The Chernagor Pirates (52 page)

“I thank you, Your Majesty. “Last night, a peasant came to me.” He paused portentously. Grus nodded and waved for him to continue. The exiles would have been of small use if they didn't have connections with folk of their own land. Beloyuz said, “An army is coming—so this man hears from a man of Durdevatz.”

A man of Durdevatz?
Grus thought. Maybe the city-state really was showing its gratitude. That would be a pleasant novelty. “From which direction is it coming?” he asked.

The Chernagor noble pointed to the east. “So he said.”

Durdevatz lay to the east, so the Chernagors there would be in a position to know what their neighbors were doing. Grus said, “All right. Thank you. I'll send scouts out that way.” He also intended to send scouts to the west, in case the peasant had lied to Beloyuz or the man from Durdevatz had lied to the peasant. He didn't say a word about that, not wanting to insult the noble by making him think he wasn't believed. That wasn't how Grus thought about it, though. To him, it was more on the order of not taking chances.

Out went the scouts, in both directions. Grus cursed the fog, being unable to do anything else about it. His riders were liable to find the Chernagor army by tripping over it instead of seeing it at some distance.

He summoned Hirundo, told him what was likely to happen next, and asked, “Can we keep the men of Nishevatz from sallying while we beat back whatever comes at us from the east?”
If it is the east,
he added silently to himself.

“We managed it a few years ago, if you'll recall,” Hirundo answered. “Well, they did sally, but we beat 'em back. I think we can do it again. We have a tighter, stronger line around Nishevatz now than we did then. We can hold it with fewer men, and that will leave more to fight the relieving force.”

“Good. Make ready to hold it with as few as you can, then,” Grus told him. “Free up the others and have them ready to defend our position against the Chernagors whenever they get the word.”

“Right you are.” The general nodded and started to turn away, but then checked himself. “Ah … what happens if the Chernagors don't come?”

“In that case, someone's been lying to Beloyuz, or lying to someone who's gone to Beloyuz,” Grus said. “It's possible. But we have to be ready just the same.” Hirundo thought that over, nodded, saluted, and briskly went off to do what needed doing.

Grus made sure his own horse was ready to mount. His place, of course, was at the van. He'd finally become a tolerable rider—just about at the time when his years were starting to make him something less than a tolerable warrior. He would have appreciated the irony more if it weren't of the sort that might get him killed.

Little by little, the mist burned off. The sky went from watery gray to watery blue. Grus peered this way and that, but spied no telltale cloud of dust to east or west to warn of the Chernagor army. He wasn't sure how much that meant, or whether it meant anything. There had been enough mist and drizzle lately to lay a lot of dust.

The day dragged on. Grus began to believe the Chernagor peasant had come to Beloyuz for no better reason than to make him jump. But in that case, how had he known of Durdevatz? About halfway through the afternoon, two Avornan horsemen came galloping back to the camp—sure enough, from the east. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” they called.

“I'm here.” Grus waved to let them see him, though they were already making for the royal pavilion. “What news?”

“Chernagors, Your Majesty, a lot of Chernagors,” they answered in ragged chorus. The man in the lead went on, “They're about an hour away. Most of them are foot soldiers—only a few riders.”

“Well, well. Isn't that interesting?” The peasant—or the emissary from Durdevatz who'd talked to the peasant (or posed as a peasant?)—had gotten it straight after all. And the scouts had smelled out the attack before it could turn into a nasty surprise. “Thank you, friends,” the king said. “I think we'll be able to deal with them.” He shouted for Hirundo.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” the general said. “So they really are coming after all?” Grus nodded. Hirundo clucked mournfully. “Well, better late than never. I expect we'll make a good many of them later still.” His smile held a certain sharp-toothed anticipation.

“Good. That's what I hoped you'd tell me.” Grus pointed toward the walls of Nishevatz. “And if Vasilko's men make their sally?”

“They're welcome to try,” Hirundo said. “I hope they do, in fact. Maybe we can take the city away from them when they have to retreat back into it.”

