Out of the Darkness

He looked around his home valley with wonder on his face. He’d been back only once since the war began. The place had seemed smaller then than when he’d gone forth to fight for Gyongyos. It seemed smaller still now, the mountains looming over the narrow bit of land trapped between them. Mountain apes up there, Istvan thought. He’d seen one of those, too. I’ve seen too much. He looked down at the scar on his left hand, the scar that had expiated his goat-eating, and shuddered. Aye, I’ve seen much too much.

Somewhere back on Obuda--or, more likely, back in Kuusamo by now--a little slant-eyed mage knew what he’d done. That made him shudder, too. Not that she would ever come to Kunhegyes--Istvan knew better than that. But he knew she knew, and the knowledge ate at him. He might as well have been naked before the world.

He tramped up to Kunhegyes’ battered old palisade. He had a much keener eye for field fortifications than he’d owned when he left the village. A couple of egg-tossers could have knocked it down in nothing flat. Rocks and bushes within stick range might give marauders cover. I’ll have to talk to somebody, he thought. Never can tell what those whoresons from the next valley over--or even from Szombathely down the valley from us--might try and do.

A sentry did pace the palisade. That was something. Istvan wondered how much, though. Had the fellow been more alert, he would have already spotted him. That thought had hardly gone through Istvan’s mind before the lookout stiffened, peered out toward him, and called, “Who comes to Kunhegyes?”

Istvan recognized his voice. “Hail, Korosi,” he called back. The villager had made his life difficult before he’d gone into Ekrekek Arpad’s army, but he’d been mild enough when Istvan visited on leave. Easier to overawe a youth than a veteran on leave, Istvan supposed.

“Is that you, Istvan?” Korosi said now. “Have you got another leave?”

“Another leave?” Istvan gaped. “Have the stars addled your wits? The war’s over. Haven’t you heard?” He’d known his home village was backward, but this struck him as excessive. Kun would have laughed and laughed. But Kun was dead, struck down by the sorcery that had slain Gyorvar.

Korosi said, “Some commercial traveler tried to tell us that a couple of days ago, but we figured it was a pack of lies. He spouted all sorts of nonsense--the ekrekek, stars love him, slain; Gyorvar gone in a flash of light; the goat-eating Unkerlanters licking us in the east; us surrendering, if you can believe it. Some of us wanted to pitch him in the creek for that pack of crap, but we didn’t.”

“A good thing, too, because it isn’t crap,” Istvan said, and watched the village bruiser’s jaw drop. Istvan qualified that: “Well, I don’t know about Swemmel’s bastards, not so I can take oath about it, but the rest is true. I was stationed near Gyorvar, I saw the city die, and I’ve been in it since. The ekrekek’s dead, and so is his whole family. And we have yielded--it was either that or get another dose of this wizardry. I saw a Lagoan going through what’s left of Gyorvar, looking to see just what the magic did. One of our mages was with him, and acting mild as milk.”

“You’re making that up,” Korosi said. In a different tone, it could have been an insult, even a challenge. But Istvan had heard men cry, “No!” when they knew they were wounded but didn’t want to believe it. Korosi’s protest was of that sort.

“By the stars, Korosi, it’s true,” Istvan said. “Let me in. The whole village needs to know.”

“Aye.” Korosi still sounded shaken to the core. He descended from the palisade and unbarred the gate. It creaked open. Istvan walked through. Korosi shut it behind him. He looked around. I probably won’t go far from this place for the rest of my life. Part of him rejoiced at the realization. The rest saw how small and cramped Kunhegyes seemed, as if crouching behind its palisade. True, the houses and shops stood well apart from one another--a precaution against ambushes--but they themselves were nothing beside those of Gyorvar. Istvan shook his head. No, beside what once was in Gyorvar. Only rocks and houses alike melted to slag there now.

Korosi’s booted feet thumped on the wooden stairs as he went up to the walkway once more. People came out into Kunhegyes’ narrow main street. Istvan found himself the center of a circle of staring eyes, some green, some blue, some brown. “Did I hear you right?” somebody asked. “Did you tell Korosi it’s over? We lost?”

“That’s right, Maleter,” Istvan said to the middle-aged man. “It is over. We did lose.” He repeated what had happened to Gyorvar, and to Ekrekek Arpad and his kin.