Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

Now they staggered toward the fortress. Benito no longer thought of strategy or tactics, just of getting the bleeding man to help, and off this beach. A Venetian came and took the other side of Falkenberg and together they staggered to the gate, while the firefight raged and the knights ripped the Magyar heavy cavalry to pieces. Falkenberg was now totally unconscious and lolling between them.

"What happened?" panted the Venetian. With a little sense of shock, Benito realized it was Umberto Verrier. The man who had married Maria.

"He was hit in the face by a ball." They were inside the gates by now.

"Let's put him down. See if we can stop the bleeding."

They laid Falkenberg down on the cobbles and Benito bent over his face, feeling sick. If only Marco was here!

"My God. What a mess." Fragments of steel had torn into the eye and right side of Falkenberg's face and head. The inside of the helmet was a mess of blood and flesh-shreds. It was still bleeding. "What the hell do we do?" he asked the older man.

For an answer, Umberto had already run over to two other men. He brought them over to the knight, with a couple of broad slats. "These men are from the hospital. They'll take him up there. The chirurgeons will help him."

"Will he live?" whispered Benito.

"Too early to tell," said one of the hospitalers critically. "But we'll have him on these planks and up there in two shakes of a lamb's tail. If you'll get out of the way, sir."

Hastily, Benito complied.

Meanwhile, Umberto called to two of the men who were struggling to push the timber further out so that the gate could be closed.

"The timber at the bottom is not going to move, Alberto! There's too much weight on it."

"So what do we do?" asked the other. "We need to be able to close this gate."

Umberto took a critical look. "They're still using it as a shelter. Let's move what we can on the top. It's only two or three of the lower balks that should be a problem. Maybe if we can get a lever of some sort to them."

Benito found himself manhandling huge pieces of keel and strut timber, when Maria came past. She was so busy talking to another woman that she didn't notice her husband, or Benito.

Working side-by-side with Verrier, Benito was finally coming to accept, not simply acknowledge, the truth of what everyone had always said about Umberto. He was a quiet, good man who loved his craft. And he was, by the looks of it, very good at it. Benito had met Umberto once or twice over the years, briefly, if not socially; a bridge-brat went everywhere and saw everything. He knew him to look at if not to talk to. But everybody always said the man was a solid fellow.

Working with him, Benito had to concede that they were right. He'd prepared himself to find reasons to dislike Umberto. Now he found that it was impossible.

And it stuck in his craw. And he hated that it stuck in his craw. Did life always have to be such a confusing mess?

Benito left organizing the off-loading of the galleys and the orderly retreat from the beach to Manfred. He concentrated instead on helping to lever the pile of timber a little further out, while Umberto organized ropes on each timber so that they could be snaked back over the wall. Umberto was a typical Venetian in that way. Not wasteful.

Benito was rewarded, when, a little while later, he saw Maria, still walking with her friend, still talking, stop abruptly and gawp at the two of them, working next to each other.

"I can't deny I'm very glad to see reinforcements, Prince Manfred. I've been wishing I had some way of getting word to Venice."

Captain-General Tomaselli limped over to a cabinet on the wall, hauled out a metal flask and a tray of Venetian glassware, and limped back to his table. "Try this, gentlemen. I think we all need something a great deal stronger than wine. It's from the mainland. They distill it from plums, I believe." He poured the clear liquid into glasses and motioned that they should help themselves. He took one of the glasses.

"Is a lady permitted to try some too?" asked Francesca.

"Of course. Of course!" The flustered Venetian handed her a glass. "Unless you would prefer some wine? This stuff is frightfully strong."

Francesca lowered her lashes. "I think, milord, after the morning we've had, I'd better have some strong drink." She tossed it back without any sign of discomfort.

That was more than could be said for Erik. He choked and spluttered. Even Manfred went a little red. Benito sipped the clear liquid cautiously. It burned his throat and all the way down to his gut. Only Von Gherens managed to drink it with anything like Francesca's aplomb.

The captain-general stared at her with respect, for the first time seeing something beyond her cleavage. "Saints alive!" He shook his head. "I can't drink the stuff like that. Did you enjoy it?"

Francesca smiled and nodded her head.

The captain-general sat down, shaking his own. "Well. Back to the matter in hand. The podesta has offered the officers-and you, of course, Prince Manfred-quarters in the Castel a mar. Your escort also. We can quarter all your other men and horses here, at the Castel a terra." He sighed, softly. "Truth to tell, we could hold several hundred more men. There was no perceived threat here and we're badly undermanned. Four thousand men would be an optimum number for this fortress. I had twelve hundred under my command, but that is on the whole island. Only nine hundred and fifty odd are here."

"Where are the rest?" asked Manfred.

"About a hundred and seventy are on Vidos-that small islet out there. The rest were stationed in various towns and villages. Still, this siege can't hold. There are relatively few men out there, and they don't appear to have any siege pieces."

Manfred looked grim. "The guns and a lot more men are on their way, I'm afraid. You're in for the long haul. How are you for food and water?

"There are a couple of springs on the Citadel, and we have reservoirs here in the castle. The reservoirs are full, and this soon after winter, the springs are strong. As for food… we're not so well-off. Winter is over, but with the fleets coming and going, we're used to reprovisioning wheat, particularly on the autumn convoy. So we're about half way. Good for eight months at the very least. Arms are the one thing we have plenty of."

"Well, even rocks will do when it comes to defending walls," said Erik. "Rocks and enough people is what we need. And we have enough rocks, even if we could use more people."

"We brought you a good supply of knights and some extra citizens," said Von Gherens with a smile. "How are the Corfiotes outside the walls being treated?"

The captain-general blinked. "We've seen a lot of fires. Could be Venetian villas burning. Could be some peasant villages. We've seen some atrocities from the walls. Why, sir?"

"One of the things I've seen over and over again on the northeastern frontier: where the peasantry resent the hand of their overlords, we push forward easily enough. Emeric of Hungary is renowned to be a harsh man, a firm believer in the lash and the knout. I know my friend Falkenberg was involved in some fighting down in Bohemia-against Emeric's father-before the Emperor concluded the Peace of Brno. He said it was like a knife through butter. The peasants were fawning on the Prussians as if they were saints. Showed them all the Hungarian defenses, traps and so on. Found them food and fodder and guided them. And tore their former masters apart when they had the chance. It's different up in Sweden. There the tribesmen, even the Karls, resist us to the last man. Belike if your men out there stir up trouble it'll be more than Emeric can do to hold this island."

One of the captain-general's officers sniffed disdainfully. "I hardly think that will apply here. The Greeks are degenerate. Can't work, can't fight. All they can do is talk about ancient glory."