Through the Darkness

Clamor woke him. “Attack!” someone screamed. He put on his boots again, grabbed his kit, and stumbled, rubbing his eyes, out into the darkness.

It was only another drill, of course. But he and his comrades had to respond to it as if it were real, and it bit time out of precious sleep as if it were real, too. When shrill whistles summoned the company to assembly the next morning, Sidroc felt more dead than alive.

After roll call, he ate hard bread and cheap olive oil for breakfast. Breakfast was without a doubt the most relaxed meal of the day. He and his comrades gabbed and complained and told as many lies as they could think of.

One thing they didn’t do: they didn’t ask why their tentmates, their squad-mates, had joined the Brigade. No one, Sidroc had discovered, did that. The rule was unwritten, but might have been all the stronger for that.

He had no trouble seeing the reason behind it. Some men had taken service under Algarvian leadership for the sake of adventure or because they hated Unkerlanters. Sidroc knew that; volunteering information wasn’t against the rules. But some of the men in the Brigade were plainly ruffians or robbers or worse--he wouldn’t have wanted to meet Ceorl in a dark alley. For that matter, few people would have wanted to meet him in a dark alley, either.

One thing united the men of the Brigade--and it, too, was a thing of which they did not speak. Sidroc knew--they all knew, they all had to know-- most Forthwegians despised them for the choice they’d made. Sidroc didn’t care what most Forthwegians thought. So he told himself, over and over again. On a good day, he could make himself believe it... for a while.

“Form up!” an Algarvian drillmaster called: another command delivered in standard form.

The redhead, who carried a shouldered stick, marched his charges out of the camp. He pointed to a hill overgrown with bushes about half a mile away and switched to Forthwegian: “That’s the place you have to take. You have to be sneaky and sly. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, sir!” Sidroc shouted with everyone else. “Sneaky and sly!”

“Good.” The drillmaster nodded approval. “I’m going to turn my back for a while. When I turn around again, I don’t want to see you. If I do see you, I’ll try and blaze you. I won’t try to kill you, but my aim’s not perfect. You don’t want to make me do anything we’d both be sorry for later. Have you got that?”

“Aye, sir!” Sidroc yelled again. He’d done this drill before. Once, the drill-master had come within a couple of inches of blazing off his nose. He didn’t want to give the Algarvian an excuse for doing it again. When the fellow ostentatiously turned his back, Sidroc dove into the bushes and did his best to disappear.

He couldn’t just stay there, though. He had to move forward, to get up to the crest of the hill. He scrambled from one bush to another, rarely going from his belly up to his knees, never going from his knees to his feet. Before long, the drillmaster did start blazing. Somebody let out a shriek--a shriek of fear, not one of pain. The Algarvian laughed like a man having altogether too good a time.

Sidroc drew only one beam as he crawled through the brush. It wasn’t even a near miss. He felt good at attracting so little notice. One thing the Algarvians had made very plain during these endless drills: Plegmund’s Brigade would be going where people would do their level best to kill everyone in it.

From bush to boulder to tree stump to bush to ... at last, the top of the hill. Sidroc looked down at himself. He’d got filthy on the way, but he didn’t care. For one thing, that proved he was doing a good job. For another, someone else would have to wash his long tunic.

Another member of the brigade, a corporal named Waleran, emerged from cover a moment after Sidroc did. He was good; Sidroc hadn’t had the least idea he was there till he showed himself. “That’s a fine exercise,” he said, flicking a drop of sweat from the end of his nose. “They never worked us so hard in King Penda’s levy, and that’s the truth.”

“No, eh?” Sidroc said. If Waleran was a veteran, that helped explain how he’d got to be a corporal. “If they had, maybe Forthweg would’ve done better.”

“Aye, it could be so,” Waleran agreed. “It could indeed. But I’ll tell you this, boy--we’ll go through the Unkerlanters like a hot knife through butter.”

Sidroc nodded. He was sure of the same thing himself. If he’d doubted it, would he have joined Plegmund’s Brigade in the first place? He had no use for Unkerlanters, any more than he did for Kaunians or (except when it came to fighting) Algarvians or anyone else who wasn’t a Forthwegian. But he said, “King Swemmel’s in charge of an awful lot of butter.”

“Well, what if he is?” Waleran said scornfully. “We’ll just have more to go through, that’s all. And I’ll tell you something else, too.” He waited till Sidroc leaned toward him, then went on, “I don’t think it’ll be long before we get the chance, either.” Sidroc clapped his hands together. He could hardly wait.