Erik pushed his chair back. "What I can tell you is that Emeric has landed many more men. As for when the Venetian Republic's relief forces will be here—"
He shrugged. "That is anyone's guess. I believe word has been sent, but whether it got through or not, I can't tell you. Of course, Emeric's Dalmatian pirates will try to stop the messages. So it may take a long time. Months at the very least."
The younger man said: "I told you so, Ambrosino. I'm going back out to kill a few of the bastards."
In Erik's assessment, the young man would probably die the first time he encountered a real soldier.
The older man patted him on the shoulder. "Forgive him, milord. He lost his wife and their newborn son. Pardon us for intruding on you."
Erik took a deep breath. If he was going to organize resistance to Hungarians, he had to start somewhere. This unlikely looking material was as good as any. The younger man was going to get himself killed anyway in his fury and grief. Let him at least put them to some use.
"Sit down." It was a command, not a request.
Both men looked at him in some surprise. So did the Vinlanders. But the two sat.
"If you go out there, you may kill a Croat or a Hungarian or two. However, if you really wish to hurt Emeric and his troops, you're going to have to be more methodical about it. Emeric has plenty more Croat troopers. But if you destroy his cannons or burn his supply dumps, then not only will you hurt him far more badly, you will save the lives of others."
The young man shook his head stubbornly. "I just want to kill the bastards."
"You'll only die quickly without achieving anything." Erik gave him a measuring look, and allowed a touch of scorn to come into it. The young man detected that scorn, and reddened. "You aren't a fighter. You aren't a soldier. You certainly aren't a mercenary, who by nature is the toughest and cruelest sort of soldier. Your fancy dueling-master won't have taught you a single thing that will work in a fight against these bastards, and what you don't know will get you killed the first time you run up against one. Is that what you want? Or would you rather make Emeric pay fifty-fold for what he's done?"
The young man was scarlet by now, but he raised his chin defiantly. "I want him to pay a hundredfold, never mind fifty-fold. But I'm not scared of dying."
"Then either learn to be," said Erik grimly, "or go somewhere else. I have no space in my troop for foolhardy men."
"Your troop?"
Erik nodded. "I came out here for three purposes." He saw no reason to blather in public about his feelings for Svanhild, and certainly not Benito's secret mission. "Never mind the first two. The third, acting on Prince Manfred's behalf, was to recruit men and engage Emeric of Hungary's forces in . . . call it 'irregular warfare.' The kind of fighting we do in Vinland. I want to bleed Emeric white—draw off some of his forces from their attack on the Citadel, and make keeping the Citadel under siege a battle on two fronts. I want to make it as expensive as possible for him to be here, but I can't do that without men who are as interested in keeping their own skins intact as they are in killing Emeric's men. I don't need heroes, I need men who can be as cunning as foxes and hard to catch as weasels. Are you with me?"
"I am," said a firm voice from an unexpected quarter. Thalia spoke quietly but clearly. "I am. If I can save one other life, that's enough. If hurting this king will avenge my Georgio . . . then even if I am a woman I will fight. What kind of men will not?"
The plumper young man nodded, looking at Thalia in some surprise. Suddenly, with no warning, he began to cry. Deep, bitter sobs.
"He's upset," said the older man. "But he'll be an asset, milord. Giuliano's father was a master-at-arms. When he retired here, he married a local girl and they had one chick. Flavio Lozza gave his son one-on-one training from the day he could hold a sword." He smiled. "I think Flavio was secretly disappointed that the boy only wanted to grow olives and play the lute."
Lozza's son? Erik reflected that appearances could deceive. Flavio Lozza had been Giuliano Dell'Arta's instructor. Giuliano had taught both Manfred and him when they'd been in Venice with the Knights of the Holy Trinity's ill-fated tour with the Woden-casket. He had regarded Lozza as the father of rapier-work. Flavio, it would seem, had named his son for his old protege—and this was certainly the last place Erik would have expected to see the son of Flavio Lozza.
Almost, he regretted what he'd said about "fancy sword-masters." But not quite. It was one thing to be a master of rapier-work; it was quite another to face mercenaries and Magyar horse-barbarians whose interest was in killing you quickly, not stylishly. Perhaps the plump boy wouldn't be killed that quickly. But there was a large difference between even the best-trained amateur and a battle-hardened professional soldier. "And you, signor? Have you got surprises for me too?"
The older man shrugged. "Not really. I hunt. I can ride. I know the island well."
"And you speak Greek?"
The older man shrugged. "Not as well as Giuliano. He got it from his mother, and then his wife was a local."
"And of course we will help, too," said Bjarni, slapping him on the back.
"To be direct, you are going to watch over Svanhild," said Erik, feeling uncomfortable. "Not go running around the Corfu hills in the dark. If possible I'd like to get you all a passage across to Italy or even Greece. This is not your war."
"We stand by our kin," said Bjarni, stiffly.
Erik grinned. "I'm not exactly that . . . yet."
The big Vinlander grinned back. "You haven't a chance, Erik. Hildi's made up her mind. Even if she has to chase you with a baby she'll get you."
"Bjarni!" said Svanhild, blushing. "It's a good thing Mama can't hear you." But she didn't deny it. In fact, she gave him a sidelong glance that had speculation in it.
"Maybe you can just lend Erik three or four of us. Like me," said Kari, looking eager.
"Maybe I can just pay him to take you away," growled Gulta.
* * *
They hugged the coast with great care, creeping southwards. No one who didn't know these waters intimately was going to come this close in the darkness. It was an alarming place to be sailing at some speed.
"It's coming up for a blow," said Taki ominously.
"So what do we do?"
Benito saw a flash of teeth in the darkness. "We set our nets. Then we haul them and then we run with the wind. We're fishermen from Levkas who've been blown off course. Fishermen have fish in their boats. So we're going to get ourselves some."
So, for the next two hours Benito learned to set nets. "Taki is making an extra profit out of your labor," said Spiro. "Demand wages. Or a share in the catch."
"You'd better hope it is a bad one," said Kosti. "Or we'll be here all night."
When the nets came in, twitching with silver, and Benito saw how Taki beamed in the moonlight, Benito began to realize Kosti might not have been joking.
With wooden crates full of fish they headed away from Corfu on a following wind. By that time, they all looked and smelled like fishermen, even Benito. He was no stranger to hard work, not after the way that Erik had been drilling him, but this required a whole new set of muscles and calluses. His hands were raw and cut up, and his arms and shoulders ached by the time it was over.