The Scepter's Return

by Harry Turtledove

  And now tomorrow was here.

  He turned to Hirundo, who stood beside him. “Are we ready?”

  “If we’re not, it isn’t because of anything we haven’t done up until now,” the general answered. With each moment of growing light, the gilded armor he and Grus wore seemed to shine more brightly.

  “Then let’s go,” Grus said.

  Nodding casually, Hirundo walked over to the trumpeters waiting nearby. He set a hand on the closest one’s shoulder and spoke in a low, casual voice. The trumpeter and his comrades raised their horns to their lips and blew the call for the attack. A heartbeat later, other musicians all around the encirclement relayed the call to the waiting men.

  The soldiers sprang into action as though they were performing some elaborate dance. Dart- and stone-throwers started shooting at the top of the wall, trying to clear the Menteshe from it. Archers ran forward to get into range and added ordinary arrows to the mix. Men flung hurdles into the moat, to give attackers and scaling ladders purchase for the assault on the walls.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” sergeants screamed. “Keep moving, gods curse your stupid, empty heads!”

  More slowly than they might have, the Menteshe realized Grus’ men were trying to storm Yozgat. Their own horns rang out, on harsher, brassier notes than the ones Avornan trumpets used. Grus could hear their guttural shouts of alarm, and their own officers and underofficers shouting commands and advice probably not much different from what his men were using. Anyone who didn’t hurry in an attack was liable to be in trouble, from the enemy or from his own side.

  The thud of stones smacking against the wall was like a giant landing haymaker after haymaker. Engines groaned and clunked as artificers tugged on windlasses and loaded new stone balls and darts onto them. They clacked and swooshed and bucked when the missiles flew off against Yozgat.

  “Forward the ladders!” Hirundo shouted.

  Was it too soon? Had enough hurdles gone into the moat to support the ladders and the men who would climb them? Grus thought he would have waited a little longer before giving the command. But he also knew he might have been wrong. Hirundo had keen judgment for such things.

  “Come on!” the king yelled. “You can do it!”

  He hoped they could do it. Now the sun climbed up over the horizon, spilling light across the countryside. Avornans started swarming up a ladder. The Menteshe at the top of the wall pushed it over with a forked pole. The soldiers on it shrieked as they fell back to earth.

  Heavy rocks crashed down on other climbing soldiers. The Menteshe greeted others with boiling water and red-hot sand. A few men gained a lodgement on top of the wall—but not for long. The defenders swarmed over them and overwhelmed them before they could be reinforced. Grus cursed. He knew he was too old to lead a charge up a ladder. He knew it, but he wished he were leading one just the same.

  Hirundo was watching the fight as intently as he was—and had sworn as loudly and as foully when the Menteshe stamped out the Avornan foothold at the top of the wall. Now, his mouth as tight as though he were trying to hold in the pain of a wound, the general turned to the king and said, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get up, Your Majesty.”

  Grus had already begun to fear the same thing. Even so, he asked, “What about the far side of the wall, the one we can’t see from here?”

  “Horns would have brought us the news,” Hirundo said.

  “Hmm.” Grus knew that, too—at least as well as Hirundo did. He was looking for excuses to go on with the attack. “No chance at all, you say?”

  “If we’d been able to hang on to that little stretch where we made it onto the wall for a minute—then we’d have a chance, and a good one,” the general replied. “The way things are? No. We’re just throwing men away, and we’re not getting anything much for them.”

  Another scaling ladder went over. Faintly, the frightened cries of the falling Avornan soldiers came to Grus’ ears. They might have proved Hirundo’s point for him. Grus swore again. Hirundo set a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “These things don’t always work out just the way we wish they would.”

  “No, eh? I never would have noticed,” Grus said. Hirundo chuckled. Grus kicked at the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust. That didn’t get him anywhere. He kicked up another one. Then his shoulders slumped. “Order the retreat, curse it.”

