The Chernagor Pirates (12 page)

“Yes, I know,” Lanius answered. “But King Grus, please believe me, doesn't like him doing these things.” Cristata looked eloquently unconvinced. Sighing, Lanius added, “And King Grus, please believe me, is also the one who has the power to punish him when he does these things. I am not, and I do not.”

“Oh,” she said in a dull voice. “I should have realized that, shouldn't I? I'm sorry I bothered you, Your Majesty.”

“It wasn't a bother. I wish I could do more. You're—” Lanius stopped. He'd been about to say something like,
You're too pretty for it to have been a bother.
If he did say something like that, it would be the first step toward complicating his life with Sosia. And, all too likely, Cristata would have heard the same sort of thing from Ortalis. She'd believed it from him, and been sorry afterwards. What did she think Lanius might do to her if she were rash enough to believe again?

Even though he'd stopped, her eyes showed she understood what he'd meant. Now she was the one who sighed. Perhaps as much to herself as to him, she said, “I used to think being pretty was nice. If you'd told me it was dangerous …” She shrugged—prettily. “I'm sorry I took up your time, Your Majesty.” Before Lanius could find anything to say, she swept out of the little chamber.

The king spent the next few minutes cursing his brother-in-law, not so much for exactly what Ortalis had done as for making Lanius himself embarrassed to be a man.

No one knew the river galleys that prowled Avornan waters better than King Grus. The deep-bellied, tall-masted ships that went into and out of Nishevatz were a different breed of vessel altogether, even more different than cart horses from jumpers. Sailing on the Northern Sea was not the same business as going up and down the Nine Rivers that cut the Avornan plain.

“We need ships of our own,” Grus said to Hirundo. “Without them, we'll never pry Vasilko out of that city.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general answered. “We do need ships. But where will we get 'em? Build 'em ourselves? We haven't got the woodworkers to build 'em or sailors to man 'em. We haven't got the time, either. We might hire 'em from the Chernagors, except the next Chernagor city-state that wants to let us use any'll be the first.”

“I know,” Grus said. “They think if we have ships, we'll use 'em against them next.”

Hirundo didn't reply. Many years before, the Chernagor city-states had belonged to Avornis. A strong king might want to take them back again. Grus liked to think of himself as a strong king. That the Chernagors evidently thought of him the same way was a compliment of sorts. It was, at the moment, a compliment he could have done without.

His chief wizard walked by. “How are you, Pterocles?” Grus called.

“How am I?” Pterocles echoed, his voice and expression both vague. “I've … been better.”

He hadn't been the same since the sorcerer inside Nishevatz laid him low. Grus still marveled that he'd survived. So did all the other Avornan wizards who'd since helped him try to recover. Maybe the same thing would have happened to Alca—exiled from the capital, if not from Grus' heart—had the same spell struck her. Maybe.

Did the power that had smashed Pterocles mean the magic came from the Banished One himself, and not from one of his mortal minions? Like Vsevolod, the Avornan wizards seemed to think so. They didn't want to commit themselves—one more reason Grus wished he had straight-talking Alca at his side—but that was the impression he got.

“Can you work magic at need?” Grus asked.

“I suppose so.” But Pterocles didn't sound as though he fully believed it.

Grus didn't fully believe it, either. Pterocles still looked and acted like a man who'd been hit over the head with a large, pointy rock. Sometimes he seemed better, sometimes worse, but even
better
didn't mean the same as
good.

Under his own tunic, Grus wore an old protective amulet, one he'd had since before becoming King of Avornis. It had helped save his life once, when Queen Certhia, Lanius' mother, tried to slay him by sorcery. Would it protect him if the Banished One tried to do the same thing? Grus had his doubts. He knew he didn't want to find out the hard way.

Pterocles said, “Half of me makes more of a wizard than a lot of these odds and sods, Your Majesty—or half of me would, if I didn't feel so … empty inside.” He tapped the side of his head with his fist. It didn't sound like a jar from which all the wine was gone, but Grus—and maybe Pterocles, too—thought it should have.

“You'll be all right.” Grus hoped he was telling the truth. When he added, “You
are
getting better,” he felt on safer ground. On the other hand, how much of a compliment was that? If Pterocles hadn't gotten any better, the sorcerous stroke he'd taken would have laid him on his pyre.

