Darkness Descending

Sidroc got through the rest of the day without any more beatings, which left him in a somewhat better mood as Ealstan and he headed home. Ealstan, on the other hand, felt gloomier than he had in a while. It must have shown on his face like a fire in the night, for Sidroc--hardly the most perceptive fellow ever born--asked him, “Somebody go and steal your last bite of bread?”

“No,” Ealstan said, though the clichéd question for What’s wrong? had taken on a new and literal meaning in these hungry times in Gromheort. His wave encompassed the whole battered city. “It’s just that--I don’t know--everything looks so shabby and broken and gray. I’ve been thinking about how things were that day when we saw the Forthwegian cavalry and how they are now, and I keep wondering how anybody stands it.”

“What else can we do?” Sidroc said. They walked on a little farther. Sidroc kicked a small stone out of the way. As he watched it spin off, he went on,

“Maybe that’s one of the reasons Plegmund’s Brigade doesn’t look so bad to me. It would get me away from--this.” His wave was as all-embracing as Ealstan’s had been.

Ealstan found himself too surprised to answer. He hadn’t imagined Sidroc could look so keenly at himself. He also hadn’t imagined his cousin might have such a sensible-seeming reason for thinking about fighting on King Mezentio’s side. As far as Ealstan was concerned, Plegmund’s Brigade remained the wrong answer, but now, at least, he understood the question Sidroc was asking. How can I escape? had crossed his own mind, too, many times.

An Algarvian constable threw up his hands to stop pedestrians and carts and riders. “Halting!” he shouted in halting Forthwegian.

“We’ve got stuck going to and from today,” Sidroc grumbled, sounding more like his usual self. Ealstan nodded. He hadn’t been happy about waiting for his own kingdom’s soldiers; he was far less happy about having to wait for the conqueror’s troopers.

But this procession held only a few Algarvians: guards, sticks at the ready. Most of the men who flowed past the intersection where Ealstan and Sidroc stood were Unkerlanter captives. As far as looks went, there was little to distinguish them from Forthwegians: they were most of them dark and stocky and hook-nosed. And their beards were growing out, which made them look even more like Ealstan’s people.

Sidroc shook his fist at them. “Now you know what it’s like to have your kingdom overrun, you thieves!” he shouted. Some of the Unkerlanters looked at him as if they understood. They might have; the northeastern dialects of their language weren’t far from Forthwegian.

Most of them, though, kept shambling on. Their stubbly cheeks were hollow, their eyes blank. They’d endured--how much? However much it was, they would have to endure more. “What do you suppose the redheads will do with them--to them?” Ealstan asked.

“Who cares, the stinking backstabbers?” his cousin answered. “As far as I’m concerned, the Algarvians can cut their throats to make sticks or work whatever other magic with their life energy they care to.” He shook his fist at the Unkerlanter captives.

“They won’t do that,” Ealstan said. “If they do, the Unkerlanters will start cutting the throats of their Algarvian captives, and then where will we be? Back in the red days after the Kaunian Empire fell, that’s where.”

“If you ask me, the Unkerlanters deserve it.” Sidroc drew his thumb across his own throat. Ealstan started to say something. Before he could, Sidroc went on, “If you ask me, the redheads deserve it, too. Powers below eat both sides.”

Ealstan pointed frantically toward the Algarvian constable. The redhead stood so close to them, he couldn’t have helped hearing. But he didn’t speak enough Forthwegian to understand what they were saying. The last few Unkerlanter captives tramped past, and the last couple of Algarvian guards. The constable gave a sweeping wave, as if he were a noble graciously granting peasants a boon. Along with the rest of the Forthwegians who’d been waiting for the procession to pass, Ealstan and Sidroc crossed the street.

“Why do you keep going on about Plegmund’s Brigade if that’s the way you feel about the redheads?” Ealstan asked his cousin.

Sidroc said, “I wouldn’t be joining for the Algarvians. I’d be joining for me.”

“I can’t see the difference,” Ealstan said. “I bet you King Mezentio wouldn’t be able to see the difference, either.”

“That’s because you’re a blockhead,” Sidroc said. “If you want to tell me Mezentio’s a blockhead, too, I won’t argue with you.”

“I know what I’ll tell you,” Ealstan said. “I’ll tell you I’m not the biggest blockhead here, that’s what.”

Sidroc mimed throwing a punch. Ealstan mimed ducking. They both laughed. They were still insulting each other, but not the way they had been lately. This was just schoolboys’ foolish talk, not the sort of business that could poison things between them for years to come. A little stretch of childishness felt good.