Rulers of the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  “How not?” Shazli asked. “Will you tell me I misunderstood you, and that you want Zuwayza to bow down to Unkerlant after all? If you will tell me that, I shall have certain things to tell you: of that you may rest assured.”

  “By no means,” Hajjaj said. “All I ask is that you not send Swemmel a paper as hot as the ultimatum he has given you. In fact, you might be wisest not to send him any reply at all. Aye, I believe that’s best. Do nothing to inflame him, and our kingdom will stay safe.”

  By the nature of things, Zuwayza would never be a great power in Derlavai. The kingdom had not enough people, not enough land—and much of the land it did have was sunblasted desert, in which thornbushes and lizards and camels might flourish but nothing else did. Hajjaj’s ancestors had been nomads who roamed that desert waste and fought other Zuwayzi clans for the sport of it. Though generations removed from a camel-hair tent, he’d learned the old songs, the brave songs, as a boy. Counseling prudence came hard. But he reminded himself he was no barbarian but a civilized man. He did what needed doing.

  And King Shazli nodded. “Aye, what you say makes good sense. Very well, then. If you will be so kind as to let me have that, …” Hajjaj passed the paper back to the king. Shazli tore it to pieces, saying, “Now we rely on the Algarvians to keep Unkerlant too busy to worry about the likes of us.”

  “I think we may safely do that,” Hajjaj replied. “After all, the Algarvians have the strongest incentive to fight hard: if they lose, they’re likely to get boiled alive.”

  Colonel Sabrino shook his head like a wild beast, trying to get the snow off his goggles. How was he supposed to see down to the ground if he couldn’t see past the end of his nose? The Algarvian officer was tempted to take off the goggles and just use his eyes, as he did in good weather. But even then, his dragon could fly fast enough to make tears stream from his eyes and ruin his vision. The goggles would have to stay.

  The dragon, sensing him distracted, let out a sharp screech and tried to fly where it wanted to go, not where he wanted it to. He whacked it with his long, iron-shod goad. It screeched again, this time in fury, and twisted its long, snaky neck so that it could glare back at him. Its yellow eyes blazed with hatred. He whacked it again. “You do what I tell you, you stupid, stinking thing!” he shouted.

  Dragons were trained from hatchlinghood never to flame their riders off them. As far as humans were concerned, that was the most important lesson the great beasts ever learned. But dragonfliers knew how truly brainless their charges were. Every once in a while, a dragon forgot its lessons … .

  This one didn’t. After another hideous screech, it resigned itself to doing as Sabrino commanded. He peered down through scattered, quick-scudding clouds at the fight around Durrwangen.

  What he saw made him curse even more harshly than he had at his dragon. The Unkerlanters had almost completed their ring around the city. If they did, he saw nothing that would keep them from serving the Algarvian garrison inside as they’d served the Algarvian army that reached—but did not come out of—Sulingen.

  Could Algarve withstand two great disasters in the southwest? Sabrino didn’t know, and didn’t want to have to find out. He spoke into his crystal to the squadron leaders he commanded : “All right, lads, let’s give Swemmel’s men the presents they’ve been waiting for.”

  “Aye, my lord Count.” That was Captain Domiziano, who still seemed younger and more cheerful than he had any business being in the fourth year of a war that looked no closer to an end than it had the day it started: further from an end, perhaps.

  “Aye.” Captain Orosio didn’t waste words. He never had. The other two squadron commanders also acknowledged the order.

  Sabrino’s laugh was bitter. He should have led sixty-four dragonfliers; each of his squadron commanders should have had charge of sixteen, including himself. When the fight against Unkerlant began, the wing had been at full strength. Now Sabrino commanded twenty-five men, and there were plenty of other colonels of dragonfliers who would have envied him for having so many.

  Back in headquarters far from the fighting, generals wrote orders a full wing would have had trouble meeting. They always got irate when the battered bands of dragonfliers they had in the field failed to carry out those orders in full. Sabrino got irate, too—at them, not that it did him any good.

  All he could do was all he could do. Having spoken through the crystal, he used hand signals, too. Then he whacked his dragon with the goad again. It dove on a large concentration of Unkerlanters below. The dragonfliers in the wing followed him without hesitation. They always had, since the first clashes with the Forthwegians. Good men, one and all, he thought.

