Darkness Descending

Swemmel’s moods swung wildly; he could despair--or grow furious--as readily as he exulted. One of the things Rathar had to do, along with the small task of commanding Unkerlant’s armies, was to try to keep the king on something close to an even keel. “Aye, we have forced them back some, your Majesty,” he said, “but they’re still fighting hard, and they’re still too close to Cottbus.”

Now he pointed toward the map. Gray-headed pins showed Unkerlanter positions, green-headed ones Algarvian forces. He hardly looked at the pins; he knew where the armies were at the moment. He looked at the pinholes west of the present positions, the pinholes that showed how far the Algarvians had come. There was a hole in the middle of the dot labeled Thalfang, terrifyingly near the capital of Unkerlant. On a clear day, you could see Thalfang from the spires of Swemmel’s castle. The redheads had fought their way into the town, but they hadn’t fought their way through it.

“Aye, they are still too close to Cottbus,” the king agreed. “They were too close the instant they crossed our border. That is why we have to hammer them hard all along the line, to drive them from our kingdom.”

Rathar chose his words with great care: “Hammering them all along the line may not be--I do not think it is--the best way to beat them back.”

“Say on.” Suspicion gleamed in Swemmel’s dark eyes. Had he not had those eyes and dark hair, he would have looked more like an Algarvian than an Unkerlanter. But in his ability to smell plots whether they were there or not, he was very much a man of his kingdom. And like every king of Unkerlant since its earliest days, he didn’t fancy contradiction.

Knowing that, Marshal Rathar kept on speaking carefully: “Look how the Algarvians attacked us, your Majesty. They didn’t just swarm across the border from south to north.”

“No?” Swemmel growled. “Then why does the fighting run all the way from the icy Narrow Sea up to the desert the treacherous Zuwayzin infest?”

Rathar vividly remembered the sorts of things King Swemmel did to those who displeased him. But more than any other courtier who served Swemmel, he also remembered what Unkerlant needed. He spoke more frankly to the king than did anyone else in the palace. One day, that would probably cost him his head. Meanwhile ... “Don’t look only at what the Algarvians did, your Majesty. Look at how they did it.”

“Vile, treacherous dogs,” Swemmel muttered. “Traitors everywhere. They will pay. How diey will pay! How everyone will pay!”

Pretending not to hear, Rathar went on, “They used behemoths and dragons massed together to tear holes in our lines, then met behind the front and cleaned out the pockets they made. If they’d attacked all along the line, they wouldn’t have been able to find or make so many weak places.”

“And you want us to imitate them.” By King Swemmel’s tone, he wanted to do anything but.

“If we aim to beat them back, we’d better,” Rathar said. “Whatever else they are, man for man they’re the best warriors in Derlavai.”

Whatever else they are. The Algarvians had also turned out to be the most accomplished murderers in Derlavai. They wouldn’t have come so far so fast without their murders, either. That sickened Rathar. Swemmel hadn’t been shy about imitating them there--not a bit. That sickened his marshal, too.

“Are they?” Swemmel said. “We doubt it. If they were, how could our armies have beaten them back?” He sniffed contemptuously.

“Because we have more men than they do. Because we put snowshoes on our behemoths, where they didn’t think of that. Because we had the sense to give our soldiers white smocks. Because we understand winter better than they do.” Rathar ticked off the points on his fingers one by one. He went on, “But you must recall, your Majesty, they’re learning, too. Unless we can hurt them badly while they’re still off balance, our job gets harder.”

He wished King Swemmel would trust him to command Unkerlant’s armies and would stay out of his way. While he was at it, he wished for the moon. He had about as much chance of getting one as the other. Swemmel stayed strong not least because he allowed no subjects too much strength. Rathar was, without a doubt, the second most powerful man in Unkerlant. To those looking up, that made him great and mighty. But if the king crooked a finger, the kingdom would have a new marshal the next instant. Rathar understood that all too well.

“Oh, we want to hurt them, too.” Swemmel’s voice was a low, hungry croon. “We want to see their armies fall apart and fall to ruin. We want to see Algarvian soldiers frozen in the snow. We want to see our borders restored before spring comes.”

“Unless they fall to pieces, I don’t think we can do so much,” Rathar warned. Because Swemmel could get anything he wanted in the palace just by crooking his finger, he too often thought he could do the same in the wider world. His inspectors and impressers made him all-powerful in