The Chernagor Pirates (5 page)

King Grus' head started to ache. He was a practical man. He'd always thought the Chernagors were practical men, too. Of course, most of the Chernagors who came to the city of Avornis were merchants. By the nature of things, merchants needed to be practical men. He wished the same held true for nobles. But it didn't. He'd already seen that in Avornis.

“Well,” he said, “if we have to take the most honorable Baron Lev by force, that's what we have to do.”

And, three days later, he did. He thinned his line around the fortress of Varazdin, using the men thus freed to form two storming parties. Just as dawn was breaking, the men of the first one rushed at the north wall, shouting Grus' name—and, for good measure, Vsevolod's, too. Archers rushed forward with them, shooting as fast as they could to make the Chernagors inside the fort keep their heads down.

Up went ladders against those golden walls. Up swarmed Avornans, and Chernagors who were not only loyal to the rightful Prince of Nishevatz but willing to admit it. Lev's men inside Varazdin rushed to defend the fort. They pushed over some of the scaling ladders. They poured boiling water and hot oil on the men ascending others. They were as loyal to their commander, and as brave, as any soldiers Grus had ever seen.

When the battle in the north was well and truly joined, when the besieged Chernagors were fully engaged—or so Grus hoped—he ordered the second assault party forward, against Varazdin's southern wall. This time, his men approached the wall without shouting anything. They couldn't sneak across a quarter of a mile of open ground, but they did their best not to draw undue notice.

And it worked. Even though the handful of defenders who hadn't run to the north wall cried out in alarm, nobody else inside the fortress paid much attention to them. Maybe, with the din and excitement of the fight on the far wall, none of the other Chernagors even heard them.

They were brave. Instead of running away or yielding, they did everything they could to throw back Grus' storming party. Using more long, forked poles, they did manage to tip over some of the scaling ladders that went up against the wall. Avornans shrieked as they fell. The clank of chainmail-clad soldiers striking the ground made Grus flinch.

But more Avornans, and Chernagors with them, gained a foothold on the south wall. They began dropping down into the courtyard. Some of them rushed to seize the keep, so that Lev's men would have no chance to make a last stand there. Seeing that, the defenders of Varazdin threw down their weapons, threw up their hands, and yielded.

Avornan soldiers brought Baron Lev, none too gently, before King Grus. The Chernagor noble had a red-soaked bandage tied around his forehead to stanch a cut. He also bled from a wounded hand. He glared at the king. Grus glared back. “Your Excellency, you are an idiot,” he growled.

“I would not expect an Avornan to know anything of honor,” Lev growled in return.

“Do you favor Vsevolod or Vasilko?” King Grus pronounced the Chernagor names with care; the hums and hisses were alien to Avornan, and he did not want to confuse the man he backed and the one he opposed.

“Vsevolod, of course,” Lev replied, as though to a half-wit.

“All right, then. I thought as much, but I was not sure. Did you know—do you know—I have come to aid him if I can?” Grus asked. He waited until Lev grudged him a nod. Then he threw his hands in the air and demanded, “In that case, why did you keep trying to murder my men?”

“I told you an Avornan would not understand honor. My countrymen do.” Lev spoke with somber pride.

“Honor? I have my own notions about that. I understand stupidity when I see it. I understand stupidity very plainly,” Grus said. “We should fight on the same side, against Vasilko. Instead, you delayed me, cost me men, cost yourself men, and helped the man you say you oppose. The Banished One understands that sort of honor. You are right when you tell me I do not.”

“We could have put down Vasilko without your interference,” Lev said sullenly.

“That's not what Vsevolod thought. He was the one who asked Avornis for help.”

“He made a mistake. He made another mistake in slighting me,” Baron Lev said.

“I see.” Grus nodded. “And so you had to make a mistake in turn, to pay Vsevolod back.”

“Yes,” Lev said, and then, “No! It was not a mistake. I did what I had to do.”

Grus turned to Duke Radim, who was listening off to one side. Radim seemed not at all surprised at the way the conversation was going. Indeed, he'd seemed to understand why Lev hadn't yielded Varazdin even before the fortress fell. If not for that, Grus would have wondered whether the Banished One was somehow clouding Lev's thoughts, such as those were.

