Eric Flint: Much Fall Of Blood

The water was black, nearly as dark as the mood on the boat. Even the wise-cracking Spiro was less than himself.

"You realize," said Guiliano, "that if this goes wrong, Maria will kill all of us tomorrow." He was being perfectly literal. She would, and Guiliano understood Maria's "wifely" role with Aidoneus better than most Venetians. His wife believed firmly in the Goddess, and had told him where things stood.

Spiro looked at the dark mass that was Illyria, straight ahead. "If it doesn't go right, there won't be a tomorrow."

Taki, sitting at the tiller-bar snorted. "The Lord of the Mountains keeps his word. Relax. And give me some more wine."

"You've had enough," said Thalia. She'd refused to remain behind.

"I'm still upright. So how can that be true?" asked Taki cheerfully.

"If we sail back, then I have every intention of not being upright," said Spiro. "So we need to save a half a cask."

"Never put off drinking until afterwards, just in case there is no afterwards," said Taki. But he didn't insist on more wine. Instead he guided the fishing boat toward a pair of lanterns set up in a dark cove, lining them up very carefully.

A little later Benito Valdosta sat at a rough oak table in a small shepherd's hut, facing the beak-nosed lord of southern Illyria. The humble setting did not seem to bother the man. Lesser men might need regal trappings so that one did not confuse the king with a hill-shepherd. Iskander Beg claimed descent from Alexander the Great of Macedon, and he didn't need fine clothes or a rich hall to tell you who he was. All Iskander needed was enough light for a man to see his eyes.

They burned. And looking at them, Benito knew that he had found a kindred spirit, albeit one reared in even harsher soil than he had sprung from. This was not a man who would be cowed by threats or worried by the odds against him. On the other hand, he looked very shrewd indeed. This was a good thing, Benito decided, because what Benito had in mind was more like commerce than devilry.

"Once," Benito said, "there was a road from here to the Adriatic."

"The Via Egnata. From Phillipi or Christopolis to Appolonia or to Dyrrachium. Durazzo, as the Venetians call it. Days past. A route for conquerors," said the Lord of the Mountains, dismissively. Yet… was that a hint of a smile under his moustache? And, whatever else he was, ignorant of history he was not. Iskander also spoke good Frankish for a hill-chieftain in a remote, mountainous piece of nowhere.

"The Romans built it to conquer Illyria. Did they succeed?" asked Benito airily.

Iskander gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, for a little while. You can never really conquer the land of the eagles. People try."

"The Byzantines are that foolish," said Benito idly.

Teeth gleamed through the moustache. "Not often. The emperor tells them to be. The field commanders do not, in reality, try very hard any more. We've discouraged them."

Benito grinned back. "Then why worry? I gather we share a love for Emeric of Hungary."

The Lord of the Mountains nodded. "He does seem to have had a sharp lesson from you in Kerkira. And another for crossing my land without my permission."

Benito clicked his tongue. "A pity he succeeded."

Iskander Beg shook his head. "Not really a pity. He's a fool. And it is better to have the fool we know for an enemy, than to have him succeeded by man of competence. Emeric's mouth and vanity are worth a good thousand soldiers to us." Iskander's eyes narrowed a little. "On the other hand, I have been told that your death would be worth a great deal of gold, besides several thousand warriors."

Benito smiled urbanely at the Lord of the Mountains, showing no sign of the tension he felt. "You don't have to flatter me."

The Lord of Mountains beamed. "I like you, boy. And I have just upped the value that was put on you."

"You gave your word," said Guiliano.

"And my word is good," said Iskander Beg. "Even if we stand to eliminate two dangerous enemies at one stroke."

"We do not have to be enemies," said Benito.

"You are not Illyrian. You are not of my tribe. Therefore you are my enemy."

Benito was beginning to get a feel for the way the man thought now. This was more than just a declaration of Illyria's superiority and isolation. It was a subtly worded invitation. "And how does one join your tribe?"

The Lord of the Mountains tugged his moustache. "Three ways. By birth. By marriage. And by challenge."

"It's a little late in the day for the first two. So what is the challenge? The usual thing, eh?" Benito's smile was all teeth, and did not reach his eyes. "To drink a bottle of Slivovitz, kill a bear and make love to the most beautiful woman in the village. And later the challenger staggers into the village terribly scratched and says: 'Now where is this bear I have to kill?'"

The Lord of the Mountains laughed. "You'd do better to take your chances with the bear than trying your charms on our women. No, it is a simple challenge." He pointed out of the door into the darkness. "A test of stealth to start with. I will put my men on the hill. I will go to the summit. You must join me, without being caught."

Benito's heart fell. Even after the time he'd spent with the Corfiote irregulars, Erik Hakkonsen had rated him almost as silent a woodsman as a blind horse with bells on its harness. But what did he have to lose, beside face? "Surely. Send your men out."

"They'll try to cut you rather than kill you. I'd do the same if I were you. No point in being part of the tribe with a gyak on your head."

Benito looked at the men he would have to avoid. Looked at their knives. Wished it could have been the bear that he had to cuddle. The twenty or so of them slipping away into the forest had longer claws. Erik should be doing this, not him. This was not the thick Mediterranean scrub of Corfu or the lowlands of Illyria, but an actual forest in the steep limestone gully that led down to the river. Or bare, open rock and thin heath that wouldn't hide a field-mouse.

"I will go up there," said the Lord of the Mountains, standing up lithely and setting off without a backward glance.

"Benito, you are crazy," said Thalia. "The Kyria Maria will kill me if I let you go."

Benito shrugged. "You have to understand the man, Thalia. He is testing us. Testing Corfu. To fail will be bad. To not even try will say that we are soft." As quietly as he could he slipped away into the woods.

It wasn't quietly enough. He never even saw the man, just saw the flash of steel. They might be able to move like ghosts, but no-one had taught them how to use the blade.

Being fair, it could have been that the man had wanted to cut, not kill. The Illyrian hadn't expected to have his blade pushed into a tree, and to have himself thrown hard over Benito's hip. Iskander Beg's man had the breath knocked out of him-but the weak cry and the crashing were enough. Others were coming. So Benito stepped around the vast boled tree and swung up into it.

He hadn't been as unobserved as he'd hoped. There were five of them coming out of the shadows. They sounded cheerful enough as they helped his victim to his feet.

And then they started climbing after him. Benito moved higher, further out among the spreading branches. Dawn was not that far off and visibility up here was better. They were good woodsmen, but terrible climbers. For this business, a childhood spent scrambling over the roofs of Venice was far better training than woods and mountains.

Benito waited until the closest man was within a nervous two yards of him. The branch cracked and Benito dropped to a lower branch, with a laugh. The backspring had the pursuer grasping branches frantically. Benito moved out on the lower branch.

Another three men. He waited as they climbed the tree too. And Benito jumped.