This Rough Magic

The old Ritter turned a grim face to Francesca. 'Alexius has allied himself with Emeric of Hungary.'

Francesca frowned. 'The only possible reason I can see for that is to attack Venetian properties.'

'I can see that Alexius might want to do that, but he's too weak to go on military adventures against Venice. Also, it puts Emeric at his throat instead of Venice—which if anything is worse. I must admit I can't see why Emeric would attack Venice's colonies by sea, instead of Venetian holdings nearer home. To come overland through Fruili would make more sense.'

Francesca nodded. 'There will be a reason that is less than obvious. From what I've heard, the reason could be that Alexius is too weak-witted to see what he's doing.'

Eberhard snorted. 'I don't know if you're joking, Francesca. But you are being too accurate. And now I think it is time for a change of rowers. These men have nearly learned what they should be doing. Therefore it is time to change.' He walked over to fore-rail and began calling the next group of knights and squires to oar-duty.

It was midmorning before the knights were actually called to leave the oars and don armor. The round ships were well astern, by then. They'd turned and were attempting to take a tack that would bring them closer. The galliots, having started in a tight group, were now trailing out in a long arc. The knights had made strong if inept rowers, although they'd been getting better with practice. However, what this had meant was that the great galleys had kept going under oars for nearly three hours now, and the actual rowers—the Venetians who were professional at it—were still reasonably fresh.

The enemy galliots were close now. The great galleys' sails were hoisted and they began to run with the wind. Now the galliot crews thought they would reach their prey, and their oarsmen began putting extra effort into their stroke.

Manfred came up on deck. 'If we can keep this up for another half an hour, we won't even have to kill them. The beggars must be half-dead already.'

Erik ascending the companionway behind him, smiled wolfishly. 'And the fools have not had the sense to regroup.'

The capitano shrugged. 'They're pirates, Milord. They fight for loot. The best loot goes to the first ships.'

Manfred felt the handle of his great sword. 'So does the best dying. All right, Erik. You too, young Benito, seeing as you seem to have developed a genius for this sort of thing, how do we deal with them?'

Benito blushed and got up to leave. 'I've only really been in the battle in Venice. And to tell you the truth that was all just hand-to-hand skirmishes. Our battle plan went to pieces after the first few heartbeats.'

'He knows the difference between strategy and tactics anyway,' said Erik dryly. 'Stay and learn, youngster. You're not too bad when you're not out causing trouble.' Erik pointed at the galliots. 'They still outnumber us. If they want loot—let's give them some. Casks of wine will do for a start. Half empty ones so they'll float. Some of them will start on the jetsam. And that will break the followers up.'

'Well, at least you want to start on the half-empty ones,' grumbled Manfred. 'And what else?'

'Tenderize them well with cannon when they get close. Keep the knights down until they're trying to board.'

'And keep lots of casks and buckets of water on hand for the sails,' said the capitano gloomily.

* * *

'Fine horse-flesh' grunted Bjarni. 'Like to take them home.'

Svanhild could only agree. She was having some difficulty riding, as the saddles were nasty, heavy things, and not the simple pads that the skraelings used and had taught her to use. But the horses themselves were magnificent. The horses at home had been bred, for the most part, from chunky little Icelandic ponies, with the occasional importation of something larger or more exotic, or the odd Spanish barb taken from the infrequent Spaniard expeditions come looking for gold and finding death. These, on the other hand, were bred for war, not packing. Steady, patient, big, and strong. And smarter than they looked. Rather like her brothers.

They rode northward along the high ground, keeping away from the smoke plumes, heading for the mountains.

They did see some local peasants doing the same. They scattered the moment they saw the horses, leaving their goods and fleeing. 'Real fighters,' said Gjuki, disdainfully. Svanhild kept her own council; the peasants they saw were armed with next to nothing, and certainly not mounted. How could they even hope to accomplish anything by standing and fighting? Except to get killed, of course.

'Why are they running away?' wondered Olaf, looking at the disappearing backs. 'We could use some guides and we mean them no harm.'

'Don't be more stupid than you have to be,' snapped Bjarni at the lanky duniwassal. 'We're riding cavalry chargers, and we are plainly foreigners. How many blond heads have you seen here?'

'Oh. I hadn't thought of that.'

'Your trouble is you seldom think.'

'It's going to make finding shelter difficult.'

Bjarni swore. 'Fandens osse! I hadn't thought of that.'

Svanhild bit her lip. Suddenly, that nasty little inn, overrun with bugs and rodents, where she'd have had to share a bed with six other women she didn't even know, didn't seem so bad. 'We'll manage, Bjarni,' she said, stoutly. 'We'll find something.'

* * *

The riderless horse joined up with another troop of Magyar cavalry. The officer in charge of this detachment of looters looked at it carefully. And felt his heart sink. It had once belonged to Hegedes—the commander who had