Dan Chernenko - The Chernagor Pirates

Heavy iron grills covered all the windows. Thick ironbound gates warded the entranceways. Towers full of archers rose from the roofs. “We’ll have to knock it down with catapults or burn it down,” Grus said in dismay. “Just taking it won’t be too easy.”

From inside, someone was shouting furiously. Pozvizd pointed. “That Vasilko,” he said. “He yell for more soldiers. He say, somebody pay, he not get more.”

“I hope he’ll be the one who pays,” Grus said.

Another voice came from the residence-turned-citadel—one not as loud, but full of authority. Pterocles stiffened. “That is a wizard,” he said. “I know the serpent by its fangs. That man has power—some of his own, and some he can call upon from… elsewhere.”

The Banished One. He means the Banished One, even if he doesn’t care to say the name, Grus thought. Quietly, he asked, “Can you meet him?”

Pterocles shrugged. “We’ll find out, won’t we? Right now, he hardly seems aware of me. He’s worried about how to keep Nishevatz from falling.”

“A little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” Grus asked.

“I think so,” Pterocles answered, “but I know more about what’s going on inside the city than… he does.” The wizard stiffened. He pointed to a second-story window. “There he is!”

He didn’t mean the Banished One now. He meant the Chernagor wizard. Grus couldn’t have told the sorcerer from any other Chernagor—a burly, bearded man in a mailshirt. He wasn’t even sure he was looking in the right window. But Pterocles seemed very sure. He flung up an arm and gasped out a counterspell.

“Are you all right?” Grus asked.

“He’s strong,” the wizard answered. “He’s very strong. And he’s drawing on more power than he owns. It’s… him, sure enough.”

“Him? Oh,” Grus said. Pterocles had confused him for a moment. The Banished One hadn’t paid much attention to the siege of Nishevatz. The civil war between Korkut and Sanjar had kept him occupied closer to home. How much could he do, intervening at the last minute? We’re going to find out, Grus thought.

Pterocles staggered, as though someone had hit him hard. He used another counterspell. This one sounded more potent—or more desperate—than the first. If he could do nothing but defend… How long until he couldn’t defend anymore, until the Chernagor sorcerer, aided by power from the Banished One, emptied and crushed him yet again?

“Hang on,” Grus said. “I’ll find a way out of this for you.”

“How do you propose to manage that?” Pterocles panted. “Will you call down the gods from the heavens to fight on my side?”

“No, but I’ll come up with something else,” Grus said. The wizard snorted, obviously not believing a word of that. For a moment, Grus didn’t know what he could do to make good on his promise. Then he shouted for a squadron of archers. He pointed to the window where the Chernagor wizard looked out. “Kill me that man!” he said. “Second story, third window from the left.”

The bowmen didn’t ask questions. They just said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” took arrows from their quivers, and let fly. Not content with one shot apiece, they kept at it, sending scores of shafts at the window. A man with even an ordinary sense of self-preservation would have moved away from his dangerous position as soon as the arrows started flying. Infused with force from the Banished One, Vasilko’s sorcerer stayed where he was. To him, destroying Pterocles must have seemed more important than anything else, even life itself.

But then he staggered back not because he wanted to but because he had to. A pair of arrows had struck him in the chest, less than a hands breadth apart. “Well done!” Grus shouted. “You’ll all have a reward for that!”

Pterocles, who had been bending like a sapling in a gale, suddenly straightened. “He stopped, Your Majesty,” the wizard said, more than a little amazement in his voice. “He just… stopped. How did you do that? You’re no sorcerer.”

“Maybe not, but I know one magic trick,” Grus replied. “Shoot a man a couple of times, and he’s a lot less interested in wizardry than he was before.”

Pterocles took a moment to think that over and, very visibly, to gather strength. “I see,” he said at last. “That’s—a less elegant solution than I would have come up with, I think.”

Lanius would have said the same thing, Grus thought. Some people are perfectionists. As for me … “I don’t care whether it’s elegant or not. All I care about is whether it works, and you can’t very well argue about that.”

“No, Your Majesty, that’s true.” Pterocles seemed to realize something more might be called for. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the king answered. “I presume that was Vasilko’s best wizard. Now we have to find out whether he has any others the Banished One wants to try to use.”

“Yes.” Pterocles looked as though he wished Grus hadn’t thought of that.

Meanwhile, though, more and more Avornan soldiers flooded into the square around the building Vasilko was using for a citadel. Grus didn’t think it could hold out too much longer. Even with the additions and improvements the Chernagors had made to it, it hadn’t been built as a fortress. Sooner or later, the Avornans would find a way to break in or to set it afire—and that would be the end for Prince Vsevolod’s unloving and unloved son.

But then the entrance to the stronghold flew open. Out burst a swarm of Chernagors. They were roaring like lions, some wordlessly, others bawling out Prince Vasilko’s name. The Avornans rushed to meet them. Vasilko must have seen the same thing Grus had—his citadel would not hold. Since it would not, why not sally forth to conquer or die?

That made a certain amount of sense in the abstract. Grus had perhaps half a dozen heartbeats to think of it in the abstract. Then he realized that swarm of Chernagors, Prince Vasilko at their head, was rushing straight toward him. If he went down under their swords and spears, he wouldn’t much care what happened in the rest of the fight for Nishevatz. No, that wasn’t true—if he went down, he wouldn’t care at all.

“Rally to me!” he shouted to the Avornans in the square. “Rally to me and throw them back. We can do it!” He pulled his sword from its scabbard.

So did Pterocles beside him. The wizard probably had only the vaguest idea what to do with an unsorcerous weapon. Eyeing the Chernagors and how young and fresh and fierce they looked, Grus remembered every one of his own years, too. How long can I last against an onslaught like this?

He didn’t have to find out on the instant, for his guardsmen sprang out in front of him and took the brunt of the Chernagor onslaught. Several of them fell, but they also brought down even more of Vasilko’s men. Yet still more Chernagors pushed forward. Yelling and cursing, the surviving bodyguards met them head-on. By then, Grus was in the fight, too, slashing at a Chernagor who had more ferocity than skill.

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 Chernagors 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.