“Well, well. What have we here?” Grus said.
“What have we here?” Nicator repeated, his voice rising in excitement. “We have us a chance to grab Dagipert’s balls and give ’em a good squeeze, that’s what.”
“So we do,” Grus agreed. “But that’s what it is—a chance, nothing more. We’ve got to make the most of it.”
He turned and looked back over the Crocodile’s stern. River galleys and small boats coming up the Asopus from the south had finally brought enough soldiers so that, added in with the flotilla’s marines, they might be able to give Dagipert and the Thervings a hard time. He hoped so. Up till now, the invaders had had everything go their way since breaking into Avornis.
Nicator said, “The Thervings’ll still have more men all told than we do.”
“I know.” Grus nodded. “But we can put ours right where we want them, and we can pick them up and take them somewhere else if they get in trouble.” He scuffed his foot across the decking. “When we’re fighting foes who haven’t got any ships of their own, this is a floating fortress—nothing else but.”
“It had better be,” Nicator said. “After the knife that stinking Corvus stuck in our hopes, it’s not like we’ve got a lot of room for mistakes.”
Grus wished he could have argued with that, but it was plainly true. He called out to the oarmaster: “Quicken the stroke. We’re going up toward the capital.” And to the boatswain: “Run up the Follow me pennant.”
The Thervings had learned part of their lesson. They didn’t camp right alongside the Asopus anymore, or next to any other navigable stream. But Thervingia was landlocked and mountainous. Its rivers weren’t navigable. They didn’t realize just what a flotilla could do. Grus was determined to show them.
He spotted a band of Thervings—about a regiment’s worth of men—marching back toward their main encampment under the walls of the city of Avornis. They trudged along in loose order. Why not? Who would challenge their right to rule this country? No one they’d met lately.
Boats took some Avornans ashore. River galleys scraped keels on mud and gravel close to the bank so more men could scramble down and rush toward the invaders.
Shouts of surprise rose from the Thervings. They weren’t shouts of alarm; Dagipert’s warriors had often beaten Avornans in the open field, and no doubt thought they could go right on doing it. Grus hoped they were wrong. He wasn’t sure, but he hoped so. One thing he knew—he was about to find out.
Slower than they should have, the Thervings formed a battle line perhaps a quarter of a mile from the Asopus. At that range, soldiers and marines might fight them, but the river galleys themselves couldn’t.
“Don’t you want to be a hero?” Nicator made cut-and-thrust motions. “Charge the Thervings and chop them into steaks?”
“I’ll fight as much as I have to,” Grus answered. “But I’m a sailor first, not a soldier. If I don’t have to, I won’t mix it up that much myself.” He pointed to Nicator. “I don’t see you charging the Thervings, either.”
“Me? I’m an old man,” Nicator said, which was on the way to being true but hadn’t gotten there yet. He was also good enough with a sword in his hands. Even so, he added, “I don’t care about being a hero. That’s your job, Skipper—you’re the commodore.”
“If the soldiers and marines beat the Thervings, I’m a hero, all right,” Grus answered. “If they don’t, I’m just another gods-cursed fool.”
The Avornans formed their own line of battle. They advanced on King Dagipert’s men. They outnumbered the Thervings, and their lines overlapped the foe to both left and right. The enemy soldiers spread themselves thinner to keep from getting outflanked. That did them little good; many of them found themselves attacked by two or more Avornans at the same time.
When their line unraveled, it came undone all at once. They stopped trying to hold back the Avornans, and ran for whatever shelter and safety they could find. They found very little. Howling like wolves, the men from the flotilla gave chase, cutting them down from behind. Few Thervings outran their pursuers or got to the shelter of the woods farther from the river.
“Blow Recall!” Grus told the trumpeter. “I don’t want them running into a Therving ambush.”
As the notes rang out, horns from the other ships of the flotilla echoing them, Grus hoped the Avornans would heed the call. If their blood was up, they might keep going, and run headlong into trouble. More than once, armies had thrown away victories doing that.
Not here, though. Grus made a fist and pounded it against his thigh in silent celebration as the Avornan sailors and marines started back toward the Asopus. “Well done!” he shouted to them when they got close enough for his voice to carry. “Now we go on up the river and hit them again.”
The Avornans raised a cheer coming back. They hadn’t had much to cheer about lately. They boarded boats and river galleys with more spirit than Grus had seen for a long time. He waved to the oarmaster, who bawled, “Back oars!” The Crocodile freed herself and started up the Asopus once more. Grus scanned the riverbank for Thervings.
Later that afternoon, he ordered the soldiers and marines ashore again. Again, they rushed at a startled band of Thervings who’d been tramping through the Avornan countryside without the slightest notion they might have to fight. Again, they punished the Thervings and then returned to Grus’ flotilla.
“This is fun,” Nicator said. “We can do it as often as we want.”
“Yes, for a while we can,” Grus agreed. “Sooner or later, though, they’ll figure out what’s going on.”
That took longer than he’d expected. He sent the Avornans forth against King Dagipert’s men twice more the next day, and won another couple of quick, easy victories. The morning after that, he spotted yet another band of Thervings out in the open close by the river, apparently going about their business without a care in the world.
“Shall we hit ’em again. Skipper?” Nicator asked.
Grus shook his head. Nicator blinked in surprise. But Grus pointed to the trees on either side of the clearing where those Thervings displayed themselves. “What do you want to bet those woods are full of archers?” he said. “That’s how Dagipert ruined Corvus. If it worked once, why wouldn’t it work again?”
Nicator plucked at his beard as he thought that over. “You may have something there,” he said at last. “We leave ’em alone, then?”
“I intend to,” Grus answered. “Maybe we waste a chance. But we’re just here to harass the Thervings, anyhow. We can’t conquer them, not with what we’ve got—and we can’t afford to waste more men in an ambush, either. Better safe.” Nicator thought some more, then nodded.
CHAPTER TEN
King Lanius looked out from one of the towers of the royal palace. “They really are pulling back this time,” he remarked.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I do believe they are,” Lepturus agreed. “And about time, too.”
“They couldn’t take the city,” Lanius said with a certain amount of pride.
The guards commander nodded, but his eyes, as usual, were somber. “No, that’s true—they couldn’t,” he said. “But they’ve taken just about everything else—taken it or wrecked it or burned it. The northwest is going to be a long time getting over this—and so will the army.”
“That’s Corvus’ fault,” Lanius said, “his and Corax’s.”
“And Grus‘,” Lepturus added.
“Yes, and Grus‘, I suppose.” Lanius nodded. “If he hadn’t quarreled with Corax—” He kicked at the gray stone under his sandals. “From everything I’ve seen and heard, Corax is pretty easy to quarrel with.”