Darkness Descending

covered it over, and scrambled out of the burst hole as soon as he could. He hurried to put away the spade. He’d just come out of his hut again when the first Algarvian behemoth trotted into the village.

He stopped in the doorway and stared. He couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen a behemoth before, not in the flesh. The size and power of the beast astonished him. The iron sheathing its great horn and the heavy mail that protected it were rusty and had seen hard use. The mail jingled at every stride the behemoth took. The animal had a strong odor, something like a horse’s, something like a goat’s.

The behemoth bore on its back a heavy stick and four Algarvians--the first Algarvians Garivald had seen in the flesh, too. Two more behemoths followed close behind. They escorted a couple of squads of kilted footsoldiers. The Algarvians ran taller and leaner than Garivald’s countrymen; to him, it gave them the aspect of coursing wolves.

One of the men atop the lead behemoth shouted in what he thought was Garivald’s language: “Unkerlanti soldieri?”

“Not here.” Three peasants said it at the same time. Two of them pointed west, to show where King Swemmel’s men had gone.

Laughing and nodding, the Algarvian translated for his comrades. They grinned, too. They’re stupid, not to figure it out for themselves, Garivald thought. But the redheads weren’t so stupid as to take anything on trust. The footsoldiers fanned out through the village in pairs, searching every house--and seizing the chance to feel up any woman they found pretty. Several indignant squawks rose, but the Algarvians did nothing worse than let their hands roam free. Once they’d satisfied themselves no aiabushers lurked nearby, they relaxed and seemed friendly enough--for invaders.

Before long, an unmistakable Algarvian officer strode into Zossen. He owned even more arrogance than had marked his Unkerlanter counterpart not long before. He also owned a real command of the Unkerlanter language, barking, “Where is the firstman for this stinking, miserable pustule of a village?”

Leaning on his cane, Waddo limped forward. “Here I am, lord,” he quavered.

With a curse, the Algarvian pushed him over and kicked him. “You’re not Swemmel’s dog anymore. Have you got that? You’re King Mezentio’s dog now. And if you try any funny business, you’ll be a dead dog. Have you got that?” He kicked Waddo again.

“Aye, lord,” the firstman gasped. “Mercy, lord!”

Out of the side of his mouth, Garivald whispered to Annore, “So it’s going to be like that, is it?” His wife’s hand stole into his. They squeezed each other, hard.

Four

From the air, the battle below had for Sabrino the perfect clarity granted to footsoldiers only on maps after the fact. He watched with some anxiety the development of the Unkerlanter counterattack toward Sommerda, a city from which King Mezentio’s men had driven the enemy a couple of days before. The Unkerlanters lost fight after fight, but seemed too stupid to understand they were losing the war. They kept hurling new soldiers into the fray and striking back as best they might.

Nor could Sabrino blithely hurl his wing of dragonfliers at the men in rock-gray on the ground, as he had in the first days of King Mezentio’s assault on Unkerlant. Dragons painted an unromantic rock-gray were in the air, too, their fliers intent on doing to Algarvian soldiers what Sabrino and his comrades had done to the Unkerlanters since the war was new.

Those boring gray paint jobs made Unkerlanter dragons cursed hard to spot, especially against cloudy skies or smoke coming from the ground. A squadron had got below Sabrino’s wing before some sharp-eyed Algarvian flier spied them and spoke into his crystal, alerting the whole wing.

“They’ll pay for that!” Sabrino whooped. “Domiziano, your squadron, and yours, too, Orosio. The rest of you, stay on top to make sure they don’t try to bring any more of their little friends down on us.”

He urged his dragon into a dive. He was wing commander, but he was also a fighting man. The dragon screamed in anger at being ordered about, but then screamed in fury at sighting the Unkerlanter dragons. Its great muscles surged beneath Sabrino, almost like an ardent lover’s; its wings beat hard.

Unkerlanters, whether on the ground or in the air, carried far fewer crystals than did the Algarvians. If any of their fliers spotted Algarvians dragons dropping out of the sky on them, he could do little to alert his fellows. It might not have mattered much anyhow. The Unkerlanters were outnumbered close to two to one.

Sabrino flew out of the westering sun down onto the tail of an Unkerlanter dragon. He didn’t bother raising his stick, but let his own beast have the pleasure of flaming the foe from the sky. The Unkerlanter flier had no notion of aught amiss till fire washed over him. He and his dragon tumbled toward the ground.

More rock-gray dragons plummeted, too. So did a couple of Sabrino’s men and their mounts. He cursed when that happened.