousand of their men dead, and the entire army turning tail and running. Perhaps with these kinds of results, he will send us more than praise. Praise neither feeds men nor kills enemies. I want money and soldiers.”

Grigore shuffled his feet in obvious discomfort. “I cannot read. Or write.”

“Where is Doru?” Lada asked with a sigh. “He can write.”

Bogdan’s blocky features twisted in awkward confusion. “He died. During the night attack.”

Lada had not noticed. She waved, irritated with herself for not knowing and with Doru for dying. “Then you write it, or find someone who can. The pope must help us. I want real power behind us when we return to Tirgoviste. We have to plan for taking it back.” She knew the bodies had been removed and that a small force had been left behind. But surely they did not think a few thousand Ottomans could stop her. Not now.

Lada’s fingers tapped the sheathed sword at her side. “And I want all of the Basarab boyars’ men.” It had been the Basarabs, led by a man named Galesh—weak, faithless Galesh—who had held their forces back and cost her a true victory during the night attack. They were hiding somewhere in the mountains, too, using her same strategy. That would not work out as well for them. She had briefly considered killing them, but it was a waste of resources. She would just cut off the head and absorb the body. “I want all of the Basarabs’ men. Along with Galesh’s head. That is our first priority.”

“Clean your own house before helping the neighbors,” Oana said with a pleasant smile, passing Lada a steaming bowl of mush and a side of dried meat.

“Or, in our case, clean our own house before attacking the neighbors for trying to steal our things. We also need to retake Chilia from my cousin to teach Moldavia that our borders are inviolable.”

“Do you want to kill him?” Bogdan asked.

Lada frowned. She really was not certain. She could not blame King Stephen for his actions. She would have taken advantage of the same opportunity had their situations been reversed. There were several cities that passed between Moldavia and Wallachia every few decades that she would be happy to reclaim. And, in spite of his betrayal, she still liked her cousin. He reminded her of Nicolae.

She set down her bowl, her appetite gone. “We will deal with that when the time comes. Now, closer to home, do we have any allies in Transylvania?”

Grigore shifted, obviously uncomfortable with delivering bad news. “You are … not very popular there.”

“Still? Even after I sent the Turks weeping back to their own lands?”

“We can send some men and see.”

Lada nodded, then hesitated. “Perhaps do not send our best men. Pick some who are dispensable to go with you.” Her own record with responding to envoys was less than friendly. She did not want to gamble anyone who would be hard to replace.

Grigore’s eyes were wide and terrified. She could not understand why. “Oh,” Lada said, remembering her words. She picked her bowl back up and shoved it at him. “Not that you are dispensable. I am certain you will be fine. Eat something.”

She paced back and forth along the length of the wall overlooking the cliff’s edge. “Is there any chance of getting Skanderberg to join us?”

Bogdan shrugged. “I do not have any Albanian contacts.”

Lada waved a hand dismissively. Of course he did not. She wanted Stefan here. Where was he? Nicolae would—