He didn't lack for confidence. Grus clapped him on the back. “Good enough. Make sure we're ready to receive whatever attack the Chernagors can deliver. I'm not charging out against them. If they want me, they can attack on ground of my choosing, by the gods.”

Hirundo nodded and hurried away. Grus knew he might have to move out against the Chernagors whether he wanted to or not. If they started ravaging the countryside so his army couldn't feed itself, he'd have to try to stop them. But if they'd had something like that in mind, wouldn't they have brought fewer foot soldiers and more horsemen?
He
would have; he knew that.

He donned his gilded mailshirt and helm. Even in the cool, damp air of the Chernagor country, the quilted padding he wore under the chainmail and helmet made sweat spring out on his forehead. He swung up onto his horse. Cavalrymen hurrying to take their places in line gave him a cheer. He waved to them. The mailshirt clinked musically as he raised his arm.

The Avornans had already taken a good defensive position on a ridgeline when the Chernagor army came over the last low rise to the east. The Chernagors roared like bears when they saw Grus' men drawn up before them. They were big and blocky and hairy like bears, too. Most of them wore iron helmets, but a good many had no coats of mail, only tunics and knee-length kilts. They carried axes and swords—Grus didn't see many bows, not in proportion to their numbers.

His eyes kept flicking toward Nishevatz. If he could see the oncoming Chernagors, so could the men besieged in the city. Were they hoping the relieving army could do the job without them having to sally? Grus thought they were wildly optimistic if they did. But that was their business, not his.

Roaring still, the Chernagors from the east swarmed toward Grus' men, whose line held steady. But pipes skirled as the foes came near, and they drew up out of bowshot. “Come fight us, heroes!” yelled men who spoke Avornan.

“You come fight us!” Grus' men shouted back. A few of them had picked up some words of the Chernagor language. They used those words, which were less than complimentary. The Chernagors cursed back.

They did more than curse, too. They surged forward toward the Avornan line. Grus had all he could do not to cheer. He hadn't thought they would be so foolish. His men held the high ground, and they had lots of arrows. They started shooting at the Chernagors as soon as the kilted attackers came into range. In fact, a lot of them started shooting before the Chernagors came into range, but that happened in every battle.

Of course, the Chernagors started shooting back at the same time. But they had fewer archers to begin with, and they were moving into position, while the Avornans were already where they wanted to be. Also, the Chernagors were shooting uphill, the Avornans downhill, which gave Grus' men another advantage.

Onrushing Chernagors crumpled, some of them clutching at their wounds and howling while others lay very still. Here and there, an Avornan fell, too, but more Avornans wore armor than their foes. King Grus would not have wanted to be one of those squat, blocky, pigtailed foot soldiers trying to close with opponents who could hurt him while he couldn't hit back.

Grus hoped the withering blast of archery would stop the Chernagors before they closed with his men, but no such luck. They had courage, no doubt of that. And, no matter how fast the Avornans shot, they could not put enough arrows in the air to knock down all the enemies between the time when the Chernagors first came into range and when they got close enough to strike with spears and axes.

Just as the Avornan foot soldiers were stronger in archery, the Chernagors had the edge on them when the fighting came to close quarters. The men of the north had their cavalry on the wings to protect their foot from the Avornans on horseback. Grus didn't think the Chernagors had nearly enough in the way of cavalry to bring that off. He turned to Hirundo and asked, “Now?”

“Yes, I think so,” his general answered. “Right about now.”

Hirundo and Grus both waved to the trumpeters, who blared out the signal for the Avornan cavalry to advance. Grus urged his horse forward. He drew his sword. All those young Chernagors would be hoping to bring down the King of Avornis. They would get their chance.

The Chernagor horsemen spurred toward the Avornans. The Chernagors rode big, strong, heavy beasts. The Avornans outmaneuvered them as readily as the Menteshe outrode Avornans down in the south. The results were about the same as they often were down in the south, too. Beset from several directions at once, the Chernagor riders could not make the most of what they had. Before long, it was either flee or stay and be cut to pieces. They
were
brave. Most of them held their ground as long as they could. And most of them went down holding it.

“Keep moving forward!” Grus shouted to his men. “We need to help our foot soldiers.”