  “I’ll do it.” Hirundo spoke to the trumpeters. The mournful horn calls rang out. Slowly, sullenly, the Avornans pulled back from the walls of Yozgat. At first, the defenders seemed to think the withdrawal was a trick. When they realized that it wasn’t, that Grus’ men really were retreating, they whooped and jeered the way any soldiers who’d driven back their foes would have done.

  Grus said several other things he wouldn’t have if things had gone better. He kicked up almost enough dust to hide Yozgat. He wished a dust storm like the one that had afflicted his army would sweep down on Prince Korkut’s fortress. But that storm hadn’t been natural. The Banished One wouldn’t inflict anything like it on a fortress his men held.

  “Shall we get ready to try it again, Your Majesty?” Hirundo asked. “Next time, we may catch ’em napping.”

  “Yes, so we may,” Grus said. “But if we don’t, how much will it cost us? How long can we go on trying to storm the walls before we throw our own army away or ruin its spirit?”

  “That’s always an interesting question, isn’t it?” Hirundo said. “You can’t know the answer this soon, or I don’t think you can. But we ought to be able to tell before we get in trouble pushing the men too far.”

  “Yes, we ought to,” Grus agreed bleakly. “Will we, though?”

  Before Hirundo could answer, a courier who smelled powerfully of sweat and of horse came up and saluted, saying, “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but I’ve got a letter from, uh, the other king for you.”

  “Have you?” Grus said, amused in spite of himself. Even after all these years, ordinary people didn’t always know what to make of the arrangement he’d made with Lanius. Well, he didn’t always know what to make of it himself, either, even after all these years. He held out his hand. “I’m always interested in seeing what King Lanius has to say.”

  “Here you are.” The rider handed him the message tube. He opened it, took out the letter, broke the seal, unrolled the sheet, and began to read. Lanius wrote in large letters he had no trouble making out at arm’s length. And the question the other king asked …

  Grus started laughing before he paused to wonder what was funny. The question wasn’t unreasonable, especially in light of what had just happened in front of the walls of Yozgat—in front of them, yes, and briefly on top of them, but not beyond them. If the Avornan army had gotten beyond them, then Lanius’ question wouldn’t have needed answering so urgently.

  As things stood, Grus wasn’t in much of a position to say he had any better ideas than the one Lanius had come up with. All he’d thought of was trying more and more assaults on the walls, in the hope that one of them worked. That was a hope, but no more than a hope. Lanius’ scheme wasn’t guaranteed, either—far from it. But the Menteshe would be looking for more of the same from the Avornan army. Whatever else you could say about it, Lanius’ scheme wasn’t more of the same.

  In spite of himself, Grus started laughing again. He called for pen and ink. “By the gods, we’ll see who’s laughing when I’m done,” he said as he wrote.

  Tinamus bowed to King Lanius. “Hello, Your Majesty,” the builder said. “May I please speak with you in private?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Lanius replied. “Why don’t you come out into the garden, then, and tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Something obviously was. Tinamus looked pale and worried, as though he hadn’t been sleeping well. Guards came out with him and the king, but stayed far enough away to let them talk without being overheard. Butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. Sometimes Lanius liked to come out as dusk was falling, when buzzing, humming hawk moths
replaced the butterflies.

  The garden’s beauty was lost on Tinamus. His clever hands twisted and writhed. They might have had lives—unhappy lives—of their own. “I hardly know where to begin,” he said.

  “Many people think the beginning is one of the better places,” Lanius remarked.

  His sarcasm flew right over Tinamus’ head. Hands still clutching each other, the builder asked, “Have you ever had—bad dreams?”

  “Oh,” Lanius said. Half a dozen words, and everything was clear—clearer to him, probably, than it was to Tinamus. “Yes, by the gods, I have. So the Banished One finally decided to visit you, too, did he?”

  Tinamus looked astonished, then flabbergasted. “How could you possibly know that?” Tinamus demanded.

  “You asked me if I’ve had bad dreams. The only dreams that are that bad are from … him,” Lanius said. “What did he tell you?”

