A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 14

There was one aspect of war, at least, that Gar had not had to teach the people of Pirogia. The merchants, and especially the Council, had always had a very healthy interest in the events that happened in and around the other cities—who was buying what, who was selling what, who was in league with whom, who was marching against whom—so the fishermen and the peasants had all known, for many years, that the Council of Pirogia, and some individual merchants, would pay well for information of all sorts. Gar had not had to point out to the Council that intelligence about enemy troop movements was worth even more than general news, and much more hazardous to obtain; the Council had doubled, then tripled, the price of its own accord, and several peasant families who had been burned out by soldiers recovered the whole worth of their farm and livestock just by telling their tale to the officers of the Council. Indeed, that was how the news had come that had panicked the merchants into authorizing the gathering of the army.

Even so, Gianni found it hard to believe that even the peasants whom Gar had persuaded into going out and seeking information again and again, and who brought back hair-raising tales and became amazingly adept at gathering information, could have brought back as much as the giant knew, or brought it as fast as he learned it. He also noticed the new medallion Gar wore pinned over his heart, but assumed it was just a sort of last-ditch armor.

Nonetheless, Gar did tell his officers and the Council that the other merchant cities had already fortified their walls and were training their own armies. That surprised no one, but how could he have learned it so quickly? How could he have discovered that many of the lords had taken their men back to their home cities to punish these insolent upstarts? Above all, how could he have known it a day or two before spies came back to confirm it? Nonetheless, it was apparently true—and when the number of peasants fleeing into Pirogia suddenly increased fivefold, Gar told them the aristocrats’ army was near. The next afternoon, when that army appeared on the ridges across from the city, Gar assured them it was only two-thirds the size it had been.

Whatever its size or condition, Prince Raginaldi knew his one chance when he saw it, and sent a troop of cavalry charging down the slopes and across the seaside plain to catch up with and pass the last of the fleeing peasants, to capture the land bridge and causeway.

But Gar knew the importance of that chance, too, and had sent his soldiers out that morning to hurry the laggards and warn then that the city wouldn’t wait for them. Even the most stubborn had finally abandoned their carts and their goods and fled to the city, riding pillion behind Pirogian cavalrymen—and the last of them cleared the land gate a good quarter-mile ahead of the prince’s army. Two swift-footed volunteers followed the refugees back along the causeway, lighting fuses as they went—and as they ran through the inner gate, the first explosions shook the island. Turning about, they watched spellbound as a huge geyser rose up from the lagoon, scattering bits of the causeway in all directions. Then another section blew, and another, waterspouts marching across the strait toward the inner gate, each shaking the ground beneath it, each with a shorter and shorter fuse.

“Back! Away!” Gar called, and the army took up the cry with him, herding people away from the gate. Protesting, they withdrew, truculent but disturbed by the soldiers’ concern—and discovered the reason, when bits and shards of stone and wood showered the piazza, striking down the gateway itself.

Finally, the last of the explosions died, the last of the deadly rain of shards and scrap fell and ceased—and the whole city watched in deathly quiet as the waves roiled where the causeway had been, and the horsemen a half-mile distant shook their fists and shouted in frustration. Everyone stared; everyone realized how completely cut off from the mainland they were—and everyone realized that the siege of Pirogia had begun.

It was indeed a siege, and could only be a siege, for the inland lords had no idea how to manage a navy. They conscripted every fishing boat they could get; they brought down riverboats while the city men sat and watched—and laughed. Finally, the lords loaded a hundred picked soldiers onto the craft and pushed out from shore.

They were halfway to Pirogia, and the soldiers were cocking their crossbows and nervously readying their halberds, when six of the Pirogia’s caravels came sailing out from behind each side of the island, sailing against the seaward breeze.

The lords’ conscripted fishermen saw, and began to paddle frantically, trying to speed boats that already moved as fast as they could with the wind filling their sails. But the captains shouted, and the caravels shifted tack and glided down onto the ragtag fleet like falcons upon a flock of pigeons. A few of the lords’ soldiers shouted defiance, raising cumbersome muskets to rest against the gunwale, then firing with a huge flash of powder and thunder of noise—but the horses took fright, as did the fishermen, and the musketeers hadn’t realized what recoil would do in a boat. Over they went in a flailing of horse legs and soldiery arms—and troopers cried out in panic, unable to swim. The fishermen, at least, had the sense to swim back and cling to their overturned boat, but the Pirogian sailors, laughing hugely, tossed ropes down next to the soldiers, who caught them and let themselves be fished out like so many bedraggled, wet dogs.

