Rulers of the Darkness d-4

by Harry Turtledove

  Gandiluz started to move to flank her. "Not you," Garivald told him, also pleasantly. Talking back to the regulars got easier the more he did it. He aimed his stick at Gandiluz's midriff. Gandiluz stopped moving. He didn't stop weighing his chances, though. Neither did Tantris. King Swemmel might have sent out petty tyrants, but he hadn't chosen cowards.

  In the confrontation, everyone had forgotten about Sadoc. The peasant who'd struggled so hard to become a mage was dark with fury. "There is a power point in these woods, and I'm going to use it," he growled, his hands moving in swift passes that certainly looked confident and competent. "Garivald, you'll pay for mocking me."

  Garivald knew a certain amount of alarm- but less than he had going into combat against the Grelzers. They'd made it plain they knew what they were doing when they tried to kill him; Sadoc hadn't proved any such thing. "Don't be a bigger jackass than you can help," Garivald suggested.

  "And you'll pay for that, too," Sadoc said. "I can call down lightnings out of a clear blue sky- I can, and I will!" He raised his hands to the heavens and cried out words of power- or they might have been nonsense syllables, for all Garivald knew.

  But power gathered in the air. Garivald could feel it. He'd felt it before when Sadoc tried to do this, that, or the other thing. The would-be wizard could prepare for a spell. What came after the preparations, though…

  "Sadoc, stop it this instant!" Now Obilot's voice came sharp as a whipcrack. Garivald wasn't the only one who felt that building power, then.

  As a matter of fact, Gandiluz felt it, too. "You see?" he said to Garivald. "He can be what we need against Algarve."

  "My arse," Garivald said succinctly.

  "No, my arse," Sadoc said. "You can kiss it, Garivald!" He brought down his hands in a gesture filled with hate- and lightning followed.

  Garivald fell to the ground, stunned and blinded by the blue-white stroke. Thunder roared around him. For a couple of heartbeats, he thought he really was dead. But then, like the rest of the irregulars, he staggered to his feet. Sadoc was still upright, looking in astonishment at what he'd done. Like everybody else's, Garivald's gaze followed his.

  "Oh, you idiot," Garivald said, astonished at how few shakes his voice held. He blinked, but it would be a while before he stopped seeing the world through green and purple snakes. "You big, clumsy, futtering idiot."

  There stood Tantris. He was shaking, shaking like a leaf. And there beside him lay the charred, smoking ruins of Gandiluz- one Unkerlanter regular who would never report back to King Swemmel again. Sadoc had called down the lightning, all right, but not on the target he'd had in mind.

  "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I really am. I aimed to hit you with that, Garivald. I probably shouldn't have done that either, should I?"

  "No, you bloody clot," Garivald snapped. He rounded on Tantris again. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you going to tell me some more about how Sadoc is the unicorn you're going to ride to victory, and he'll gore everything that gets in front of you out of the way?"

  Tantris was still gaping at the remains of his comrade. The stench of burnt meat filled the clearing. Garivald had to repeat himself to get his attention. When he did, Tantris shuddered. He leaned over and was noisily sick. Garivald nodded to the irregular closest to him. The man gave Tantris a canteen. After he'd rinsed his mouth and spat, he violently shook his head. "I'm not going to tell anybody anything, not for a while," he answered.

  "That's the first sensible thing you've said since you got here," Garivald told him.

  But Tantris shook his head. "No. We really do need to do everything we can to keep the redheads from moving supplies through Grelz. However we do it."

  "However we do it- aye," Garivald said. "Suppose you let us find our way instead of telling us yours." Tantris looked at Gandiluz's corpse again. He gulped. He said not another word.

  Eleven

  No one could have come near the fighting line through the great woods of western Unkerlant without knowing two armies grappled there. The ignorant traveler's nose would have told him if nothing else did. Istvan was no ignorant traveler, but he smelled the reek of unwashed bodies, the fouler stench of imperfectly covered latrines, and the sharp tang of woodsmoke, too.

  And yet, at this season of the year, those stinks were almost afterthoughts in the air. Everything was green and growing. Broad-leafed trees, bare through the winter, had cloaked themselves anew. So had the bushes and ferns that grew under them. Pines and firs and balsams stayed in leaf the year around, but the sap rising in them put out spicy notes Istvan's nostrils appreciated.

