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  He left the roadway in haste. Horses, and a double-span of donkeys struggling to drag a heavy cannon, were coming along it. Horses took a great aversion to this body-form. They would smell him out and chase and kick him if they could. This road was busy with troops and cannons coming along it. By evening at least a third of the guns would be in place. Already the pounding thunder was beginning. The shaman wrinkled his nose in distaste. He didn't like the smell of gunpowder either. It was a new thing. The shaman hated new things.

  Chapter 44

  "It's not that serious, Hildi!" Bjarni's voice was gruff, but underneath the impatience was affection, she could tell. "Just a few fragments of rock knocked off by a bullet. Head wounds always bleed like mad. Don't fuss about it. Just bandage it up so that when Kari or Gulta come back with a way out of here for us we can go. We might have to leave the horses."

  "But they are such beautiful horses!" Svanhild protested, wrapping a torn section of her petticoat around her brother's head and ear. Now she was glad she had some of those travesties of Venetian gowns that her brothers had insisted she have made up. The masses of petticoats made excellent bandages. "If we leave them behind—those Magyars—"

  "They won't be hurt. It's us they're after, not the horses." Bjarni managed a strained chuckle. "Actually, those brutes treat their horses better than they treat their wives. The horses will probably be better off with them."

  Gulta and Kari scrambled down into the cave mouth. "There's only one other way out, like I said, Bjarni. And they've got people up there. Rolled a rock down on us."

  "But there are a good few caves up there," said Gulta. "Looks like one of them is used. We could hide Svanhild up there."

  Svanhild raised herself up. "I can shoot better than most of the men. And I will stand with my clan, not hide up in some other cave. We cannot get out of this valley? Well, so what? They cannot get in, either. We have food and water. Let them sit out there."

  She did not add that if her brothers and hearthmen died, and she were hiding in a cave, her best option would be to fling herself off the side of the mountain.

  "And tonight we'll slip out and cut a few throats," said Kari evilly.

  Bjarni regarded him with a jaundiced eye. "Well, if they can get to shoot into the cave mouth the ricochets will kill us."

  "Without being able to shoot around corners they'll hard pressed to do that," pointed out Hrolf. "From the lip over there we can target anyone who comes into the valley. They can't even roll rocks onto us. And there is not enough growing here to burn properly."

  Bjarni sniffed. "They don't have to. They'll smoke us out."

  * * *

  The villa was still standing as Erik and Benito rode toward it. Not torched, as most of the others they'd seen so far. The presence of Thalia, the peasant girl they'd rescued, had a very beneficial effect. They'd been forced to the back paths and side roads by patrols. She had actually managed to draw the hastily hiding or fleeing peasants back to them to get some directions. They would have struggled to find their way, otherwise.

  Erik kicked his horse into a gallop when the villa Dentico came in sight, and rode straight up to it, as hard and as fast as he could make the horse gallop.

  Benito, clinging to Thalia as she followed Erik, knew from Erik's own lectures that this was plain foolishness. He also knew stopping Erik would be beyond his ability.

  Besides, Thalia was the one in control of this four-hoofed bollock-cruncher, not him. He was just trying to stay on.

  Erik dismounted in a leap, and ran into the house calling "Svanhild! Svanhild!" at the top of his lungs. Alerting every single enemy within hearing distance, or lying in wait in the villa, that there was someone up here. Benito winced; he had expected nothing less.

  Erik did at least have that tomahawk in his hand.

  Benito dismounted with as much skill as he could muster, and pelted after Erik. "Catch his horse. And stay out here!" he shouted to Thalia. What he expected to find in there would be no sight for her. He raced into the villa with the Shetlander knife in his hand, wishing desperately for his rapier.

  However, what Benito found was merely Erik, examining some bloodstains in the hallway. The blood had long since dried and gone a reddish brown, but a fair amount of it was splattered onto the whitewashed walls in various spots. There had been a lot of killing done here.

  Benito swallowed. "Erik. I'm sorry."

  But to his astonishment, Erik smiled at him. "It wasn't their blood. Or at least, not all their blood."

