After the Downfall

“Well, if a child tries to copy a masterpiece, all you get is a sorry mess,” the wizard said. “And that’s what Bucovin is – a sorry mess.”

Hasso nodded. And the Lenelli were making it a worse mess. They didn’t care what the Grenye thought of them because of their fondness for arson. The Wehrmacht hadn’t cared what the Ivans thought when it marched into Russia, either. Later… Later turned out to be too late.

A Lenello died of lockjaw not long after Bottero’s army entered Bucovin. Hasso wondered how the warrior managed to puncture himself. With so much manure around, a tiny wound was all it took. No vaccine or antitoxin here – even the idea for them was a universe away. Hasso hadn’t seen or heard of smallpox in this world, for which he was duly grateful. He did know that cowpox could keep you from coming down with the horrible disease. And, except for first aid, his knowledge of medicine started and stopped right there.

He wondered when the Grenye would try to fight back. Or would they at all? Would they try to suck the Lenelli into their heartland and let winter deal with them, the way the Russians did with Napoleon? How bad were winters here, anyway? Milder than Russia’s, anyhow, from what Velona said.

“Cursed Grenye are cowardly scuts,” King Bottero said when Hasso asked him what the enemy was up to. “If they can keep from fighting us, chances are they will.”

Not half an hour after the king said that, an excited courier brought word that a Grenye scout had popped up from behind a bush, shot an arrow into the unarmored leg of a Lenello scout, and managed to get away in the confusion that followed. “Miserable skulker!” The man who brought the news sounded furious at the native. “Stinking sneak!”

Remembering how the partisans went about their business in German-occupied Russia, Hasso said, “Teamsters need to be careful. Outriders need to be careful. The Grenye may go after people who don’t expect to fight.”

“Only proves they’re cowards,” the king said.

“If they hurt us, how much does that matter?” Hasso asked. “War is not about being brave. Not all about that, anyway.”

Bottero stared at him, an uncomprehending gape he’d seen too many times. “What is war about, then?” the king demanded.

“Winning.” Hasso’s one-word answer came without the least hesitation. It was the answer of a man who’d seen his comrades show more courage than humanly possible in the grinding retreat across Russia and Poland and Germany itself. It was the answer of a man who’d seen that courage on display in Berlin, where in the end it would do no good at all. “Winning, your Majesty,” the Wehrmacht officer repeated. “In the end, nothing else counts.”

King Bottero still didn’t get it. “Well, of course we’ll win,” he said. “How we do it counts, too.”

Hasso saw only one thing to say to that, and he said it: “Yes, your Majesty.” He didn’t believe it for a minute. A few Lenelli – Orosei sprang to mind – knew better. The rest of them were full of chivalric nonsense … except when they were pillaging Bucovinan farmhouses and firing Bucovinan villages. That was the small change of war, though. In battle, they could show their style.

His deep attacking column let the Lenelli show their style. Bottero had probably said he could try it out for just that reason. After everything Hasso had seen on all the fronts of Europe, he’d given up on style. Only results mattered.

The natives seemed to agree with him. They dug pits in the road ahead of the advancing Lenello army and mounted sharp stakes in the bottom. Those killed one horse and wounded a rider. Then Bottero’s men started to be more careful.

When they saw that the roadway looked suspicious, they pulled off into the fields to either side of the dirt track.

Before long, the Grenye started digging pits in the fields, too. Those were harder to spot than the ones in the road. They killed several horses and a couple of Lenelli. They also infuriated the survivors.

Some of the Lenelli wanted to kill all the Bucovinans they found from then on to warn the others not to do such things. Velona was in that camp, which worried Hasso. She did make it plain she was speaking for herself, not for the goddess. That being so, Bottero had the nerve to say no. “After we conquer this country, who will till the land if we use up all the peasants?” he demanded, and no one had an answer for him.

Frightfulness… Hasso had mixed feelings about it. The Germans had used it widely, of course. Sometimes it intimidated people into behaving. Other times the hatred it stirred up only made occupied areas boil with resistance. You couldn’t know which ahead of time.

Frustration and anger built up in Bottero’s army because there were no enemy soldiers to attack. And then, all at once, there were. Lenello scouts reported a large force of Grenye ahead, blocking Bottero’s advance deeper into Bucovin.

When the news came back, the Lenelli burst into cheers. “Now they’ll pay for screwing around with us!” a horseman yelled.