Out of the Darkness

“Just about all of the Marquisate of Rivaroli is in their hands, sir,” Vatran answered. “That’s what the crystallomancers say. The really bastardly part of it is, the fornicating Algarvians aren’t putting up much of a fight against them.”

“Of course they aren’t. Whatever they have left, they’re throwing it at us.” Rathar understood why. The redheads knew to the copper how much Unkerlant owed them. They were doing everything they could to keep Unkerlant from paying.

“But if they fight us like madmen and if they don’t hardly fight Kuusamo and Lagoas at all. . .” Vatran sounded worried, too. “If the islanders take Trapani and we don’t, King Swemmel will boil both of us alive.”

Rathar would have argued about that, if only he could. Since he couldn’t, he went back to the kitchen and got a bowl of porridge and some tea for himself, too. He brought them out to the dining room and ate while he, like Vatran, studied the map. His army had no bridgeheads over the Scamandro. A couple of crossings had been beaten back. The redheads had learned, too. They knew how disastrous Unkerlanter bridgeheads could be.

Finishing his breakfast, he walked out onto the sidewalk and looked northeast toward Trapani. Mangani bustled with Unkerlanter soldiers. Some of them were marching east, toward the front. Their sergeants kept them moving in the profane way of sergeants all over Derlavai. Others, though, just milled about. Some were walking wounded who’d needed healing and weren’t quite ready to return to the fighting line yet. Some were probably evading orders to move east. And some were queued up in front of a building with a chunk bitten out of its fancy facade: a soldiers’ brothel. Rathar didn’t know how the quartermasters had recruited the redheaded women in the brothel. Even the Marshal of Unkerlant was entitled to squeamishness about a few things.

A soldier came past Rathar carrying something or other. “What have you got there?” Rathar asked him.

The youngster stiffened to attention when he saw who’d spoken to him. He held up his prize. “It’s a lamp, sir, one of those sorcerous lamps the redheads use.

Unkerlanters used them, too, in towns and cities. By his accent, though, this soldier, like so many of his countrymen, came from a peasant village. Gently, Rathar asked, “What are you going to do with it?”

“Well, lord Marshal, sir, I’m going to see if I can’t take it on home with me,” the young man answered. “The light it’s got inside of it is an awful lot finer nor a torch nor a candle nor even an oil lantern.”

Rathar sighed. A sorcerous lamp wouldn’t work without a power point or a ley line close by. Those were dense in Algarve, much less so in Unkerlant. He started to tell the soldier as much, but then checked himself. What were the odds the fellow would live to go back to his village? What were the odds the lamp would stay unbroken even if he did? Slim and slimmer, no doubt about it. Rather reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck to you, son.”

“Thank you, lord Marshal!” Beaming, the soldier went on his way.

What will the world look like after this cursed war finally ends? Rathar wondered. How can Unkerlant take its proper place among the kingdoms of the world if so many of our people are so ignorant? We’re like a dragon, all strength and claws and fire and not a bit of brain.

Shaking his head, Rathar watched a column of Algarvian captives trudging gloomily off into the west. Some were too young to make good soldiers, others too old. The Algarvians had all the brains in the world. And if you don’t believe it, just ask them, Rathar thought, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a wry smile. Brains weren’t enough all by themselves, either. Mezentio’s men hadn’t had quite the brawn they needed to do everything they wanted--for which the marshal gave the powers above fervent thanks.

Almost no Algarvian civilians showed themselves. How many huddled in their houses and how many had fled, Rathar didn’t know. From everything he’d seen, the town held next to no unwounded men between the ages of fourteen and sixty-five. As for women ... If he were an Algarvian woman, he wouldn’t have wanted Unkerlanter soldiers to know he was around, either.

He went back into the house he was using as a headquarters. In the few minutes he was outside, someone had taken down the picture of King Mezentio and put up one of King Swemmel. Rathar found his own sovereign’s cold stare no more pleasant to work under than that of the King of Algarve.

A crystallomancer came up to him and said, “Sir, the redheads have taken out a couple of important bridges with those steerable eggs of theirs.”