Some other ships, with quick-witted fishermen for captains, furled their sails and tried to dodge the caravels by running oars—but the soldiers, unused to such gyrations, teetered and shouted and lost their balance, knocking one another overboard. In one boat, the fishermen saw their chance and turned on the few remaining soldiers with their oars, tipping them over, knocking them out, then rolling them over the gunwales and rowing for all they were worth toward Pirogia and freedom. The others, slower-witted, more merciful, or more loyal to those who paid them, turned their boats back to haul the soldiers aboard—and were themselves hauled up short by the caravels’ grappling hooks. Marines dropped down into the smaller boats, and the fight between dripping soldier and seawise marine was brief. Even so, a few marines died, but each caravel took its score of soldiers prisoner. Then they turned back to Pirogia, leaving a scattering of wreckage behind them—but most of the boats, intact, drifted behind the caravels, lashed to lines as prizes. A few soldiers’ bodies washed up on the beach that evening, but by that time, ninety-six of their surviving comrades were grumbling around fires in the cellar of the Council house, which was hastily fitted out with bars as an improvised but very effective prison.

But Gar looked out over the scene of their triumph and shook his head. “The prince is saying, ‘Never mind—they must feed a hundred more, and Heaven only knows how many peasants fled to them in the last few days. Their food cannot last long.’ ”

“He doesn’t know that the refugees are swelling the ranks of your army,” Gianni said.

“But their wives and children and elders are not,” Gar reminded him, “and even our soldiers must eat. Is the prince right, Gianni? Will our supplies disappear like a morning’s frost?”

“I saw frost when we wandered in the mountains,” Gianni said thoughtfully, “but I had seen a rain of plenty before that, and all my life.” He pointed toward the bar. “There comes your answer, Gar.”

The giant looked up and saw a caravel tacking in against the offshore breeze.

“Wine from the southlands, grain from the northern shore of the Central Sea,” Gianni said, musing. “Pork from the western shores, beeves from the eastern … No, Gar, we won’t starve. Far from it and that ship bears wool, too, or others will, and every goodwife who has fled to us can card and spin and weave. That ship will take our stout Pirogian cloth back to trade for more food, and will also bear dishes and glassware from the clay and sands of our islands. No, we won’t starve …”

An explosion echoed from the mainland, and they saw a ball flying through the air, straight toward the ship. They held their breaths in an agony of suspense, but the ball splashed into the sea, raising a geyser and rocking the ship, but not harming it. Gianni breathed a sigh of relief. “I didn’t know the lords had a cannon that could shoot even that closely.”

“Neither did I,” Gar replied. “Did any of the lords buy a gun from your armories?”

Gianni frowned. “Not that I know of—and surely no one would have been foolish enough to sell one of the cannon made with the secrets of your new ideas!”

Gar grimaced. “I don’t like the idea of keeping knowledge to ourselves, Gianni—but for once, I must admit secrecy is wise, at least until we have won this …”

The cannon thundered again, and another ball climbed into the sky. Again they held their breath, but as the shot rose to its peak, Gar relaxed. “Too high.”

Sure enough, the ball passed right over the ship and splashed up a spout on its far side. They could hear the sailors’ cheers, though faintly at this distance.

“They’re safe.” Gianni relaxed as well. “No cannoneer could hit a ship at such a distance—but for a minute, I thought he could.”

“He can, and he will,” Gar said grimly. “He has their range now, and the next ball will strike home. Can you signal to the men on the ship?”

Gianni stared up at him in alarm—but before he could turn and run to the signal flags, another shot rang out. He and Gar both watched, holding their breath, as the cannonball arced upward, speeding toward the ship, and sailors struggled to spread some more canvas, hoping against hope that they could outrun the shot …

It smashed into their side just above the waterline; the ship rocked, water poured in, and the caravel began to list toward starboard. They could faintly hear the captain shout, and the crew ran for the longboat. The ship shuddered, swinging over so the deck stood at a sharp angle; sailors skidded and fell overboard.

“That one boat can’t hold them all,” Gar snapped, but Gianni was already sprinting away to send out boats from shore.

