- excerpt -

When they reached the top of a gentle slope, they found themselves unexpectedly at the edge of the forest. In front of them was an unobstructed view of a low-lying grassy expanse. But in the distance, the high plateau of Transylvania swelled like a gigantic wave.

"Behold Hermannstadt," said Gregor, pointing to the numerous towers on the swell, blazing forth with a fiery gleam in the setting sun. "Men from the west built it to profit from the trade of spices with Levant, but now it is no more than a sentinel against the Ottomans."

"My lord, isn’t it also called Cibinium?" Lorian asked.

"It is indeed, in the Latin charts."

They stood enthralled by the vision of countless golden roofs surrounded by tall red walls until Gregor said, "It’s too dangerous to stay here. Let’s make haste toward that road."

They moved down the gentle slope covered with rotten stumps and headed south.

"Sir Altair, what shall we do when we reach the gate?" Lorian asked, keeping his horse close to Astaroth’s side.

"We will ask to see the royal jude of the Seven Seats of Transylvania."

Once they reached the road, they felt safer and slowed down to a light trot. Soon the road brought them to a fifteen-foot earth mound with palisades on top of it. For a hundred paces in front of it, the ground was covered with a forest of wooden stakes pointing upward at an angle, some as tall as five feet, some barely visible above the hardened dirt. The road turned sharply north and took them on a parallel course through the forest of stakes. All along this last stretch, men armed with arbalests stared at them with interest from behind the palisades. When they finally reached an entryway, they were challenged to give an account of their purpose before they were allowed to enter.

"Take them to the gate," ordered a sergeant-at-arms to one of his men.

They followed him on the road toward the city wall and before long arrived under a massive brick tower capped with a pyramidal roof. Its shadow, stretching far beyond the wide moat filled with water, gave a hint of its impressive height. Their escort yelled a password to a guard standing on the wall adjoining the tower, and the drawbridge began to lower, hanging from its heavy chains. As soon as the bridge slammed down with a thud that shook the ground, the wooden gate reinforced with strips of iron began to rise, revealing a long vaulted tunnel blocked by an iron grill at the far end.

"See those holes up there?" The man pointed at the openings under the projecting top of the tower, as he led the way over the drawbridge. "They are for pouring hot tar down on anyone bold enough to come here uninvited."

Riding through the tunnel, Lorian noticed armed men looking down at them through the murder holes built into the high vaulted ceiling.

"You just entered through the east gate built by the furriers guild," the man said when they cleared the teeth of the raised iron grill. "Wait here, my lord, if you please," the man addressed Gregor, and entered the tower through a side door.

"Welcome to the third enclosure of Hermannstadt," an armoured man wearing a breastplate engraved with devout images greeted them. His head was uncovered, revealing a man in his mid-twenties worthy of inspiring the great poet Gottfried van Strassburg to create Tristan, the tragic hero of old.

"He told me who you are, Sir Altair, and we are honored by your visit."

"And we are relieved to be here," answered Gregor with the same courtesy.

"I am Sir Andres Szilagyi," the knight added with a bow.

Gregor nodded in return, and then said with a grave tone, "Sir Andres Szilagyi, I must see the royal jude, Anthonius Trautenberger. A large Ottoman army is approaching and the call to arms must be sent throughout the city."

"The royal jude is in the Grosse Ring, my lord, but today is market day and the streets are teeming with people. It might take us a while to reach him."

"On our way we have to make a short stop at the Hansa House."

"Yes, my lord. I will get my horse and guide you there." He ordered something in Saxon to one of his men. "How large is the army?"

"Large enough to take the city."

"They tried that before, Sir Altair ---"

"This time they come with cannons, big ones."

Andres fell silent, knowing all too well what big cannons could do to the city.

"Have you seen many farmers from the border villages coming into the city?"

"Not as many as customary," Andres answered, growing more concerned with every question.

"Roter Turm fell three days ago and today we were attacked by Ottoman scouts when we crossed the Alutus."

"Lord have mercy, not at the bridge!" exclaimed Andres incredulously.

"No, we cut through the woods, and yet we still encountered them. They must be roaming all around. Did anyone recently come into the city who seemed suspicious to you?"

"There were some merchant wagons three days ago ---"

"How did they look?”

"I was … not here," Andres said blushing. "But my men told me they looked strange, as if they were from Bulgaria."

"The garrison of the tower should be raised to full strength," Gregor suggested.

"It is at full strength, my lord, ninety fully-armored men and twelve culverins," he added quickly, pointing at the top of the bastion.

"Wolverines?" Silvan asked, sticking his head out from behind his brother.

"He is my page," Gregor said, and a smile appeared on his lips. "His name is Silvan Comosicus. The young man who rides before him is my squire, Lorian Comosicus. Their father was a knight of Draco who died defending King Wladislaus at Varna." He then turned to Silvan and explained, "A culverin, my dear page, is a swivel cannon."

"But just as murderous as a wolverine in the woods," Andres added, mounting his horse brought by one of his men.

They rode with him across the open space behind the gate to a long street lined with two-story houses of brick and timber, built side by side.

"This is were most of the merchants live," Andres called above the street noise, and plowed ahead amidst the surge of city dwellers, farmers, and villagers, as they moved back and forth along the workshoppes and stores occupying the ground floor of every building. But his determination was not enough and they were forced to drift at the pace of loaded wagons and carts, rolling slowly between beasts burdened with sacks and men balancing bags and bushels on their heads and shoulders. As they passed, anxious faces rose toward them, but they dwelled on the knight seated high on his black steed, man and horse armoured head to toe.

"You might think it is an execution day," Andres jested as he passed by a man slicing a pig on a wooden block in front of his butcher shop. The trickle of blood draining into the gutter stirred Elek and he stretched his neck, almost falling from the pony’s saddle, where he was still riding since entering the city.

When the street opened into a square, the noise increased tenfold. Urine and piles of manure spotted the cobblestones and a foul smell was oozing from the drainages. Though it was at the end of the day, the square was still full of people. Farmers by bags full of grains and beans, street vendors behind small stands with dry goods, potters, woodcrafters, and metal workers were everywhere, and folks of different means crammed in between, touching the goods, bargaining, making offers.

Andres pushed his horse forward and the crowd parted to let them pass. Near the other side of the square, a smith, standing next to a small forge pounding a red-hot strip of iron on an anvil, attracted Lorian’s attention.

"I hope he will be here tomorrow," he yelled to Silvan.

"Why?"

"Because we'll come back," and pointed at the pieces of armour hanging from a wooden rack.