  He also appreciated the lull in the fighting. "We're on the defensive," he told Captain Frigyes when the new company commander came forward to inspect the redoubt, "and they're on the defensive, too. Put it all together and it means there's not a whole lot of action."

  "Sometimes the stars shine on us," Frigyes said. He was a big man, burly even by Gyongyosian standards, with a scar on his right cheek. "We have troubles out in the islands, the Unkerlanters have troubles off in the east. Put it all together and they don't want to be fighting here and neither do we."

  Captain Tivadar might have said the same thing. Istvan missed his long-time superior, but Frigyes looked to be a solid officer- and he knew nothing of why Istvan and several of his squadmates bore scars on their left hands. Istvan looked around. All of his troopers were busy with other things. He could bring out a question perhaps improper for a man of a warrior race: "Why don't we go ahead and make peace, then?"

  "Because we would betray our Algarvian allies if we did, and they've struck some heavy blows at the accursed Kuusamans," Frigyes answered. "Also, because King Swemmel hasn't shown any interest in making peace, may the stars withhold their light from him."

  Anyone would reckon Swemmel the warrior, Istvan thought uncomfortably. But he's just a madman. Everybody knows that. Even his own soldiers know it. But why do they fight so hard for a madman?

  "Enjoy this while it lasts," Frigyes told him. "It won't last forever. Sooner or later, the Algarvians will strike their blow, as they do every spring. Then, odds are, they'll drive the Unkerlanters back again, and then the Unkerlanters will hit us again here."

  "I'm sorry, sir." Istvan frowned. "I don't follow that."

  "How likely is Swemmel to get summer victories against Algarve?" Frigyes asked. "Not very, not if you look at what's happened the past two years. So if the Unkerlanters want wins to keep their own people happy, they'll try to get them against us."

  "Oh." That made an unpleasant amount of sense. It was also an insult of sorts. "We're easier than the Algarvians, are we? We shouldn't be easier than anyone."

  "We're easier than the Algarvians, aye." Frigyes didn't seem insulted. "They can bring their whole apparatus of war with them. We can't. All we've got here in these woods are some of the best footsoldiers in the world." He slapped Istvan on the back, climbed out of the redoubt, and went on his way."

  Istvan turned to his squad. "The captain says Gyongyos has some of the best footsoldiers in the world. He hasn't seen you lazy buggers in action yet, that's what I think."

  "There hasn't been any action for a while," Szonyi said, which was also true.

  "Do you really want much?" Kun asked. Even if he did wear spectacles, he could ask a question like that: he'd seen as much desperate fighting as any man in the woods, Istvan possibly excepted.

  Had one of the newer men put the question, Szonyi would have felt compelled to puff out his chest and act manly. As things were, he shrugged and answered, "It'll probably come whether I want it or not, so what's the point of worrying?"

  A red squirrel was rash enough to show its head around the trunk of a birch. Istvan's stick, ready for Unkerlanters, was ready for a squirrel, too. It fell into the bushes under the trees. "Nice blazing, Sergeant," Lajos said. "Something good for the pot."

  Kun sighed. "By the time you skin it and gut it, there's hardly enough meat on a squirrel to be worth bothering about."

  "That's
not why you're complaining," Istvan said as he left the redoubt to collect the squirrel. "I know why you're complaining. You're a born city man, and you never had to worry about eating things like squirrels before they sucked you into the army." In the bushes, the squirrel was still feebly thrashing. Istvan found a rock and smashed its head a couple of times. Then he carried it back by the tail, pausing once or twice to brush away fleas. He hoped he got them all. If he didn't, he'd do some extra scratching.

  "Doesn't seem natural, eating something like that," Kun said as Istvan's knife slit the squirrel's belly.

  "What's not natural is going hungry when there's good food around," Istvan said. His squadmates spoke up in loud agreement. They came off farms or out of little villages. Gyongyos was a kingdom of smallholdings. Towns were market centers, administrative points. They weren't the heart of the land, as he'd heard they were elsewhere on Derlavai. And stewed squirrel, no matter what Kun thought of it, was tasty.