Even so, he came too late—a dozen small craft were already springing out into the bay. He watched as they grappled the struggling men from the water—and as the distant cannon boomed, its ball arcing high toward the small craft …

Gianni called out, but other men were shouting aboard the boats, and they all pulled away from the wreck quickly. The ball splashed down, showering them with spray and capsizing two. Their neighbors quickly rowed over, hauled out the men, and righted the boats—but two dead bodies floated in the water. Another boat, arriving late, hauled them aboard; then all the small craft dashed for shore as the cannon boomed again. Another ball splashed down, far from the boats near the wreck.

Gianni turned, face flaming with anger, to see Gar coming up. “They didn’t have to do that, Gar! Shooting down the ship I can understand—it’s war, after all. But to fire on rescue boats is foul!”

“But just the sort of thing the lords might think of,” Gar pointed out. “They mean to punish you, after all—and they also mean to make sure you won’t try to save the cargo. I think you might say they’ve made that clear.”

“Very clear—and that ends our confidence about not starving.” Gianni gazed out at the sinking ship, feeling his heart sink with it. “What can we do about it, Gar?”

“Where there is one gun, there could be more,” the giant said slowly, “but if they had more, they would have used them—and if more than one gunner has the knack of firing so accurately, the others would be firing, too.”

Gianni looked up with a gleam of hope in his eye. “Are you saying that if we can destroy that one gun, we can stop worrying?”

“If we also capture that one gunner,” Gar confirmed. “It’s not a sure thing, mind you, but it’s a good chance.”

“Then it’s certainly worth taking! But why capture? Killing him is easier and less chancy—and after that shot at the boats, I don’t see anything wrong with it! We’d rather capture him if we can, I suppose, but—”

Gar interrupted. “I want to talk to him, Gianni. I want to discover where he learned to shoot so well.”

“But to capture him, we’ll have to go ashore!”

“Exactly,” Gar agreed. “How else did you think we could destroy that one cannon?”

Gianni would never have thought of painting his face black. Wearing all black clothes, yes, and a black head scarf, so he and his men would blend into the shadows—but face paint, never. It didn’t help that Gar made it by mixing soot with a little bacon grease. Gianni decided that secret raiding was not a job of good aroma.

They skimmed ashore in three light boats with muffled oars, one man to an oar for speed. Gar leaped out as they grounded and pulled the first boat up on the beach, lifting the prow high to make less noise. The coxswains of the other boats followed his example. His men stepped out onto the sand in silence, their steps muted by the soft leather slippers with thick padded soles; cobblers had worked all day at Gar’s direction, laboring into the night to make enough of them.

Gar waved his raiders forward. Knives in their teeth, they padded into the tree-shaded blackness of a moonless night.

A sentry seemed to materialize out of the darkness on their right, turning about to look, bored and weary—but the boredom vanished from his face when he saw the raiders, not two feet away from him. His pike came up, and his mouth opened to shout the alarm—but Gianni, galvanized by fear, seized him by the throat, choking off the sound. The man thrashed about, dropping his pike to struggle against Gianni’s grip, but another Pirogian slipped around behind him and struck his head with the sand-filled leather bag Gar had invented. The sentry’s eyes rolled up; he folded, and Gianni let go of his neck to catch him by the tunic and lower him to the ground. He looked up at Volio with a nod of thanks, then turned to follow Gar, who gave them a nod of approval, then led them off into the darkness again.

They had landed as close to the gun as possible, but the lords had been so inconsiderate as to place it well back from the shore. Gar led them along a winding route between groups of one-man tents, staying as far as possible from both canvas and watch-fire embers. They prowled silently through the darkness—until a sudden grunt made them all freeze. Gianni flicked a glance at the sound and saw a grizzled, red-eyed soldier pushing himself up from the ground, reeking of stale beer and growling, “Who ‘n hell is goin’ aroun’ …” Then his eyes widened in alarm as his mouth widened to cry out—and the sandbag hit him alongside the head. His eyes closed as he fell back. Gianni stifled a chuckle; the man was likely to remember them all as a drunken nightmare, and nothing more. He looked up at a hiss from the front; Gar waved them on.

They padded after him through the darkness, keeping a wary eye now for sleepers underfoot—until, suddenly, the cannon loomed before them, darkness out of darkness.

