Or a Radu.
After several days training with tiny amounts of gunpowder—how to pack it, how to set a fuse so that there was time to get away before it blew, how to care for it—Lada’s men were ready for a real lesson. They hiked up the side of the mountain and down into a narrow canyon, away from any homesteads. Each man carried a portion of gunpowder, and they took turns lugging a tremendously heavy small cannon. It was work slicked with sweat and punctuated with cursing.
Lada imagined she was climbing to Mehmed’s side to fight next to him. And then she imagined she would be aiming the cannon at his heart instead.
She did not know which scenario made her feel better.
Finally at their destination, they set down the cannon. “I like crossbows more,” Petru said, sulking as he massaged his hands.
Tohin slapped the back of his head. “Think bigger, little idiot.”
The scenario was simple. An army would be coming at them through the canyon. They had to fire as many rounds of cannon shot as they could to disrupt the imaginary soldiers.
Lada knew the impact of the cannon would be more psychological than anything. Artillery light enough to be easily transported would not do much more damage than Petru’s beloved crossbow, but the noise and newness of the cannon could be used as an intimidation tactic to break lines and trigger a retreat.
Still, it was an awful lot of work for relatively little reward. She stood back as Matei and Stefan adjusted the angle of the cannon with Tohin’s guidance. The walls of the canyon were narrow and steep, with minimal cover. If an army was coming down it, there would be nowhere for them to go but forward—into them—or back, only to try again.
Lada looked along the top of the canyon on either side, noting the heavy rocks jutting out. What if there was nowhere to go at all?
“Stop,” Lada said. “I can take out an entire army with two explosions.”
Tohin let out an exasperated breath. “You soldiers always overestimate the damage. There is not enough gunpowder, and you would be killed if you stayed close enough to light it under an approaching army.”
“Not under.” The sun dazzled Lada’s eyes as it shone down on her through a break in the rocks above. “Over.”
Tohin and Lada sat together on the jumble of rocks that had come down, blocking the entire bottom of the canyon.
In an actual battle, it would have been much more difficult. The timing would have to be perfect. They would need to wait long enough for the opposing army to be fully into the canyon. Stealth would be paramount—a single shot taking out either of the soldiers who were left to light the charges would ruin the whole thing.
But it had worked. Using the gunpowder to trigger an avalanche on two ends of the valley blocked the way forward and the way back. With steep sides and no cover, a force as scant as Lada’s could have killed hundreds of trapped men, picking them off one by one.
“You have a very good mind,” Tohin said. The rest of Lada’s Janissaries were already starting the long, backbreaking process of lugging the cannon they had never bothered using over the mountain and to the fortress on the other side.
“The conditions would have to be specific for that to be effective.”
“Still. Using the land around yourself as a weapon—that does not occur to most people. You heard that little idiot, the one with a head thicker than this rock. All he could think of was a weapon he could hold in his hand.”
“And yet, for all my brilliance, I am fighting imaginary foes in a canyon behind a fortress no one would ever try to storm.”
“Would you rather be on the field at Kruje? Throwing men at a wall that does not budge? Watching them die of rotting sickness?”
Lada felt a twinge of panic. They had had almost no word from the siege. She assumed that meant things were going well. “There is sickness?”
“A camp that large? There is always sickness.”
“Have you heard from them?”
Tohin nodded. “My husband and one of my sons have written. There has been no progress. And disease is ravaging camp much faster than they expected it to.”
“What about—” Lada stopped herself. She could not stop picturing Mehmed, lying on a cot, wasting away and sinking into himself. All this time she had imagined him with a sword in his hand, commanding men, accomplishing great things and never once wanting—or needing—her by his side. But disease was not a foe she had anticipated.
Lada cleared her throat, trying to ease the tightness that had taken root there. “What other news?”