Through the Darkness

But the bearded Forthwegians did come into the clearing from the direction--the likely direction--Sadoc had predicted. They marched along in loose order, chatting among themselves, not looking as if they expected trouble. Garivald had expected them to look like animals, or more likely demons. They didn’t. They just looked like men doing a job. He didn’t know whether that made things better or worse. Probably worse, he decided.

But their job was fighting and killing and dying. They started dying as soon as enough of them were in the clearing to make it worthwhile for the irregulars to begin to blaze. One of Garivald’s beams knocked a man over. Exulting, he swung his captured Algarvian stick toward another Algarvian puppet.

Like the redheads he’d helped ambush between Lohr and Pirmasens, the men of Plegmund’s Brigade fought back hard--better than he thought the irregulars could have done. The Forthwegians blazed into the woods. Those who could drew back toward the mouth of the clearing. Their comrades who hadn’t yet come into the clearing went off the path and into the forest, moving forward to fight the Unkerlanters.

Sadoc shouted, “The north! The north!” That was the second direction to which he’d pointed. Garivald had plenty of other things to worry about; he paid the hapless mage little attention.

He slipped around past Obilot, looking for another good place from which to blaze at the retreating men of Plegmund’s Brigade. Then she scuttled past him, no doubt after the same thing. He smiled, and so did she; it might almost have been a figure dance in a village square.

A beam slamming into a tree trunk not far from his head reminded him this was no amusement, but a game either side might lose. And if he lost, he’d never have the chance to play the game again.

Crashing noises and yells from out of the north made Garivald’s head whip around. He couldn’t understand most of the yells--they weren’t in Unkerlanter. But one word came through with perfect clarity: “Plegmund!”

“Powers above!” Garivald blurted. “They’ve got us in a trap, not the other way round.” He looked through the trees for an avenue of escape.

Obilot clapped a hand to her forehead. “That great clodpoll of a Sadoc was right,” she said, sounding disgusted with the world, with Sadoc, and with herself. “He’s wrong so often, we didn’t believe him this time, but he was right.”

“Break clear!” Munderic shouted, his voice cutting through the Forthwegians’ unintelligible cries. “Break clear! You know where to gather. The whoresons outfoxed us this time, but our turn’ll come round again, see if it doesn’t.”

Garivald hadn’t traveled through the woods enough to be sure of finding his way back to the irregulars’ encampment. Perhaps sensing as much, Obilot said, “Stick close to me. I’ll get you back. Now let’s step lively, before these buggers get a clear blaze at us. I don’t know about the redheads, but they’re sure nastier customers than Grelzer soldiers. That’s clear.”

“Aye.” Garivald nodded. “Seems they really mean it when they come after us, all right. Well, now we know.” Obilot started off toward the west. He followed, moving as fast and as quietly as he could.

He had to blaze only once, and he dropped his Forthwegian before the bearded man could shout. Then the sounds of fighting and the foreign shouts from Plegmund’s Brigade faded behind him. “I think we got away,” he said. “Thanks.”

“We really have to do better.” Obilot didn’t sound happy. “Now we have to see how many of us got away, and how much we’ll be able to do for a while. Curse the Algarvians, anyhow.” Garivald nodded again. How many Unkerlanters were thinking the same thing right now?

Eleven

Curse the Unkerlanters,” Brigadier Zerbino growled, slamming his fist down on the folding table inside his tent. “Curse the Lagoans and Kuusamans, too, for giving us such a hard time down here on the austral continent. And curse the Kaunians for doing everything they can to lay Algarve low.”

A chorus of, “Aye,” rumbled through the officers he’d assembled for this council of war. Colonel Sabrino didn’t join it. Instead, he leaned over to Captain Domiziano and murmured, “He doesn’t leave many people out, does he?” “He hasn’t cursed the Yaninans yet,” Domiziano whispered back. Just then, Zerbino did: “And curse our alleged allies, whose hands are cold in war and whose feet are swift in retreat.” The Algarvian brigadier had not invited any Yaninans to the council.

“Aye,” the officers chorused again. This time, Sabrino just sat silent. Sooner or later, Zerbino would come to the point. He probably wouldn’t take too long, either. He was by nature a hearty fellow, and usually said what he had to say without ornamenting it too much.

So it proved now. “We are surrounded,” Zerbino declared. “All our enemies aim to attack us at once, hoping we haven’t got enough men and behemoths and dragons to stand against the lot of them.”