Harry Turtledove: Into the Darkness

“And after that, for good measure, they marched straight into a senseless war with Gyongyos,” King Shazli added. “Were King Swemmel half as efficient as he thinks he is, he would be twice as efficient as he truly is.”

“Even so, your Majesty, and elegantly phrased.” Hajjaj smiled and sipped at his wine. “Of course, Ekrekek Arpad also took advantage of Unkerlant’s internecine strife to make his own realm grow at Swemmel’s expense.”

“And Swemmel has spent the last several years trying to take his revenge,” Shazli said. His eyes narrowed; he looked very crafty indeed. “Now, I appreciate revenge as much as the next man—I could scarcely be a Zuwayzi did I not, eh? But a man who does not weigh what he spends against what he gets is a fool.”

“Seen through King Swemmel’s eyes, Gyongyos is not the only kingdom against which Unkerlant needs to be avenged,” Hajjaj said. “I suppose that explains some of Ansovald’s insolence.” He started to take another sip of wine, but paused with the goblet halfway to his lips. “I should attune my crystal to that of the Gyongyosian minister. No. I should pay a call on Horthy myself.”

“Why say you that?” King Shazli asked.

“Because, your Majesty, if Unkerlant is seeking to patch up a truce in the far west—or if King Swemmel has already patched up such a truce—we may be next on the list for a visit from our friends,” Hajjaj replied. “I don’t think even Swemmel is stupid enough to get into two wars at once. Should he abandon one …”

Shazli’s eyes widened. “Will Horthy tell you?”

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” Hajjaj said. “By the very nature of things, Gyongyos and Zuwayza can hardly be enemies. We are too far apart; all we have in common is a border with Unkerlant.” He opened his leather case and took out the tunic he’d stuffed into it. With a martyred sigh, he donned the garment once more. “I’d better go now, your Majesty. I don’t think this will wait.”

Skarnu stood against a tree to ease himself. Since the tree was a few miles inside Algarve, the young Valmieran marquis consoled himself by thinking he was pissing on the enemies of his kingdom. He would have felt more consolation, though, had the invasion pushed farther and done more.

After buttoning his fly, he rejoined his company. His noble birth made him an officer. Till he was mobilized, he’d thought his noble birth also prepared him for command. He was certainly used to giving orders, even if he didn’t enjoy it quite so much as his sister Krasta did. But he’d soon discovered the difference between giving orders in a mansion and giving them to soldiers: the former sort merely required obedience from the servants, while the latter also needed to make sense.

“Where now, Captain?” asked Raunu, the company’s senior sergeant. He was senior enough to have a lot of silver threads in the gold of his hair, senior enough to have fought as a youth in the Six Years’ War. But his father sold sausages for a living, so he was unlikely ever to rise above senior sergeant. If he resented that, he hid it very well.

After scratching his head, Skarnu pointed west and answered, “Forward to the edge of open country. If there are any more Algarvians lurking here in the woods, we need to flush them out.” He scratched again. He itched all the time. He wondered if he was lousy. The idea made his flesh crawl, but he knew it could happen to soldiers in wartime.

Raunu considered, then nodded. “Aye, about the best thing we can do, I reckon.” He turned Skarnu’s notion into precise, cautious reality, ordering scouts ahead and to either side and sending the rest of the company forward by sections along three different game tracks.

In fact, as Skarnu had quickly realized, Raunu ran the company. He knew how to do the job, whereas Skarnu’s presence, while ornamental, was anything but necessary. That had mortified the marquis, seeming an offense against both propriety and honor.

“Don’t fret yourself about it, lord,” Raunu had said when he broached the issue. “There’s three kinds of noble officers. Some don’t know anything and stay out of their sergeants’ way. They’re harmless. Some don’t know anything and give forth with all sorts of orders anyhow.” He’d shuddered. “They’re dangerous. And some don’t know anything and try and learn. Give ’em time, and they’re apt to make pretty fair soldiers.”

Skarnu had never before heard such a blunt appraisal of his class. None of the servants back at his mansion would have dared speak to him thus. But he was not Raunu’s master and employer; King Gainibu was. That made the sergeant’s relationship with a noble also serving the king different from that of a cook or butler. Skarnu was doing his best to fall into the third class of officer. He hoped he was succeeding, but hadn’t had the nerve to ask.

Now, stick at the ready, he paced along the gloomy track. The Algarvians hadn’t offered much resistance at the border, falling back before the advancing Valmierans toward the line of forts they’d built about twenty miles inside their territory. The Duke of Klaipeda, who commanded the Valmierans, was exultant; he’d published an order of the day reading, “The enemy, beset by many foes, ingloriously flees before our triumphant advance. Soon he must either give battle on our terms or yield his land to our victorious arms.”

That sounded splendid to Skarnu till he thought about it for a little while. If the Algarvians were ingloriously fleeing, why didn’t the illustrious Duke of Klaipeda put more pressure on them? Skarnu knew himself to be imperfectly trained in the military arts. He hoped the same did not hold true for the illustrious duke.

A beam from a stick struck the trunk of an elm a couple of feet above his head. Steam spurted from the tree, smelling of hot sap. Though imperfectly trained in the military arts, Skarnu knew what to do when people started blazing at him: he threw himself flat and crawled on his belly toward some bushes by the side of the track. If the Algarvian couldn’t see him, he couldn’t shoot.

Another Valmieran went down, too, this one with a harsh cry of pain. From cover, Skarnu shouted, “Hunt the enemy down!” He got up into a crouch and then dashed forward, diving down on to his belly behind a stout pine.

Another beam slammed into the tree. Its resinous sap had a tangy odor very different from that of the elm. Skarnu was. glad the woods were moist; the fight would have fired drier country. He peered up over the top of a gnarled root. Spying a bit of tan among green bushes, he stuck his finger into the stick’s recess and blazed away at it.

The leaves the beam touched went sere and brown in an instant, as if winter had come all at once to that corner of the world. An Algarvian soldier had been hiding in those bushes, too. He let out a horrible cry in his ugly, trilling native tongue. Another Valmieran blazed at him from off to one side of Skarnu. That cry abruptly cut off.

“Come on, men!” Skarnu shouted. “Forward! King Gainibu and victory!”

“Gainibu!” his men shouted. They did not rush straight at the Algarvians lurking among the trees. Such headlong dash was all very well in an entertainment. In real war, it brought nothing but gruesome casualties. The Valmierans darted from tree to tree, from bush to rock, one group blazing to make the enemy keep his head down while another advanced.

A couple of soldiers went staggering back with wounds, one with an arm over the shoulder of a healthy comrade. One or two men went down and would not get up again. The rest, though, drove the Algarvians, who did not seem present in any great numbers, before them. Once, by the shouts—no, the screams—the fighting came to such close quarters that it went on with knives and reversed sticks rather than with beams, but that did not last long. Valmieran voices soon rang out in triumph.