Rulers of the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

A couple of minutes after that, Sidroc was probably snoring, too. His comrades said he did. Since he’d never heard himself, he couldn’t have proved it one way or the other. Snoring or not, he was certainly asleep, the deep, almost deathlike sleep that comes from complete exhaustion.

  And, a couple of minutes after that, he and Werferth were both awake and both digging like men possessed as Unkerlanter eggs burst all around them. Sidroc felt as if he were moving underwater. He kept dropping the little short-handled shovel. “Cursed thing,” he muttered, as if his clumsiness were its fault.

  The Algarvians finally started tossing eggs back at King Swemmel’s men. “Took’em long enough,” Werferth growled. “I figured they’d wait till we were all dead and then give back a little something.”

  “I’m not all dead,” Sidroc said. “I’m just mostly dead.” He and the sergeant both found that very funny, a telling measure of how tired they were. They laughed without restraint, till tears rolled down their faces. And then, in spite of the eggs that kept bursting all around them, they lay down in the hole they’d dug and went back to sleep.

  An officer’s whistle woke Sidroc a little before dawn. Lieutenant Ercole looked as grimy and beat as any of the Forthwegians he commanded; not even Algarvian vanity let him steal a few minutes for primping, not on this field. But he sounded far livelier than Sidroc felt. “Up, you lugs!” he cried. “Up! Up and forward! We’ve got a long way to go before we can be lazy again.”

  “What does he mean, again?” Werferth mumbled, staggering to his feet as if he’d suddenly aged forty or fifty years. “We’ve never once been lazy. Powers above, when have we had the time for it?”

  “I’d like to have the time to be lazy,” Sidroc said. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a chunk of stale barley bread. He gnawed it as he listened to Ercole.

  The company commander pointed ahead. “You see that wedge of behemoths in front of us?” Sure enough, a couple of dozen of the great shapes were silhouetted against the lightening sky. Lieutenant Ercole went on, “We are going to form up behind them. They will pound a breach in the next Unkerlanter line for us. We will go in behind them. We will go into the enemy line. We will go through the enemy line. We will go on toward our brothers who are fighting their way west toward us. Mezentio and victory!”

  “Mezentio and victory!” The men of Plegmund’s Brigade tried their best, but couldn’t raise much of a cheer. Too many of them were dead, too many wounded, too many of the unhurt survivors shambling in an exhausted daze like Sidroc and Werferth.

  Dazed or not, exhausted or not, Sidroc trudged forward to find his place behind the behemoths. Not only Forthwegians from Plegmund’s Brigade were assembled there, but also Algarvian footsoldiers. The redheads didn’t sneer at the Forthwegians anymore; ties of blood bound them together.

  Other wedges of behemoths were coming together along the Algarvian line. “They’ve thought of something new,” Sidroc remarked.

  “Good for them,” Werferth said. “And we get to be the ones who find out whether it works.” He kicked at the dirt. “If we live, we’re heroes.” He kicked again, then shrugged. “And if we don’t live, who gives a futter what we are?”

  At shouts from the men who crewed them, the behemoths tramped off toward the rising sun. They didn’t advance at a full, thunderous gallop, which would have left the footsoldiers far behind, but did move with an implacability that suggested nothing would stop them. Sidroc hoped the suggestion held truth.

  From on high, Algarvian dragons dropped eggs on the Unkerlanter trenches and redoubts ahead. The crews of the behemoths with egg-tossers also began pounding the enemy position as soon as they drew within range. The Unkerlanters had dug ditches to keep behemoths away from their trench line, but the rain of eggs caved in the edges to a lot of those ditches. And behemoths, even armored, even carrying men and egg-tossers or heavy sticks, were surprisingly nimble beasts. They had little trouble finding ways to go forward.

  Just before the behemoths reached the first trench line, both Algarvian and Unkerlanter wizards used sacrifices to get the life energy they needed for their potent spells. Lieutenant Ercole wasn’t twenty feet from Sidroc when violet flame shot up from the ground and consumed him. He had time for one brief, agonized shriek before falling silent forever. Sidroc smelled burnt meat. Absurdly, dreadfully, the smoke-sweet scent made his mouth flood with spit.

