Through the Darkness

But this winter was different, and Zossen a long way away. Instead of the redheads who’d garrisoned his village, Garivald had to worry about whatever Grelzer troops were guarding the ley line for their Algarvian masters.

He wondered how hard the men who served King Raniero would fight. They weren’t Algarvians, which was doubtless all to the good. But they wouldn’t have only the weapons they could steal or scrounge. The Algarvians would want to make sure they could fight, whether they would or not.

Munderic spoke in a low but urgent voice: “We’re getting near the ley line. Keep your eyes skinned, every cursed one of you. We want to slide past the Grelzer traitors; we don’t want to get into a fight with them. If we can plant our eggs and then sneak back to the woods, we’ve done what we came for.”

Somebody said, “We’ll have to kill those whoresons sooner or later. Might as well start now.”

“If we have to, we will,” Munderic answered. “But hurting the Algarvians is more important now. That’s what we aim for first.”

With more than a little reluctance, Garivald admitted to himself that Munderic was right. He paused and peered ahead through the night. In the name of efficiency, King Swemmel had ordered shrubbery planted to either side of a lot of ley lines in Unkerlant, to keep people and animals from blundering unawares into the path of a caravan. How much labor that had taken hadn’t been measured against men or beasts saved. Garivald wondered why not, but not for long. Because Swemmel gave the order, that’s why. He still feared the king more than he loved him. But he feared--and hated--the Algarvians still more.

“Halt!” someone called from the darkness ahead, in accents much like his own. “Who goes there!”

Garivald went down onto his belly. He couldn’t see the man who had challenged, and he didn’t want the fellow seeing him, either. For all he knew, the Grelzer carried a crystal and was calling reinforcements. But Sadoc’s voice rang out, harsh and proud: “Free men of Unkerlant, that’s who!”

A beam came out of the night, aimed at the loudmouthed would-be mage. Garivald and his comrades blazed back, trying to hit the Grelzer before he could hit any of them. By the way he was shouting--screaming--he had no crystal to summon aid. A moment later, the screams changed note, from fear to anguish. A moment after that, most abruptly, they cut off.

From behind the hedge--how had he got there so fast?--Munderic called, “Stinking whoreson’s dead--scratch one traitor. But come on. We’ve got the get these eggs planted fast now. Sadoc, are you hale?”

“Aye,” Sadoc answered.

“Get up here, then,” Munderic snapped as irregulars dug a hole in the dirt between the hedgerows marking the ley line’s path. “Say the words over these eggs and we’ll get out of here.”

“Aye,” Sadoc repeated. Say the words he did, in a rapid singsong. Garivald didn’t think it was in Unkerlanter, but wasn’t sure. With Sadoc saying the words, he wasn’t sure they would work, either. As soon as they were through, he helped his comrades fill in the hole they’d dug. Then they started for the shelter of the woods again. No more Grelzer soldiers came over to see what might have happened or to pursue. That told Garivald more than a little about the quality of the men who served Raniero.

The irregulars were more than halfway back to the forest when a distant roar from behind them made them burst into cheers. If any villagers heard them, they might have taken their noise for the baying of a wolf pack that had killed. They wouldn’t have been far wrong, either. Even Garivald slapped Sadoc on the back.

Just outside the woods, an irregular trod on an egg buried in the meadow. That roar was louder, more intimate. His screams were more dreadful than the Grelzer’s, but faded to nothingness almost as fast. Obilot said, “One of us for one of their caravans--fair exchange.” She was right... but Garivald’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

Marshal Rathar and General Vatran had a new headquarters these days; the Algarvians had finally overrun the gully from which they’d directed the fight for Sulingen for so long. This one was also a cave, a cave dug into the side of the bluffs that tumbled down to the Wolter. Runners had to make their way along a narrow, twisting, dangerous path to bring new from the few bits of the city to Unkerlanters still held and to take back orders.

After one runner did make the journey, Vatran started cursing. Rathar had been studying the map; the general’s fury made him look up from it. “What now?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you what,” Vatran growled. “You know Colonel Chariulf?”

“Of course,” Rathar answered. “He finally put paid to that Algarvian master sniper, and a good thing, too--the whoreson was bleeding us white.”

“Aye, well, now he’s had his own letter posted, poor bugger,” Vatran told him. “He got caught away from a hole when the Algarvians started tossing eggs, and there’s not enough of him left to bury in a bloody jam tin.”