  A few of the Unkerlanters blazed up at the diving dragons. A few tried to run, though running in snowshoes wouldn’t get them very far very fast. Most just kept on with what they were doing. Unkerlanters were a stolid lot, and seemed all the more so to the excitable Algarvians.

  Sabrino’s dragon carried two eggs slung beneath its belly. He released them and let them fall on the foe. The other dragonfliers in his wing were doing the same. Bursts of suddenly released sorcerous energy flung snow and Unkerlanters and behemoths in all directions. Whooping, Sabrino ordered his dragon high into the air once more. “That’s the way to do it, boys,” he said. “We can still hit’em a good lick every now and again, curse me if we can’t.”

  He knew a moment’s pity for the Unkerlanter footsoldiers. He’d been a footsoldier, toward the end of the dreadful slaughters of the Six Years’ War a generation before. Having somehow come through alive, he’d vowed he would never fight on the ground again. Dragonfliers knew terror, too, but they rarely knew squalor.

  Captain Domiziano’s smiling face appeared in Sabrino’s crystal. “Shall we go down and flame some of those whoresons, too?” the squadron leader asked.

  Reluctantly, Sabrino shook his head. “Let’s go back to the dragon farm and load up on eggs again instead,” he answered. “It’s not like flying down to Sulingen was—we can get back here again pretty fast. And that’ll save on cinnabar.”

  Along with brimstone, the quicksilver in cinnabar helped dragons flame farther and fiercer. Brimstone was easy to come by. Quicksilver … Sabrino sighed. Algarve didn’t have enough. Algarve had never had enough. Her own sorcery had turned and bit her, helping Lagoas and Kuusamo drive her from the land of the Ice People, from which she’d imported the vital mineral. There were quicksilver mines aplenty in the Mamming Hills south and west of Sulingen—but the Algarvians had never got to them. And so …

  And so, as reluctantly, Domiziano nodded. “Aye, sir. Makes sense, I suppose. We’ll save the dragonfire we’ve got for fighting with Unkerlanter beasts in the air.”

  “My thought exactly,” Sabrino agreed. “We don’t always get to do what we want to do. Sometimes we do what we have to do.”

  Surely King Mezentio had been doing what he wanted to do when he launched the Algarvian armies against Unkerlant. Until then, Algarve had gone from one triumph to another : over Forthweg, over Sibiu, over Valmiera, over Jelgava. Sabrino sighed again. The first summer’s campaigns against the Unkerlanters had been triumphant, too. But Cottbus hadn’t quite fallen. A year later, Sulingen hadn’t quite fallen, and neither had the quicksilver mines in the Mamming Hills. And now Mezentio’s men did what they had to do in Unkerlant, not what they wanted to do.

  No sooner had that gloomy thought crossed Sabrino’s mind than dour Captain Orosio’s face replaced Domiziano’s in the crystal. “Look down, sir,” Orosio said. “Curse me if our soldiers aren’t pulling out of Durrwangen.”

  “What?” Sabrino exclaimed. “They can’t do that. They’ve got orders to hold that town against everything the Unkerlanters can do.”

  “You know that, sir,” Orosio answered. “I know that. But if they know that, they don’t know they know it, if you know what I mean.”

  And he was right. Durrwangen was an important town, and the Algarvians had put a sizable army into it to make sure it didn�
��t fall back into Unkerlanter hands. And now that army, men and behemoths, horse and unicorn cavalry, was streaming out of Durrwangen through the one hole in the Unkerlanter ring around it, tramping north and east along whatever roads the soldiers and animals could find or make in the snow.

  “Have they gone mad?” Sabrino wondered. “Their commander’s head will go on the block for something like this.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, sir.” But Orosio hesitated and then added, “At least they won’t be thrown away, like the men down in Sulingen were.”

  “What? I didn’t hear that.” But Sabrino was arch; he’d heard perfectly well. And he could hardly deny that his squadron commander had a point. So far as he knew, not a man had come out of Sulingen. The Algarvians down here would live to fight another day—but they were supposed to have been fighting in Durrwangen.

