Jaws of Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  Some of the constables had gone back to business as usual the minute the Forthwegian rebels finally surrendered and marched off to captives’ camps— those who hadn’t tried fitting back in among the ordinary people of Eoforwic, or the survivors thereof. Up in the tropical continent of Siaulia, there were supposed to be big birds that hid from danger by sticking their heads in the sand. Bembo’s complacent comrades reminded him of those big birds.

  “They won’t look across the river,” he told Oraste—he had his old partner back, for Delminio had been badly wounded at the start of the fighting. “It’s going to happen, but they don’t want to think about it.”

  “Shut up,” Oraste said. “I don’t want to think about it, either.”

  “But you never want to think about anything.” Bembo was still no braver than he had to be, but before his spell as a soldier he would never have dared say anything like that to Oraste. “It’s different with those other buggers. They want to forget about the Unkerlanters, and how can we?”

  Oraste looked west, toward the Twegen. “We’ll fight like mad bastards when they cross the river,” he said.

  “Of course we will,” Bembo agreed. “But how much good will it do us?”

  His partner’s shrug was not the usual Algarvian production. “How much good has fighting the stinking Unkerlanters done us so far?” Oraste asked bleakly. “Sometimes you go into something and you figure you won’t come out the other side, that’s all. You’re futtering stuck, that’s all.”

  Bembo shivered, though the day was mild enough. He watched soldiers methodically preparing defenses against the attack they too knew was coming. One of the soldiers looked up from his pick-and-shovel work and called, “Hey, constable! When they come, you think they’ll pay any attention to which uniform you’re wearing?”

  His laugh, Bembo thought, was singularly unpleasant. His question was singularly unpleasant, too, especially since the obvious answer was no. Bembo stuck his nose in the air. That only made the soldier laugh harder.

  Forthwegian civilians with hods hauled rubble from hither to yon under the sticks of Algarvian guards. “They might as well be Kaunians,” Bembo remarked.

  With another one of those businesslike shrugs, Oraste answered, “Better they get their throats cut than I get mine.”

  “Better nobody gets his throat cut,” Bembo said, but Oraste looked at him as if that were beyond the realm of possibility. Given the sorry state of the world these days, it probably was.

  Oraste walked on for a few paces, then nudged him in the ribs. Oraste being who and what he was, the nudge sent Bembo staggering sideways and almost knocked him flat. Oraste grabbed him and held him up. “Come over here with me,” he said, steering Bembo away from the Forthwegian laborers.

  “Why?” Bembo asked. “Do you want to murder me in privacy?”

  “Only sometimes,” Oraste said patiently. “Not right now. Now I want to make a bet with you.”

  “Ah?” That got Bembo’s notice, all right. “What do you have in mind?”

  Before answering, Oraste looked around to make sure nobody but Bembo was in earshot. Then he said, “Name however much you want, and I’ll lay you two to one that none of those Forthwegians who gave up ever comes home again. I figure it serves ‘em right if we use ‘em just like Kaunians.”

  “We said we’d treat ‘em like war captives,” Bembo reminded him.

  “I know what we said,” his partner answered. “And if you think we’ll really do it, put your money where your mouth is.”

  Bembo thought it over. Oraste suggestively jingled his belt pouch. But Bembo hesitated only a couple of seconds before shaking his head. “Find another sucker, Oraste. I won’t touch that one. I think you’re too likely to be right.”

  Oraste snapped his fingers. “There, you see? You’re not as dumb as you look, and all this time I thought you were.”

  “Funny,” Bembo said. “Ha, ha. Very funny.” He paused. “What do you want to bet that the Unkerlanters are getting rid of all the Forthwegians they don’t like, too?”

  “I’ll bet on it, if you want,” Oraste said. “Will you bet against it?”

  “Me? Are you crazy?” Bembo shook his head again, even more decisively this time. “That’s not a sucker bet. That’s an idiot bet.”

  “Never can tell,” Oraste said. “Plenty of idiots running around loose in Algarve. A lot of em wear fancier uniforms than we ever will.”

  “And isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Bembo agreed. “The way things are these days, I don’t care if I ever get promoted. All I want to do is get back to Tricarico in one piece.”