  He ventured closer, and peered at the bloodstains as Erik was doing. He couldn't see how Erik could tell anything from them. "Vinlander blood is a different color?" ventured Benito.

  Erik swatted his ear. From past comparative experience, Benito knew he was doing it gently. "No, you young idiot. There are no bodies. Somebody took the bodies away. I don't see that being the Hungarians, not if the bodies were Svanhild and her people. And with that many men and this much blood splashed about . . . I don't see that they'd have just captured everyone."

  Well, it made sense when Erik pointed it out, if you accepted the idea that the Hungarians wouldn't take away the bodies of their victims. "So what happened?"

  Erik shrugged. "How would I know? But at least they made a fight of it. They weren't caught unawares because there are no bloodstains anywhere except here."

  Presumably Erik had already been everywhere but there. "So where do we go now?"

  "We try to track them," said Erik, heading for the front door. "Ask anyone we can find, I suppose. It isn't going to be easy. Actually, I should say I try to track them. You should get up to the north coast and see if you can find a fisherman willing to transport you."

  "The siege isn't going anywhere," he pointed out. "I can help you find them."

  Erik shook his head. "With the numbers of men and guns that Emeric is moving in, this is going to be no light siege. And no besieged castle is that secure anyway. Days can count, Benito. Days mean lives. Lives of people like Thalia. I am a knight sworn to defend them. That doesn't mean I can let you waste time. Duty is not a narrow thing; you have yours, and I have mine. Mine is to find Svanhild if I can, then get back to Manfred with all possible speed. Yours is to make all possible speed to Venice, or at least to someone who can get help from Venice."

  "I suppose so, Erik. But . . ." he began.

  "Just make all possible speed to Venice. Do it, Benito."

  They were outside in the courtyard by now. And Benito realized that Thalia wasn't. He tensed, heart suddenly racing . . . But there were the horses, tied up carefully.

  Thalia was outside the wall, talking to a very nervous boy of twelve or thirteen. "He says the people who were staying here went north, on the horses of the raiders. He says they killed those who attacked, all of them. He says the soldiers came two days ago, and took the bodies. They've been looking for people to question. There are some of the soldiers in the next valley."

  "Ask him if there was a woman with the people who got away. A woman with long blond hair."

  The boy nodded. He made an unmistakable gesture with his hands. Benito had to stifle a laugh. Manfred had said she was top-heavy. "It looks like we go north together after all, Erik."

  Erik nodded, and Benito had the satisfaction of seeing that it was not with reluctance. "As long as our paths run together, yes. Let us go now, before those soldiers come back. "

  They rode out, heading for the mountainous north of the island. "Do you have any idea where we're going?" Benito asked Thalia, as they headed up toward the ridge through the olive grove.

  "North. Up there. I have never been up there. They say it is very different." Thalia spoke as if she was referring to a different continent instead of a few miles off. She pointed to Mount Pantocrator. "There is a very holy place up there. There is another one near Paleokastritsa where my Aunt Eleni went when she was young."

  She shivered suddenly, for no apparent reason. "But that is not men's business."

  More to distract he
r from whatever thought this had been, Benito asked: "But haven't you been up to the north? I need to find a fishing harbor to find a boat that will take me over to Italy."

  She shook her head. "I have been to Kérkira. Twice!"

  That made her a well-traveled woman, in her opinion. After all, Corfu-town was at least a league away. Corfiote men traveled; women didn't.

  Well, war had the effect of changing things. By now Corfiote women were doing all manner of things they'd never done before.

  * * *

  Benito was exhausted. It hadn't been possible to ride all day, as the heroes in the stories had. For starters, it looked like Emeric's commanders were finally starting to get themselves organized. There were patrols to dodge. And they'd spotted several guard posts being set up on hilltops. Fortunately, it appeared that Erik's combat experience against the Vinland tribes and with clan feuds on Iceland had involved a great deal of just this sort of warfare.

