Out of the Darkness

I have a weapon of my own, Vanai thought. Guthfrith was a fellow who played for coppers in the square. Ethelhelm, despite Kaunian blood, had been famous all over Forthweg. But, because of that Kaunian blood, Ethelhelm had decided it was wiser to collaborate with the Algarvians. If he tried to tar her, she could tar him.

She made a sour face. She hated to have to think that way. She hated to, but she would. If she had to keep her baby and herself safe, she’d do what needed doing and worry about everything else later. Like so many others across Derlavai, she’d learned ruthlessness in the war.

Marshal Rathar looked up at the night sky. Thick gray clouds covered it. He turned toward General Vatran--and accidentally bumped one of the bodyguards King Swemmel had ordered him to use after the Algarvians came altogether too close to assassinating him. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s all right, sir,” the bodyguard said. “Just think of us as furniture.”

They were large, well-muscled pieces of furniture. Peering around them, Rathar said, “Everything’s ready to go.”

“It had better be,” Vatran answered. “We’ve spent as much time building up toward things here as we did in the north last summer.”

“We can’t afford to have things go wrong,” Rathar said. “Once we get over the Scamandro, we storm straight for Trapani. It’s going to be ours, by the powers above. The islanders aren’t going to take it. We’ve paid the biggest bills, and we deserve the biggest prize.” That was what Swemmel said, and Rathar, here, emphatically agreed with him.

Vatran nodded, too. “With what all we’ve got here, sir, I don’t see any way the redheads can stop us, or even slow us down much. How much longer till the dance starts?”

“A quarter of an hour,” Rathar replied. “We get past the high ground on the east side of the river and everything should go fine from there.”

“Here’s hoping,” Vatran said. “If they don’t pull out any funny sorcery ...”

That worried Rathar, too. What did King Mezentio have left, here in Algarve’s last extremity? The mages who wore Unkerlant’s rock-gray had grown ever more appalled at the spells the redheads tried. Not many of those spells had worked as well as the Algarvians wished, but what the enemy attempted kept getting wilder and darker.

“If we keep them busy enough fighting a regular war, they can’t spend too much time or energy getting strange on us,” the marshal said, and hoped he was right.

At the appointed hour, swarms of rock-gray dragons flew low over the Scamandro, pulverizing the Algarvians’ works on the eastern bank with eggs and with flame. Hundreds, thousands, of egg-tossers flung more death across the river. At dozens of points along the front, artificers would be springing into action to bridge the Scamandro. Let any one of those bridges stand, and we’ll whip the redheads, Rathar thought. He expected a great many more than one would stand. He expected most of them would, in fact. But one would do well enough. Any bridgehead on the eastern side of the Scamandro would give his kingdom the opening it needed.

Mages added something new to the attack: sorcerous lamps that seemed to shine bright as the sun. Their glare reflected off the underside of the clouds and helped light the way for the dragons and the men aiming the egg-tossers--to say nothing of distracting the foe. “We want Mezentio’s men knocked flat before we cross,” Rathar said.

“Looks like we’re getting what we want, too,” Vatran answered. Even as far from the front as Mangani was, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of bursting eggs.

A crystallomancer came up to Rathar. Saluting, he said, “Lord Marshal, resistance on the far side of the river is lighter than expected. That’s what the dragonfliers report.”

“We’ve finally beaten them down,” Vatran said.

“That would be good. That would be very good.” Rathar wasn’t sure he believed it, but in the opening minutes of an attack he was willing to be hopeful.

Another crystallomancer hurried up and saluted. “Sir, we have a bridgehead over the Scamandro and behemoths crossing in numbers to the east bank.”

Vatran and Rathar both exclaimed in delight then, and clasped hands. The Algarvians had thrown back all their efforts to force earlier bridgeheads. Let’s see the whoresons throw this back, Rathar thought. I’d like to see any army in the world-throw back this attack.

More crystallomancers brought news of bridges crossing the river and behemoths and footsoldiers rushing across. All of them said the same thing as the dragonfliers had: resistance was less than expected. Maybe we have knocked them flat, Rathar thought. If we have, we walk into Trapani instead of battering our way there. That would be nice.