From the shelter of the pines high up on the slope, Erik's small force watched and waited. Erik now had seventeen men. Some Venetian settlers, some locals with grudges, and Kari and his two brothers. They were about a mile and half south of the Citadel, above the oil-store that Emeric's men had taken over as their storage depot. The huge forty-eight-pound bombards took a lot of powder and it had to be stored somewhere a safe distance from the battlefront. There were some forty Serb pikemen doing guard-shifts and ten Croat light cavalry riding patrols.
The worst of Emeric's forces, Erik suspected. Probably a punishment duty for the Croats, as most of their comrades were still looting among properties that had not yet been picked over. The cavalry patrols consisted of going to a nearby village and sifting through the ruins for anything that even looked like loot, or sleeping. The guards at the gunpowder magazine looked unseasoned, and already looked bored. They were certainly lackadaisical about the patrols around their new palisade.
Erik and Kari had crept within twenty yards. From here Erik could see facial expressions and, if he'd been able to speak Serbian, could have eavesdropped. Erik studied the guards, their positions and their camp. Then they leopard-crawled back to the pines.
Giuliano had a surprise for them there. A shepherd boy who had come upon the group had been hastily seized and persuaded they weren't going to kill him. In fact he could profit by telling them about the Hungarian magazine.
"He says there is a place at the back where the stones prevented them from digging the logs in. There are some small gaps. He has crawled in and stolen some things."
Erik sighed. "Now Kari will have to moan about how this crawling is ruining his breeches again. We'd better go and have a look-see."
Kari snorted and examined his knees, rubbing the material. "I wouldn't say no to a decent set of buckskins. These weren't meant for this work. This is almost too easy, Erik. We go in this hole, cut a few throats, and set fire to it."
Erik shook his head. "When that lot blows . . . well, I want to be at least a half-mile away and traveling. We might go in that way but we're going to have to get out fast. That means by the gate and onto a horse as quickly as possible."
King Emeric had been modeling things again. He pointed now to the model of the Citadel of Corfu; to the channel between it and the mainland. "How is the progress with the moles going, Count Dragorvich?"
The stocky count, Emeric's chief siegemaster, rubbed his chin reflectively. "If we worked on one at a time I could have one done in three weeks. But the two-pronged approach means progress is slower. Maybe five weeks? The channel is quite deep and we're under heavy bombardment. The mine is not going to work for now, Your Majesty. Water comes in as fast as we can take it out with a bucket-chain, and the diggers are not even at sea level yet. The ground is still saturated from the winter rains. Summer's only begun."
"I'll get the guns to focus on the south and north towers," said Emeric. "That's where their guns are firing onto the moles from. We'll leave off pounding the gate and the rest of the walls for a while."
An officer came hastily out of the dark and into the king's pavilion. Once there, he stood rigidly before the king. Emeric acknowledged the Magyar cavalry commander with a curt nod. "Ah. Colonel. How go things with sacking of the Venetian estates? Any resistance?"
The colonel sneered. "These Venetians are soft, Sire. There have been a few minor bits of fighting, but we've barely lost men. A couple of Croats who were where they weren't supposed to be. A checkpoint guard. But other than that, nothing much."
"You've taken appropriate retribution for these incidents, I trust?"
"Sire, the problem is: On whom? The peasants have hidden out in the hills. We've caught some, of course, but most of them just aren't there, and the men haven't left those they've caught in one piece. As for the Venetians . . . most of them have been killed anyway. So, Sire, the problem is there is no one to extract retribution from. There are few walled towns we haven't bothered with, but anything we can get to has been dealt with hard already."
Emeric pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "I think it is time to stop using the sword on peasants, Colonel. It's time for the knout, instead. We need someone to work the land here. Pass the instruction to your men. Hunt the maquis. Round them up, put them to work. There is no need to be gentle, however. And any resistance still gets the sword. Or make an example of one of them on a sharpened stake."
"Yes, Sire."
