Through the Darkness

thatched roofs. “They’ve burnt the place,” he burst out.

“That they have.” Beside him, Obilot’s voice went cold as a blizzard. When she continued, it was more to herself than to Garivald: “You never get used to it.” She started cursing the Algarvians with loathing all the more bitter because it was helpless to change whatever lay ahead.

Gratz hadn’t been much of a village; Munderic had been right about that. Now, Garivald discovered, it wasn’t a village at all anymore. Every house had been burned. Bodies lay everywhere: men, women, children, animals. They didn’t stink yet. “This must have happened today,” Munderic said harshly.

“This is what the Algarvians did to a village near Zossen when it rose against them-this or something like it,” Garivald said.

“Gartz wouldn’t have risen,” the leader of the irregulars answered. “Gartz was supposed to stay nice and quiet, so it could go right on giving us what we needed. We didn’t raid here, any more than we do close to our other villages. Only a fool fouls his own nest.”

“Someone betrayed them,” Obilot said, sounding even more wintry than before. “Someone who lives-lived- here, or maybe someone in a traitor village who figured out what Gartz was doing.”

Garivald started to say something, but held his tongue-he’d just stepped out into the village square. The Algarvians had built a gibbet there. Three bodies hung on it, two men and a woman, their heads canted at unnatural angles. Each corpse had a placard fastened to it: a lighter square in the night. He turned away, fighting sickness. He’d seen such things before, when the redheads hanged irregulars they’d caught outside of Zossen.

Munderic went over and cut down one of the placards. He couldn’t have read it in the darkness. Garivald couldn’t have read it at all; he’d never learned his letters. After a moment, Munderic let the placard fall to the ground. “I don’t care why the Algarvians say they killed them,” he muttered. “They killed them because they don’t want our peasants remembering whose kingdom it really is.”

“Vengeance,” Obilot said softly.

More and more of the irregulars gathered in the square, staring at the bodies swaying every so slightly in the breeze. “Another charge on the bill they’ll pay,” Garivald said. “Another reason they’ll rue the day….” The song built itself, a long, furious call for revenge against the redheads.

When it was through, the irregulars’ gaze had swung from the bodies to him. Munderic came up and patted him on the shoulder. “This is why the Algarvians wanted to hang you, too,” he said.

“They were talking about boiling me alive,” Garivald remarked.

Munderic nodded. “That’s the kind of thing they do.” He pointed to the gibbet. “This is the kind of thing they do. Well, here in Unkerlant they’re finding we’re as fierce as they are. We can war like this, same as them. We can, and we are, and we will, till they all flee.”

“Aye,” the irregulars said, an angry, ragged chorus.

“Aye,” Garivald echoed. He turned to Munderic. “I’ll put that last bit into the song. It deserves to be there.”

“Huh,” Munderic said, playing it down, but Garivald knew he’d pleased the leader of the irregulars. After a moment, Munderic went on, “And now we’d better get out of here. Nothing we can do to help Gartz, and we’re not going to get anything out of the place, either. Just have to hope the Algarvians or their Grelzer dogs don’t do the same to all the villages that feed us.”

Before Garivald could say what was on his mind, Obilot exclaimed, “We can do one thing for Gartz, even if we don’t do it here and now: we can kill lots of redheads.”

“Aye.” Another savage growl from the whole band.

As the irregulars started back toward the sheltering woods, Garivald caught up with Munderic and asked, “What happens if they do wreck all the villages that are friendly to us?”

“Then we start raiding the ones that aren’t harder than ever,” Munderic answered. “They’ll find out that Mezentio’s men aren’t the only ones who can tear things to pieces.”

“Our own countrymen. .” Garivald paused a moment in thought. “Aye, if we have to.” Munderic walked on for a couple of paces, then slapped him on the back. In the still night, the noise seemed loud as a bursting egg.

