Eric Flint: Much Fall Of Blood

As roof jumps went it was a small one-not more than four yards and to a lower branch. It was a branch in another tree, however. Moving fast now, Benito went down that tree, leaving the swearing Illyrians behind him. Someone fell, by the sounds of it.

That had cleared at least eight of them out of his path. Benito abandoned stealth and ran, uphill, cursing tree-roots. He had about three hundred yards to cover.

Fortunately, he saw and heard the pursuit-and climbed the next tree. He repeated the trick-not waiting for the fellow to get high before dropping into another tree. And down. And then a few yards on. Up again, unseen.

He watched as one of the Illyrians passed below. It was tempting to drop on the fellow and teach him to also look up occasionally, but he was here to get up the slope, not to have fun. And Benito had to admit that he was having fun. He had missed this.

Better not to let fun distract him too much. The trouble was that treed gullies inevitably got narrower and steeper at the top.

He found a nice weighty dead branch, and, climbing up to where he could at least see the crescent moon, he flung it down slope. That done, he dropped out of the tree and began moving laterally, out of the forested gully. There was no cover out there.

No cover for the solitary guarding Illyrian either. The fellow was staring at the forest, sitting on a rock cleaning his fingernails with his knife. Benito had less than seventy yards to the top. There were times for subtlety and times for speed-and a good solid dead branch he found lying on the ground.

Benito tossed a loose rock downhill and to his left, and started running as soon as he heard it clattering. The momentary distraction gave him twenty yards before the Illyrian saw him and ran at him, yelling. There were other shouts from behind him. Benito didn't look back. He just used the branch like a lance, and the moment's shock of impact to sidestep. And then to keep running for the last twenty yards.

Where a rude shock awaited him.

He might even have been caught right there, if it had not shocked his pursuer just as much. There was no-one there.

Benito simply turned and ran the other way. He swore quite a lot too. There was a perfectly good path down the slope to the hut that took him a few minutes, instead of the half hour he'd spend in blundering through the woods.

The Lord of the Mountains was sitting on the bench outside the hut, with one of his own men, and the other Corfiotes. Benito had had the hill to help him get over his bad temper at being so neatly gulled.

Iskander hadn't actually said he would be at the top of the hill. He'd just said that he'd go there. Well, if the Illyrian thought he could teach a Venetian how to make deals with weasel words…

"Guiliano," he said conversationally, panting just a little, "Disarm that bodyguard."

The bodyguard was undoubtedly one of the finest fighters in all Illyria. Guiliano Lozza was still easily his master, especially since the bodyguard plainly wasn't expecting such a command.

While the distraction occurred, Benito stepped up to Iskander and touched his shoulder. "Reached you," he said. "But I think I will leave you alive, because you are more trouble to Byzantium and to King Emeric than I'd realized you would be."

Iskander Beg smiled. "The blood feud you'd cause by killing your own kinsman and chieftain would hardly be worth it."

He stood up, planted his hands on his hips, and watched the panting band straggling up to the hut. "Well? Do you still think the Venetians are soft? And that we should raid now while Kerkeira is war-weary and weak?"

The remark provoked a fair storm of laughter. Knives were sheathed. Benito found himself surrounded by the group that had tried catch him, grinning and backslapping. Iskander joined them. "Come. Now we will talk. And drink slivovitz, kinsman."

Sitting and drinking the clear plum liquor at dawn was not something that Benito wanted to do every day, but today it seemed fitting. "I rule at least in part by guile," explained Iskander, sitting a little apart and talking to him. "The tribes are fiercely independent. But they will follow a clever leader who has won their respect. This story will go around. It will grow in the telling. People will say how cunning the Lord of Mountains was… and that this Venetian was a match for him. Like a fox, but with honor. That is important here. There were some that said it would be the right time now to attack Kerkeira. In spite of the magic."

"It's not something I would attack. That magic destroyed Emeric," said Benito, keen to reinforce the idea, as little as he approved of the Goddess and her cult.

Iskander Beg shrugged. "The Illyrians drove the Pelasgian mother-worshippers from this land to Kerkira. They have long memories in these mountains. They remember the land moving and the sea coming and killing their ancestors. They remember that magic, and saw that it was still active. Now my people have two reasons to keep away-magic and a leader they can respect. So: Tell me now what you plan for the Via Egnatia. It would not be good for the trade of Kerkeira for it to operate again."

"I think it can be made good for Corfu," said Benito, "for Venice, and also Illyria. Ships, especially round ships carry more cargo. But… if I am right, the Byzantines will seek to bar us from the Bosphorus. From the Black Sea trade. Trade is like the muscles of your hand. If you don't keep using it the hand grows weak. It loses its cunning. It's what happened to Via Egnata. Once a little part of every caravan that passed along it stayed here in Illyria. Most of the bulk went on to be sold, but enough remained here-paid by travelers, to be a goodly amount of wealth. Still, it was a small part of every rich load. Some chieftains saw profit in robbing travelers, taking the entire load rather than just a little. So less travelers risked the road. So it became less friendly-and now no-one uses the old trail. I want to open it up again. If we can reach some agreement with the Bulgars or the Golden Horde, Venice could still move cargoes of silk and spices from the east through Trebizond, even if Constantinople is closed to Venetian shipping. Raiding is fun, but the real profit lies in trading."

"Spoken like a Venetian," said Iskander.

"Yes. It has the advantage of being true, too," said Benito dryly. "Look. We have this night put the final veto on to any Illyrian ideas of war with Venice. You did not want it anyway. Why not use the situation to our mutual advantage as well?"

Iskander Beg was silent for a while and then answered. "Because the chieftains of the Illyrian tribes from here to the edges of Macedonia obey me out of choice. Fractiously. I really have little power over them. And raiding is a way of life here. But I will think about it."

Benito rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was something that had bothered him once… to be his father or his grandfather's offspring, and not to be himself. But since then-now on this hillside, again-he'd proved himself. And a weapon was a weapon. You used it when you needed it, before worrying about where it came from. "You may have heard of my grandfather, Duke Enrico Dell'este of Ferrara."

"The Old Fox," said Iskander. "I have done my best to study his tactics. Just because I live in the mountains of Illyria does not mean that I am ignorant, Benito Valdosta."

Benito was sure by now that wherever this man had lived-and he'd bet it wasn't just in the mountains of Illyria-that he was anything but ignorant. "We talked about the Swiss mercenaries once. He said the greatest warriors came from places where nature shaped and honed the men from birth, and frequent combat had tempered them. Harsh places. He also said that the people of such places win battles, but lose long wars."

Iskander raised his eyebrows. "While I accept the first part of his statement-my people have to be as hard as the rock of our mountains or they would die, and they spend what spare time they have in feuding-I do not intend to lose my wars. All our wars here are long. So why does the Old Fox say that we will lose?"