If it was, would Beloyuz thank him? He doubted that. If Beloyuz proved like most princes, he would stay grateful until Vasilko was dead or captive, and not much longer.
Grus suddenly stared. Was that part of the fire coming his way through the smoke and fog all on its own? A moment later, he realized it was Pterocles, whose hands still glowed brightly. “You can take off your spell now,” the king called.
The wizard looked down at himself. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I forgot all about that.” He muttered in a low voice. His hands once more became no more than ordinary flesh and blood.
“Can you lead me past the worst of the fires to Vasilkos stronghold?” Grus asked.
“If someone will tell me where Vasilkos stronghold is, I’ll try to take you there,” Pterocles answered.
That proved more complicated than Grus had expected. None of the Avornans nearby had been inside Nishevatz until that morning. None of the Chernagor captives seemed willing to understand Avornan. At last, the Avornans rounded up a noble named Pozvizd, who had escaped with Vsevolod and Beloyuz. He understood Avornan—after a fashion. “Yes, I take you,” he said, and started off at a brisk pace. Grus, Pterocles, and a host of guardsmen followed in his wake.
If he’d known just where he was going, all would have been well. But he promptly got lost. Smoke and fire confused him. No doubt,
“We get there,” he said over his shoulder. “Soon or late, we get there.”
“Huzzah,” Grus said. “If we can, I’d like to get there before everyone involved in the fighting dies of old age.”
Several of his guards grinned. Pterocles giggled, which was most unprofessional of him. And Pozvizd either hadn’t heard all of that or didn’t understand all of it, for he just kept smiling back over his shoulder and saying, “We get there. Yes, we get there soon.”
And after a while—not soon enough to suit Grus, but not quite slowly enough to drive him altogether mad— they did get there. Most of Nishevatz had its own look, different from anything Grus would have seen in Avornis. When he came to Vasilkos stronghold, though, he felt a distinct shock of recognition. This building, plainly, had begun life as an Avornan noble’s home. The lines were unmistakable, undeniable—and it was right where the map Lanius had given him said the city governor’s residence should be. But, just as plainly, it had been serving different needs for a long, long time.
Heavy iron grills covered all the windows. Thick ironbound gates warded the entranceways. Towers full of archers rose from the roofs. “We’ll have to knock it down with catapults or burn it down,” Grus said in dismay. “Just taking it won’t be too easy.”
From inside, someone was shouting furiously. Pozvizd pointed. “That Vasilko,” he said. “He yell for more soldiers. He say, somebody pay, he not get more.”
“I hope he’ll be the one who pays,” Grus said.
Another voice came from the residence-turned-citadel—one not as loud, but full of authority. Pterocles stiffened. “That is a wizard,” he said. “I know the serpent by its fangs. That man has power—some of his own, and some he can call upon from… elsewhere.”
Pterocles shrugged. “We’ll find out, won’t we? Right now, he hardly seems aware of me. He’s worried about how to keep Nishevatz from falling.”
“A little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” Grus asked.
“I think so,” Pterocles answered, “but I know more about what’s going on inside the city than… he does.” The wizard stiffened. He pointed to a second-story window. “There he is!”
He didn’t mean the Banished One now. He meant the Chernagor wizard. Grus couldn’t have told the sorcerer from any other Chernagor—a burly, bearded man in a mailshirt. He wasn’t even sure he was looking in the right window. But Pterocles seemed very sure. He flung up an arm and gasped out a counterspell.
“Are you all right?” Grus asked.
“He’s strong,” the wizard answered. “He’s very strong. And he’s drawing on more power than he owns. It’s… him, sure enough.”
“Him? Oh,” Grus said. Pterocles had confused him for a moment. The Banished One hadn’t paid much attention to the siege of Nishevatz. The civil war between Korkut and Sanjar had kept him occupied closer to home. How much could he do, intervening at the last minute?
Pterocles staggered, as though someone had hit him hard. He used another counterspell. This one sounded more potent—or more desperate—than the first. If he could do nothing but defend… How long until he couldn’t defend anymore, until the Chernagor sorcerer, aided by power from the Banished One, emptied and crushed him yet again?
“Hang on,” Grus said. “I’ll find a way out of this for you.”
“How do you propose to manage that?” Pterocles panted. “Will you call down the gods from the heavens to fight on my side?”
“No, but I’ll come up with something else,” Grus said. The wizard snorted, obviously not believing a word of that. For a moment, Grus didn’t know what he could do to make good on his promise. Then he shouted for a squadron of archers. He pointed to the window where the Chernagor wizard looked out. “Kill me that man!” he said. “Second story, third window from the left.”
The bowmen didn’t ask questions. They just said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” took arrows from their quivers, and let fly. Not content with one shot apiece, they kept at it, sending scores of shafts at the window. A man with even an ordinary sense of self-preservation would have moved away from his dangerous position as soon as the arrows started flying. Infused with force from the Banished One, Vasilko’s sorcerer stayed where he was. To him, destroying Pterocles must have seemed more important than anything else, even life itself.
But then he staggered back not because he wanted to but because he had to. A pair of arrows had struck him in the chest, less than a hands breadth apart. “Well done!” Grus shouted. “You’ll all have a reward for that!”
Pterocles, who had been bending like a sapling in a gale, suddenly straightened. “He stopped, Your Majesty,” the wizard said, more than a little amazement in his voice. “He just… stopped. How did you do that? You’re no sorcerer.”
“Maybe not, but I know one magic trick,” Grus replied. “Shoot a man a couple of times, and he’s a lot less interested in wizardry than he was before.”
Pterocles took a moment to think that over and, very visibly, to gather strength. “I see,” he said at last. “That’s—a less elegant solution than I would have come up with, I think.”
“No, Your Majesty, that’s true.” Pterocles seemed to realize something more might be called for. “And thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the king answered. “I presume that was Vasilko’s best wizard. Now we have to find out whether he has any others the Banished One wants to try to use.”
“Yes.” Pterocles looked as though he wished Grus hadn’t thought of that.
Meanwhile, though, more and more Avornan soldiers flooded into the square around the building Vasilko was using for a citadel. Grus didn’t think it could hold out too much longer. Even with the additions and improvements the Chernagors had made to it, it hadn’t been built as a fortress. Sooner or later, the Avornans would find a way to break in or to set it afire—and that would be the end for Prince Vsevolod’s unloving and unloved son.
But then the entrance to the stronghold flew open. Out burst a swarm of Chernagors. They were roaring like lions, some wordlessly, others bawling out Prince Vasilko’s name. The Avornans rushed to meet them. Vasilko must have seen the same thing Grus had—his citadel would not hold. Since it would not, why not sally forth to conquer or die?
