A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01

by Christopher Stasheff

  But Gar looked out over the scene of their triumph and shook his head. "The prince is saying, 'Never mind—they must feed a hundred more, and Heaven only knows how many peasants fled to them in the last few days. Their food cannot last long.' "

  "He doesn't know that the refugees are swelling the ranks of your army," Gianni said.

  "But their wives and children and elders are not," Gar reminded him, "and even our soldiers must eat. Is the prince right, Gianni? Will our supplies disappear like a morning's frost?"

  "I saw frost when we wandered in the mountains," Gianni said thoughtfully, "but I had seen a rain of plenty before that, and all my life." He pointed toward the bar. "There comes your answer, Gar."

  The giant looked up and saw a caravel tacking in against the offshore breeze.

  "Wine from the southlands, grain from the northern shore of the Central Sea," Gianni said, musing. "Pork from the western shores, beeves from the eastern ... No, Gar, we won't starve. Far from it and that ship bears wool, too, or others will, and every goodwife who has fled to us can card and spin and weave. That ship will take our stout Pirogian cloth back to trade for more food, and will also bear dishes and glassware from the clay and sands of our islands. No, we won't starve . . ."

  An explosion echoed from the mainland, and they saw a ball flying through the air, straight toward the ship. They held their breaths in an agony of suspense, but the ball splashed into the sea, raising a geyser and rocking the ship, but not harming it. Gianni breathed a sigh of relief. "I didn't know the lords had a cannon that could shoot even that closely."

  "Neither did I," Gar replied. "Did any of the lords buy a gun from your armories?"

  Gianni frowned. "Not that I know of—and surely no one would have been foolish enough to sell one of the cannon made with the secrets of your new ideas!"

  Gar grimaced. "I don't like the idea of keeping knowledge to ourselves, Gianni—but for once, I must admit secrecy is wise, at least until we have won this . .."

  The cannon thundered again, and another ball climbed into the sky. Again they held their breath, but as the shot rose to its peak, Gar relaxed. "Too high."

  Sure enough, the ball passed right over the ship and splashed up a spout on its far side. They could hear the sailors' cheers, though faintly at this distance.

  "They're safe." Gianni relaxed as well. "No cannoneer could hit a ship at such a distance—but for a minute, I thought he could."

  "He can, and he will," Gar said grimly. "He has their range now, and the next ball will strike home. Can you signal to the men on the ship?"

  Gianni stared up at him in alarm—but before he could turn and run to the signal flags, another shot rang out. He and Gar both watched, holding their breath, as the cannonball arced upward, speeding toward the ship, and sailors struggled to spread some more canvas, hoping against hope that they could outrun the shot ...

  It smashed into their side just above the waterline; the ship rocked, water poured in, and the caravel began to list toward starboard. They could faintly hear the captain shout, and the crew ran for the longboat. The ship shuddered, swinging over so the deck stood at a sharp angle; sailors skidded and fell overboard.

  "That one boat can't hold them all," Gar snapped, but Gianni was already sprinting away to send out boats from shore.

  Even so, he came too late—a dozen small craft were already springing out into the bay. He watched as they grappled the struggling men from the waterand as the distant cannon boomed, its ball arcing high toward the small craft ...

  Gianni called out, but other men were shouting aboard the boats, and they all pulled away from the wreck quickly. The ball splashed down, showering them with spray and capsizing two. Their neighbors quickly rowed over, hauled out the men, and righted the boats—but two dead bodies floated in the water. Another boat, arriving late, hauled them aboard; then all the small craft dashed for shore as the cannon boomed again. Another ball splashed down, far from the boats near the wreck.

  Gianni turned, face flaming with anger, to see Gar coming up. "They didn't have to do that, Gar! Shooting down the ship I can understand—it's war, after all. But to fire on rescue boats is foul!"

