Out of the Darkness

Oldrade shrugged. “I cannot give you what I do not have, sir. After defending the royal palace to his last breath, his Majesty perished yesterday. I have seen the king’s body with my own eyes, and know this to be true.”

“Lucky bastard,” Vatran muttered. Oldrade didn’t react, so perhaps Vatran had been quiet enough to keep him from hearing.

Rathar was inclined to agree with his general. Compared to what Swemmel had wanted to do to Mezentio, dying in battle was the quick, easy way out. “You understand, General, that we shall have to be fully satisfied on this point.” Swemmel wasn’t going to be fully satisfied no matter what. He’d wanted his sport with, his vengeance on, Mezentio.

“You may examine the king’s body,” Oldrade said.

“My understanding is that Mainardo, having abdicated as King of Jelgava, now succeeds his older brother as King of Algarve,” General Oldrade answered. “King Mainardo is now arranging the surrender of Algarvian forces in the northeast to the Kuusaman army.”

Swemmel won’t get his hands on Mainardo, was what that meant. The Kuusamans were unlikely to boil the new King of Algarve alive or give him any of the other interesting and lingering ends he might deserve. Too bad, Rathar thought, but he didn’t see what he or Unkerlant could do about it. Maybe the Jelgavans will take care of it for us. They have almost as many reasons to hate Mainardo as we do-we did-to hate Mezentio.

“What terms are you prepared to give us, Marshal?” Oldrade asked.

“Assuming that what you say about Mezentio is true, will will grant your soldiers’ lives,” Rathar said. “We offer no more than that.”

Oldrade drew himself up, the picture of affronted dignity. “This is mean-spirited in the extreme!” he said indignantly.

“Too bad,” Rathar said. “If you like, I will send you back to your lines, and we can take up the fight again. See how many of your men come away with their lives then.”

“You are a hard, cruel man,” Oldrade said. “And your king-”

“Say what you like about me,” Rathar broke in. “You insult King Swemmel at your peril. Now, then-do you accept these terms, or not?”

“For the sake of my men, I must accept them.” Tears ran down Oldrade’s face. Rage? Humiliation? Sorrow? Rathar couldn’t say. All he knew was, no Unkerlanter would have thus bared himself before a foe. Vatran turned away, embarrassed to look at the Algarvian.

“I will have a secretary write out the terms, in Unkerlanter and Algarvian,” Rathar said. Oldrade, still weeping, nodded. The Marshal of Unkerlant went on, “I will also send out men with flags of truce and mages to magnify voices, letting everyone know the fighting here is over. When you pass back into your own lines, you do the same.” Oldrade nodded again. Rathar guessed the battle wouldn’t end at once, but would sputter out over several days. People would die for no reason whatever. He shrugged, hoping he was wrong but knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop such things.

“You have given us harsh terms,” Oldrade said. “I hope that, as tempers cool, you will be more generous in your triumph.”

The Algarvian general was three or four inches taller than Rathar. The marshal had to tilt his head back to look down his nose at Oldrade, and he did. “What sort of terms would you have offered if you had taken Cottbus?” he asked. General Oldrade flushed and did not answer. He didn’t have to; they both knew the truth there.

Vatran said, “We ought to send a mage to check Mezentio’s body, make sure it’s not somebody else wearing a sorcerous disguise.”

“A good point,” Rathar said. “I will have the secretary put that in the surrender document.”

“You are the conquerors.” Oldrade didn’t try to hide his bitterness. “You may do as you please.”

“That’s right,” Rathar said, and called his secretary. He told the young lieutenant what he wanted. The secretary was fluent in both his own language and Algarvian, which Rathar also spoke and read. He skimmed through both texts, then passed them to Oldrade.

After reading them, the redhead nodded. He pulled a pen from a tunic pocket. Rathar pushed a bottle of ink toward him. The pen scratched across both instruments of surrender. Oldrade said, “Would you please have your mages make copies for me to take back to … what is left of my command?”

“Of course, General.” In small matters, Rathar could afford courtesy. “With the fall of Trapani, this war is as near over as makes no difference. May we never fight another one.”

“May it be so,” Oldrade agreed. With a sigh, he unbuckled his sword and held it out to Rathar. “Now it is yours, sir, the negotiations being complete.”

“I accept it in the name of my king,” Rathar said. “Go now, and make the surrender known to your men. Your escort will take you back through the lines.” General Oldrade bowed, spun on his heel, and left the headquarters.