  Kun didn't complain when it was ladled out to him. By then, it had got mixed up with everything else in the pot, mixed to where you couldn't point at any one chunk of meat and say, This is squirrel. Off to the south, somebody started lobbing eggs at somebody else. Istvan had no idea whether it was the Unkerlanters or his own countrymen. Whoever it was, he hoped they'd stop it.

  Captain Frigyes came back the next day with a mage in tow. That made Kun perk up; it always did. "Men," the new company commander said, "this is Major Borsos. He's going to be-"

  "Well, by the stars, so it is!" Istvan exclaimed. "No offense, sir, but I figured you'd be dead by now." He saw blank expressions all around him, including the one on Borsos' face. He explained: "Sir, I fetched and carried for you on Obuda, when you were dousing out where the Kuusaman ships were."

  "Oh." Major Borsos' face cleared. He was a major by courtesy, so ordinary troopers would fetch and carry for him. He'd been a captain by courtesy out on the island in the Bothnian Ocean, so he'd come up a bit in the world. Istvan had been a common soldier then, so he had, too. "Good to see you again," Borsos said, a beat slower than he might have.

  Istvan suspected the mage didn't really remember him. He shrugged. Borsos had seen a lot since then, as he had himself. And Kun looked as green with envy as the tarnished bronze dowsing rods Borsos had used on Obuda. Istvan smiled. That was worth something.

  Frigyes said, "I didn't expect it to be old home week here. But Major Borsos is going to do what he can to spy out the Unkerlanters."

  "Ah," Istvan said. "How will your dowsing sort through all the moving beasts and especially the moving leaves to find the moving Unkerlanters, eh, Major?"

  Borsos beamed. "Aye, by the stars, you did assist me, Sergeant, or some dowser, anyhow, and he listened when he ran on at the mouth." Kun was standing behind his back, and behind Frigyes', and looked to be on the point of retching. Istvan wanted to make a face back at him, but couldn't. Borsos went on, "The answer is, just as I have a dowsing rod attuned to the sea, so I've also got one attuned to soldiers. It hardly cares about leaves, and it isn't much interested in beasts, either, though mountain apes might confuse it. Here, I'll show you." He set down the leather satchel he was carrying. It clanked. He opened it and went through the rods, finally grunting when he found the one he wanted. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"

  "No, sir," Istvan answered. The dowsing rod wasn't of fresh, shiny bronze, or of the green, patinaed sort, either. It looked like a thin length of rusty iron- if those stains on it were rust. Kun was about to speak. Again, Istvan beat him to the punch, pointing and asking, "Unkerlanter blood?"

  Borsos beamed again. Frigyes said, "My, what a clever chap you turn out to be." Kun looked about ready to burst like an egg from rage and jealousy. That made Istvan happier than either officer's reaction. He had to live with Kun all the time.

  "Even so, Sergeant. Even so," Borsos answered, beaming still. "By the law of similarity, when I dowse with this rod, I'll sense motion from Unkerlanters, and very little from any other source." He waved the rod as if it were a sword, then thwacked it into the palm of his hand. "It's not perfect- dowsing isn't- but it's pretty good."

  "Go ahead, Major," Captain Frigyes said. He wouldn't have talked like that to a real soldier of rank higher than his own. "Let's see what's going on out there."

  Major Borsos didn't take offense. He'd probably had officers- real officers, men of noble blood- treat him a good deal worse. He said, "Aye, Captain, just as you please." Holding the handle of the dowsing rod in both hands, he swung it to the east, murmuring as he did so. He hadn't gone far before it dipped sharply. "Something in that direction- not far away, unless I miss my guess."

  "Oh, that's where their scouts always hide, sir," Szonyi said. "Nothing much to worry about unless you feel a whole lot of the buggers."

  "No," Borsos said, looking down at his hands as if asking them to speak more clearly. After some thought, he nodded. "No, it doesn't feel like a lot of men. One, not far away- that could well be so."

  Kun worked his little magic and said, "He's not moving toward us."

  "No?" Borsos said. "What charm were you using there, soldier?" He shrugged. "Whatever it is, it won't matter to me. I never have been able to do much in the way of magecraft save for dowsing. The art is in the blood, or else it's not. With me, it's not, unless I have a dowsing rod in my hand."

  "It's very easy, sir," Kun said, and ran through it.

  Borsos tried the charm, then shrugged again. "I can't tell if anyone is moving or not. You have your gift; I have mine. And now, I had better finish doing what I can do." He started working the dowsing rod again.