Gar held up a hand, and they froze, for there were sentries, one on each side of the gun. Gianni couldn’t help staring—it was far bigger than any cannon he had seen, its platform holding it at eye level. But Gar was gesturing in the hand language he had worked out before they left, and his raiders cat-footed around the huge barrel, just out of range of the watch fire near the sentry.

What it was that gave them away, Gianni never knew—perhaps someone stepped too heavily, or perhaps another stepped too close to the fire, and its light reflected off his eyes. Whatever the clue, the sentry on the far side shouted, “Enemy!” and swung his halberd. A raider cried out in pain, a cry quickly choked off but loud enough to wake the gun crew; then both sentries were howling as they struck about them with their halberds.

Gianni ducked under a swing and came up to strike with his sandbag. The halberd dropped from nerveless fingers, and Gianni caught it up, turning to meet a stumbling attack from muzzy-headed soldiers. His blade sliced flesh; the man shouted in pain, and his companions dropped back, suddenly afraid of the black-clothed demons who had appeared out of the night. The half-minute’s respite was enough for the other raiders to strike down the gun crew. Gianni handed his halberd to Volio and turned to face a gunner who was dressed more elaborately than the others and was shouting for help as he held off the raiders with sword and dagger. Gianni drew his own sword, though it was considerably shorter than the gunner’s rapier, and leaped in, thrusting and parrying. All about him, soldiers went crazy, yelling and attacking as the raiders fought them off desperately, and Gar shoved a canister into the barrel of the gun. Vincenzio slipped up behind the gunner as he fenced desperately with Gianni, still yammering for aid. Vincenzio swung with his sandbag and the man stiffened, eyes wide; then he crumpled, and Gianni stepped in to catch him across a shoulder.

Then Gar was beside him, flame flaring in his hands, and Gianni saw a long string of some sort vanishing into the cannon’s touchhole. The big man caught up Boraccio, slinging him over a shoulder as he snapped, “Carry the wounded and leave the dead! Flee as though the devil were at your heels!” He turned and charged into the midst of the soldiers facing him, bellowing like a bull. The raiders shouted and charged after him, carrying three wounded men between them—but leaving four others already dead.

The sentries recovered and shouted, chopping at the raiders—but their blows fell short as they pulled back, frightened by the wild men from the darkness.

Then a huge explosion blasted the night. The shock wave bowled men over, raider and soldier alike. “Cover your heads!” Gar shouted, but the raiders had run far enough; the rain of iron fragments fell short of them. Soldiers cried out in pain and shock, but before they could recover, the raiders were up and running again.

Gar led them off into the darkness, circling around to the beach again. All pretense at stealth gone, they struck down any soldier who rose to bar their way, then finally leaped back aboard their boats and shoved off—but only two boats out of three.

A hundred yards out to sea, Gar called a rest. The men leaned on their oars, gasping for breath and staring back at the fire on shore, amazed.

“So much for the cannon,” Gar said. He looked down at the unconscious form at his feet. “Now for the gunner.”

Gianni was sitting on a dock post, watching dawn over the sea, when Gar came up and joined him. “You fought well this night, Gianni.”

“Thank you,” Gianni said, gratified at the praise. “What of the gunner? Did he answer your questions?”

“Yes, and without the slightest hesitation,” Gar said. “It’s almost as though he thinks his answers will frighten us as badly as his gun did.”

Gianni frowned. “Did they?”

“Not a bit; they’re just as I thought they would be. He’s a young knight who’s very progressive. He does admit that they have only one such gun, and only he knew how to aim it, being the only gentleman who was willing to learn his gunnery from the dour and dowdy foreign traders—the Lurgans, of course. They not only taught him to shoot, but also taught his armorers how to make a cannon that could fire so accurately—but it took their smiths three months to make it, and two were killed testing earlier models, so I don’t think we need to worry about the lords making more.”

“Not considering how quickly we destroyed it,” Gianni agreed, “though I doubt we could do it again.”

“You may doubt it, but the lords don’t. Still, our raid may discourage them from making more. If they do, though, they’ll guard them better.”

Gianni glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. “And you’ll be thinking up better ways to overcome their guards?”

Gar answered with the ghost of a smile. “Of course.”

