Through the Darkness

In a way, Garivald understood that. The only reason he’d gone easier on his wife back in Zossen than most Unkerlanter peasants did was that he had a wife of unusually forceful character. But all the women here fit that bill--and most of them had been through worse than any of the men. He sent Obilot a sympathetic glance. She didn’t seem to notice. He shrugged. She probably thought he was leering at her, the way the men often did.

Someone said, “Those Forthwegians are no cursed good in the woods.”

“They don’t seem to be,” Munderic agreed. “They’re even worse than the Algarvians, I think. The redheads act like they think woods ought to be parks or something, but the Forthwegians, I think half of’em never saw a tree before in all their born days.” He smacked one fist into the palm of his other hand. “And we’ll make ‘em pay for it, too, as soon as we get the chance.”

Three days later, an Unkerlanter slipped into the irregulars’ camp with word that the Forthwegians would make another sweep through the eastern part of the forest, the part closest to Herborn, before long. Garivald never saw the fellow, but such things happened all the time: people who had to work with the Algarvians--and, now, with their Forthwegian flunkies--were only too glad to let the irregulars know what was going on.

“I’ve got just the spot for an ambush,” Munderic said with a broad smile that showed broken teeth. He walked over to Garivald and slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not far from where we nailed those redheads and picked you up, as a matter of fact.”

“Sounds good by me,” Garivald said. “Let’s do it.”

“We will,” Munderic declared. “And maybe Sadoc can cast a glamour over the roadway, so we make extra sure nobody spots us.”

“Aye, maybe,” Garivald said, and said no more. Before the fighting started, King Swemmel had sent a drunken wreck of a mage to Zossen to conduct the sacrifices that powered the village’s crystal. Next to Sadoc, who’d joined the irregulars a couple of weeks earlier, that fellow looked like Addanz, the arch-mage of Unkerlant. Garivald didn’t know where, or even if, Sadoc had learned magecraft. He did know the fellow hadn’t learned much, and hadn’t learned it very well.

But Munderic liked Sadoc: the leader of the irregulars finally had someone who could work magic, no matter how feebly, and Sadoc was recklessly brave when he wasn’t working--or more likely botching--magic. Garivald liked him, too--as an irregular. As a mage, he made a good peasant.

Munderic at their head, the irregulars moved out to await the soldiers of Plegmund’s Brigade. Garivald had heard of Plegmund; some old songs called him the biggest thief in the world. By all the signs, Forthwegians hadn’t changed much from his day till now.

Garivald couldn’t have said whether Munderic’s chosen spot was close to the place where he’d been rescued. He wasn’t all that good in the woods himself, though he was getting better. And, back then, he’d been too busy fearing the death he was sure lay ahead of him to take much notice of his surroundings.

He couldn’t help agreeing the spot was a good one, though. The woods track widened out into a little clearing, around whose edges the irregulars grouped themselves. They could punish the Forthwegians who tramped into the trap. Garivald looked forward to it.

He kept sneaking glances at Obilot, who crouched behind a thick, rough-barked pine a few feet away. She went right on paying no attention to him. He sighed. He missed Annore. He missed women, generally speaking--and he looked likely to keep on missing with Obilot.

Sadoc, a big, unkempt fellow, chanted a spell that would, with luck, make the concealed Unkerlanters harder for the men of Plegmund’s Brigade to spot. Garivald couldn’t tell whether it did anything. He had his doubts. From everything he’d seen, Sadoc would have had trouble enchanting a mouse away from a blind cat.

Munderic, though, Munderic surely did think the world of his more-or-less mage. “Use your powers to let us know when the Forthwegians draw near,” he said.

“Aye, I’ll do it.” Sadoc was eager. No one could have denied that. If only he were bright, too, Garivald thought.

Time crawled slowly past. Garivald kept glancing toward Obilot. Once, she was looking back at him. That flustered him enough to make him keep his eyes to himself for quite a while.

Sadoc stood some way off, behind a birch with bark white as milk. Suddenly, he stepped out into the clearing for a moment. “They’re coming!” he exclaimed, and pointed up the track the men of Plegmund’s Brigade were likely to use. Then, for good measure, he pointed off into the woods, in a direction from which no one was likely to come.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Obilot hissed to Garivald as Sadoc returned to cover.

“Probably means he doesn’t know which way they’re coming from,” Garivald answered, and the woman irregular nodded.