  They were moving steadily north, at least. Benito's clothes were dry, which was something he was grateful for. His belly button was meeting his backbone, his stomach was that empty, but he kept reminding himself that he'd been this hungry and more before, and hadn't died of it. And Thalia was drooping in the saddle. Maybe she hadn't paddled a leaky coracle out of a besieged fortress, but she'd had the worst day of her life.

  And it wasn't showing any signs of being over; Erik was driving them relentlessly. According to several peasants he'd found and questioned, with Thalia's assistance, the northern villages had closed their gates and were holding off the marauding bands. Not that this would do them any good when the Hungarians stopped being marauding bands and started being segments of an army; but for now, they were holding their own. None of the peasants had seen the Vinlanders, but that was hardly surprising. The sound of horses' hooves was enough to send the peasantry diving for cover.

  At the last guard post, Erik had left the two of them and gone on a lone sortie. He'd returned, cleaning his tomahawk fastidiously. And smiling.

  "They haven't found them yet, anyway. The guard told me about what happened at Dentico villa. The Magyars are furious, but they think they're after a bunch of Venetians. They have been trying to track them for days. They've gone to the northwest. There are several villages up there that are walled and resisting."

  "There is one near the coast at Paleokastritsa, where many of the women go to the shrine," volunteered Thalia.

  Benito sighed. "Do you think this shrine-place is serving dinner?"

  Erik reached into his sling-bag. "The guard up there had some bread that he won't be needing any more." He pulled out a flat country loaf. "He had some wine, too, but I knew you wouldn't want that."

  Benito glared at him. "Erik! I'll kill you!"

  Erik hauled out a clay flask, miraculously unbroken. "It killed him," he said grimly. "Fortunately there isn't enough left to kill you. I hope."

  Erik had also helped himself to the guard's pike and his arquebus. The latter was filthy enough to give Erik the mutters. Still, with wine and bread in them, pressing on seemed easier. At last they saw a patch of lights.

  "A town that isn't deserted. It must be one of the ones that is holding out." Erik peered through the dusk at them. "They can't last long."

  "Could be a Hungarian camp," Benito observed, wearily.

  "True," Erik sounded positively cheerful. "But we'll have to sneak a closer look to tell. Probably have more fleas than people in it, though."

  Benito groaned. "If it is a town, and so long as it don't fall tonight, and they've got a place for us to sleep, I'll be pleased to meet the fleas."

  "Our chances of getting in tonight are nonexistent," said Erik, urging his tired horse forward. "Unless it is a Hungarian camp, of course. In which case we won't get out. It's far more likely to be a Hungarian camp."

  He was wrong about the Hungarian camp. He was also wrong about the town letting them in. Refugees had been coming up the steep narrow track for a week now, most of them by night.

  Benito, Thalia and Erik found themselves with several others, requesting entry to Paleokastritsa. Benito found no trouble in understanding just why it hadn't been sacked. It didn't look large enough to be worth the huge effort it would take.

  * * *

  "Stand against the wall. Now take all your weapons off. Once that is done you can come forward one at a time. Remember, any false moves and you'll be shot from up here."

  * * *

  Paleokastritsa was crowded. A place to sleep . . . well, eventually they joined some thirty others, sleeping on the church floor.

  Erik was right about the fleas, though.

  Chapter 45

  Benito woke to the certain knowledge that he was getting soft. Sleeping on a cold stone floor might once have been luxury. After all, he was dry, and the other sleepers kept the place relatively warm. But the stone was a lot harder than what he had become used to. Erik and Thalia were already up. So he assumed, at any rate, because they weren't lying on the stone next to him.

  Benito got himself up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, bowed to the altar, and walked off to find either the others or the town fountain. He hadn't slept that deeply for many years, and he knew that if he was going to keep alive out here, he was going to have to go back to the habits of his days as an unwanted and uninvited secret tenant in people's attics. He'd have to learn to sleep with his senses keyed again, where the slightest sound would wake him. Only, he had been so tired when they first arrived, he knew he couldn't have slept lightly. Now he was just so hungry, he couldn't have slept at all.

  The first familiar face he saw, also at the town's fountain, belonged to neither Erik nor Thalia. The Corfiote sailor no longer had his black eye. The sailor looked at Benito. Blinked. Looked again.