  As soon as the ground stopped shaking beneath him, he got up and moved on. From not far away, Ceorl called to Werferth, “You’re in charge of the company now.”

  “Aye, so I am.” Werferth sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t thought of that.

  “The redheads won’t let you keep it,” Sidroc predicted. “After all, you’re just a lousy Forthwegian.”

  “I’ve got it now, though,” Werferth said. “Don’t see anything to do but keep on going forward. Do you?”

  Sidroc stared at him. “You’re not supposed to ask me what to do. You’re supposed to tell me what to do. You’re supposed to tell all of us what to do.”

  “Aye,” Sergeant Werferth said again. He pointed ahead. “There’s a little rise. Let’s take it, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  Like any high ground on this field, the little rise had Unkerlanters on it. The men of Plegmund’s Brigade were able to get closer to the foe than Algarvians would have before the Unkerlanters started blazing. For once, being Forthwegians helped them—King Swemmel’s men thought for a little too long that they were on the same side. By the time they realized their mistake, Sidroc and his countrymen were already on top of them.

  From the crest of the rise, they could see more high ground farther east. Pointing again, Werferth said, “If we can get up there, I think we can tear this whole position open.”

  “We?” Sidroc echoed. “Do you mean this company? Do you mean Plegmund’s Brigade, whatever’s left of it?”

  Wearily, Werferth shook his head. “No and no. I mean the whole army. The behemoths will have to do most of the work. I can’t see footsoldiers making it all that way without help. Must be another five, six miles.”

  In ordinary marching, that would have taken the soldiers a couple of hours—a good deal less than that, if they were in a hurry. Sidroc wondered how long it would take with what had to be all the Unkerlanters in the world between his army and that precious ground.

  Swemmel’s soldiers weren’t inclined to let Plegmund’s Brigade move another inch forward, let alone five or six miles. As soon as the Unkerlanters realized they’d lost the rise, they started tossing eggs at it. Sidroc and his comrades huddled in the holes from which they’d driven the enemy.

  “Here they come!” Ceorl shouted. Sure enough, Unkerlanters in rock-gray tunics swarmed up the eastern slope of the rise, intent on retaking it. Sidroc blazed down several of them. The other Forthwegians did as well, but the Unkerlanters kept coming.

  Then eggs started bursting among Swemmel’s soldiers. A beam from a heavy stick blazed down two Unkerlanters unlucky enough to be in line with it. “Behemoths!” Sidroc yelled, his throat raw with excitement and smoke. “Our behemoths!”

  Caught by surprise, the Unkerlanters ran away. They would sometimes do that when facing the unexpected, though not often enough for anyone ever to count on it. Sidroc waited for Werferth to order a pursuit. The order didn’t come. Instead, Werferth said, “Let’s wait till we get some more troops up here. Then we’ll go after the whoresons.”

  Sidroc couldn’t very well argue with that. More eggs began falling on the men from Plegmund’s Brigade. Sidroc looked out toward the high ground in the distance. How could they hope to advance when it was all they could do not to retreat?

  Once upon a time, probably, the village of Braunau hadn’t been much different from any other Unkerlanter peasant village. That was before the Algarvians pushing west collided here with the Unkerlanters who had no intention of letting them go any farther. Now whatever was left of the village once the fighting finally went somewhere else would be
remembered forever. How it would be remembered … The answer to that question was being written in blood in and around the place.

  Again, Leudast thought of Sulingen. The Unkerlanters defending Braunau fought with the same determination their countrymen farther south had shown. Every hut, every barn, every well was defended as if it were the gateway to King Swemmel’s palace in Cottbus. No one counted the cost. The determination was there: the Algarvians would not get past the village.

  For their part, King Mezentio’s soldiers remained stubborn and resourceful. No sooner would the defenders of Braunau chew up one brigade than another went into the fight. As always, the redheads were brave. Here, that ended up hurting them at least as much as it helped.

  “They can’t get at Braunau any other way than from straight ahead, do you see?” Recared said. “The ground won’t let them try any of their fancy Algarvian tricks and come up our backside.”