In the darkness Erik sucked in his breath and squeezed his body forward through the gap. A ten-year-old shepherd might fit through it easily enough. A hundred-and-ninety-pound Icelander was a different matter altogether. He pushed forward.
Someone grabbed him by the hair.
"Got you, you thieving bastard," said the grabber. "Hey, boys, I've got him!"
Erik was in an awkward situation. One arm was still trapped in the gap between the two logs. His tomahawk and knife were on the wrong side of the barrier. Clawing upwards with one hand he managed to grab his assailant by the shirt front and hauled.
"Let go!"
Something smashed against Erik's ear. Suddenly the hand grasping his hair went slack. The man Erik was holding by the shirtfront flopped toward him. Pulling himself forward and rolling over, Erik saw Kari jump off the palisade, land in front of him and retrieve his knife from the man's back . . . And a guard came running up.
The guard saw Kari, his fallen companion, but not Erik. Erik snagged the newcomer's ankle as he rushed at Kari with a spear thrust that would have spitted the young Vinlander like a pigeon. The result of Erik's intervention was that he pole-vaulted on the spear to land in a crumpled heap at Kari's feet. The Vinlander leaned over and hit the guard with calculated force on the back of the head.
Erik had by this stage struggled free. "Wait!" he whispered to the others just through the hole. Grabbing a victim each, Kari and he hastily dragged them into the deep shadows.
No more guards came. So, after waiting perhaps a hundred heartbeats, Erik called the rest through.
Thalia came first. "You were supposed to stay with the horses!"
"There is work to be done," she said with a grim intensity, hands on her hips, but still holding a knife. "On Corfu, women work. I am here to do it. I've cut a pig's throat, and I don't see the difference between this filth and a pig, except that pigs are better."
Erik saw no point in a stand-up argument. Besides, as he'd learned on the Vinland frontier, a determined woman can be a lot more deadly than a reluctant male warrior.
"What happened?" whispered the plump Giuliano, after they'd popped him out of the hole like a cork from a bottle of petillant wine.
"That young shepherd wasn't as undetected as he thought," Erik whispered grimly. "The guards had set a trap for him. Fortunately they were expecting a small young thief and not for Kari to pop over the top of the palisade. Anyway, move out. They still outnumber us."
Shortly, they no longer did. It was brutal, murderous work. But, as Erik reflected, their enemies' choices were stark. Die quickly at the hands of the Corfiote guerillas, die when this magazine blew, or die slowly at Emeric's hands for failing him. The Corfiote guerillas couldn't keep prisoners, and the alternative to killing the enemy was to fail in their objective.
Erik didn't plan to fail. After this, Emeric's forces would be wary, and successes would be much more hard-won. They had to start big, because if they'd started with raids on outposts, they'd never have gotten to a big target like this.
But he didn't like killing sleeping guards either. It was too much like butchery.
The trickiest phase was the last one. The magazine was not a place anyone would want to strike a lucifer in, and they had no access to wicks. Before Erik set the long powder-trail, they took sixteen small casks of powder, one per horse, and loaded them up.
Then all but Erik left quietly. There was the barrack encampment not two hundred yards off, with sleeping Croats, and the rest of the guard detachment. One galloping horse could not be avoided, but at least there didn't have to be seventeen of them. The gate was arranged with a spike holding the bar up, and a stout cord that could be tossed over the top of the gate. Erik could pull it when he was outside and drop the bar. Even if someone heard the horse gallop past and came to investigate the palisade, they would have to climb it to get in. Hopefully, by that time the powder trail would have burned to the open cask.
Erik laid the trail of black gunpowder carefully, wishing he had a better sense of how fast the stuff burned. He was experienced enough with firearms, but this kind of work really needed a bombardier who knew exactly what he was doing.
He laid it right to the gate. Lit it. It fizzed briefly and went out. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm, then went back and laid a second, more generous trail. Lit it again . . .
