The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  The king’s blade bit. The Chernagor reeled back with a shriek, clutching a gashed forearm. Grus knew a certain somber pride. He could still hold his own against a younger foe. For a while he could, anyhow. But the younger men could keep on going long after he flagged.

  “Vasilko!” roared the Chernagors.

  “Grus!” the royal guardsmen shouted back. Pterocles took a roundhouse swipe at one of Vasilko’s men. He missed. But then he tackled the Chernagor. Grus’ sword came down on the man’s neck. Blood fountained. The Chernagor’s body convulsed, then went limp.

  “Are you all right?” Grus asked Pterocles, hauling him to his feet.

  “I—think so,” the wizard answered shakily. Then they were both fighting for their lives, too busy and too desperate to talk.

  More Avornan soldiers rushed up to reinforce the bodyguards. The archers who’d hit the Chernagor wizard poured volley after volley into Vasilko’s henchmen. The Chernagors had few archers with whom to reply. Those whistling shafts tore the heart out of their charge. Their shouts changed to cries of despair as they realized they weren’t going to be able to break free.

  There was Vasilko himself, swinging a two-handed sword as though it were a willow wand. He spotted Grus and hacked his way toward him. “I may die,” Vsevolod’s son shouted in Avornan, “but I’ll make the Fallen Star a present of your soul!”

  “By the gods in the heavens, you won’t!” Grus rushed toward Vasilko. Only later did he wonder whether that was a good idea. At the time, he didn’t seem able to do anything else.

  Vasilko’s first cut almost knocked Grus’ sword out of his hand. Vsevolod had been a big, strong man, and his son was no smaller, but the power Vasilko displayed hardly seemed natural. The Banished One had lent the Chernagor wizard one kind of strength. Could he give Vasilko a different sort? Grus had no idea whether that was possible, but he thought so by the way the usurping prince handled his big, heavy blade.

  Grus managed to beat the slash aside, and answered with a cut of his own. Vasilko parried with contemptuous ease; by the way he handled it, that two-handed sword might have weighed nothing at all. His next attack again jolted Grus from both speed and power. Am I getting old that fast? the king wondered.

  “Steal my throne, will you?” Vasilko shouted. Even his voice seemed louder and deeper than a man’s voice had any business being.

  “You stole it to begin with,” Grus panted.

  Vasilko showered him with what had to be curses in the Chernagor language. He swung his sword again with that same superhuman strength. Grus’ blade went flying. Vasilko roared in triumph. He brought up the two-handed sword to finish the king. Grus leaped close and seized his right wrist with both hands. It was like grappling with a bronze statue that had come to ferocious, malevolent life. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on long, and knew he would be sorry when he could hold on no more.

  Then Pterocles pointed his index finger at Vasilko and shouted out a hasty spell. Vasilko shouted, too, in shock and fury. All of a sudden, his voice was no more than a man’s. All of a sudden, the wrist Grus fought desperately to hold might have been made from flesh and blood, not animate metal.

  Pterocles grabbed Vasilko around the knees. The usurping Prince of Nishevatz fell to the cobbles. Grus hadn’t been sure Vasilko could fall. He kicked the Chernagor in the head. When Vasilko kept on wrestling with Pterocles after Grus kicked him the first time, he did it again. Pain shot through his foot. Bleeding from the temple and the nose, Vasilko groaned and went limp.

  “Thanks again, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said, scrambling to his feet.

  “Thank you,” Grus answered. “I thought I was gone there. What did you do?”

  “Blocked the extra strength the Banished One was feeding Vasilko,” the wizard said. “Let’s get him tied up—or chained, better still. I don’t know how long the spell will hold. I wasn’t sure it would hold at all, but I thought I’d better try it.” He looked down at Vasilko. “Scrambling his brains there will probably stretch it out a bit.”

  “Good!” Grus exclaimed. “He was going to do worse than that to me. Now let’s see what the rest of these bastards feel like doing.”

  With their leader captive, most of the Chernagors who’d sallied from the citadel threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. A stubborn handful fought to the end. They shouted something in their own language, over and over again.

