Harry Turtledove: Out of the Darkness

Skarnu glanced back at Gainibu as he led Merkela away. Gainibu, plainly, had not had an easy time during the Algarvian occupation. Even so, he still remembered how to act like a king.

The dragon farm lay just outside a Yaninan village called Psinthos. Sleet blew into Count Sabrino’s face as he trudged toward the farmhouse where he’d rest till it was time to take his wing into the air and throw the dragonfliers at the Unkerlanters yet again. Mostly, the mud squelched under his boots, but it also had a gritty crunch that hadn’t been there a couple of days before.

It’s starting to freeze up and get hard, Sabrino thought. That’s not so good. It means better footing for behemoths, and that means King Swemmel’s soldiers will come nosing forward again. Things have been pretty quiet down here the last couple of days. Nothing wrong with that. I like quiet.

He opened the door to the farmhouse, then slammed it and barred it to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hands. Then he built up the fire, feeding it wood one of the dragon-handlers had cut. The wood was damp, and smoked when it burned. Sabrino didn’t much care. Maybe it’ll smother me, went through his mind. Who would care if it did? My wife might, a little. My mistress? He snorted. His mistress had left him for a younger man, only to discover the other fellow wasn’t so inclined to support her in the luxury to which she’d been accustomed.

Count Sabrino snorted again. I wish I could leave me for a younger man. He was nearer sixty than fifty; he’d fought as a footsoldier in the Six Years’ War more than a generation before. He’d started flying dragons because he didn’t want to get caught up once more in the great slaughters on the ground, of which he’d seen entirely too many in the last war. And so, in this war, he’d seen plenty of slaughters from the air. It was less of an improvement than he’d hoped.

Smoky or not, the fire was warm. Little by little, the chill began to leach out of Sabrino’s bones. Heading into the fourth winter of the war against Unkerlant. He shook his head in slow wonder. Who would have imagined that, back in the days when Mezentio of Algarve hurtled his army west against Swemmel? One kick and the whole rotten structure of Unkerlant would come crashing down. That was what the Algarvians had thought then. They’d learned some hard lessons since.

Joints clicking, Sabrino got to his feet. I had a flask somewhere. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. I really am getting old if I can’t remember where. He snapped his fingers. “In the bedding-that’s right,” he said aloud, as if talking to himself weren’t another sign of too many years.

When he found the flask, it felt lighter than it should have. Of that he had no doubt whatever. If that dragon-handler gives me wood, I don’t suppose I can begrudge him a knock of spirits. He yanked out the stopper and poured down a knock himself. The spirits were Yaninan: anise-flavored and strong as a demon.

“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. .”

“There’ll be big trouble,” Sabrino finished for him. The crystallomancer nodded. Sabrino asked, “Aren’t there any dragons closer and less worn than this poor, miserable wing? We just came in from another mission, you know.”