Out of the Darkness

Another officer. . Leudast stiffened to attention when he saw the big gold stars embroidered on the collar tabs of the oncoming man’s cape. Only one soldier in all of Unkerlant wore those stars. Dagaric might all at once have turned to rigidly upright stone, too.

“Marshal Rathar, sir!” the two junior officers exclaimed together.

“As you were, gentlemen,” Rathar said. “I always like to see officers doing their own reconnaissance. That’s what I’m doing myself, as a matter of fact.”

“There’s what’s left of a wall by the riverbank, sir.” Leudast turned and pointed. “You have to be careful, though-the redheads have snipers on the far bank.”

“Thanks.” Rathar started to go on, then paused and gave him a quizzical look. “I know you, don’t I?” Before Leudast could speak, Rathar answered his own question: “Aye, I do. You’re the fellow who brought in Raniero, you and that other soldier.”

“That’s right, sir,” Leudast said. “You made me a lieutenant and him a sergeant.”

“What happened to him? Do you know?”

“Afraid I do, sir,” Leudast answered. “An Algarvian sniper got him. Kiun never knew what happened. There are worse ways to go.”

“You’re right. We’ve all seen too many of them.” Marshal Rathar grimaced.

“So many good men gone. That’s the worst thing about this stinking war. What will become of Unkerlant once it’s finally over?”

Captain Dagaric presumed to speak: “Lord Marshal, sir, whatever it is, we’ll be better off than these fornicating Algarvians.”

“We’d better be, Captain.” Rathar was polite enough, but didn’t bother to ask Dagaric’s name. With a nod to Leudast, he went on, “Good to see you again, Lieutenant. Stay safe.” He went on toward the Scamandro.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Leudast called after him. “You, too.”

Rathar didn’t answer. He just kept walking. Even so, Dagaric stared at Leudast as if he’d never seen him before. In accusing tones, he said, “You never told me the marshal knew you.”

“No, sir,” Leudast agreed.

“Why in blazes not?” the regimental commander burst out. “A connection like that-”

Leudast shrugged. “You wouldn’t have believed me. Or if you did, you’d’ve thought I was bragging. So I just kept my mouth shut.” For anybody raised in an Unkerlanter peasant village, keeping one’s mouth shut almost always looked like a good idea. No telling who might be listening.

“A lieutenant in my regiment. . knows the Marshal of Unkerlant.” Dagaric still sounded dazed, disbelieving.

“No, sir. You had it right the first time,” Leudast answered. “He knows me, some. I’ve met him a couple of times, that’s all: once up in Zuwayza, in the first fight there, and then when Kiun and I got lucky with Raniero a little this side of Herborn.”

Dagaric grunted. “I think you’re too modest for your own good. If the Marshal of Unkerlant knows you, why are you only a lieutenant?”

“Only a lieutenant?” Leudast gaped. That wasn’t how he looked at it-just the opposite, in fact. “Sir, you’ve got to remember-I come out of a peasant village. I didn’t expect to be anything but a common soldier after the impressers got. . uh, after I joined King Swemmel’s army. I got to be a sergeant because I was lucky enough to stay alive when a lot of people didn’t, and I got to be an officer because I was the fellow-well, one of the fellows-who nabbed the false King of Grelz when he was trying to get away.”

“In my

regiment,” Dagaric muttered. Leudast stifled a sigh. His superior hadn’t paid any attention to him. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Superiors didn’t have to listen to subordinates. Not having to listen was part of what made them what they were. Every so often, an exception came along. Leudast tried to be one himself, but knew he didn’t always succeed.

He glanced east, toward the riverbank. Rathar squatted there behind what was left of the stone fence, just as he and Dagaric had done a few minutes before. The marshal showed both nerve and good sense in coming up to the front alone. The Algarvians had no idea he was there. He got the look he wanted and then came away. Leudast sighed with relief. He couldn’t imagine the war without the marshal.

Eight

Colonel Sabrino led his wing-what was left of it-down to a landing on a makeshift dragon farm outside the little town of Pontremoli, a few miles east of the Scamandro. Some of the dragon-handlers on the ground knew what they were doing; others were boys and old men from a Popular Assault regiment, doing the best they could at jobs they’d never expected to have to handle.

Once Sabrino’s dragon was chained to an iron spike driven deep into the muddy ground, he climbed down and wearily made his way toward the tents that had sprouted to await the wing’s arrival. Captain Orosio’s dragon had landed not far away. Orosio looked as worn as Sabrino, but managed a nod and a wave.

“Almost full circle,” Sabrino said.