Out of the Darkness

Korosi said, “Some commercial traveler tried to tell us that a couple of days ago, but we figured it was a pack of lies. He spouted all sorts of nonsense-the ekrekek, stars love him, slain; Gyorvar gone in a flash of light; the goat-eating Unkerlanters licking us in the east; us surrendering, if you can believe it. Some of us wanted to pitch him in the creek for that pack of crap, but we didn’t.”

“A good thing, too, because it isn’t crap,” Istvan said, and watched the village bruiser’s jaw drop. Istvan qualified that: “Well, I don’t know about Swemmel’s bastards, not so I can take oath about it, but the rest is true. I was stationed near Gyorvar, I saw the city die, and I’ve been in it since. The ekrekek’s dead, and so is his whole family. And we have yielded-it was either that or get another dose of this wizardry. I saw a Lagoan going through what’s left of Gyorvar, looking to see just what the magic did. One of our mages was with him, and acting mild as milk.”

“You’re making that up,” Korosi said. In a different tone, it could have been an insult, even a challenge. But Istvan had heard men cry, “No!” when they knew they were wounded but didn’t want to believe it. Korosi’s protest was of that sort.

“By the stars, Korosi, it’s true,” Istvan said. “Let me in. The whole village needs to know.”

“Aye.” Korosi still sounded shaken to the core. He descended from the palisade and unbarred the gate. It creaked open. Istvan walked through. Korosi shut it behind him. He looked around. I probably won’t go far from this place for the rest of my life. Part of him rejoiced at the realization. The rest saw how small and cramped Kunhegyes seemed, as if crouching behind its palisade. True, the houses and shops stood well apart from one another-a precaution against ambushes-but they themselves were nothing beside those of Gyorvar. Istvan shook his head. No, beside what once was in Gyorvar. Only rocks and houses alike melted to slag there now.

Korosi’s booted feet thumped on the wooden stairs as he went up to the walkway once more. People came out into Kunhegyes’ narrow main street. Istvan found himself the center of a circle of staring eyes, some green, some blue, some brown. “Did I hear you right?” somebody asked. “Did you tell Korosi it’s over? We lost?”

“That’s right, Maleter,” Istvan said to the middle-aged man. “It is over. We did lose.” He repeated what had happened to Gyorvar, and to Ekrekek Arpad and his kin.

Quietly, women began to weep. Tears didn’t suit the men of a warrior race, but several of them turned away so no one would have to see them shed any. The sounds of mourning drew more folk into the street. One of them was the younger of Istvan’s two sisters. She shrieked his name and threw herself into his arms. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

He stroked her curly, tawny hair. “I’m fine, Ilona,” he said. “That’s not what people are upset about. I told them the war was lost.”

“Is that all?” she said. “What difference does that make, as long as you’re safe?”

Istvan’s first thought was that that was no attitude for a woman from a warrior race to have. His second thought was that maybe she owned better sense than a lot of other people in Gyongyos. Remembering what had happened to Gyorvar, he decided there was no maybe to it. “What’s happened here?” he asked. “That’s what’s really important, isn’t it?” It is if I stay here the rest of my days, that’s certain sure.

“Of course it is.” Ilona had no doubts; she’d never been out of the valley. “Well, for one thing, Saria”-Istvan’s other sister-”is betrothed to Gul, the baker’s son.”

“That weedy little worm?” Istvan exclaimed. But he checked himself; Gul might have been weedy when he went off to war, but probably wasn’t any more. And his father had, or had had, more money than Istvan’s own. “What else?” he asked.

“Great-uncle Batthyany died last spring,” his sister told him.

“Stars shine bright on his spirit,” Istvan said. Ilona nodded. Istvan went on, “He was full of years. Did he pass on peacefully?”

“Aye,” Ilona said. “He went to sleep one night, and he wouldn’t wake the next morning.”

“Can’t ask for better than that,” Istvan agreed, trying not to think of all the worse deaths he’d seen.

His sister took him by the hand and started dragging him toward the family house-my house again, at least for a while, he thought. She said, “But what happened to you? By the stars, Istvan, we all feared you were dead. You never wrote very often, but when your letters just plain stopped coming….”

“I couldn’t write,” he said. “I got sent from the woods of Unkerlant out to this island in the Bothnian Ocean-”

“We know that,” Ilona said. “That was when your letters stopped.”