Gianni relaxed, letting himself feel confident again. He turned to see another ship come sailing in, and was delighted not to hear a cannon boom. “So it seems we won’t starve, after all.”

“No,” Gar agreed, “we won’t starve—but the lords may.”

They didn’t, of course—each lord was supplied by the crops and livestock his soldiers stole from the peasants nearby, most of whom were safe in Pirogia. But they had to ranger farther and farther afield each day, and the idle soldiers who stayed in camp began to quarrel among themselves. The prince set them to making ships, but his shipwrights knew only the crafting of riverboats, and the new vessels were scarcely launched before Pirogia’s caravels swooped down to scuttle them, or to bear them away with all their troops. Still the prince forced his soldiers to build, but more and more, they saw the uselessness of their work, and grumbled more and more loudly. Soon they were being flogged daily, and the grumbling lessened—but became all the more bitter for it.

In fact, morale in the besiegers’ camp was lessening so nicely, and any attempt at invading seemed so far away, that the defenders began to relax. In vain did Gar warn them that the old moon was dying, that the dark of the moon would soon be upon them, and that they must be extraordinarily vigilant when the nights were so dark—in vain, because the sentries knew that if they could not see to spy out the enemy, neither could invaders see to attack. So, though they tried to stay alert, that little edge was gone, the edge that makes a man start at shadows and hear menace in every night bird’s call—but that also makes him look more closely at every extra pool of darkness in the night. They relaxed just a little, until the night that the cry went up from the walls, and the alarm sounded.

Gar and Gianni bolted from their beds—it was a lieutenant’s watch—and shouted for lights as they caught up swords and bucklers and ran for the docks. Black-clad men were pouring in from the sea; even the heads of their spears and halberds were painted black, even their faces. By the time Gianni and his men reached them, they were streaming into the plaza, and there was no sign of the Pirogian sentries.

They had served their city well by crying out before they died. Gianni shouted, “Revenge! Revenge for our sentries!” and threw himself into the middle of the advancing mob, sword slashing and thrusting. Finally the attackers shouted in alarm and anger; pole-arms swept down, but Gianni was too close for any blade to strike him, leaping in and out, shouting in rage, thrusting with his sword as Gar had taught him. Behind him, his men blared their battle cry and struck the invaders, alternating between stabbing and striking with the butts of their spears, quarterstaff style—again, as Gar had taught them. Men screamed and died on both sides, but still the attackers came on.

There seemed no end to them; the black-clad men kept coming and coming, and Gianni’s arms grew heavy with thrusting and parrying. But there was no end to the Pirogian soldiers, either, and they were fighting for their homes and their loved ones, not just for pay or fear of an officer.

Light flared with a muffled explosion; the fighters froze for a moment, all eyes turned to the source—and saw flames billowing high into the night.

“The caravel!” Gianni screamed. “Anselmo’s Kestrel, that was tied up at harbor! They have burned our food, they would starve us! Have at them! Hurl them into their own fire!”

His men answered with a shout of rage and surged forward. Gianni sailed before them, borne on their tide, thrusting and slashing with renewed vigor, pressing the attackers back, back, out of the plaza and onto the docks, then back even farther, off the wood and into the water.

The lords’ soldiers cried out in fear and turned to flee into the harbor. Gianni froze, scarcely able to believe his eyes. The invaders were standing out there on the water, helping those who swam to climb to their feet! More amazing still, they seemed to be going without moving their legs, drifting away …

Drifting! Now Gianni knew what to look for—and sure enough, the light of the burning ship showed him the balks of timber beneath the soldiers’ feet. They had come on rafts, simple rafts but huge ones, painted black. They had hidden against the darkness of the water itself, and guided themselves by the city’s blotting out of the stars until they could see the lights of the watch fires!

“Archers!” Gianni shouted. “Stand ready! If they seek to come back, let fly!”

But the archers didn’t wait—they sent flight after flight against the men on the rafts, who fell to the wood with shouts of fear or cries of pain. Some knelt on each raft and began to paddle furiously. Slowly, the cumbersome craft moved away from the docks.

Gar came panting up, blood running from cuts on his cheeks and brow and staining the fabric of sleeves and tights. “Where have you been?” Gianni snapped, then saw the man’s wounds and was instantly sorry. “Your pardon …”

“Given,” Gar panted, “and gladly. It was not only here that they came ashore, but at every dock and water stair all around the island. I suspected it the instant I heard the alarm and ordered troops to every such site. Then I led my marines from one outbreak of clamor to another. We have run long, Gianni, but we have pushed the lords’ men back into the sea.”