  “Why not wish for the moon while you’re at it?” Oraste waved toward the west. “You suppose the Unkerlanters want any of us to get home?” He seemed to have forgotten saying he didn’t want to think about Swemmel’s men.

  Instead of answering, Bembo just sighed. He didn’t suppose anything of the sort. He wished he did. He said, “I never wanted to meet those Unkerlanter whoresons up close like this.”

  “You haven’t met ‘em up close yet—they’re still on the other side of the Twegen,” Oraste said. “Well, most of them are, anyway. When they’re close enough to yell, ‘Swemmel!’ and blaze at you, that’s up close. By all the stories, they do worse than that if they catch you, too.”

  Bembo’s shiver was no little frisson of horror, such as he might have known while hearing a scary story at an evening’s entertainment with plenty of food and good northern wine around. It was too large, too robust, for that. And it had nothing to do with the weather. It was plain, honest fear. If the Unkerlanters caught you, bad things happened. That, to Algarvians in the west, was an obvious truth.

  And the Unkerlanters did not have to catch Mezentio’s men to make bad things happen to them. Bembo grabbed Oraste’s arm. “Dragons!” he shouted. They both dove for cover as the rock-gray beasts swooped down on Eoforwic from Unkerlanter dragon farms on the far side of the river.

  “Powers below eat them,” Oraste said, his face buried in the dirt. Bembo lay perhaps a foot away from him. Between them, some sort of nasty mushroom thrust up from the ground. Bembo was amazed some Forthwegian hadn’t picked it and taken it off as a prize.

  A moment later, as eggs began bursting uncomfortably close by, he found more urgent things about which to be amazed. “The whoresons pretty much left us alone while we were fighting the Forthwegians here,” he said. “Why in blazes are they bothering us now?”

  “Of course they left us alone then—we were doing them a favor,” Oraste said. “Now we aren’t killing Forthwegians who might cause ‘em trouble further down the ley line, so they don’t have to bother being nice to us anymore.”

  That exercise in cynicism might have upset Bembo more if he hadn’t come to a similar conclusion himself. “We need to get to a shelter,” he bawled.

  “Go ahead, if you want to,” Oraste said. “Me, I think you’ll get your stupid self killed if you stand up.”

  Again, he had a point. Bembo stayed where he was. Enough piles of wreckage lay around to do a good job of shielding him and Oraste unless an egg burst right on top of them. Somebody much too close by started screaming. Bembo couldn’t tell if he was Algarvian or Forthwegian. Agony, the constable had discovered, sounded the same in any language.

  Bembo rolled from his belly to his back. He saw no dragons, but eggs, more of them than ever, kept bursting all over Eoforwic. “They’ve got their tossers limbered up, too,” he said in dismay.

  “Well, if they’re going to pound on us, odds are they’ll pound on us with everything they’ve got, eh?” Oraste said.

  “There won’t be anything left of this place by the time they’re through with it,” Bembo said. “There wasn’t much left of it before they started.”

  “Aye, we took care of that,” Oraste said. “And I’m sure it breaks the Unkerlanters’ hearts to knock the capital of Forthweg flat.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bembo asked, punctuating the question
with a yelp as a brick or a stone bounced off his belly. He rolled back over onto his back.

  “Don’t you remember?” Oraste said. “Back before the Six Years’ War, we split Forthweg with the Unkerlanters. Eoforwic used to belong to them. As far as old Swemmel’s concerned, there shouldn’t ought to be any such thing as a Kingdom of Forthweg.”

  “Well, there won’t be if his men keep doing this to Eoforwic,” Bembo said. “Or if there is, there won’t be any Forthwegians left alive in it.”

  “After what they put us through, who’d miss ‘em?” Oraste said.

  “A point,” Bembo said. Then new fear ran through him, fear different from the simple, elementary terror caused by knowing that sorcerous energy might sear him at any moment. The only way he could find to exorcise it was to name it aloud: “You don’t suppose Swemmel’s men are pounding us like this because they’re getting ready to cross the Twegen, do you?”

