"We still hold total military superiority here on the island. We've still got some several hundred men on Vidos, and the barricade the defenders have put up on the gate's ruins can't hold."
General Krovoko was trying to put the best face on the situation that he could, but he was going to have to tell all of the truth, and he knew it—as he knew of Emeric's propensity to kill the messenger. "But the Byzantines are whimpering. With the bad weather most of their fleet was here in the shelter, so, naturally, we used them for the attack on Vidos. It was a fiasco. They were anchored in close formation off the southern side of the islet. When they saw the fireboats, several captains tried to run."
Anger crept into his tone. "If they'd just stayed put we'd have lost half as many vessels. In the dark, in panic, they ran into each other, fired cannon into each other, ran aground or just plain ran. Three of the vessels ran all the way to the Albanian shore and one of them was wrecked. We had a ship, burning, make landfall at Kommeno point. The local people killed most of the crew before the cavalry arrived. We lost nineteen carracks, and three galleys, with fire damage to another four vessels. We're down to seven carracks. The blockade, with nothing more than the Narenta galliots and that handful, is worth little, Sire."
General Krovoko was done with his report. Now he waited, fatalistically, for the sky to fall on him. Emeric pushed himself back in his throne. "I know. But that's not really what concerns me. The Atlantic fleet hasn't come home and we know that the eastern fleet is still sitting in Trebizond after their attempt on the Dardanelles. It's the steady trickle of losses here on the island that worries me, especially as the weather, and the lack of ships, limit my fetching more troops."
Krovoko shook his head. He was a little surprised to find himself still alive and discussing the matter. "Sire, the countryside is definitely hostile, the insurgents in the north must number in the hundreds, and although we've taken Kassiopi, Paleokastritsa still holds out. The place is inaccessible and the locals have managed to resupply when the insurgents have attacked the forces we have there."
"But the island grows drier. Lack of water must be affecting them."
General Krovoko nodded. "What we really is need a safe place to rest our men. This campaign of raids and ambushes . . . it's wearing them down, Sire."
Emeric looked thoughtful, but offered no comment.
The Magyar cavalryman pointed to the map. "We can land men here, on the mainland, near this lake. Make a base for accumulating supplies and let the troops rest. We have more men than we need for the siege, and less than we need to hold siege and subdue the island. They'll be safe from the Venetians or even Corfiotes."
The Narenta pirate captain muttered in his dialect. It was, by the tone, something derisive.
Emeric looked coldly at him. "What was that?"
The pirate captain looked uneasy, but stood his ground. "I said that would be escaping from an angry cat into the lion's den. That is Iskander Beg's land. The Lord of the Mountains will not like it."
Emeric pinched his lips into a harsh line. "He doesn't have to like it. I've tried to contact him, to reach an agreement with the bandit. Well, he doesn't wish to treat with me. I would have preferred to bring my men here by land, but the mountains have too many places where ambushes are easy. But the land next to the lake is gentle. With the lake behind us, the sea in front, this should be an easy strip to hold. I like the idea. See to it, General. It will act as one side to the pincer I want to work on the coastal strip. I'll leave the bandit chief to his mountains. We'll hold the lowlands from here to Montenegro in the next few years.
"Now onto other affairs. We must press the attack on the Citadel hard now. Let drought take the rest of the island."
"We've walled and entrenched the moles," said Dragorvich. "The troops can move forward protected. The front wall is crumbling. Give us another two weeks' cannonade, Sire. A determined push will take the first curtain wall."
"You can have a few weeks. I want them pounded into submission. At the end of February—or at the latest, early March—we must be in. The Venetians will doubtless make something of a push in the spring with whatever ships they have ready. We'll want at least three weeks to repair and reequip the Citadel against that attack."
"We're down to third-rations." It was so dry that Maria and the other horta gatherers were not finding much to gather. Winter was not the best time for wild greens anyway, but there had always been something. . . .
But with this many women, and a restricted area to hunt in, it was getting less easy by the day. The sound of the cannons was by now such a normal part of the background noise, that it was only its stopping that they would have noticed. The attack on the walls now was relentless. The Hungarians had so increased their forward positions and fortifications that they could sally and attack the walls repeatedly with relative impunity. Food ships and water carts arrived for them each day. Here inside it was relentless starvation and less in the water ration by the day. Maria's biggest worry was having milk for Alessia. Two of the other women's breasts had already dried up. Too little water. Too little food. Alessia now weighed less than she had two months ago.
Maria could not weep for Umberto anymore; she dared not waste the water on tears. What would she do if her milk dried up? It was a constant nagging fear.
"I know it's risky," said Benito, irritably. "But we're on our last legs here. If we actually knew when they were coming, it would make the world of difference. Come, Eneko. Please."
The cleric nodded, wearily. "Very well. We'll try again."
But there was no response.
Marco had an almost overpowering compulsion to make contact with his brother. But both Mascoli and the Strega sage Du Catres who sailed with them advised against it. They had, to be precise, forbidden it utterly. Marco had insisted on going on this voyage. "They'll need healers and food more than soldiers," he'd said. Finally Doge Dorma had given permission for him to go. Under conditions. The first was the shield of mages who accompanied him. The second was that Kat remained in Venice, at least until the siege was lifted. Dorma made it very clear that he would prefer it to be until Marco returned.
The priestess looked at the half-almond on the altar, and wondered. There was only one candidate. She had explained everything, as best she could. She had instructed, without demanding, without, as far as she could tell, even hinting. The candidate must choose of her own free will; that was the law. But would she? Would she even see the need?
She must. She must. Or they would all die here. Perhaps, even, the Goddess, and the Cold God.
Yes. Perhaps even them.