  Before long, Grus found a Chernagor who admitted to speaking Avornan. “What are they yelling about?” he asked.

  “They cry for Fallen Star,” the Chernagor answered. “You know who is Fallen Star?”

  “Oh, yes. I know who the Fallen Star is,” Grus said grimly. “The Menteshe give the Banished One that name, too. But the Menteshe have always followed him. You Chernagors know the worship of the gods in the heavens.”

  The prisoner shrugged. “Fallen Star is strong power. We stay with strong power.”

  “Not strong enough,” Grus said. The Chernagor shrugged again. Grus pointed at him. “If the Banished One is so strong and the gods in the heavens are so weak, how did we take Nishevatz?”

  “Luck,” the Chernagor said with another shrug. Grus almost hit him. There were none so stubborn as those who would not see. But then the king saw how troubled the man who had followed Vasilko looked. Maybe the Chernagor wouldn’t admit it, but Grus thought his question had struck home.

  He jerked a thumb at the guards who’d brought the prisoner before him. “Take this fellow away and put him back with his friends.” The Avornans led off the Chernagor, none too gently. Grus hoped the captive would infect his countrymen with doubt.

  Hirundo came up to Grus and saluted. “Well, Your Majesty, we’ve got this town,” he said, and paused to dab at a cut on his cheeks with a rag as grimy as the hand that held it. Looking around, he made a sour face. “Now that I’m actually inside, I’m not so sure why we ever wanted it in the first place.”

  “We wanted it because the Banished One had it, and because he could make a nuisance of himself if he hung on to it. Now we’ve got it, and we’ve got Vasilko”—the king pointed to the deposed usurper, who wore enough chains to hold down a horse—“and I may have a broken toe.”

  “A broken toe? I don’t follow,” Hirundo said. “And what’s Vasilko’s problem? He looks like he can’t tell yesterday from turnips.”

  Vasilko had regained consciousness, but he did indeed look as though he didn’t know what to do with it now that he had it. “Maybe I kicked him in the head too hard,” Grus answered. “That’s how I hurt my toe, too—kicking him in the head.”

  “Well, if you had to do it, you did it for a good reason,” Hirundo observed.

  “Easy for you to say,” Grus snapped. “And do you know what the healers will do for me? Not a thing, that’s what. I broke a toe once, years ago, trying to walk through a door instead of a doorway. They told me, ‘If we put a splint on it, it will heal in six weeks. If we don’t, it will take a month and a half.’ And so they didn’t—and they won’t.”

  “Lucky you,” Hirundo said, still with something less than perfect sympathy.

  Aside from his toe, Grus did feel pretty lucky. The Avornans had taken Nishevatz, and hadn’t suffered too badly doing it. The Banished One would be cast out here. And, looking at Vasilko, Grus thought his wits remained too scrambled to do him much good.

  The king waved to Pterocles. “Any sign the Banished One is trying to feed strength into this fellow again?”

  “Let me check,” the wizard answered. What followed wasn’t exactly a spell. It seemed more as though Pterocles were listening intently than anything else. After a bit, he shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. If the Banished One is doing that, I can’t tell he’s doing it, and believe me, I would be able to.”

  “I have to believe you,” Grus said. He glanced toward Vasilko again. If Vsevolod’s son had any more working brains than a thrall right now, Grus would have been amazed. “I have to believe you, and I do.” He tur
ned back to Hirundo. “Where’s Beloyuz? Prince Beloyuz, I ought to say?”

  “He’s somewhere in Nishevatz,” the general answered. “I know he came up a ladder. What happened to him afterwards, I couldn’t tell you.

  “We’d better find him. It’s time for him to start being the prince, if you know what I mean,” Grus said. “I hope nothing’s happened to him. That would be bad for us—as far as the Chernagors who stayed with Vsevolod go, he’s far and away the best of the lot. He’s one of the younger ones, and he’s one of the more sensible ones, too.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Hirundo started shouting for soldiers. They came running. He ordered them to fan out through Nishevatz calling Beloyuz’s name. The general also made sure they knew what the Chernagor nobleman looked like. Turning to Grus, he said, “For all we know, every fifth man in Nishevatz is named Beloyuz. We don’t want a crowd of them; we want one in particular.”