“It was well done,” Gianni said, eyes wide. “You are wounded, Gar!”

“Nothing but cuts,” the giant told him, “and you have a few yourself.”

“Do I really?” Gianni touched his cheek and was amazed to see the hand come away bloodied.

Gar looked him up and down quickly. “Again, nothing of any danger, but we shall have to see the physician to be sure. I fear many of our men came off much worse—and many more of the enemy.”

“Yes …” Gianni’s gaze strayed to a black-clothed heap near them. “The poor slaves … How did they ever think of a ruse so simple, yet so subtle?”

“They didn’t,” Gar said, lips pressed thin. “This is not the sort of thing that would occur to a Taliponese nobleman raised on tales of chivalry and battle glamour. Test that man’s tunic, Gianni. Try to tear it.”

Puzzled, Gianni knelt by the corpse and yanked at the fabric. It gave not at all. “Silk?” he asked, amazed. “For thousands of warriors?”

“Not silk.” Gar handed down his dagger. “Cut it.” Gianni tried. He tried hard, even sawed at it. Finally, he looked up at Gar in amazement. “What is this stuff?”

“The mark of the Lurgan traders,” Gar told him, “and if you tested that black face paint he wears, you would find it to be no simple lampblack and tallow, but something far more exotic. The Lurgans told the lords how to plan this raid, Gianni, and gave them the materials to make it work.”

Gianni stared up, appalled. “Are they war advisers now?”

“Apparently so,” Gar said darkly. “We knew they recognized Pirogia as a threat, didn’t we?”

And yourself, Gianni thought, staring up at the grim, craggy face—but he most definitely didn’t say it.

From that time on, the sentries stayed alert again, staring twice at every shadow—but needlessly, as it turned out. There were no more night raids, for Pirogian caravels patrolled the channel between the city and the mainland. The grumbling in the lords’ camp grew ever worse, and morale ever lower, according to the reports from the spies there. The Pirogians welcomed each new caravel that brought them food, and toasted its sailors with the wine from its casks. Gar, of course, grew more and more tense, more and more hollow-eyed, stalking the battlements muttering to himself. Finally, Gianni asked him why, and Gar answered, “Things are going too well.”

Very well, indeed, for the people of Pirogia. Even better, courier boats brought word from other cities, and caravels took arms to them—but they were all port cities, and none lacked for food. They were having more difficulty defending their walls, since only Pirogia had a natural moat to protect it—but none of the inland lords had so very big an army by himself, and all his allies were sitting and fuming outside the walls of their own merchant towns, or with the prince at Pirogia. Gar sent cannons and crossbows and advice, and watched the stew boiling in the prince’s camp with a grin.

They also seemed to lack knowledge of sanitation, these inland soldiers who had never lived in groups of more than a hundred with no less than a mile between villages. It wasn’t long before the offshore wind bore their stench to Pirogia, and the soldiers the Pirogians captured in their endless sinking of new vessels told tales of dysentery and cholera stalking the camp.

“They’re weakening nicely,” Gar told Gianni, “but the noblemen only have to learn better siege tactics, and I’m sure they won’t lack for advisers.”

Gianni thought of the fake Gypsies and the dour Lurgan traders, and nodded. “Do they really know so much of war?”

“No,” Gar admitted, “but they have no shortage of books to tell them of it.”

Gianni stared—he certainly hadn’t thought there would be much room for books in the caravans—but he didn’t doubt Gar.

The Wizard appeared in Gianni’s dream that night, and told you, You do well, you and your giant barbarian. You hold the lords at bay, here and all around the coastline—but that is not enough.

What then? Gianni asked, amazed.

You must give them reason to leave, and more importantly, an honorable reason to leave—of a sort.

Gianni frowned. What sort of reason could there be, for giving up ignominiously and going home?

A diversion, said the Wizard, and explained.

Gar thought it was a capital idea when Gianni repeated the explanation to him. “Wonderful!” he cried, slapping his knee. “How do you think of these things, Gianni?”

“I really haven’t the faintest idea.” For his part, Gianni was just glad it had been Gar’s knee and not his own.