It burned, burned fast—fizzing and racing toward the dark buildings. After an instant's horrified pause, a voice within him shrieked: Go—go—go!
The Icelander stepped out, closed the gate, his fingers shaking a little as he tugged the bar into place and pulled his horse's halter loose. Erik flung himself into the saddle and urged the horse to a gallop. He might break the horse's knees doing such a reckless thing—he might break his own neck—but this was still a lesser risk than staying around.
He heard a shout and a shot in the darkness. He just kept his head down and applied the spurs.
And then he didn't have to anymore. He just had to stay on the horse.
He certainly couldn't have heard any commands to stop.
Manfred and Von Gherens were up on the battlements of the inner curtain wall, looking out at the muzzle-flashes and campfires on the Kérkira side of the Citadel. So, for the first time since his injury, was Falkenberg.
"Two moles." Falkenberg shook his head disapprovingly. "This is Emeric interfering with his commanders again. He has the notion that he is a military genius."
"Thank God for a small mercy," said Von Gherens. "We could have someone who didn't sit on his brains out there, and then we'd be between the hammer and the anvil."
Manfred snorted. "Instead we have a commander in here who sits on his brains."
"The commander of the garrison is not too bad," said Falkenberg. "A likeable young fellow, if not very experienced. The captain-general . . ."
"That's who I was referring to," interrupted Manfred, sourly. "Do you know what he wanted to do this morning?"
"Hush," said Von Gherens, nudging Manfred.
Captain-General Tomaselli had just come up onto the battlements. He bowed to Manfred. "Prince Manfred. The guard told me you were up here." The tone was suspicious.
Manfred waved a hand in greeting. "We were having a look at the disposition of the enemy's cannon and their camps," he said pacifically, pointing out at the muzzle flashes in the darkness.
The captain-general didn't even give it a glance. "There is not much we can do about the position of the enemy's cannon, or their camps. It seems a poor reason to be out in the night air so late. Would you like to come and take a glass of wine with my wife and me instead?"
Manfred stood on Von Gherens's foot. He wished Erik were here to stand on Falkenberg's. Besides missing Erik's company, Manfred had come to realize that the blunt-spoken Icelander was a marvel of tact compared to either of the two Prussians who guarded him now.
He was spared Falkenberg's comments by an interruption. Off to the south of the Citadel, the sky was suddenly lit up. Moments later the flash was followed by a thunderous boom that seemed to keep rolling over them.
"Holy mother of God! What was that?" The captain-general's eyes were wide.
"I think that used to be their magazine," said Von Gherens.
"Hakkonsen's work or I'm a castrato Sicilian," said Falkenberg, grinning in the moonlight. "That's no accident. That is that mad Icelander of yours, Prince Manfred."
Manfred slapped his two bodyguards on the back. "I hope you're right. Typical Erik. He's got his girl, and now he's done more to hurt Emeric's siege cannon than ten cavalry charges could achieve. I just hope he didn't blow himself to glory. Saints! That was a huge explosion."
"You know what is happening out there?" Tomaselli looked totally nonplussed.
"We've got a knight out there raising native resistance to Emeric," said Falkenberg with obvious satisfaction. "That'll be his work."
Tomaselli shook his head. "But . . . but you did not ask my permission to do so! I am in charge of military operations on this possession of the Republic of Venice. You cannot take these steps without advising me, Prince Manfred!"
Under his breath, Manfred swore at himself for easing his vigilance over his tongue in front of this insecure ass. His happiness at seeing signs of Erik's handiwork had made him forget himself.
He stood on Von Gherens's foot again. "Unfortunately, the knight was landed before we were able to consult with you, Captain-General. Actually, it would have been impossible to keep him here—he has a woman out there—so we just ensured he got out as safely as he could. To tell you the truth, I thought he'd probably be still hunting her—but evidently she was somewhere safe, and now he has nothing else to occupy him."