A messenger came up to Grus. He stood there waiting to be noticed. When Grus nodded to him, he said, “Your Majesty, a sack of letters from Avornis is here.”

“Oh, good,” Grus said. “I do want to keep track of what's going on back home.” He'd already stayed out of the kingdom longer than he'd intended. Back in the capital, Lanius behaved more like a real king every day. If he wanted to try ousting Grus, he might have a chance now. From what Grus had seen, though, Lanius didn't like actually governing. Grus chuckled, not that he really felt amused. That was a small, flimsy platform on which to rest his own rule.

He turned to walk back to his tent and look at those letters. He hadn't gone far, though, before another messenger ran up to him. This one didn't wait to be noticed. He shouted, “Your Majesty, they're coming!”

“Who's coming?” Grus asked.

“Chernagors! A whole army of Chernagors, from out of the east!” the messenger answered. “They aren't on their way to ask us to dance, either.”

“No?” Grus slid gracefully from heel to toe and back again. The messenger stared at him. He sighed. “Well, probably not. Tell me more.”

“We sent men to them to find out if they were coming to help us and Prince Vsevolod,” the messenger said. “They shot at our men.”

“Then they probably aren't.” Grus' eyes involuntarily went back to the walls of Nishevatz. “If they aren't coming to help Vsevolod, Vasilko will be glad to see them. Nice to think someone is, eh?”

“Er—yes.” The messenger didn't seem to think that was good news. Grus didn't think it was good news, either. Unlike the messenger, he knew just how bad it was liable to be.

He ordered his own army into line of battle facing east. Things could have been worse. He supposed they could have been worse, anyhow. The army could have gone on about the business of besieging Nishevatz without sending scouts out to the east and west. That would have been worse, sure enough. The Chernagors from the east might have crashed into his force unsuspected. Instead of a mere disaster, he would have had a catastrophe on his hands then.

Avornan soldiers were still taking their places when Grus saw a cloud of dust on the coastal road that came out of the east. He'd had some practice judging the clouds of dust advancing armies kicked up. He turned to Hirundo, who'd had considerably more. “Looks like a lot of Chernagors,” he said.

“Does, doesn't it?” Hirundo agreed. “Of course, they may be playing games with us. Send some horses along in front of an army with saplings fastened on behind them and they'll stir up enough dust to make you think every soldier in the world is heading your way.”

“Do you think that's likely here?” Grus inquired.

Hirundo pursed his lips. “I'd like to,” he answered. But that wasn't what the king had asked. Reluctantly, the general shook his head. “No, I don't think so. The scouts saw Chernagors, lots of Chernagors.… I'm going to pull some men back out of the line, if that's all right with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I'd like to have a reserve handy, in case Vasilko decides to sally from Nishevatz while we're busy with these other bastards.” Hirundo gave an airy wave of the hand. “Nothing puts a hole in your day like getting attacked from two directions at once, if you know what I mean.”

“I wish I didn't, but I do,” Grus said heavily. “That's a good idea. See to it.” Hirundo sketched a salute and hurried off.

Prince Vsevolod came up to Grus. He tugged on the sleeve of the king's tunic. “Your Majesty, I am sorry I put you in this place,” he said. “I fight hard for you.” His age-spotted hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

“Thank you, your Highness. We'll all do some fighting before long,” Grus replied. For him, that would mean donning a mailshirt and mounting a horse. He hated fighting from horseback, as anyone who'd spent more time on a river galley would have. A tilting deck was one thing, a rearing mount something else again. He clapped Vsevolod on the back. “You didn't put me in this place. Vasilko and the Banished One did. I know who my enemies are.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty. You are all King of Avornis should be,” Vsevolod said. “I fight hard. You see.”

“Good.” Grus raised his voice and called, “Let's move out against them,” to Hirundo. He went on, “We don't want them thinking we're afraid to face them.”

“Afraid to face a bunch of Chernagors? We'd better not be!” Hirundo sounded light and cheerful, for the benefit of his men, and probably for Grus' benefit, too. But the general knew—and King Grus also knew—the traders who lived by the Northern Sea made formidable warriors when they took it into their heads to fight.