  “That’s the way it looks, anyhow,” Leudast agreed. He wasn’t so sure about what Mezentio’s men could or couldn’t do. He’d been wrong too many times.

  Recared had fewer doubts—but then, he hadn’t been in the fight as long as Leudast had. “Do they play the game called ‘last man standing’ in your village?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir,” Leudast answered. “They play it everywhere, I think. It helps if you’re drunk.” Two men stood toe to toe, taking turns hitting each other as hard as they could. Eventually, one of them wouldn’t be able to get up any more, and the other fellow was the winner.

  “Well, that’s what we’ve got here,” Recared said. “Either we end up on our feet here in Braunau, or the Algarvians do.”

  “Something to that,” Leudast said. “But whether we’re standing or the redheads are, Braunau won’t be.”

  Not much of Braunau was standing at the moment. Leudast and Recared both peered out of a trench between a couple of ruined houses on the eastern edge of the village. A dead Algarvian lay in front of them; a couple more lay behind them. The redheads had twice got into Braunau, but they hadn’t been able to stay. Their trenches, right this minute, lay a couple of hundred yards outside it.

  From behind Leudast, Unkerlanter egg-tossers on the ridge in back of Braunau began pounding the Algarvian positions. Algarvian egg-tossers answered. Leudast said, “Better to have the redheads aiming at them than at us.”

  “Oh, they’ll get to us, never fear,” Recared said. “They always do.” Leudast wished he thought the regimental commander were wrong.

  Algarvian dragons flew by. They also dropped eggs on the Unkerlanter tossers. Some of them dropped eggs on Braunau, too. “Where are our dragons?” Leudast demanded. “Haven’t seen many of them since this fight was new.”

  “Something went wrong,” Recared answered. “I don’t quite know what, but something did. We were supposed to hit the Algarvians a hard blow, but they did it to us instead.”

  Leudast sighed. “How many times have we heard that sort of story before?” he said. “How many of us are going to end up dead on account of it? They ought to blaze whoever fouled things up for us.”

  “Odds are, the Algarvians killed him, whoever he was,” Recared said.

  But Leudast said, “No. Somebody behind the line will have forgotten something or overlooked something. That’s how it is with us. He’s the one who deserves to get boiled alive.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Recared said. “But even if you are, we can’t do anything about it. All we can do is hold on here and not let the redheads through.”

  “No, sir.” Leudast shook his head. “There’s one other thing we can do. We can pay the price for that cursed fool’s mistake. We can. And it looks like we will.”

  Lieutenant Recared scowled at him. “Sergeant, if you’d said something like that to me this past winter, I’d have given you up to the inspectors without a qualm.”

  He might not have had any qualms; the idea was plenty—more than plenty—to send a chill through Leudast. Leudast had the feeling that anybody turned over to the inspectors today would be sacrificed tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, and his life energy turned against the Algarvians. But Recared wasn’t proposing to give him up now. Cautiously, he asked, “What makes you think different these days?”

  “Well, a couple of things,” the young regimental commander answered. “For one, I’ve seen that you’re a brave man and a good soldier. And …” He sighed. “I’ve also seen that not all our higher officers are everything they might be.”

  With that, Recared had just put his own life in Leudast’s hands. If Leudast chose to denounce him, the regiment would have a new leader immediately thereafter. That it was in the middle of a desperate battle, a battle where the future of Unkerlant hung in the balance, would not matter at all. After saluting, Leudast spoke with great solemnity: “Sir, I didn’t hear a word you said there.”

  “No, eh?” Recared wasn’t a fool. He knew what he’d done, too. “Well, that’s probably for the best.”

  Leudast shrugged. “You never can tell. It might not have mattered any which way. I mean, what are the odds that either one of us is going to come out of Braunau in one piece? Let alone both of us?”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’m not going to answer that question,” Recared said. “And if you’ve got any sense, you won’t spend much time thinking about it, either.”

  He was right. Leudast knew as much. Most of the time, he didn’t worry about getting wounded or killed. Worrying wouldn’t help, and it was liable to hurt. You had to do what you had to do. If you spent too much time thinking and worrying, that might make you slow when you most needed to be fast. But here in Braunau, as in Sulingen, you were only too likely to get hurt or killed regardless of whether you were a good soldier. Too many eggs, too many beams, too many Algarvian dragons overhead.