The Avornan cavalry crashed into the flank of the Chernagor force. Grus slashed at a Chernagor axman. His blade bit into the fellow's shoulder. The Chernagor shrieked. Grus never found out what happened to him. Battles were like that. As often as not, you had no idea how badly you'd hurt your foe. Sometimes, you didn't know if you'd hurt him at all.

Grus cut again. A shield turned his stroke. A Chernagor chopped at him with an ax. He got his own shield in front of the blow. He felt it all the way up to his shoulder, and knew his left arm would have a bruise. He counted himself lucky the ax hadn't split the shield. He counted himself even luckier that the Chernagor swinging the ax had time for only one stroke before the battle swept the two of them apart.

He didn't get to do too much more fighting after that encounter. For one thing, his own horsemen got between him and the Chernagors. They hadn't done things like that when his beard had less gray in it. Try as he would, he had a tough time getting angry at them on account of it. And the Chernagors, who had failed to break the Avornan line, who had taken a lot of punishment from the Avornan archers before they ever reached it, and who were taken in the flank by Avornan cavalry, did not fight hard for long. They began streaming back toward the east as soon as they became convinced they could not hope to win, which they soon did.

“After them!” Grus shouted. “Don't let them get away thinking they almost beat us. Make sure they know we're stronger than they are.”

“We don't want to go too far,” Hirundo said. “If Vasilko does sally …”

“He hasn't done it yet,” Grus said. “If he wouldn't do it before he knew we'd win, why should he try it now?” Hirundo had no answer for him. The Avornan cavalry pushed the retreating Chernagors hard until sunset, killing many and capturing more. Vasilko kept his men on the walls of Nishevatz, and did not dare to venture beyond them. Seeing what he'd done to the Chernagors from the east, Grus nodded in sober satisfaction and said, “Now we can get on with our business here.”

Pouncer prowled through a small room. Carpenters and masons had assured King Lanius the moncat couldn't escape. Of course, those same carpenters and masons hadn't been able to figure out how Pouncer was escaping from the chamber where he spent most of his time, so Lanius didn't fully trust them. Still, Pouncer had shown no signs of disappearing over the past hour.

Lanius lay down on his back on the floor in the bare little room. Had any of his subjects seen him, they would have been sure he'd lost his mind. With the door closed and barred behind him, nobody could see him but Pouncer. That suited him fine.

He thumped on his chest with the palm of his right hand, as though he were playing himself like a drum. Pouncer stopped prowling, came over to him, and climbed up onto his belly.

“What a good boy!” Lanius praised the moncat and scratched and stroked it and gave it a piece of meat as a reward. Pouncer held the meat in one clawed hand before devouring it. The moncat scrambled down from Lanius a minute or two later.

The king got to his feet. He watched Pouncer for a little while, then lay down again. He thumped his chest once more. Pouncer hurried over, climbed up onto his belly, and waited expectantly. He gave the moncat another tasty reward.

He wondered if he could have taught an ordinary cat the same trick. He supposed so, though it might have taken longer. Moncats were clever beasts, especially where their self-interest was concerned.

Training moncats,
he thought.
Is that a job for a King of Avornis?
He'd trained them. He'd painted their pictures. He'd learned to paw through the royal archives and those under the great cathedral. Had he been an ordinary man instead of King of Avornis, none of that would have kept him from starving to death. As king, he had a lot of worries. Starving, fortunately, wasn't one of them.

He picked Pouncer up and carried the moncat back to the room where it spent most of its time, the room with most of the other moncats. Pouncer kept wiggling, maybe trying to get away, maybe hoping to see if he had any more treats it might steal. When he hung on to it, it snapped at him.

“Don't you bite me!” He tapped it on the nose with a forefinger. The moncat subsided. It knew it wasn't supposed to bite. It forgot every once in a while, and needed to be reminded.

When he opened the door to the moncats' chamber, Lanius had to be careful none of them got out. They knew the open door meant they had a chance, so they crowded toward it. He had to drive them back, flapping his robe and making loud, horrible noises, before they would retreat.