Manfred shook his head, as if he regretted what he had to say. In reality, he was doing it to hide the shaking of his shoulders with repressed laughter. "He's a headstrong fellow, with a very powerful idea of his duty, which includes doing all in his power to oppose Emeric. I'm afraid he's taken the bit in his teeth—independent action, which I certainly didn't order—and since there is no way to get beyond the walls now, I'm unfortunately not able to communicate with him."
"What was this about a woman?"
Trust the fool to concentrate on the single irrelevant piece of information!
"He had an attachment to a Vinlander lass that was here on Corfu. We landed him early to see if he could find her."
"I think we should go back to our quarters now," grumbled Von Gherens. "I don't think you should go and drink the captain-general's wine. You've had enough already. You keep standing on my toes."
From up here, they could see all the way to the gulf, and even beyond to Epirus. The thin bronzed scythe-blade of moon rose from somewhere over mainland Greece, as Erik sat with Svanhild looking out into the star-salted heavens. Their fingers barely touched, but Erik was intensely conscious of the warmth of those fingers.
The tintinnabulation in his ears could still be from the explosion, he supposed. Then Svanhild turned her head, and smiled at him, the stars overhead reflected in her eyes, and he knew that it wasn't. It was the sound of his own heart.
Francesca cocked her head sideways. "So why are two moles not better than one? It would seem logical to me. Does one never use more than one mole? I seem to recall that more than one mole was used in the siege of Acre, yes?"
Falkenberg assumed an oratorical stance. "It does depend heavily on the position, the number of forces at your disposal, and the ability of the defenders and the attackers to provide sufficient artillery cover. For instance, if the defenders cannot split their resources and you have plenty of munitions and manpower, the more moles the better. But a mole is no small task under fire. Emeric no doubt thinks he will pincer any attempt to sally from the main gate and attack or destroy his moles. Here, however—well, there are sally ports on the northern and southern sides and Emeric has relatively few men for such a siege. Making concerted use of both moles would be difficult. Once his forces are on this side of the channel they're directly below the walls. Either they must get inside those walls, fast, or they're going to be killed, easily, from the wall tops. Emeric will need to provide his troops with heavy covering fire just to get them across the mole. And for that he needs more cannon than he's got—and lighter cannon. Those forty-eight-pound bombards are so inaccurate they're as likely to kill his own men if he tries to use them for that purpose."
Falkenberg was now pacing back and forth slowly, like a lecturer. "We've been counting his lighter field pieces. He hasn't got what I would judge was enough for a worthwhile two-pronged assault. Which means he's going to have to rely on arquebus fire; which, in turn, means he'll have to build forward revetments or trenches on the Spianada—that open area in front of the fortress—and those will be under the Citadel's guns. That, in turn, will take a substantial number of his men out of the attack force, which, in turn—"
"Stop, stop!" said Francesca laughingly. "Enough. I'll never dare question Falkenberg's military assessment again."
"Even if he's wrong," said Von Gherens, sitting and rubbing his foot, "it is easier to go ahead, do it his way, and die if need be rather than listen to him explain it all to you."
He swiveled his head, transferring the sour gaze onto Manfred. "Prince, I've met lighter carthorses than you. I understand, since you explained it me, that you want me to keep my mouth shut when you stand on my toes. But my toes would certainly prefer it if you just said 'Shut up, Von Gherens.' "
"I'll cough," said Manfred. "Or can I stand on Falkenberg's toes for you, my love?"
"He seems to have stopped, anyway."
Falkenberg rubbed the scars above the empty eye socket. "I was just getting into my stride," he grumbled. "I wish young Benito was back here. That boy had a positive talent for understanding siege-craft. Reminds me of me. I started younger than he was, you know."
"I think you were born in armor, which must have made it damned uncomfortable on your mother," Manfred replied. "He's riding for Venice by now, to make this siege a thing of the past."
"I hope so," said Francesca, grimly. "I think this fortress is far more likely to fall from within than from the effects of one, two or even three moles."