  “That he was going to punish me for building what I built for you,” Tinamus answered. “That I deserved to be punished, because I was making a nuisance of myself.”

  “Congratulations,” Lanius said somberly.

  That struck home—struck home and angered Tinamus. “You shouldn’t joke at other people’s misfortune,” he said.

  “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m not,” Lanius said. “But if the Banished One cares enough about you to send you a dream, you’ve done something he doesn’t like. And what’s so bad about that?”

  “Building a fancy place for your whatdoyoucallit—your moncat, that’s right—to run?” Tinamus exclaimed. “That’s crazy. The Banished One would have to be out of his mind to worry about it even for a heartbeat.”

  “The Banished One is a great many things, most of them unpleasant,” Lanius said. “Out of his mind, he is not.”

  Tinamus shook his head in stubborn disbelief. “He must be—either that or he’s in my dreams for something that has nothing to do with what I built for you, no matter what he said.”

  King Lanius supposed that was possible. He didn’t know everything Tinamus had done. But he found it about as likely as Ortalis putting away his whips and giving up his hunting. The king said, “Do you know Collurio the animal trainer?”

  “I don’t think I’ve met him. I know his name—but I suppose a lot of people here know his name.” Tinamus’ eyes grew sharper. “Hold on. Didn’t I hear somewhere that he’s training animals for you?”

  “I don’t know whether you heard it or not, but it’s true.” Lanius bent down to sniff a yellow rose. The flower was beautiful. As usual, though, he thought the red ones smelled sweeter. He turned back to Tinamus. “Here’s something you probably haven’t heard—he’s also had dreams from the Banished One.”

  “An animal trainer?” Tinamus’ eyes widened. “By Olor’s beard, Your Majesty, why?”

  “Because he’s doing something the Banished One doesn’t like. So am I, and I’ve had those dreams. And so are you—and now you’ve had them, too.” Lanius held out his hand. “So you see I meant it when I congratulated you.”

  The architect looked at the king, looked at his outstretched hand, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. Even after he clasped the proffered hand, he still looked and sounded bemused. “An animal trainer. Me. Why should the Banished One care about the likes of us? You’re the King of Avornis, Your Majesty. At least it makes some kind of sense that he would worry about you.”

  “Glad you think so,” Lanius said dryly. “There are plenty of people who would say that all I ever do is play with animals and poke around in the archives, and so nobody ought to worry about me at all—not even people, let alone the Banished One.”

  Now Tinamus stared at him in a new way. Lanius realized the builder hadn’t expected to hear anything like that from him. Lanius shrugged. Tinamus was getting all sorts of surprises today. After a dream from the Banished One, a complaint from the king most likely wouldn’t loom so large. And, sure enough, Tinamus asked, “What—what do I do—what can I do—if … if he visits me again?”

  “You can’t do much,” Lanius answered, “except remember that he can’t hurt you in one of those dreams. He can scare you until you almost wish you were dead, but he can’t hurt you. Otherwise, I would have died a long time ago, and so would some other people.”

  Tinamus nodded. “All right, Your Majesty. Thank you. That does help—some, anyhow. Uh, do you mind telling me who else, besides you and the animal trainer?”

  “You might have less trouble from him if you didn’t know.” Lanius waited to see whether Tinamus would press him even so. The architect said not another word. The king wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Whenever wagons reached the Avornan army besieging Yozgat, Grus let out a sigh of relief. The Menteshe did their best to harass his communications with the north. Sometimes that best was alarmingly good. In theory, he controlled everything between Yozgat and the Stura. Theory was wonderful. In practice, the nomads could nip in and raid when and as they chose.

  To make them regret it, he ordered a special wagon train to come down to Yozgat. The wagons didn’t carry sacks of wheat and beans. Instead, archers lay under the usual canvas covers. It was an uncomfortable trip for the men, but not an unprofitable one. Sure enough, the nomads attacked the wagons and the riders escorting them.

