“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
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
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. Un-wounded 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
