Darkness Descending

Whatever else they are. The Algarvians had also turned out to be the most accomplished murderers in Derlavai. They wouldn’t have come so far so fast without their murders, either. That sickened Rathar. Swemmel hadn’t been shy about imitating them there--not a bit. That sickened his marshal, too.

“Are they?” Swemmel said. “We doubt it. If they were, how could our armies have beaten them back?” He sniffed contemptuously.

“Because we have more men than they do. Because we put snowshoes on our behemoths, where they didn’t think of that. Because we had the sense to give our soldiers white smocks. Because we understand winter better than they do.” Rathar ticked off the points on his fingers one by one. He went on, “But you must recall, your Majesty, they’re learning, too. Unless we can hurt them badly while they’re still off balance, our job gets harder.”

He wished King Swemmel would trust him to command Unkerlant’s armies and would stay out of his way. While he was at it, he wished for the moon. He had about as much chance of getting one as the other. Swemmel stayed strong not least because he allowed no subjects too much strength. Rathar was, without a doubt, the second most powerful man in Unkerlant. To those looking up, that made him great and mighty. But if the king crooked a finger, the kingdom would have a new marshal the next instant. Rathar understood that all too well.

“Oh, we want to hurt them, too.” Swemmel’s voice was a low, hungry croon. “We want to see their armies fall apart and fall to ruin. We want to see Algarvian soldiers frozen in the snow. We want to see our borders restored before spring comes.”

“Unless they fall to pieces, I don’t think we can do so much,” Rathar warned. Because Swemmel could get anything he wanted in the palace just by crooking his finger, he too often thought he could do the same in the wider world. His inspectors and impressers made him all-powerful in those parts of the kingdom he still ruled. King Mezentio’s men, though, put up a stiffer fight than did Unkerlanter peasants. Swemmel needed to grasp that.

He looked petulant. “Why do we have armies, if we cannot get the best use from them?” he demanded.

“Your Majesty, you are getting the best use from them,” Rathar answered. “If you expect more than men and beasts can give, you are doomed to disappointment.”

“We are always doomed to disappointment.” Swemmel wasn’t deaf to the bittersweet songs self-pity sang. “Even our own twin betrayed us. But we had revenge on Kyot--aye, we did.”

King Guntram, Swemmel and Kyot’s father, had died just after the end of the Six Years’ War. Neither twin would admit he was the younger, and the other thus the rightful heir. The Six Years’ War had cost Unkerlant a dreadful price. But the Twinkings War that followed made its toll seem light by comparison. In the end, Swemmel had boiled Kyot alive.

Coming back to the here-and-now, the king said, “Very well, Marshal. If you think we must fight like the Algarvians, fight like the Algarvians we shall. You have our leave to make it so. But our arms had best meet with success, or you will be judged for your failures.” Robes flapping behind him, he swept out of Rathar’s office.

Momentarily alone, the marshal allowed himself the luxury of a long, loud sigh of relief. He’d just finished it when his adjutant came into the office. Major Merovec’s strong-boned face bore an anxious expression, as any officer’s might have after a visit from the king.

“We go on, Major,” Rathar said, understanding him completely.

“Powers above be praised,” Merovec said, and said no more. Suddenly, he looked anxious in a different way, as if realizing even that little might have been too much. Only Rathar had heard him, but the comment gave the marshal a hold on him he hadn’t had before. Such was life in the Unkerlanter royal palace.

“His Majesty wants us to keep pressing the Algarvians hard,” Rathar said. “He is not the only one who wants that, of course. The discussion was about the means, not the end.”

“And?” Major Merovec asked. He knew as well as Rathar that sometimes Swemmel would give orders and would insist they be obeyed. Unkerlant had had its share of disasters over the years because of that.

“And we are to continue as we have been doing,” Marshal Rathar replied. Merovec didn’t let out a noisy sigh of relief, but the urge to do so was written all over his face.

“Any more word out of Kuusamo?” Rathar asked, glad to talk about anything, even bad news, that had nothing to do with Swemmel.

“Two princes dead, they say, and half the capital wrecked,” Merovec told him. “I wonder how many Kaunians the redheads had to kill to bring that off. Powers above be praised they didn’t try to do it to Cottbus.”

“No promise they won’t,” Rathar said, and his adjutant, looking sour, nodded. The marshal of Unkerlant went on, “Of course, when they’re fighting us, they have to worry about our soldiers. There aren’t any Kuusaman soldiers in the fight yet, not to speak of.”