That night, when the docks were dark and deserted except for the sentries Gar kept posted, a hundred marines with fifteen gunners, ten horses, and five cannon boarded two long, lean, dark-colored ships—captured galleys outfitted with proper sails. Off they went into the night, and as far as Pirogia was concerned, they ceased to exist for a week. Gar and Gianni were both with them, leaving the captain of the guard in command with Vincenzio as his second. The scholar had shown an amazing talent for commanding men; Gianni thought it came from his years of cajoling and maneuvering people into giving him money and helping him go from town to town, saving to return to the university.

By dusk, they were well past the prince’s lines, and far enough to the north that a single night’s march should take them to Tumanola, the Raginaldis’ city. The galleys rowed into a little bay as far as they could and anchored; then longboats began the tedious process of ferrying men and equipment ashore. When they were all gathered, the galley weighed anchor but rowed only as far away as the shadows of the high bluffs that warded the little port. The marines hoisted their packs and began to march, the gunners right behind them with their horses.

It was a long march, and all the men gazed down with relief when they came to the top of the slope that led down to Tumanola. Gar wouldn’t let them rest, though, until they had all moved silently into the positions he assigned them, and camouflaged themselves. Then he posted sentries and let his marines collapse gratefully behind their blinds. Gianni collapsed, too, and took what sleep he could, until Gar waked him to take the second watch. Gianni spent the next four hours moving as silently as he could from sentry post to sentry post, but always found his men awake, if not terribly alert. He glowed with pride, and was quite unsure that he would be able to keep the vigil as well as they, with so little sleep—but he did.

Gar woke them all at dawn. They breakfasted as they had supped—on clear water, cold journey bread, and jerky. Then, as the sun warmed the earth, Gar gave the signal for the bombardment to begin.

Cannon boomed to the east and west of the city, slamming boulders into the walls. Alarms rattled inside the city, and the home guard came running to the ramparts. They couldn’t know that the booming from east and west came from cannon with no ammunition to throw, that now belched only blank charges; they could only assume the gunners were very poor shots.

But the three cannon before the central gate had boulders and iron balls and fired at five-minute intervals, each shot striking the city gates.

How could they hold? It was amazing they lasted the hour. But when they began to crack worse and worse with each shot, the home guard gathered around, crossbows and pikes at the ready—so as the final shots crashed through the wood, splintering the huge panels, they didn’t hear the shouts of alarm from the few sentries left along the wall as scaling ladders slammed into place and grapnels bit into the top of the wall. Those sentries ran to push the ladders away, shouting for all they were worth, but they were too few, and the marines swarming up the wall to their grapnels were far greater in number than those on the ladders. In five minutes, Gar’s marines held the ramparts, and Gar himself was leading the assault on the gate from the west while Gianni led from the east. The defenders finally heard them coming, in lulls between purposeless cannon fire; they turned just in time for bolts and spears to bring them down. A few of them did manage to shoot a bolt or hurl a spear, and a few marines died, but the rest of it was slaughter until the soldiers threw up their arms, shouting for mercy.

“Hold!” Gar shouted, and his men froze in midstride. “Sergeants, send men to secure the prisoners!” he snapped. “Soldiers of Tumanola! You have fought well, but you have been outflanked! Lay down your arms and mercy will be yours!”

Warily, the soldiers laid down their pikes and crossbows, and marines stepped up to lash their arms behind them. Then, with the soldiers lined up against the wall and sitting, bound with a score of marines to guard them, the rest advanced on the castle.

“It looks formidable indeed.” Gianni shuddered, remembering.

“It looks so, yes,” Gar agreed, “but we know better, don’t we, Gianni? After all, we’ve been inside—and there can’t be more than a few score soldiers left to guard it, since most of them are with the prince at Pirogia.”

Gianni looked up in surprise, but when he saw Gar’s grin, he began to smile, too.

The only difficult part of the siege of the castle was bringing the cannon up the slope into firing position opposite the drawbridge. The defenders started a hail of bolts even before the gunners and their horses came in range—which gave the marines a convenient supply of ammunition as they moved up the slope ahead of the cannon, keeping up such a continuous fire that the defenders could scarcely lift their heads above the wall. The drawbridge fell as cannonballs broke its chains, and struck the shore with a boom almost equaling that of the artillery. Then the gunners sent buckets of nails over the parapets to keep the defenders down while Gar led his marines charging across the bridge, ramming spears through the arrow slits in the gatehouse and firing in staggered ranks, the back row finishing reloading and running to the front as the first rank retired.