  “True,” Grus said. There weren’t a whole flock of Avornans who bore his name, but he was sure there were some. The same could easily hold true for the Chernagor.

  Escorted by one of Hirundo’s soldiers, Beloyuz strode into the square by the citadel about half an hour later. The new Prince of Nishevatz’s face was as soot-streaked as anyone else’s. But the tracks of Beloyuz’s tears cut cleanly through the filth. “My poor city!” he cried to Grus. “Did you have to do this to take it?”

  “It’s war, Your Highness,” Grus said. “Haven’t you ever seen a sack before? It could have been a lot worse, believe me.”

  Beloyuz didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he threw his arms wide and wailed, “But this is Nishevatz!”

  Grus put an arm around his shoulder. “It’s the way I’d feel if someone sacked the city of Avornis. But you can set this to rights. Believe me, you can. Most of the city is still standing, and most of the people are still breathing. In five years or so, no one who comes here a stranger will have any idea what Nishevatz went through.”

  “Easy enough for you to say,” Beloyuz retorted, as Grus had to Hirundo. “You are not the one who will have to rebuild this city.”

  “No, not this city,” Grus replied. “But what do you think I’ll be doing down in southern Avornis? The Menteshe have sacked a lot of towns there, and what they’ve done to the farmlands makes the way we behaved here look like a kiss on the cheek. You’re not the only one with worries like this, Your Highness.”

  Beloyuz grunted. He cared nothing for cities in southern Avornis. In that, he was much like the late, not particularly lamented (at least by Grus) Prince Vsevolod. He said, “And what of Durdevatz and Ravno? When they see how weak we are, they will want to steal our lands.”

  “Well, do you want me to leave an Avornan garrison behind?” Grus asked. Beloyuz quickly shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” Grus told him. “If I did leave one, people would say I wanted to steal your lands, and I don’t.”

  “Why did I let you talk me into being prince?” Beloyuz said.

  “Someone has to. Who would be better? Vsevolod’s dead.” Grus wasn’t at all convinced Vsevolod had been better, but passed over that in silence. He pointed to Vasilko instead. “Him?” Beloyuz shook his head again. “Do you have anyone else in mind?” Grus asked. Another headshake from the Chernagor. Grus spread his hands. “Well, then, Your Highness—welcome to the job.”

  “I’ll try.” Beloyuz very visibly gathered himself. He might have been taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Yes, I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  King Lanius was gnawing the meat off a goose drumstick when he almost choked. “Are you all right?” Sosia asked.

  “I think so,” he replied once he could speak again. He tried to snap his fingers in annoyance, but they were too greasy. Muttering, he wiped his hands on a napkin—he did remember not to use the tablecloth, which would have been the style in his grandfather’s day, or his own clothes, which would have been the style in his grandfathers grandfather’s day. He sipped from his wine cup—his voice needed more lubricating even if his fingers didn’t. “The only problem is, I’m an idiot.”

  “Oh.” Sosia eyed him. “Well, I could have told you that.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” Lanius gave her a seated bow. He waited. Nothing more happened. He muttered again, then broke down and said, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m an idiot?”

  His wife shrugged. “I hadn’t intended to. But all right—how were you an idiot this time?” Her tone said she knew how he’d been an idiot before, and with which serving girls.

  “It’s not like that.” Lanius hid his own smile. Sosia still hadn’t found out about Flammea.

  “In that case, maybe I really am interested,” Sosia said.

  “Thank you,” Lanius repeated. By the elegant way she inclined her head, her family might have been royal much longer than his. Now he did smile. That struck him funny. Sosia laughed at him. In a couple of heartbeats, he was laughing, too.

  “Tell me,” the queen said.

  “Do you remember the old parchments the envoy from Durdevatz brought me as a gift when he came down here last summer?”

  Sosia shrugged again. “I didn’t, not until you reminded me. Playing around with those old things is your sport, not mine.” Quickly, she added, “But it’s a better sport than playing around with young things, by the gods.” Lanius made a face at her; he would have guessed she’d say that. She made one right back at him. “What about these precious parchments, then?”

