The Scepter's Return Read Online Free Page B

answered, and Hirundo laughed out loud. The trouble was, the general was right, and Grus knew it. Over the years, he had become a pretty decent horseman. He’d never intended to. On a river galley—even on one of the tall-masted ocean-going ships the Avornans were building in imitation of the Chernagor pirates—he knew what he was doing. He’d never planned on riding very much. He’d never planned on becoming King of Avornis, either. That had worked out pretty well, at least so far. As for horsemanship … When he shrugged, his gilded mailshirt clinked on his shoulders.
    Instead of a stallion, he did ride a good-natured gelding. He’d done that even when he knew he was going to get in a fight. He valued control and obedience more than fire in a horse.
    â€œAre we ready?” he asked.
    â€œIf we weren’t, would we be doing all this?” Hirundo said reasonably.
    â€œLet’s go, then.” Grus used the reins and the pressure of his knees to urge his horse into motion. Hirundo’s high-spirited charger pranced along beside it.
    As they rode out of the stables, mounted imperial lancers formed up around them. The guardsmen wore heavy shirts of mail and rode big, strong horses. Even the horses wore armor that protected their heads and breasts. The lancers’ charge was irresistible at close range. The problem was getting the Menteshe, who usually kept but loose order on their ponies, to bunch together long enough to receive a charge.
    â€œYour Majesty!” the guardsmen shouted. Grus waved to them. Under the bar nasals of their conical helmets, a good many of the troopers grinned at him.
    He waved again. “Are we going to run the nomads ragged?” he called.
    â€œYes!” the lancers shouted. Grus waved again. I hope we are, anyway, he thought.
    The rest of the army he would take south from the city of Avornis waited outside the walls. Before he could go out to it, though, he needed to take care of one loose end. “Where are Pterocles and Otus?” he asked.
    â€œThey were in there getting saddled up, too,” Hirundo said. “What’s taking them so long?”
    â€œWell, if you think I’m a poor excuse for a cavalryman …” Grus said. Hirundo threw back his head and laughed. A minute or two later, Pterocles and Otus emerged. Both of them rode mules. Grus had hardly ever known a wizard who trusted himself on horseback, while the freed thrall (Grus hoped he was a freed thrall) hadn’t had much chance to acquire the equestrian art.
    Pterocles dipped his head to Grus. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.
    â€œYour Majesty,” Otus echoed. He was a brown-haired, open-faced man approaching his middle years. He looked like anybody else, in other words. He sounded like anybody else, too. Oh, he had an accent that said he came from the south, but a lot of Avornans had that kind of accent. He also had a slightly old-fashioned turn of phrase. When thralls spoke at all, they spoke as ordinary Avornans had centuries before. They’d long been cut off from the vital, changing current of the language.
    When he was a thrall, Otus might have had as many words as a two-year-old. He might not, too. He’d had to learn to speak as a child would after being freed from the charm that had held him down for so long. He’d learned far faster than a child would have, though. Only tiny traces of how he’d once talked lingered in his speech.
    â€œAre you ready to head down to your homeland?” Grus asked him.
    â€œYes, Your Majesty,” he answered. “I would like to see my woman freed. I would like to see all thralls freed.”
    â€œSo would I,” Grus said. “That’s … one of the things we’re going to try to do. I hope we can.” He glanced toward Pterocles. If they couldn’t do that, and if they couldn’t protect themselves from being made into thralls after they crossed the Stura, they