  As always, the Menteshe were fierce and dashing and intrepid. They charged the wagons as though they were wolves and those wagons full of raw meat. Very often, that kind of charge routed the escorts and let the Menteshe do as they pleased with the wagons and the men who drove them.

  Very often—but not this time. Avornan officers shouted words of command. Off popped the canvas covers. Up popped the archers, who hadn’t had an easy or pleasant time of it in hiding. They were ready to make the Menteshe pay. They poured volley after volley into the onrushing nomads at close range.

  The Menteshe, those who survived the trap, galloped away even more wildly than they’d advanced on the wagon train. Word of the ploy must have spread fast, because after that attacks on the wagons eased for a while. When the triumphant archers came into the lines around Yozgat, Grus gave every one of them a bonus of twenty silverpieces.

  Meanwhile, the siege ground on. Grus decided against another all-out assault on the walls. The defenders had been too tough for him to find success at all likely. Instead, he tried something different. He had soldiers who spoke the Menteshe language shout to the men besieged in Yozgat that they could freely leave the city if they surrendered, and that the only thing they were defending was Prince Korkut’s vanity.

  He didn’t expect immediate results—a good thing, too, for he didn’t get them. He hoped the trapped nomads would start talking among themselves and eventually decide they didn’t have much chance of getting out alive if they kept on fighting.

  “They’ve got to be worried in there—don’t they?” he asked Hirundo.

  “Nobody has to be anything,” the general replied, which wasn’t what Grus wanted to hear. Hirundo did add, “I tell you, though, Your Majesty—if I was cooped up in there, I’d be worried.”

  That was more like it. “I was thinking the same thing,” Grus said. “Maybe they’ll turn on Korkut. Maybe they’ll even do it before …” His voice trailed away.

  “Before what?” Hirundo asked.

  “Before we try something else,” Grus said—an answer that was no answer.

  Hirundo, nobody’s fool, realized as much at once. “What sort of other things have you got in mind, Your Majesty? From what you and the engineers and Pterocles have said, undermining the walls doesn’t look like it’ll work. I’m ready to try to storm them again whenever you give the word, but I don’t know how good our chances are there. Or …” He snapped his fingers and grinned at the king. “You’ve figured out some way to give our men wings after all.”

  “I wish I had,” Grus said. “It would make this business of war a lot easier—until the Menteshe and the Chernagors and the Thervings figure
d out how to fly, too.”

  “There’s always that,” the general agreed. “It wouldn’t take long, either. But what have you got in mind, if they’re not shipping wings down from the city of Avornis?”

  Grus found himself oddly reluctant to go into detail. He shook his head. Reluctant wasn’t the right word. Embarrassed came much closer to the truth. “When I start—if I start—I’ll tell you, I promise,” he said. “Right now … well, who knows if … he’s listening?”

  “I know what you’re telling me. You’re telling me you don’t want to talk about it,” Hirundo said. “You’ve come up with something strange, haven’t you? I bet I know what it is. I bet it’s something King Lanius dredged out of the archives, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Grus said. “That it isn’t. I can tell you the truth there, and I’ll take oath on it if you like.”

  Hirundo only shrugged. “Never mind, Your Majesty. If King Lanius isn’t getting strange, then I expect you are. I’m not so sure I want to know about that.” Still shaking his head, he walked off.

  Grus laughed. If Hirundo had really worried about the state of his wits, the general wouldn’t have been shy about saying so. Hirundo was rarely shy about saying anything. For now, he seemed willing to believe Grus knew what he was doing. Grus wished he were so sure of that himself.

  After he went to bed that night, the Banished One appeared to him in a dream. Seeing those coldly perfect features before him, Grus had another wish—that there was a better word to described these manifestations. Dream didn’t begin to do them justice.

  “You plot against me,” the exiled god declared without preamble.

  “Well, of course I do.” Grus saw no point in denying it.

  “You think you can outsmart me.” The Banished One fleered laughter. “As well think a cat can outsmart you. You are nearer to a cat—you are nearer to a worm—than you are to me.”