“Let me ask another question,” Grus said. “Now that we've peeled you out of your shell here”—he pointed to Varazdin, which dominated the horizon from where they stood—“will you and your men fight for Vsevolod?”

“Of course.” Now the baron sounded surprised. Grus glanced Radim's way once more. Radim nodded. He believed Lev. Grus was not at all sure
he
did. Still, he'd just proved he didn't understand how Chernagor nobles' minds worked. If Radim was willing to rely on Lev, he supposed he would, too … up to a point.

He also looked toward General Hirundo. His own countryman seemed about ready to jump out of his shoes at the idea of trusting Lev. Grus saw that, but he'd known Hirundo for many years. He doubted the Chernagors would realize just how upset Hirundo was.

“Very well. I accept your service,” Grus said to Lev, and then, “Excuse me for a moment.” He took Hirundo aside and spoke in a low voice. “We'll break up his men into small bands and put them among Avornans. If they turn their coats, we'll slaughter them. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Hirundo said at once. “I was afraid you'd lost your mind, too.”

“Oh, no,” Grus said. “Not me.”

King Lanius wished he ruled Avornis instead of just reigning over it. When a courier came rushing into the palace and was brought before Lanius, he felt for a heady moment as though he
did
rule. The man looked weary unto death. Sweat streaked his dirty face. He stank of more sweat, and of horse.

“I hope my mount lives, Your Majesty,” he said around an enormous yawn. “It's not the first beast I almost killed, coming up from the south with the news.”

“It must be important, then,” Lanius said gravely. The courier nodded. The king went on, “Suppose you tell me what it is.”

The courier looked flabbergasted. “King Olor's beard,” he muttered. “I haven't said, have I?”

“No,” Lanius said. “You haven't.”

“I'd better, then. Here it is, Your Majesty—on the way up from the south behind me is an ambassador from Prince Ulash, the Menteshe lord.”

“Oh.” Lanius had to force the word out through lips suddenly numb. Ulash was far and away the most important of the princes ruling the southern nomads who bowed down to the Banished One—the Fallen Star, they called him. That wasn't because he had the widest realm, though he did. It wasn't because his capital, Yozgat, housed the Scepter of Mercy, though it did. It was because he'd held his place for almost forty years. He was a sly old fox who got what he wanted as much through guile as through the arrows and scimitars of his hard-riding horsemen.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the courier said. “I knew you and King Grus had to know as soon as you could.” He paused, seeming to realize for the first time that he was speaking with the ceremonial king, not the real one. “Where
is
King Grus?”

If he'd just ridden up from the south, he wouldn't have heard. “He's in the land of the Chernagors,” Lanius answered. “There's civil war among them; we're seeing what we can gain from it.”

Now the courier said, “Oh,” in a dispirited way. Lanius understood what that meant—he would have to deal with Ulash's envoy himself. He wouldn't have been disappointed then to have Grus back in the capital to take care of that for him.

It could be worse,
he told himself, and then immediately asked,
How?
But that had an answer. Once, the Banished One himself had sent an ambassador to the city of Avornis—the first time he'd done so in more than a hundred years. The kingdom had gotten through that; Lanius supposed it would get through this, too.

He asked, “When will the Menteshe get here?”

“Not for a while, Your Majesty,” the courier replied. “Nobody down south'll hurry him along. We know you need to get ready.”

“Good,” Lanius said.

“Will King Grus be able to get back in time to deal with him?” the courier asked hopefully.

“No.” That was the only answer Lanius could give. The courier looked disappointed. The king affected not to notice. This fellow had done all he could to help.
What would Grus do for a man like that? He'd reward him, that's what.
Lanius said, “You'll have gold for your hard ride.”

He was annoyed at himself. He should have thought of that without needing to think of Grus. The courier didn't seem upset—of course, he couldn't know what was in Lanius' mind. He only knew he was getting a gift. Bowing low, he said, “Thank you very much, Your Majesty!”