  “They may be precious parchments, for all I know. I was so excited to get them, and then I put them away to go through them in a little while … and here it is more than a year later, and I haven’t done it. That’s why I’m an idiot.”

  “Oh.” Sosia thought that over, then shrugged. “Well, you’ve had reasons for being one that I’ve liked less, I will say.”

  “Yes, I thought you would.” Lanius made another face at her. She laughed again, so she wasn’t too peeved. Sure enough, she hadn’t found out about Flammea.

  Lanius almost charged away from the supper table to look at the documents from Durdevatz. He was halfway out of his seat before he realized that would be rude. Besides, the light was beginning to fail, and trying to read faded ink by lamplight was a lot less enjoyable than, say, trying to seduce a maidservant. Tomorrow morning would do.

  When the morning came, he found himself busy with moncats and monkeys and a squabble between two nobles down in the south. He forgot the parchments again, at least until noon. Then he went into the archives to look at them. He was sure he remembered where they were, and he was usually good about such things. Not this time. He confidently went to where he thought he’d put the gift from Durdevatz, only to find the parchments weren’t there. Some of the things he said then would have made a guardsman blush, or more likely blanch.

  Cursing didn’t help in any real way, even if it did make him feel better. Once he stopped filling the air with sparks, he had to go poking around if he wanted to find the missing parchments. They were bound to be somewhere in the archives. No one would have stolen them. He was sure of that. He was the only person in the city of Avornis who thought they were worth anything.

  If they weren’t where he thought he’d put them, where were they likely to be? He looked around the hall, trying to think back more than a year. He’d come in, he’d had the parchments in his hand … and what had he done with them?

  Good question. He wished he had a good answer for it.

  After some more curses—these less spirited than the ones that had gone before—he started looking. If he hadn’t put them where he thought, what was the next most likely place?

  He was on his way over to it when something interrupted him. Ancient parchments—even ancient parchments from up in the Chernagor country—were unlikely to say, “Mrowr?”

  “Oh, by the gods!” Lanius threw his hands in the air and fought down a strong urge to scream. “I haven’t got time to deal with you right now, Pouncer!”
>
  “Mrowr?” the moncat said again. It didn’t care where the king had put the documents from Durdevatz. It had gotten out of its room again, and had probably also paid a call on the kitchens. The cooks had stopped up the one hole in the wall, but the moncat had found another. It liked visiting the kitchens—all sorts of interesting things were there. Who was going to deal with it if the king didn’t? Nobody, and Lanius knew it only too well.

  These days, though, he had a weapon he hadn’t used before. Because he’d thought he knew where the parchments were, he was wearing a robe instead of the grubby clothes he often put on to dig through the archives, but he didn’t care. He lay down on the dusty floor and started thumping his chest with his right hand.

  “Mrowr!” Pouncer came running. Lanius had trained the moncat to know what that sound meant—if I get up onto him, he’ll give me something good to eat. That was what Pouncer had to be thinking. The moncat was carrying a big, heavy silver spoon. Sure enough, the archives hadn’t been its first stop on its latest jaunt through the spaces between the palace’s walls.

  “You’ve stolen something expensive this time. Congratulations,” Lanius said, stroking Pouncer under the chin and by the whiskers. Pouncer closed its eyes and stretched out its neck and rewarded him with a feline smile and a deep, rumbling purr. The moncat didn’t even seem offended that he hadn’t fed it anything.

  He stood up, carefully cradling the animal in his arms. Pouncer kept acting remarkably happy. Lanius carried the moncat out of the archives and down the hall to the chamber where it lived—until it felt like escaping, anyhow. Pouncer didn’t fuss until he took the silver spoon away from it. Even then, it didn’t fuss too much. By now, it was used to and probably resigned to his taking prizes away from it.

  Once Pouncer was back with the other moncats, Lanius brought the spoon to the kitchens. “You didn’t steal that yourself, Your Majesty!” Quiscula exclaimed when she saw what he carried. “That miserable creature’s been here again, and nobody even knew it.”