The Scepter's Return by Harry Turtledove Page A

Avornis.
    â€œWe can do it.” That wasn’t Grus—it was Otus. The escaped thrall sounded confident. The trouble was, he would also sound confident if the Banished One still lurked somewhere deep inside his mind. He would want to lead the Avornans on so the Menteshe and his dark master could have their way with them. He continued, “This land should be free. It deserves to be free.”
    â€œWe’ll do our best,” Grus said. Suddenly, harshly, he waved to the trumpeters who waited nearby. They raised long brass horns to their lips and blared out a command.
    River galleys raced across the Stura. Marines leaped out of them and rushed forward, bows at the ready. No more than a few Menteshe riders had trotted back and forth south of the river. The nomads were—or seemed to be—too caught up in their civil war to care much what the Avornans were up to. Grus hoped they would go right on’ feeling that way. He hoped so, but he didn’t count on it.
    Barges followed the river galleys. Riders led horses onto the riverbank, then swung aboard them. They joined the perimeter the marines had formed. Most of the cavalrymen were archers, too. Anyone who tried to fight the Menteshe without plenty of archers would end up in trouble.
    The royal guards came next. They were lancers, armored head to foot. The Menteshe couldn’t hope to stand against them. But then, the Menteshe seldom stood and fought. They were riders almost by instinct. Grus hoped he could pin them down and make them try to hold their ground. If he could, the royal guards would make them pay. If not … He refused to think about if not.
    Instead of thinking about it, he nodded to the general, the wizard, and the man who’d lived most of his life on the far side of the Stura. “Our turn now,” he said.
    They descended from the wall. Grus’ boots scuffed on the gray-brown stone of the stairs. Out through the river gate he and his comrades went, out onto the piers, and aboard the Pike, the river galley that would take them over the Stura. The captain raised an eyebrow to Grus. The king waved back, urging the skipper to go ahead at his own pace.
    â€œCast off!” the captain shouted. The ropes that held the Pike to the quay thudded down onto the ship’s deck. As Grus had waved to the captain, so the captain waved to the oarmaster. The oarmaster set the stroke with a small drum. The rowers strained on their benches. The oars dug into the water. The Pike began to move, slowly at first, then ever swifter. Soon, very soon, she lived up to her name, gliding over the chop with impressive speed and agility. “She’s going to beach,” Grus said, bracing himself against the coming jolt. His companions, lubbers all, lurched and almost fell when the pike went aground. Grus had all he could do not to laugh at them. “I told you that would happen.”
    â€œYou didn’t say what it meant, Your Majesty.” Otus sounded reproachful.
    â€œWell, now you know,” Grus said. “The next time I tell you, you’ll be ready.” Or maybe you won’t. Making a sailor takes time.
    At the skipper’s shouted orders, sailors lowered a gangplank from the river galley’s side. It thudded down onto the muddy bank. With a courtier’s bow, Hirundo waved for Grus to descend first. The king did. He took the last step from the gangplank to the ground very carefully—he didn’t want to stumble or, worse, to fall. That would set the whole army babbling about bad omens.
    There. He stood on the southern bank of the Stura, and he stood on his own two feet. No one said anything about omens. He knew everybody who could see him was watching, though. “We’ve started,” he called.
    Up at the top of the gangplank, Pterocles and Hirundo argued about who should go next. Each wanted the other to have the honor. At last, with a shrug, the wizard came down by Grus. “Just standing