  “How in blazes should I know?” Oraste answered crossly. “If you want to find out something like that, why don’t you swim across the river and ask Marshal Rathar? He’s over there somewhere.”

  “Oh, good idea. Really good idea.” Bembo’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Maybe I should ask for leave again. Then I wouldn’t be here when the avalanche came down on our heads.”

  “Futter you,” his partner told him. “Everybody in Gromheort wanted to kill you when you got leave once. If you got it again, somebody would up and murder you. And besides, by the time you got to Tricarico, how do you know the stinking Lagoans and Kuusamans wouldn’t be holding it?”

  “I don’t,” Bembo admitted. “But if you had to get captured, who’d be your first choice to nab you: one of the islanders or an Unkerlanter?”

  “My first choice to capture me? A redheaded gal with big tits,” Oraste said. “Second choice’d be a blond wench with big tits. It’s all downhill from there.”

  That wasn’t what Bembo had meant, which didn’t stop him from laughing. Anything that could make him laugh when the world was coming to pieces all around him was something to be cherished. Only later did it occur to him to wonder just how far his standards had fallen. When it did, he wished it hadn’t.

  Marshal Rathar, as it happened, was not right across the Twegen River from Eoforwic at that moment. He’d been summoned back to Cottbus, and left the fight in the north in General Gurmun’s capable hands. “Don’t strike till everything is ready,” he’d warned the general of behemoths. “The worst mistakes we’ve made in this war, we’ve made by hitting too soon.”

  “Aye, lord Marshal,” Gurmun had said. Rathar had wondered if he could trust the younger man to hold himself in. If King Swemmel ordered Gurmun to attack, he would, whether the situation called for it or not. Gurmun had also said, “I envy you.” He assumed Swemmel was recalling Rathar to confer some new high command on him.

  Going through papers as the ley-line caravan glided west, Rathar hoped Gurmun was right. He hoped so, but he had no guarantee of it. For all he knew, the king was summoning him to have him blazed outside the royal palace as a warning to others. You never could tell with Swemmel.

  Mile after mile of plain, first Forthwegian and then Unkerlanter, slid past before Rathar’s eyes. Every time the ley line took him through or past a village, he winced. No village remained intact. Hardly any buildings remained intact. What the war hadn’t wrecked, the Algarvians had often deliberately smashed in their long, slow, stubborn withdrawal toward the east. If we can’t keep it, you won’t get any use from it, either, they seemed to say.

  And the villages—the whole ruined landscape—looked the same from early morning, when Rathar left the western suburbs of Eoforwic, till the sun set. It would have gone on looking the same, too, had he been able to see longer. All the way to the suburbs of Cottbus, the devastation would have continued—did continue, though shrouded now in darkness. How many years, how many generations, will Unkerlant need before she is again what she was? But that was a question beyond the ken even of marshals.

  Rathar’s caravan car boasted a couch. He fell asleep on it. An aide shook him awake, saying, “Sir, we’re in the capital.”

  “Are we?” He yawned, stretched, and sat up. The ley-line caravan depot remained dark. No Algarvian dragon could reach Cottbus these days—or so Rathar hoped with every fiber of his being—but the fear remained. Unkerlanters had always feared and suspected and admired the energetic redheads from the east. These past three and a half years, the Algarvians had given them fresh reasons for all three.

  Descending from the caravan car gave Rathar another anxious moment. Who would be waiting for him down on the ground? His adjutant, Major Merovec? Or some of Swemmel’s hard-eyed, dead-souled guards, there to haul him away to torment or death for some slight the king had imagined? Again, you never could tell.

  “Good evening, Marshal.” The voice was thin and high and would have been inconsequential, but… “We have a new task for you.”

  Of all the things Marshal Rathar had expected, that King Swemmel himself would meet him at the depot was among the last. He wasted no time in going flat on his belly before his sovereign. The slates of the floor were chilly. So was the air; autumn in Cottbus was a different business from the mild days he’d enjoyed outside of Eoforwic.

  “Your Majesty!” he cried, and poured out Swemmel’s required praises, with his forehead knocking the cold stone again and again. Failure to give the king his due would have been as immediate and thorough a disaster for Rathar—though not for the kingdom—as losing Cottbus in the first desperate winter of the war.

