Out of the Darkness

“Ah,” Sabrino said. Fire spread outward from his belly. He nodded, slowly and deliberately. I’m going to live. I may even decide I want to.

At that, he was better off than a lot of Algarvian footsoldiers. Psinthos was far enough behind the line to be out of range of Unkerlanter egg-tossers. How long that would last with the ground freezing, he couldn’t guess, but it remained true for the time being. And the furs and leather he wore to fly his dragon also helped keep him warm on the ground.

Someone knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” Sabrino called.

The answer came in Algarvian, with a chuckle attached: “Well, it’s not the king, not today.”

King Mezentio had visited Sabrino, more than once. He wished the king hadn’t. They didn’t see eye to eye, and never would. That was the reason Sabrino, who’d started the war as a colonel and wing commander, had never once been promoted. He opened the door and held out the flask. “Hello, Orosio. Here, have some of this. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“Thanks, sir,” Captain Orosio said. “Don’t mind if I do.” The squadron commander drank while Sabrino shut the door. After drinking, Orosio made a horrible face. “Burn the hair off my chest, more likely. But still, better bad spirits than none at all.” He took another swig.

“What can I do for you?” Sabrino asked.

“Feels like a freeze is coming,” Orosio said as he walked over to stand in front of the fire. He was in his late thirties, almost as old for a captain as Sabrino was for a colonel. Part of that came from serving under Sabrino-a man under a cloud naturally put his subordinates under one, too. And part of it sprang from Orosio’s own background: he’d had barely enough noble blood to make officer’s rank, and not enough to get promoted.

But that didn’t mean he was stupid, and it didn’t mean he was wrong. “I thought the same thing myself, walking back here after we landed,” Sabrino said. “If the ground firms up-and especially if the rivers start freezing over-the Unkerlanters will move.”

“Aye,” Orosio said. The single word hung in the air, a shadow of menace. Orosio turned so that he faced east, back toward Algarve. “We haven’t got a lot of room left to play with, sir, not any more. Before long, Swemmel’s bastards are going to crash right on into our kingdom.”

“Unless we stop them and throw them back,” Sabrino said.

“Aye, sir. Unless.” Those words hung in the air, too. Orosio didn’t believe it.

Sabrino sighed. He didn’t blame his squadron commander. How could he, when he didn’t believe it, either? The Derlavaian War was far and away the greatest fight the world had ever known-big enough to dwarf the Six Years’ War, which the young Sabrino who’d served in the earlier struggle would never have imagined possible at the time-and Algarve, barring a miracle, or several miracles, looked to be on the losing end of it, just as she had before.

King Mezentio promised miracles: miracles of sorcery that would throw back not only the Unkerlanters but also the Kuusamans and Lagoans in the east. So far, Sabrino had seen only promises, not miracles. Mezentio couldn’t even make peace; things being as they were, no one was willing to make peace with him.

What did, what could, a soldier trapped in a losing war do? Sabrino strode over and set a hand on Orosio’s shoulder. “My dear fellow, we have to keep doing the best we can, for our own honor’s sake if nothing else,” he said. “What other choice have we? What else is there?”

Orosio nodded. “Nothing else, sir. I know that. It’s only. . There’s not a lot of honor left to save any more, either, is there?”

After we started massacring Kaunians to gain the sorcerous energy we needed to beat Unkerlant? After we mixed modern sophisticated sorcery and ancient barbarism and still didn ‘t get everything we wanted because Swemmel was willing to be every bit as savage as we were and an extra six inches besides? No wonder no one wants to make peace with us. I wouldn’t if I were our enemies.

But he couldn’t tell Orosio that. He said what he could: “You know my views, Captain. You also know that no one of rank higher than mine pays the least attention to them. Let me have that flask again. If I drink enough, maybe I won’t care.”

He hadn’t even raised it to his lips, though, when someone else knocked on the door. He opened it and discovered a crystallomancer shivering there. The mage said, “Sir, I just got word from the front. Unkerlanter artificers are trying to throw a bridge over the Skamandros River. If they do. .”