  “What do we do, sir?” Orosio asked.

  Sabrino hesitated. That needed thought. At last, he answered, “We do what we would have done even if they’d stayed in the city. We go back, get more eggs, and then come and give them whatever help we can. I don’t see what else we can do. If you’ve got a better answer, let me hear it, by the powers above.”

  But Orosio only shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “All right, then,” Sabrino said. “We’ll do that.”

  News of the Algarvians’ retreat from Durrwangen had already reached the dragon farm by the time Sabrino’s wing got back to it. Some of the dragon handlers said the commander in Durrwangen hadn’t bothered asking for permission before pulling out. Others claimed he had asked for permission, been refused, and pulled out anyway. They were all sure of one thing. “His head will roll,” said the fellow who tossed meat covered with powdered brimstone and cinnabar to Sabrino’s dragon. He sounded quite cheerful about the prospect.

  And Sabrino could only nod. “His head bloody well deserves to roll,” he said. “You can’t go around disobeying orders.”

  “Oh, aye,” the dragon handler agreed. But then, after a pause, he went on, “Still and all, though, that’s a lot of boys who can do a lot of fighting somewhere else.”

  “Everybody thinks he’s a general,” Sabrino said with a snort. The dragon handler tossed his mount another big gobbet of meat. The beast snatched it out of the air and gulped it down. Its yellow eyes followed the handler as he took yet another piece of meat from the cart. The dragon was far fonder of the man who fed it than of the man who flew it.

  Despite his snort, Sabrino remained thoughtful. He and Orosio had said about the same thing as the dragon handler had. Did that mean they were on to something, or were they all daft the same way?

  In the end, it probably wouldn’t matter. Regardless of whether his move proved foolish or brilliant, the general in charge of the Algarvian forces breaking out from Durrwangen would be in trouble with his superiors. Being right was rarely an excuse for disobeying orders.

  As soon as his beasts were fed and had fresh eggs slung beneath them, Sabrino ordered them into the air once more. He hoped they wouldn’t meet Unkerlanter dragons. They’d been flying too much lately. They were tired and far from at their best. He wished they could have had more time to recover between flights. But there were too many miles of fighting and not enough dragons to cover them. The ones Algarve had needed to do all they could.

  As if drawn by a lodestone, Sabrino led his dragonfliers back toward the Algarvian soldiers breaking out of Durrwangen. They were doing better than he’d thought they would be. Their retreat, plainly, had caught the Unkerlanters by surprise. Swemmel’s men were swarming into the city they’d lost the summer before. Most of them seemed willing to let the soldiers who’d defended it go.

  Sabrino and his dragonfliers punished the Unkerlanters who did attack the retreating Algarvians. Corpses, some in long, rock-gray tunics, others in the white smocks that made them harder to see against the snow, sprawled in unlovely death. Sabrino snorted at that, this time mocking what passed for poetry in his mind. He’d seen too much fighting in two different wars, and the next lovely death he found would be the first.

  Down below, the Algarvian army kept falling back. It retreated in excellent order, without the slightest sign of disarray from the men. But if they were in such good spirits, why had their leader ordered them out of Durrwangen in the first place? Couldn’t they have held the important town a good deal longer? Sabrino had plenty of questions, but no good answers to go with them.

  On the defensive. Sergeant Istvan didn’t like the phrase. Gyongyosians were by training and (they said) by birth a warrior race. Warriors, by the nature of their calling, boldly stormed forward and overwhelmed the foe. They didn’t sit and wait inside fieldworks for the foe to storm forward and try to overwhelm them.

  So said most of the men in Istvan’s squad, at any rate. They’d come into the army to force their way through the passes of the Ilszung Mounts and through the endless, trackless forests of western Unkerlant. They’d done a good job of it, too. Unkerlant was distracted by her bigger fight with Algarve thousands of miles to the east, and never had put enough men into the defense against Gyongyos—never till recently, anyhow. Now …

  “We just have to wait and see if we can build up reinforcements faster than those stinking whoresons, that’s all,” Istvan said. “If you haven’t got the men, you can’t do the things you could if you did.”