  “Arise,” Swemmel said when the ritual was done. Rathar got to his feet. The king went on: “Marshal, we are well pleased in you.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” Rathar said. If the king praised him in public, he probably wouldn’t get knocked over the head.

  “Come with us to the palace,” Swemmel said. “We have a good many things to discuss with you, and they will not wait.”

  “As you say, your Majesty, so shall it be.” Swemmel was a notorious insomniac, and if he felt comfortable staying busy half the night, his subjects had to accommodate themselves to his rhythms and his whims. He would not accommodate himself to them. He’d proved that, again and again.

  Rathar had wondered if he would ride in the royal carriage. Swemmel had granted only a handful of men that privilege throughout his reign; he’d executed about half of them shortly thereafter. Getting a carriage of his own did not unduly upset the marshal.

  Back at the palace, King Swemmel said, “In the matter of Eoforwic, you have done as we desire in all particulars.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” Rathar said. Had he not done as the king desired, Gurmun would have gone into command in the north long before this. And if Gurmun dared go off and try things on his own and had something go wrong, none of his past accomplishments was likely to save him from the royal wrath.

  But now Swemmel seemed in as benign a mood as Rathar had ever seen him. Even the king’s smile held little of the malice that usually informed it. Swemmel said, “That being so, we purpose transferring you to the south, that you may lead our armies there as they drive into Algarve and drive toward Trapani. When you take Mezentio’s capital, it is our desire that you leave not a single stone piled upon another. Do we make ourself clear?”

  “Aye, your Majesty.” Rathar bowed low. “Thank you, your Majesty. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He’d thanked Swemmel a moment before, too. This time, he really meant it. “Mezentio started this fight. I want to be there when we finish it.”

  “You shall have your chance, Marshal,” the king said. “For all your hesitation early in the campaign, you have served us well since, and we are willing to acknowledge that.”

  For Swemmel to acknowledge service to anyone else was no small step, as Rathar knew full well. Swemmel was convinced he was Unkerlant, and all his officers and servitors merely extensions of his will. Rathar didn’t even feel particularly aggrieved at the king’s slighting comment
. As he remembered things, he hadn’t been hesitant—Swemmel had been too eager. But he wasn’t surprised his sovereign recalled those days differently. Even an ordinary man often remembered things to his own best advantage. How not a king, especially one to whom nobody dared say no?

  I dare, every now and again, Rathar thought. Aye, I dare—and every time I dare, I come away shaking, and with my armpits soaked with the stinking sweat of terror. Telling Swemmel anything he didn’t want to hear was no work for the faint of heart.

  “How long?” the king asked suddenly.

  “Your Majesty?” Rathar said: whatever King Swemmel was talking about, he hadn’t been able to follow the sudden leap.

  “How long?” Swemmel repeated in sharp, impatient tones. Then, grudgingly, he explained: “How long till we get to use King Mezentio as we desire? And of how much of our victory will Lagoas and Kuusamo rob us?”

  “Your Majesty, I wouldn’t even hazard a guess about the first,” Rathar replied, which made King Swemmel glare at him. “It does not depend on us alone, you see. It also depends on the Algarvians, as you say, and on our allies. Mezentio, right now, faces choices we never had to make, for which I praise the powers above.”

  “Never?” Swemmel said. “Not even when we had to choose how much of our kingdom we would yield to the redheads and how much to the Gongs?”

  “Not even then,” Rathar said. “The Gyongyosians were never—well, hardly ever—more than a nuisance to us. The Algarvians were the deadly threat. But Mezentio faces dreadful danger from both west and east: if we don’t move on Trapani, the islanders—and, for all I know, the Jelgavans and the Valmierans—will.”

  He thought that was obvious. But, by the alarm flaring in Swemmel’s eyes, it hadn’t been obvious enough. “No!” the king said hoarsely. “They mustn’t! They can’t! Trapani shall be ours. Ours, do you hear me?” His voice rose to a frightened shout. A bodyguard peered into the audience chamber to make sure he was all right. Cursing, he waved the man away.