  "But just the sort of thing the lords might think of," Gar pointed out. "They mean to punish you, after all—and they also mean to make sure you won't try to save the cargo. I think you might say they've made that clear."

  "Very clear—and that ends our confidence about not starving." Gianni gazed out at the sinking ship, feeling his heart sink with it. "What can we do about it, Gar?"

  "Where there is one gun, there could be more," the giant said slowly, "but if they had more, they would have used them—and if more than one gunner has the knack of firing so accurately, the others would be firing, too."

  Gianni looked up with a gleam of hope in his eye. "Are you saying that if we can destroy that one gun, we can stop worrying?"

  "If we also capture that one gunner," Gar confirmed. "It's not a sure thing, mind you, but it's a good chance."

  "Then it's certainly worth taking! But why capture? Killing him is easier and less chancy—and after that shot at the boats, I don't see anything wrong with it! We'd rather capture him if we can, I suppose, but—"

  Gar interrupted. "I want to talk to him, Gianni. I want to discover where he learned to shoot so well."

  "But to capture him, we'll have to go ashore!"

  "Exactly," Gar agreed. "How else did you think we could destroy that one cannon?"

  Gianni would never have thought of painting his face black. Wearing all black clothes, yes, and a black head scarf, so he and his men would blend into the shadows—but face paint, never. It didn't help that Gar made it by mixing soot with a little bacon grease. Gianni decided that secret raiding was not a job of good aroma.

  They skimmed ashore in three light boats with muffled oars, one man to an oar for speed. Gar leaped out as they grounded and pulled the first boat up on the beach, lifting the prow high to make less noise. The coxswains of the other boats followed his example. His men stepped out onto the sand in silence, their steps muted by the soft leather slippers with thick padded soles; cobblers had worked all day at Gar's direction, laboring into the night to make enough of them.

  Gar waved his raiders forward. Knives in their teeth, they padded into the tree-shaded blackness of a moonless night.

  A sentry seemed to materialize out of the darkness on their right, turning about to look, bored and weary—but the boredom vanished from his face when he saw the raiders, not two feet away from him. His pike came up, and his mouth opened to shout the alarm—but Gianni, galvanized by fear, seized him by the throat, choking off the sound. The man thrashed about, dropping his pike to struggle against Gianni's grip, but another Pirogian slipped around behind him and struck his head with the sand-filled leather bag Gar had invented. The sentry's eyes rolled up; he folded, and Gianni let go of his neck to catch him by the tunic and lower him to the ground. He looked up at Volio with a nod of thanks, then turned to follow Gar, who gave them a nod of approval, then led them off into the darkness again.

  They had landed as close to the gun as possible, but the lords had been so inconsiderate as to place it well back from the shore. Gar led them along a winding route between groups of one-man tents, staying as far as possible from both canvas and watch—fire embers. They prowled silently through the darkness—until a sudden grunt made them all freeze. Gianni flicked a glance at the sound and saw a grizzled, red-eyed soldier pushing himself up from the ground, reeking of stale beer and growling, "Who 'n hell is goin' aroun' . .." Then his eyes widened in alarm as his mouth widened to cry out—and the sandbag hit him alongside the head. His eyes closed as he fell back. Gianni stifled a chuckle; the man was likely to remember them all as a drunken nightmare, and nothing more. He looked up at a hiss from the front; Gar waved them on.

  They padded after him through the darkness, keeping a wary eye now for sleepers underfoot—until, suddenly, the cannon loomed before them, darkness out
of darkness.

  Gar held up a hand, and they froze, for there were sentries, one on each side of the gun. Gianni couldn't help staring—it was far bigger than any cannon he had seen, its platform holding it at eye level. But Gar was gesturing in the hand language he had worked out before they left, and his raiders cat-footed around the huge barrel, just out of range of the watch fire near the sentry.