  Recared pulled out a spyglass and peered down the charred slopes toward the redheads’ positions. “Careful, sir,” Leudast warned. “That’s a good way to get yourself blazed. They’ve got plenty of snipers who could put a beam right through your ear at that range.”

  “We have to see what’s going on,” Recared said peevishly. “If we fight blind, we’re bound to lose. Or will you tell me I’m wrong there, too?”

  Since Leudast couldn’t tell him any such thing, he kept his mouth shut. Going into the fight, about half the regiment’s companies had been commanded by lieutenants junior to Recared, the other half by sergeants like Leudast. He didn’t know how many of those junior lieutenants were left alive. He did know he didn’t want to have to try commanding a regiment himself if an Algarvian sniper did pick off Recared.

  Recared stiffened, though not because he’d taken a beam. “Uh-oh,” he said, and pointed out beyond the redheads’ front line. “They’re bringing blonds forward.”

  “Powers above,” Leudast said hoarsely. “That means they’re going to aim that filthy magecraft of theirs right at us, from as close as they can.”

  “That’s just what it means.” Recared’s voice was grim. It got grimmer: “And we haven’t got much in the way of dragons to stop them, either—we’ve seen that. They’ll keep out of range of our egg-tossers, too. By now, they’ll have that measured to the yard. So they’ll turn Braunau inside out with their magic, and we can’t do a thing to stop’em. All we can do is take it.”

  That’s what Unkerlanters do best anyhow, Leudast thought. But then he had another thought, one that appalled him with its monstrous cold-bloodedness but might keep him breathing. He grabbed Recared by the arm, an unheard-of-liberty for a sergeant to take with an officer. “Sir, if our own mages send some of that same kind of magic at those poor Kaunian buggers, Mezentio’s men won’t be able to use their life energy against us.”

  By send some of that same kind of magic, he meant, of course, having Unkerlanter mages kill some of their own countrymen for their life energy. He couldn’t stomach saying it in so many words, even if killing was part of his line of work, too.

  Recared stared at him, then shouted,
“Crystallomancer!”

  The regiment had a new one, replacing the minor mage slain in the first day of the battle for the Durrwangen salient. “Aye, sir?” he said, making his way up through the maze of trenches to Recared’s side. When Recared told him what he wanted, the crystallomancer hesitated. “Are you sure, sir?” His eyes were round and fearful.

  Mind made up, Recared didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” he said. “And hurry, curse you. If we don’t do what we have to do, and if we don’t do it fast, the Algarvians will work their magic on us. Would you sooner sit still for that?”

  “No, sir,” the crystallomancer said, and activated his crystal. When a face appeared in it, he passed it to Recared. “Go ahead, sir.”

  Recared spoke quickly and to the point. The mage on the other end of the etheric connection listened, then said, “I cannot decide this. Wait.” He disappeared.

  A moment later, another face appeared in the crystal. “I am Addanz, archmage of Unkerlant. Say your say.” Recared did, as concisely as he had before. He even gave Leudast credit, not that Leudast much wanted any such thing. Leudast had met the archmage once before, in trenches not far outside of Cottbus. Perhaps fortunately, Addanz didn’t seem to remember that. He said, “Tell me how far east of Braunau the Kaunians are.”

  “Just outside of egg-tosser range, sir,” Recared replied.

  “Very well,” Addanz said, and then shook his head. “No, not very well—very ill. But no help for it. You’ll have your magecraft, Lieutenant.”

  “Quickly then, sir, or you waste it,” Recared said.

  “You’ll have it,” Addanz repeated, and his image vanished like a blown-out candle flame.

  Leudast imagined Unkerlanter mages lining up Unkerlanter peasants and miscreants so Unkerlanter soldiers could slay them. He wished he hadn’t; the picture in his mind was all too vivid. And here, for once, Swemmel’s endless talk of efficiency proved true. Hardly five minute passed before the ground shuddered under those luckless Kaunians, before fissures opened and flames shot forth.