Avornan trumpets blared. Shouting Grus' name and Prince Vsevolod's (many of them making a mess of it), the soldiers rode and marched forward. Soon, through the dust ahead, Grus made out sun-sparkles off spearheads and swords, helmets and coats of mail. The Chernagors rode big, ponderous horses, not fast but heavy and strong enough to be formidable in the charge.

Hirundo shouted orders. Like a painter working on a fresco inside a temple, he saw how he wanted everything to go long before the scene was done. Avornan mounted archers galloped out to the wings and started peppering the Chernagors with arrows. Some of the big, stocky men from the north slid out of their saddles and crashed to the ground. Some of the big, stocky horses they rode crashed down, too. Unwounded beasts tripped over them and also fell.

But most of the Chernagors ignored the arrows and kept coming. They had archers of their own, more of them afoot than on horseback, and started shooting at Grus' men as soon as they got into range. Arrows thudded into shields. They clattered off helms and armor. Now and then, they smacked home against flesh. Every cry of pain made Grus flinch.

An arrow hissed past his head, sounding malevolent as a wasp. A few inches to one side and he would have been screaming, too. Or maybe he wouldn't. Not far away, an Avornan took an arrow in the face and fell from his horse without a sound. He never knew what hit him. That was an easy way to go, easier than most men got on the battlefield or off it.

Grus had hoped Hirundo's mounted archers would make the Chernagors think twice about closing with his army. But no. Shouting fierce-sounding incomprehensibilities in their own throaty language, the bushy-bearded warriors slammed into their Avornan foes.

“Come on, men! Let's show them what we can do now that we've got them in the open!” Grus shouted. “Up until now, they've hidden in forts, afraid to meet us face-to-face.” Had he commanded the Chernagors, he would have done the same thing, which had nothing to do with anything when he was trying to hearten his men. “Let 'em see they knew what they were doing when they wouldn't come out against us.”

A few heartbeats later, he was trading sword strokes with a large Chernagor who had a large wart by the side of his nose. After almost cutting off his own horse's ear, Grus managed to wound the enemy warrior. The fellow howled pain-filled curses at him. The fighting swept them apart. As so often happened, Grus never found out what happened to the foe.

Shouts from the north drew the king's attention. As Hirundo had feared, Prince Vasilko's men were swarming out of Nishevatz and into the fight. Grus wondered whether the general had pulled enough soldiers to hold them off before they took the main part of the Avornan army in the flank and rolled it up. One way or the other, he would find out.

His army didn't come to pieces, which proved Hirundo had a good notion of what he was doing after all. But the Avornans didn't win—they didn't come close to winning—the sort of victory Grus would have wanted. All he could do was fight hard and send men now here, now there, to shore up weak spots in his line. He had the feeling the Chernagor generals were doing the same thing; it certainly seemed to be a battle with no subtlety, no surprises.

Late in the afternoon, Vasilko's sortie collapsed. The men from Nishevatz still on their feet streamed back into the city. Had things been going better in the fight against the rest of the Chernagors, Grus' men might have chased them harder and gotten into Nishevatz with them. But things weren't, and the Avornans didn't. Having only one foe to worry about struck Grus as being good enough for the time being.

At last, sullenly, the rest of the Chernagors withdrew from the field. It was a victory, of sorts. Grus thought about ordering a pursuit. He thought about it, looked at how exhausted and battered his own men were, and changed his mind. Hirundo rode up to him and dismounted. The general looked as weary as Grus felt. “Well, Your Majesty, we threw 'em back,” he said. “Threw 'em back twice, as a matter of fact.”

Grus nodded. The motion made some bones in his neck pop like cracking knuckles. “Yes, we did,” he said, and yawned enormously. “King Olor's beard, but I'm worn.”

“Me, too,” Hirundo said. “We did everything we could do there, though.”

“Yes,” Grus said again. He wished he weren't agreeing. They'd done everything they could, and they were no closer to ousting Vasilko from Nishevatz or restoring Vsevolod. Grus looked around for the rightful Prince of Nishevatz, but didn't see him.