  What it was that gave them away, Gianni never knew—perhaps someone stepped too heavily, or perhaps another stepped too close to the fire, and its light reflected off his eyes. Whatever the clue, the sentry on the far side shouted, "Enemy!" and swung his halberd. A raider cried out in pain, a cry quickly choked off but loud enough to wake the gun crew; then both sentries were howling as they struck about them with their halberds.

  Gianni ducked under a swing and came up to strike with his sandbag. The halberd dropped from nerveless fingers, and Gianni caught it up, turning to meet a stumbling attack from muzzy-headed soldiers. His blade sliced flesh; the man shouted in pain, and his companions dropped back, suddenly afraid of the black-clothed demons who had appeared out of the night. The halfminute's respite was enough for the other raiders to strike down the gun crew. Gianni handed his halberd to Volio and turned to face a gunner who was dressed more elaborately than the others and was shouting for help as he held off the raiders with sword and dagger. Gianni drew his own sword, though it was considerably shorter than the gunner's rapier, and leaped in, thrusting and parrying. All about him, soldiers went crazy, yelling and attacking as the raiders fought them off desperately, and Gar shoved a canister into the barrel of the gun. Vincenzio slipped up behind the gunner as he fenced desperately with Gianni, still yammering for aid. Vincenzio swung with his sandbag and the man stiffened, eyes wide; then he crumpled, and Gianni stepped in to catch him across a shoulder.

  Then Gar was beside him, flame flaring in his hands, and Gianni saw a long string of some sort vanishing into the cannon's touchhole. The big man caught up Boraccio, slinging him over a shoulder as he snapped, "Carry the wounded and leave the dead! Flee as though the devil were at your heels!" He turned and charged into the midst of the soldiers facing him, bellowing like a bull. The raiders shouted and charged after him, carrying three wounded men between them—but leaving four others already dead.

  The sentries recovered and shouted, chopping at the raiders—but their blows fell short as they pulled back, frightened by the wild men from the darkness.

  Then a huge explosion blasted the night. The shock wave bowled men over, raider and soldier alike. "Cover your heads!" Gar shouted, but the raiders had run far enough; the rain of iron fragments fell short of them. Soldiers cried out in pain and shock, but before they could recover, the raiders were up and running again.

  Gar led them off into the darkness, circling around to the beach again. All pretense at stealth gone, they struck down any soldier who rose to bar their way, then finally leaped back aboard their boats and shoved off—but only two boats out of three.

  A hundred yards out to sea, Gar called a rest. The men leaned on their oars, gasping for breath and staring back at the fire on shore, amazed.

  "So much for the cannon," Gar said. He looked down at the unconscious form at his feet. "Now for the gunner."

  Gianni was sitting on a dock post, watching dawn over the sea, when Gar came up and joined him. "You fought well this night, Gianni."

  "Thank you," Gianni said, gratified at the praise. "What of the gunner? Did he answer your questions?"

  "Yes, and without the slightest hesitation," Gar said. "It's almost as though he thinks his answers will frighten us as badly as his gun did."

  Gianni frowned. "Did they?"

  "Not a bit; they're just as I thought they would be. He's a young knight who's very progressive. He does admit that they have only one such gun, and only he knew how to aim it, being the only gentleman who was willing to learn his gunnery from the dour and dowdy foreign traders—the Lurgans, of course. They not only taught him to shoot, but also taught his armorers how to make a cannon that could fire so accurately—but it took their smiths three months to make it, and two were killed testing earlier models, so I don't think we need to worry about the lords making more."

  "Not considering how quickly we destroyed it," Gianni agreed, "though I doubt we could do it again."

  "You may doubt it, but the lords don't. Still, our raid may discourage them from making more. If they do, though, they'll guard them better."

  Gianni glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. "And you'll be thinking up better ways to overcome their guards?"

  Gar answered with the ghost of a smile. "Of course."

  Gianni relaxed, letting himself feel confident again. He turned to see another ship come sailing in, and was delighted not to hear a cannon boom. "So it seems we won't starve, after all."

