Out of the Darkness

“Wouldn’t give me a tumble,” he complained. Self-pity and self-aggrandizement were never far from the surface with him. “Who is the papa, anyway?”

“He was fighting down in the Duchy of Grelz last I heard from him,” Saffa said. “A couple of months ago, letters stopped coming.”

“That doesn’t sound so good,” Bembo said, and then, belatedly remembering himself, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. He was sweet.” For a moment, Saffa managed the nasty grin that had always provoked Bembo--one way or another. She added, “Unlike some people I could name.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I love you, too,” Bembo said. “If I could get up, I’d give you a swat on that round fanny of yours. Did you come see me just so you could try and drive me crazy?”

She shook her head. Coppery curls flew back and forth. “I came to see you because this stinking war has taken a bite out of both of us.”

If the baby’s father were still around, I wouldn‘t want anything to do with you. Bembo translated that without effort. But it didn’t mean she was wrong. “This stinking war has taken a bite out of the whole stinking world.” He hesitated. “When I’m back on my feet, I’ll call on you, all right?”

“All right,” Saffa said. “I’ll tell you right now, though, I still may decide I’d sooner slap your face. Just so we understand each other.”

Bembo snorted. “Some understanding.” But he was nodding. Saffa without vinegar wasn’t Saffa. “Take care of yourself. Stay safe.”

“You, too,” she said, and then she was gone, leaving Bembo half wondering if he’d dreamt her whole visit.

An egg flew in from the east and hit a house in the village Garivald’s company had just taken away from the Algarvians. Chunks of the house flew out in all directions. A spinning board knocked down an Unkerlanter soldier standing only a couple of feet from Garivald. He started to get up, then clapped a hand to the small of his back and let out a yip of pain. The house fell in on itself and started to burn.

A Forthwegian couple in the middle of the street started howling. Garivald presumed it was their house. He couldn’t make out much of what they were saying. To a Grelzer like him, this east-Forthwegian dialect made even less sense than the variety of the language people around Eoforwic spoke. Not only were the sounds a little different, a lot of the words sounded nothing at all like their Unkerlanter equivalents. He wondered if they were borrowed from Algarvian.

Another egg flew in. This one burst farther away. The crash that followed said somebody’s home would never be the same. Shrieks rose immediately thereafter. Somebody’s life would never be the same.

My life will never be the same, either, Garivald thought. Powers below eat the Algarvians. It’s their fault, curse them. I’d sooner be back in Zossen, drinking my way through the winter and waiting for spring. Neither Zossen nor the family he’d had there existed any more. He turned to Lieutenant Andelot. “Sir, we ought to get rid of that miserable egg-tosser.”

“I know, Sergeant Fariulf,” Andelot answered. “But we’ve come so far so fast, we can’t sweep up everything as neatly as we want to. On the scale of the war as a whole, that tosser doesn’t mean much.”

“No, sir,” Garivald agreed. “But it’s liable to take some nasty bites out of us.” He thought for a moment. “I could probably sneak my squad through the redheads’ lines and take it out. Things are all topsy-turvy--they won’t have had the time to get proper trenches dug or anything like that.”

What am I saying? he wondered. Go after an egg-tosser behind the enemy’s line? Have I lost all of my mind, or do I really want to kill myself?

Andelot also studied him with a certain curiosity. “We don’t see volunteers as often as we’d like,” he remarked. “Aye, go on, Sergeant. Choose the men you’d like to have with you. I think you can do it, too.” He pointed southeastward. “Most of the redheads in these parts are falling back on that town called Gromheort. They’ll stand siege there, unless I miss my guess, and getting them out won’t come easy or cheap.” With a shrug, he went on, “Nothing but Algarve beyond, though. As I say, pick your men, Sergeant. Let’s get on with it.”

The men Garivald did pick looked imperfectly enamored of him. He understood that; he was giving them the chance to get killed. But he had an argument they couldn’t top: “I’m going along with you. If I can do it, you can cursed well do it with me.”

Behind his back, somebody said, “You’re too ugly for me to want to do it with you, Sergeant.” Garivald laughed along with the rest of the soldiers who heard. He couldn’t help himself. But he didn’t stop picking men.