The continuous fire kept most of the defenders prudently down; the few bold ones died with bolts in their chests. A few marines died, too, but their mates came up behind the defenders and grappled hand to hand, knocking them out. Then, in parties of a dozen, they went through the castle from top to bottom, until they were satisfied that it was completely secure.

“A whole city and its castle taken with only a hundred men!” Gianni was dizzy at the thought.

“Yes, but there were only three hundred defending it,” Gar reminded him. “We did lose twenty-three men, too.” At the thought, his face turned somber.

“My husband shall be revenged upon you!” the princess raged. “You lowborn upstarts shall learn the meaning of royal wrath! You shall be hanged, but cut down before you are dead, then have your entrails drawn forth before your still-living eyes! The end shall come only when your bodies are cut in four pieces and hung up as warnings throughout the city!”

“Perhaps, Highness,” Gar said with grave courtesy, “but until your royal husband comes, you shall keep to your apartments with all your ladies. Guards, escort them!” Still, it was he himself who stalked behind the princess, and one look at the determination in his eyes left her no doubt that he would pick her up and carry her bodily if he had to. She shuddered and turned away, lifting her chin and marching proudly to her chambers.

With her shut in and well guarded, and all the castle’s servants and defenders locked in the dungeons, Gianni finally asked, “How long before the prince learns his castle is taken?”

“He knows already.” Gar nodded toward the highest tower. “Remember the stone egg? I’m sure the princess used it before she came down to rebuke us. In fact, let’s go and listen.”

Puzzled, Gianni followed Gar up to the high tower. Sure enough, they found the egg already talking to itself, the heavily accented Lurgan voice alternating with the prince’s. “Leave at least a partial force to keep the Pirogians in,” the Lurgan voice pleaded.

“Why?” snapped the prince in his cultured (but infuriated) tone. “They come and go as they please in their confounded caravels! Take Pirogia yourselves, if you need it! I and all my allies go to take back my ancestral city and house!”

Gianni cheered, and so did the marines who heard with him. The cheering ran down the stairs and through the garrison, but Gar only stood watching the stone with glowing eyes.

He was up in that room now and then for the next few days, as they waited for the prince and his men. The marine couriers moved more quickly on the converted galleys, and the army of Pirogia moved just as quickly in more of the same ships. They came marching through the gates of Tumanola a full day before the prince and his troops came in sight. They drew up their lines that night, and thousands of campfires blossomed outside the city walls. Gar walked the parapets, reassuring his men; Gianni took his message to the rest of the defenders. “Be warned. Tomorrow, huge metal fish may drop from the skies and fire lightning bolts. Don’t be frightened, for a golden wheel will strike them out of the air.”

He didn’t believe a word of either promise himself, but he did ask Gar about it later. “Where could these metal fish come from, and how could they fly?”

“By magic,” Gar said, with a brittle smile, and Gianni could only sigh for patience. “As to where, they shall come from the Lurgan Company—and the golden wheel will be Herkimer.”

Gianni frowned. “You mean from this wizard Herkimer, don’t you?”

“No,” Gar said, and wouldn’t explain it any further.

The barrage began at dawn, but most of the shot fell short—the prince’s cannon were nowhere nearly as good as those of Pirogia, whose foundries had worked according to Gar’s advice. Gar’s gunners managed to shoot down their opponents methodically, one by one, and the prince, in exasperation, ordered his army to charge.

It was suicidal even at a hundred yards, for Gar’s gunners had all the buckets in the city now, and all the nails. The prince’s men died as they ran—but between cannon shots, the remnant came closer and closer. They faltered, though, as they realized they were being driven to certain death—and it was then that the metal fish came swooping from the skies.

“Away from the guns!” Gar shouted, and his gunners leaped back and kept running, just before lightning stabbed down from the bloated, gray metal fish shapes. Two guns disappeared in a gout of flame and a thunderclap. The Pirogian soldiers moaned with fear and scrambled to duck down behind crenels or shields—but on the plain below, the prince’s army gave a shout of triumph and charged forward.

Then the huge golden wheel came plunging after the fish.