Along with the rest of the Lagoan army, Fernao tramped west across the almost treeless plains of the land of the Ice People. He couldn’t have said how advance felt different from retreat, but it did. When he remarked on that to Affonso, the other mage looked at him as if he were daft. “I’ll tell you how it’s different,” Affonso said. “It’s better, that’s how.”

“Well, so it is,” Fernao agreed. “They’ll make soldiers out of us yet if we’re not careful.”

“I understand soldiers better than I ever did before,” Affonso said. “When the other fellow’s trying to kill you, things that look foolish in peacetime start making more sense all of a sudden.”

“That’s so.” Fernao nodded. “Their discipline isn’t the same as the sort we have, but it’s there. You can’t get around that.”

Up from the south came a band of Ice People leading camels. They exchanged halloos with the Lagoan scouts. After a little while, an army quartermaster went out to dicker with them. Before long, Lagoan soldiers took charge of some of the camels. Pointing, Affonso said, “Another advantage of advancing is that we’re better fed. The Ice People don’t ignore us, the way they did when we were going backwards.”

Fernao shook his head. “We may have more to eat when we’re advancing, but we’re not better fed. The only way we could be better fed would be to go back to Lagoas. And if I ever see a camel in the zoological gardens in Setubal, I’ll spit in his eye before he can do it to me.”

Affonso laughed, though Fernao hadn’t been joking. The other mage said, “We’ve been here too cursed long, that’s certain. By the powers above, even the women of the Ice People are starting to look good to me.”

“Oh, my dear fellow-my deepest sympathies,” Fernao exclaimed, and put an arm around Affonso’s shoulder. The women of the Ice People were as hairy as the men, not just on their faces but all over their bodies. Some distress in his voice, Fernao went on, “They’re starting to look good to me, too. But they still haven’t started smelling good to me, so I’m safe a while longer, anyhow.”

Still, he noticed the rank stink of the Ice People much less than he had when he’d first come to the austral continent. For one thing, he’d grown more used to it. For another, he, like everyone else in the Lagoan expeditionary force, stank much worse than he had back then.

High overhead, a dragon let out a shriek of fury. Fernao looked up to see if he could spot it, but not with the alarm bordering on panic he’d known a few weeks before. Sure enough, it was a Kuusaman beast, and hard to note against the sky. Up until the dragon transports came, shrieks in the air would have burst from the throats of enemy dragons, and would have meant eggs raining down in short order.

No more. Now Lagoan dragons painted red and gold and Kuusaman beasts painted sky blue and sea green took the fight to the Algarvians and Yaninans. Fernao enjoyed picturing in his mind enemy soldiers frantically digging for their lives as sorcerous energy seared them and hurled fragments of lichen-covered stones in all directions. Better them than me, he thought. Aye, better them than me.

Up ahead of the marching footsoldiers, a behemoth paused to tear at the grass and stunted, foot-tall birches that covered the plain. Fernao pointed to it. “I wonder if we can keep all the beasts fed when winter comes again.” he said. “For that matter, I wonder if we can keep all of us fed when winter comes again.”

Affonso shuddered. “I never dreamt we might have to spend a second winter down here-but then, this isn’t a dream; it’s a nightmare. Do you remember when this campaign was supposed to be quick and clean and easy?”

“Did you ever hear of a campaign that wasn’t supposed to be quick and clean and easy?” Fernao asked, and then answered his own question: “The trouble is, the whoresons on the other side keep coming up with ideas of their own.”

“Who ever heard of a Yaninan with any idea except running away?” Affonso asked. Fernao laughed. So did his comrade, but not for long. With a grimace, Affonso continued, “But there are more Algarvians down here than there used to be. And they do have other ideas.”

“Mostly nasty ones,” Fernao agreed. Thinking of the sorceries Mezentio’s men had started using in Unkerlant, he kicked at the grass and the mossy dirt. “Almost all of them nasty ones in this war.”

Behind its screen of scouts on camels and a few unicorns, behind its behemoths, the army slogged on toward a long, low rise. Somewhere on the other side of that rise, the Yaninans and Algarvians waited. It was somewhere