“You're welcome. You've earned it.” Lanius snapped his fingers. “One thing more. Does Ulash's ambassador have a wizard with him, or is he by any chance a wizard himself?”

“He had several servants with him when he crossed over the Stura, but I didn't see one who looked like a wizard,” the rider said. “Of course, that doesn't mean there isn't one dressed up like an ordinary servant. And I have no idea whether he's a wizard himself. I'm sorry, Your Majesty.”

“It's all right. You've told me what you know, and you haven't tried to make up stories to pad that out.” Lanius gestured in dismissal. The courier bowed again and left his presence.
To stay on the safe side, I'll have to have a wizard with me when the envoy gets here,
Lanius thought.

He wished Alca the witch were still in the city of Avornis. She remained the best sorceress he'd known. He also wished Grus hadn't taken Pterocles with him when he went north to the land of the Chernagors. Now he would have to find someone else, someone whose power and reliability he wouldn't know nearly so well.

No help for it, though, not unless he wanted to face Ulash's man without any wizard at his side. And he didn't. Ulash was a powerful prince in his own right. That made him dangerous. But he was also a glove manipulated by the hand of the Banished One. That made him dangerous, too, but in a different way. “A wizard,” Lanius muttered. “I must see about a wizard.” The wizard he needed to see was Pterocles … and Pterocles, unfortunately, was far, far away.

Grus' army advanced through fog. Men muttered about the uncanny weather. As they came down into the seaside lowlands of the Chernagor country, they met these ghostly mists almost every morning. “Do they know what they're talking about?” Grus asked his wizard. “Is there anything unnatural about these fogs?”

“Not that I can find, Your Majesty,” Pterocles answered. “We're down by the Northern Sea, after all. It's only to be expected that we have fog in the morning. Men who come from the plains and the uplands haven't seen anything like it, and so they get upset. Foolishness, if you ask me. You don't see the Chernagors jumping up and down and flapping their arms, do you?”

“Well, no,” Grus admitted. “As a matter of fact, I'd like to see the Chernagors jumping up and down and flapping their arms. That would be more interesting than anything that's happened since we came down from Varazdin.”

Pterocles gave him a reproachful look. The wizard was a serious man. He wanted everyone else to be serious, too. Grus wasn't, not often enough to suit him. The king missed Alca. She'd had a sense of whimsy. That was one of the things that had made her attractive to him—and one of the reasons he'd had to send her away.

He sighed. His breath made more fog, a little billow amidst the great cottony swirls of the stuff. It tasted like water and salt on his lips.
Kisses and tears,
he thought, and shook his head.
Stop that.

The mist seemed to swallow most of his soldiers. He looked around. By what his senses told him, he had men close by him, wavering specters a little farther away, and creatures that made noise but could not be seen beyond those ghosts. He hoped his senses were wrong. He also hoped his outriders would note other creatures that made noise be fore they could be seen.

Pterocles was muttering to himself. He would drop the reins, make a few passes, and then grab for what he'd just dropped; he wasn't much of a horseman. Alca had never had any trouble casting a spell and staying on her horse at the same time. Grus did a little muttering of his own. Law allowed a King of Avornis six wives. Estrilda, whom Grus had married long before he dreamt of becoming King of Avornis, had strong opinions on the subject—opinions that had nothing to do with what the law allowed.

When Pterocles went on muttering and mumbling, Grus pushed Alca out of his mind—a relief and a pain at the same time—and asked, “Something?”

“I don't know,” the wizard answered, which was not at all what Grus wanted to hear. Pterocles went on, “If I had to guess, I'd say it was another wizard, feeling for me the same way as I'm feeling for him.”

“I … see.” Grus drummed the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “You're not supposed to guess, not on something like this. You're supposed to
know.”

“I work magic, Your Majesty. I don't work miracles,” Pterocles said tartly. “If I had to guess”—he took an obvious sour pleasure in repeating the phrase—“that other groping wizard out there is as confused as I am.”

No, you don't work miracles,
Grus thought.
But the Banished One is liable to.
He didn't say that to Pterocles. His wizard had to know it already. Harping on it would hurt the man's confidence, which wouldn't help his magic.