  “Aye, he’s right,” Corporal Kun agreed. Kun always looked more like what he had been—a mage’s apprentice—than a proper soldier. He was thin—downright scrawny for a Gyongyosian—and his spectacles gave him a studious seeming. He went on, “Istvan and I had to put up with this same kind of nonsense of Obuda, out in the Bothnian Ocean, when the Kuusamans had enough men to get the jump on us.”

  “And me,” Szonyi said. “Don’t forget about me.”

  “And you,” Istvan agreed. They’d all been on Obuda together. Istvan went on, “We’ve seen the kinds of things you have to do when you haven’t got enough men to do everything you want. You sit and you wait for the other bugger to make a mistake and then you try and kick him in the balls when he does.”

  Kun and Szonyi nodded. The two of them—weedy corporal and burly common soldier with tawny hair and curly beard that made him look like a lion—understood how to play the game. So did Istvan. The rest of the men in the squad … he wasn’t so sure of them. They listened. They nodded in all the right places. Did they really know what he was talking about? He doubted it.

  “We are a warrior race. We shall prevail, no matter what the accursed Unkerlanters do.” That was Lajos, one of the new men. He was as burly as Szonyi, a little burlier than Istvan. In the small bits of action he’d seen since coming up to the front, he’d fought as bravely as anyone could want He was nineteen, and sure he knew everything. Who was there to tell him he might be wrong? Would he believe anyone? Not likely.

  Istvan took off his gloves and looked at his hands. His nails were raggedly trimmed, with black dirt ground under them and into the folds of skin at his knuckles. He turned his hands over. Thick calluses, also dark with ground-in dirt, creased his palms. Scars seamed his hands, too. His eyes went, as they always did, to one in particular, a puckered line between the second and third fingers of his left hand.

  Kun had a scar as near identical to that one as made no difference. So did Szonyi. So did several other squadmates, the men who’d served under Istvan for a while. Captain Tivadar had cut them all. The company commander would have been within his rights to kill them all. They’d eaten goat stew. They hadn’t known it was goat; they’d killed the Unkerlanters who’d been cooking it. But knowledge didn’t matter. They’d sinned. Istvan still didn’t know if his expiation was enough, or if the curse on those who ate of forbidden flesh still lingered.

  Someone approached the timber-reinforced redoubt in which Istvan and his squad waited. “Who comes?” he called softly.

  “The fairy frog in the fable, to gulp you all down.”

  With a chuckle, Istvan said, “
Come ahead, Captain.”

  Tivadar did, slipping from tree to tree so he didn’t show himself to any Unkerlanter snipers who might be lurking nearby. Nodding to Istvan, he slid down into the redoubt. “Anything that looks like trouble?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Istvan answered at once. “Everything’s been real quiet the past couple of days.”

  “That’s good.” Tivadar checked. He wasn’t much older than Istvan—he couldn’t have been thirty—but he thought of everything, or as close to everything as he could. “I hope that’s good, anyhow. Maybe Swemmel’s boys are brewing up something nasty out of sight.” He turned to Kun. “Anything that feels like trouble, Corporal?”

  Kun shook his head. “Nothing I can sense, Captain. I don’t know how much that’s worth, though. I was only an apprentice, after all, not a mage myself.” In the squad, he put on airs about the small spells he did know. Putting on airs with the company commander didn’t pay.

  “All right,” Tivadar said. “The last time they struck us with sorcery, even our best mages didn’t know what they’d do till they did it, curse them.”

  He was all business. Having purified Istvan, Kun, Szonyi, and the rest, he acted as if they were ritually pure, and never mentioned that dreadful night. Neither did any of them, not where anybody not of their number might hear. The shame was too great for that. Istvan thought it always would be.

  Kun usually mocked whenever he saw the chance. He was a city man, and his ways often seemed strange and slick and rather repellent to Istvan, who like most Gyongyosians came from a mountain valley where the people were at feud with some neighboring valley when they weren’t at feud among themselves. But Kun didn’t mock now. In tones unwontedly serious, he said, “That was an abomination. The stars will not shine on men who murder their own to power their magecraft.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Lajos boomed. “The Unkerlanters fight filthy. It’s worse than eating goat’s flesh, if you ask me.”