Darkness Descending

“Well, I have to tell you I don’t think it’s going to happen,” the Unkerlanter in the white smock said. “The cursed Algarvians didn’t quite shatter the way we hoped they would. We’ve got a lot more fighting to do before we’re finally rid of ‘em.”

“Too bad,” Garivald said, though that sounded likely to him, too.

“And you’re the fellow who makes songs, aren’t you?” the soldier said. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Have you?” Garivald didn’t know what to think of that. His whole life in a peasant village had taught him that drawing notice was dangerous. But, if no one ever heard his songs, if no one ever played them, what good were they?

“Aye, I have,” the soldier said. “That’s one of the reasons I came this far east--because I’ve heard of you, I mean. Keep writing them, that’s what the officers say. They’re worth a regiment of men against the Algarvians.”

Garivald’s heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever felt prouder. “A regiment of men,” he murmured. “My songs, worth a regiment of men?” He wanted to make a song about that, even if he’d only be able to sing it to himself. Anyone else, even Annore, would laugh.

“Well, I’m on my way now,” the soldier said, turning his face back toward the east. “Have to see if I can make it past the redheads going the other way. Shouldn’t be too hard; they still don’t know what to do in snow.” Off he went, as used to the snowshoes on his feet as if he’d been born wearing them.

“Worth a regiment of men,” Garivald repeated once more. But then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t so glad the Unkerlanter in white had come looking for him. If that fellow knew where to find the peasant who made songs, how long would it be before the Algarvians figured it out, too?

He finished filling the leather sack with wood. Then, bent almost double under its weight, he staggered back toward Zossen. As he neared the village, he saw the man he least wanted to see. And, worse luck, Waddo saw him, too, saw him and waved and limped toward him, putting a lot of weight on his stick.

“Hello, Garivald!” the village firstman exclaimed, as if he hadn’t seen the other peasant for the past ten years.

“Hello,” Garivald answered warily. He and Waddo were bound together because of the buried crystal. He wished with all his heart they weren’t. He didn’t trust Waddo; the firstman had been King Swemmel’s hand in Zossen, and had always sucked up to inspectors and impressers when they came to the village.

Of course, the Algarvians despised and harassed Waddo for that very reason. Here and there in the Duchy of Grelz, they’d hanged firstmen who did things that didn’t suit them. Garivald didn’t suppose he wanted to see Waddo dancing at the end of a rope. On the otlier hand, Garivald had just thought about how Waddo had maintained his tiny authority by aiding those who had more power. If he decided to bend the knee to the redheads’ puppet King Raniero rather than to King Swemmel, how could he best ingratiate himself with the Algarvian garrison?

By throwing me to the wolves, Garivald thought. As if he were a mage, a wolf began to howl, somewhere off in the distance. Every few winters, Zossen or some nearby village would lose somebody to a hungry pack that came prowling close. It hadn’t happened this year. No, Garivald thought. This year, we have Algarvians instead. That’s worse.

Waddo heard the wolf, too, and grimaced. “I hope he finds a whole company of frozen redheads to eat.”

“Aye,” Garivald said. He agreed with Waddo--he hoped the wolves found a whole regiment of frozen redheads--but wished he didn’t have to answer the first-man at all. Anything he said gave the other man a greater hold on him.

He needed a moment to realize he now had a greater hold on Waddo, too. Realizing it brought him little joy. To use that hold, he would have to betray Waddo to the Algarvians. He couldn’t imagine anything that would make him want to do that. No matter how much he despised the firstman, he loathed the invaders far more.

“May next spring and summer be better,” Waddo said.

“Aye,” Garivald repeated. He started to look back toward the woods in which he’d met the Unkerlanter soldier, but checked himself before the motion was well begun. He didn’t want Waddo wondering why his eyes went that way. He revealed as little to the firstman as a fellow cheating on his wife told her.

Waddo limped closer. He spoke in a hoarse whisper: “When the ground gets soft, we’ll dig up that crystal and get it out of here.”

“Aye,” Garivald said for the third time, now with real enthusiasm. “The farther, the better, as far as I’m concerned.” Getting the crystal away from Zossen would reduce the danger that he’d wind up on the end of a rope.

“Maybe,” Waddo said softly, “just maybe, we can even activate it again and get word back to Cottbus of what’s going on in these parts.”