  Kun looked proud that he could do something the dowser couldn't. He didn't bother remembering that Borsos could do something he couldn't- something a great deal larger. People, Istvan had noticed, were often like that.

  After sweeping through the entire half-circle, Borsos turned to Frigyes and said, "I see no vast hordes of Unkerlanters set to sweep down on this redoubt. Of course, if they're more than a mile or so away, I probably won't see them. That's the range I can get out of this rod." With a shrug, he put it back into his valise.

  "Thanks, Major," Captain Frigyes said. "I didn't really expect an attack, but it's nice to know we haven't got one building… here." He corrected himself before Borsos could do it for him.

  "Sir, you could sense Kuusaman ships out beyond the horizon," Istvan said. "Why can't you see that far with your Unkerlanter rod?"

  "Mainly because a big moving warship creates a lot more disturbance than even a whole lot of moving men," the dowser answered. "Men aren't all moving in just the same direction. Some of them might even move away on purpose to confuse people like me. This is a funny business I'm in, no two ways about it."

  Istvan started to say that he'd trade in a flash, but checked himself. Borsos' job brought him up to the front lines, too, and he was no great shakes at fighting back. Each sheep has its own pasture, Istvan thought. He looked up and laughed a little. His pasture came with altogether too many trees.

  ***

  When Hajjaj walked into General Ikhshid's office, the portly officer started to get to his feet so he could bow. "Don't bother, General, I pray you- don't bother," Hajjaj said. "I am willing- indeed, I am eager- to take the thought for the act."

  "You're kind, your Excellency, very kind," Ikhshid wheezed. "Since you say I may, I'm more than content to stay down here on my arse, believe me I am."

  "Are you well, General?" the Zuwayzi foreign minister asked in some anxiety- if Ikhshid went down, he didn't know who could replace him. As a soldier, Ikhshid was better than competent, but no more than that. But he had the respect of every clanfather in Zuwayza. Hajjaj couldn't think of any other officer who did.

  With another wheeze, the general answered, "I'll last as long as I can- and a little longer than that, with any luck at all. But I didn't ask you to drag your own set of old bones over here for that. I wanted you to take a look at the map and tell me what you see." He gestured toward the map of De
rlavai that took up most of one office wall.

  "No tea and wine and cakes?" Hajjaj asked mildly.

  "If you want to waste time on frivolities, I'll send for 'em," Ikhshid answered. "Otherwise, I'd sooner talk about what's what."

  "From your charm, anyone could guess you'd served in the Unkerlanter army," Hajjaj murmured. That squeezed a breathy snort out of Ikhshid. Hajjaj said, "I suppose we can dispense with ritual." He studied the map. "I am pleased to note the advances our bold Zuwayzi forces have made here in the north."

  Ikhshid snorted again, this time in derision. "Cut to the chase, your Excellency. By the powers above, cut to the chase. You see that big ugly bulge down around Durrwangen the same as I do. There can't be a soldier on Derlavai- or on the island, either- who looks at the map and doesn't see that bulge."

  "Not just soldiers," Hajjaj said. "Some weeks ago, Marquis Balastro assured me the Algarvians would cut it off as soon as the ground dried." He shook his head. "What a strange notion- ground getting too wet for armies to move across it, I mean."

  "I've seen it myself, matter of fact," Ikhshid said. "It'd be like trying to fight in a tin of cake batter. That's what the muddy season's all about down there. But never mind that. The ground's been dry enough to hold armies for a while now, and the Algarvians still haven't moved. How come?"

  "You would do better to ask Marquis Balastro or his military attachй," Hajjaj replied. "I fear I cannot tell you."

  "I suppose not. But I can tell you, and I'm not an Algarvian," Ikhshid said. "The thing of it is, you think Marshal Rathar doesn't know what's coming next? They might have come close to a surprise if they'd moved as soon as ever they could, but now?" He shook his head. "Now it's a slugging match."

  "Ah." Hajjaj studied the map. "If they strike there, they won't have much of an advantage of maneuver, will they?"

  Ikhshid beamed so widely, his face showed a net of wrinkles that didn't usually appear. "Your Excellency, when I fall over dead, they can paint stars on your arm and you can take over for me."