“If I knew the answer to that, I’d do it,” Lanius said. “The way things are, I’m happy enough to try to take advantage of it when it happens.” He was also happy Sosia thought his good cheer came from policy. Raising his wine cup, he said, “Here’s to more civil war among the Menteshe.”
Sosia drank with him.
Beloyuz came up to Grus as the King of Avornis eyed the walls of Nishevatz early one misty morning. “May I speak to you, Your Majesty?” the Chernagor noble asked.
“If I say no now, you’re a man in trouble, for you just did,” Grus answered. Beloyuz stared at him in puzzlement. Grus swallowed a sigh. None of the nobles who followed Prince Vsevolod had much in the way of humor. The king went on, “Say what you will.”
“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.