  Benito hoped that this wouldn't get unpleasant. He was fairly sure he could deal with the man's inept knife-skills. What he didn't want was the trouble that would inevitably follow. He also didn't want his identity nosed about. It might not cause trouble—but there could be ears out here in the street that it shouldn't come to. Benito glanced about. There was no one in earshot, at least.

  The sailor shook his head. "I'll be damned! Just what are you doing here, Case Vecchie?"

  He didn't say it too loudly, or with any malice. Benito decided to chance friendliness. If he remembered rightly, the sailor from Bari had called him "Spiro."

  "Trying not to give away that I am a Case Vecchie, Spiro. Do me a favor. Don't shout or call any attention to it or I might have to remind you how we last met. And I don't want to do that; I've got plenty of trouble as it is."

  The man didn't really seem to have heard. Instead he was studying Benito intently. "You are him!" he said unbelievingly. "You really are him!"

  "I really don't want everyone to know, Spiro," Benito repeated, fixing him with a stare.

  The sailor grinned widely. "Safe enough with me, milord. I owe you."

  Benito noticed that a couple of people were staring at them. He clapped Spiro on the shoulder, and turned the gesture into an arm around the sailor's shoulders, as if they were old friends. Which, at the moment, Benito really hoped was the case. "Let's go and find some wine. I was going to drink some of the water, but I've decided that I'm really not that thirsty."

  Spiro looked skeptical. "Right now, wine in Paleokastritsa is damn near as expensive as wine in Venice. And I'm afraid I'm broke again, milord, even if I owe you a drink or two."

  "For heaven's sake, call me Benito. Forget the 'milord.' And the wine is on me, and something to eat, if you can forget that fact. Venetian Case Vecchie are not popular right now. Out there, the Hungarians want to kill us for protecting the island. From what I can work out, the Corfiotes in here want to kill us for not protecting the island."

  Spiro shrugged. "As you're buying the wine, I wouldn't dream of killing you, m . . . Benito."

  "Afterwards is a different story," said Benito wryly.

  Spiro chuckled. "After a few glasses of wine even the stupidest idea
can sound like a good one. But I did learn that that was a really, really insanely stupid one. So what are you doing here, m . . . Benito?"

  "I'll tell you about it over that cup of wine. Where do we find one?"

  Spiro pointed across the square at dark doorway. "Papavanakis'. His taverna is dirty, it smells, his wife's face would curdle milk and I think he waters his wine."

  Benito grinned. "So why are we drinking there?"

  Spiro shrugged and grinned back. "At least what he's putting in the wine is water. And he is less of a thief than most of them."

  They strolled over and went into the dim coolness out of the already bright day. Benito blinked, adjusting his eyes to the lack of direct sunlight. The taverna was clean and smelled of food and wine. Fresh bread and meaty smells, and the wine wasn't slightly used by prior customers. The pretty young woman behind the counter scowled at them. "Not you again, Spiro! Go away. Not another cup will I give you until you pay."

  Spiro nodded to Benito. "See what I mean," he said mournfully. "Curdle milk, that face would."

  She snorted and pretended to throw a wine cup at him. It was obviously an old joke. "Go away, Spiro. Papas will kill me if I give you any more credit."

  Spiro gestured expansively. "It's all right, Anna. Beni here is paying."

  The woman raised her eyebrows. "With the same coin as you pay? Or real money?"

  Benito produced a silver penny.

  "You shouldn't show her that much!" said Spiro. "She'll faint and we'll never see any wine. Or that food you promised me. It's been a while since I ate."

  The taverna's keeper clicked her tongue. "He's impossible. How did he talk you into wasting good money on him?" She said it with perfect amiability, while filling two wine cups.

  Benito realized that Spiro had addressed her in Italian Frankish . . . and that she'd replied in the same way. Plainly, by her accent and rapidity of speech, it was her mother-tongue. He'd been keeping his own mouth shut to play down his origins but it now seemed safe enough. "He borrowed money from me. He's had it for a year. So now he says I owe him interest," said Benito, earnestly.