  "No," Gar agreed, "we won't starve—but the lords may."

  They didn't, of course—each lord was supplied by the crops and livestock his soldiers stole from the peasants nearby, most of whom were safe in Pirogia. But they had to ranger farther and farther afield each day, and the idle soldiers who stayed in camp began to quarrel among themselves. The prince set them to making ships, but his shipwrights knew only the crafting of riverboats, and the new vessels were scarcely launched before Pirogia's caravels swooped down to scuttle them, or to bear them away with all their troops. Still the prince forced his soldiers to build, but more and more, they saw the uselessness of their work, and grumbled more and more loudly. Soon they were being flogged daily, and the grumbling lessened—but became all the more bitter for it.

  In fact, morale in the besiegers' camp was lessening so nicely, and any attempt at invading seemed so far away, that the defenders began to relax. In vain did Gar warn them that the old moon was dying, that the dark of the moon would soon be upon them, and that they must be extraordinarily vigilant when the nights were so dark—in vain, because the sentries knew that if they could not see to spy out the enemy, neither could invaders see to attack. So, though they tried to stay alert, that little edge was gone, the edge that makes a man start at shadows and hear menace in every night bird's call—but that also makes him look more closely at every extra pool of darkness in the night. They relaxed just a little, until the night that the cry went up from the walls, and the alarm sounded.

  Gar and Gianni bolted from their beds—it was a lieutenant's watch—and shouted for lights as they caught up swords and bucklers and ran for the docks. Black-clad men were pouring in from the sea; even the heads of their spears and halberds were painted black, even their faces. By the time Gianni and his men reached them, they were streaming into the plaza, and there was no sign of the Pirogian sentries.

  They had served their city well by crying out before they died. Gianni shouted, "Revenge! Revenge for our sentries!" and threw himself into the middle of the advancing mob, sword slashing and thrusting. Finally the attackers shouted in alarm and anger; pole-arms swept down, but Gianni was too close for any blade to strike him, leaping in and out, shouting in rage, thrusting with his sword as Gar had taught him. Behind him, his men blared their battle cry and struck the invaders, alternating between stabbing and striking with the butts of their spears, quarterstaff style—again, as Gar had taught them. Men screamed and died on both sides, but still the attackers came on.

  There seemed no end to them; the black—clad men kept coming and coming, and Gianni's arms grew heavy with thrusting and parrying. But there was no end to the Pirogian soldiers, either, and they were fighting for their homes and their loved ones, not just for pay or fear of an officer.

  Light flared with a muffled explosion; the fighters froze for a moment, all eyes turned to the source—and saw flames billowing high into the night.

  "The caravel!" Gianni screamed. "Anselmo's Kestrel, that was tied up at harbor! They have burned our food, they would starve us! Have at them! Hurl them into their own fire!"

  His men answered with a shout of rage and surged forward.
Gianni sailed before them, borne on their tide, thrusting and slashing with renewed vigor, pressing the attackers back, back, out of the plaza and onto the docks, then back even farther, off the wood and into the water.

  The lords' soldiers cried out in fear and turned to flee into the harbor. Gianni froze, scarcely able to believe his eyes. The invaders were standing out there on the water, helping those who swam to climb to their feet! More amazing still, they seemed to be going without moving their legs, drifting away ...

  Drifting! Now Gianni knew what to look for—and sure enough, the light of the burning ship showed him the balks of timber beneath the soldiers' feet. They had come on rafts, simple rafts but huge ones, painted black. They had hidden against the darkness of the water itself, and guided themselves by the city's blotting out of the stars until they could see the lights of the watch fires!

  "Archers!" Gianni shouted. "Stand ready! If they seek to come back, let fly!"

  But the archers didn't wait—they sent flight after flight against the men on the rafts, who fell to the wood with shouts of fear or cries of pain. Some knelt on each raft and began to paddle furiously. Slowly, the cumbersome craft moved away from the docks.