“You made him think about what he was doing,” Lanius said admiringly. “You must tell a scribe exactly what you said to him. That’s something future Kings of Avornis need to know.”
“When I get a chance.” Grus sounded indifferent. Seeing the disappointment Lanius didn’t try to hide, the older man went on, “I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s got to be. I want to move against Pandion as fast as I can. With any luck at all, I’ll hit him before he even knows I’m not fighting the Thervings anymore. The faster the better. If he’s not ready to fight, I’ll roll him up like a rug.”
“But you rolled Dagipert up without fighting, don’t you see?” Lanius said. “Isn’t it important to set down how you did it?”
Grus said, “I didn’t roll him up without fighting. We bought him off until we were ready, and then we spent years fighting Thervingia. I just convinced him he couldn’t get anything out of one more year of war. See the difference?”
Reluctantly, Lanius nodded. “Yes, I think I do.” He was the one who’d read all the histories. That Grus had a deeper view of what had happened than he’d seen himself was embarrassing.
As swiftly as Grus came into the capital, he left again. Very likely a good many of his men marched out of the city with hangovers from a brief carouse. Lanius wouldn’t have wanted to tramp off with an aching head, and wouldn’t have been happy if he’d had to. When he said as much to Grus, though, his fellow king only smiled. “They may not be happy to march,” he said, “but I’ll tell you one thing—they’re plenty happy they don’t have to fight the Thervings this year.”
“But they will have to fight Pandion,” Lanius said.
Grus smiled again. “If I had a choice between fighting Dagipert’s wild men and a baron who’d grown too big for his breeches, Your Majesty, I know which one I’d pick, I’ll tell you that. Especially when they think they’re taking him by surprise.”
“Oh,” Lanius said. “Yes, that does make sense, doesn’t it?”
“I try.” As it often did, Grus’ voice came dry as the southern plains after a long season without rain.
Lanius’ ears burned, as though that dryness had set them afire. “Er, yes,” he mumbled, wishing he could escape his father-in-law.
He got his wish, though not quite in the way he’d meant. With a nod, Grus said, “Well, I’ll be off soon. Can’t keep Pandion waiting, now can we?” He turned to go, then checked himself, adding, “I thank you for sending word of his revolt to me so quick.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.” Lanius too hesitated. Then he added, “Uh, it was Sosia’s idea.” Better Grus should hear that from him than from her.
But by the way Grus nodded, he already knew. He said, “You still had to do it, though. And who knows? You might have wanted Pandion as protector instead of me.”
“I don’t want anyone as protector!” Lanius all but screamed it. Not having anyone as protector, though, wasn’t one of the choices life offered him. It never had been. He wondered if it ever would be.
King Grus savored the feel of a pitching deck under his feet, the breeze in his face, the countryside smoothly flowing by as he led his fleet along the Halycus River toward Pandion’s estates. “This is the life,” he said to Nicator, who stood beside him. “This is more fun than staying cooped up in the palace all the time, gods curse me if it isn’t.”
“What’s that, Your Majesty?” Nicator cupped a hand behind his ear. Patiently, Grus repeated himself. He had to do it yet again before Nicator nodded and said, “You’re welcome to the crown, far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t take it on a bet.”
I’m certainly lucky, Grus thought. Every king needs a man like you— someone he can trust at his back, someone who’s not ambitious, or not too ambitious, on his own. Not every king finds a man like that. The king turned away just in time to watch a couple of mergansers take alarm at the river galley and spring into the air. He wished he could enjoy freedom like that.
Nicator spied the saw-billed ducks, too; nothing wrong with his eyes. His thoughts ran in a different direction. “Those miserable birds taste too much like the fish they eat.”
“I know,” Grus answered.
Farmers tending fields and flocks looked up in surprise as the war galleys grided down the Halycus. A royal war fleet hadn’t been seen in the heartland of Avornis for many years. Nobles in their castles were probably every bit as amazed, and a good deal more alarmed. Grus wanted them alarmed. If they were thinking of joining Pandion’s revolt, or of starting one of their own, they needed to consider the risks of the game as well as the rewards.
Two days later, Nicator pointed ahead. “That should be Pandion’s stronghold.”
Grus shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Yes, I think so,” he agreed. The keep, of yellow limestone, seemed not so very strong, not so very well sited. Grus peered again. “Are those tents, there all around the moat?”
“Look at all the tents underneath the castle,” replied Nicator, who hadn’t heard him. He called, “Up the stroke,” to the oar-master. To the trumpeters, he said, “Signal the other ships to speed up, too. The sooner we get there, the less time they’ll have to get ready for us.” His ears might be—were—bad, but his wits, like his eyes, still worked just fine. Grus wondered if Nicator caught the blaring horn calls or simply assumed they went forth because he’d ordered it.
The fleet had almost come abreast of the castle, which lay about half a mile from the Halycus, before Pandion’s encampment began to stir. “Here’s an interesting question,” Grus shouted into Nicator’s ear. “Will he try to fight us, or will he pull back into the castle and let us lay siege to him?”
Once Nicator understood, he said, “He’ll fight, if you ask me. He can’t pack that many men into the keep. Even if he could, he can’t feed ’em long—and the more the place holds, the less time he’ll be able to keep ’em fed. If he beats us in a battle, he doesn’t have to worry about that—or he doesn’t think he does.”
“We’ll see,” Grus bawled. Nicator was likely right. If he’d been in Pandion’s shoes, he would have fought. The river galley’s keel scraped against the gently sloping bank. Marines and most of the rowers jumped or scrambled off the ship to form the beginning of a battle line ashore. The rest of the rowers stayed behind. They would guard the galley if Pandion’s men somehow broke past Grus’ army.
Men spilled out of other river galleys, too, and off the barges accompanying them. Horses came off some of the barges, too, already saddled. Soldiers swung up onto them. A horse waited for Grus. He mounted reluctantly—but then, he always mounted reluctantly. More horns blared. The battle line swiftly lengthened. From the horse—a docile gelding—Grus waved. His army advanced on the castle.
Pandion’s force was slower forming. These were peasants, most of them, not veterans of years of war against Thervingia and the Menteshe. They followed their overlord’s orders, probably because they hadn’t thought to do anything else. On they came, their line shorter than Grus’ and more ragged. Grus looked to see if the rebel baron made himself obvious. He hadn’t.
Arrows began to fly. On both sides, men began to fall. Some never made a sound, but lay still. More thrashed and screamed and cursed and wailed. As the sides drew closer, spears joined arrows. More and more men went down. A spear darted over Grus’ left shoulder and buried itself in the ground behind him. Had it been a foot lower… He shuddered and did his best not to think of that.
The two lines collided, both yelling and calling on the gods and taking their names in vain. That fight was sword- and pike-work. It was very warm work for a little while, too, for the men Pandion led were fierce enough and to spare at the start. But bravery could do only so much against superior numbers and superior skill. Grus’ line lapped around the rebels’ flanks. Pandion’s army had to give ground or face attack from sides and rear. Even when the rebels did give ground, they still had horsemen on their flanks.