Darkness Descending (82 page)

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the healer said. “You’ve got more stitches holding you together inside. If we’d come a little later ...” He shook his head again. “But your lady friend made sure we didn’t.”

“My lady friend?” Talsu said vaguely, and then, “Oh. Gailisa.” He knew he ought to be feeling something more than he was, but the drug blocked and blurred it.
Too bad,
he thought, still vague.

Having been nearly idle through the winter, Garivald was making up for it now that the ground had finally got firm enough to hold a furrow. Along with the rest of the peasants of Zossen, he plowed and sowed as fast as he could, to give the crops as long to grow as possible. He rose before sunset and went to bed after nightfall; only harvest time was more wearing than the planting season.

Along with everything else he had to do, he still had to go into the forest to cut wood for Zossen’s Algarvian occupiers. How he’d hoped the Unkerlanter advance would sweep them out of his village! But it hadn’t happened, and it didn’t look as if it would, either.

He hacked at a tree trunk, wishing it were a redhead’s body. When the Unkerlanters in grimy rock-gray tunics let him see them, he kept right on chopping wood. One of his countrymen said, “You’re the singer, aren’t you?”

“What if I am?” Garivald asked, pausing at last. “What difference does it make?”

“If you aren’t, we might decide not to let you live,” the ragged soldier answered and made as if to turn his stick in Garivald’s direction.

“You’ve already spent awhile killing my hopes,” Garivald said. “I thought the Algarvians would be gone from here by now.”
Thought
probably took it too far;
hoped
came closer. But the men who skulked through the woods had taken his songs, had promised great victories, and then hadn’t delivered. If they were unhappy with him, he was unhappy with them, too.

“Soon,” said the soldier who hadn’t surrendered to the redheads. “Very soon. The fight still goes on. It does not always go just as we would have it. But the king will strike another blow against the invaders soon. And when he does, we need you.” Now he pointed at Garivald with his finger, not his stick.

“Need me for what?” Garivald asked in some alarm. If they wanted him to raise the village against the Algarvian occupiers, he was going to tell them they were out of their minds. As far as he could see, that would only get his friends and relatives—and maybe him, too—killed without accomplishing much. Zossen wasn’t on a ley line; a rising here wouldn’t keep the redheads from moving reinforcements wherever they pleased. Zossen, in fact, wasn’t even near a power point, which was why Bang Swemmel’s men had had to keep sacrificing condemned criminals to gain sorcerous energy to make their crystal function.

The crystal. . . Garivald’s hand tightened on the handle of his axe. Even before the ragged soldier spoke, Garivald guessed what he would say. And say it he did: “You have something we want, something buried in the ground.”

Garivald had thought about digging up the crystal and passing it on to the Unkerlanters who kept resisting behind Algarvian lines. He’d thought about it, but he hadn’t done it yet in spite of “Waddo’s urgings. Even trying to do it was risky. But having so many people know about it was also risky. He hadn’t said a word to anyone. Somebody else in the village must have. And what got to the irregulars’ ears also got to the Algarvians’.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said quickly. The irregulars could probably arrange to whisper into the redheads’ ears if he proved recalcitrant.

“Good.” All the ragged soldiers nodded. The fellow who was doing the talking for them went on,
“When
will you get it for us?”

“When I find it,” Garivald snarled. “Powers above, dogs can’t find the bones they bury half the time. I didn’t leave any special marks to point the way to the cursed thing. If I would have, the Algarvians’d have it by now. I’m going to have to find it.”

“Don’t waste too much time,” one of the other Unkerlanters warned him. “We need it, and no mistake.”

“If you think you can get it faster than I can, go ahead and dig for yourselves,” Garivald said. “Good luck go with you.”

“Don’t play games with us,” the irregulars’ leader said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Garivald retorted.

He wondered if he’d pushed his countrymen too far. He tensed, ready to rush them with his axe if they tried to blaze him. He might be able to take one of them with him before he fell. But after glancing back and forth among themselves, they slipped away deeper into the protecting woods without another word.

Garivald lugged his load of firewood back to the Algarvians. The only thanks he got were a grunt and a tick against his name so he wouldn’t have to do it again for a while. Had the redheads worked to make people like them, they would have had no small following in the Duchy of Grelz. Garivald knew as much; the peasants hadn’t had an easy time of it during Swemmel’s reign. Some folk clove to the Algarvians because of that, regardless of how they were treated. Most, like Garivald, saw they were getting no better bargain and stayed aloof.

“Took you long enough,” Annore said when he came into their hut.

“Don’t you start on me,” Garivald growled. He looked around. Syrivald was outside doing something or other, while Leuba was occupied with a cloth doll stuffed with buckwheat husks. Lowering his voice, Garivald went on, “They want it.”

His wife’s eyes widened. “Can you get it?”

“I’m going to have to try.”

“Can you get it without getting caught?” Annore persisted. “Do you even know exactly where it is?”

“I’m going to have to try,” Garivald repeated. “I think I can, and maybe I’ll be able to find out where it is.”

“How?” Annore asked. “You’re no mage.”

“And I don’t need to be one, either,” Garivald said. “Everybody knows a lode-stone will draw iron, and rubbed amber will draw feathers or straw. Haven’t you ever heard that limestone will draw glass the same way?”

His wife snapped her fingers in annoyance at herself. “I have, by the powers above, but it slipped my mind. Lodestone and amber are toys to make children laugh, but how often does anyone need to draw glass to him?”

“Not very,” Garivald replied. “And there’s not much glass in Zossen
to
draw— the stuff’s too expensive for the likes of us. But if that crystal isn’t glass, I don’t know what it is.” If that crystal wasn’t glass, the limestone wouldn’t work. In that case, he’d have to start probing the plot where the crystal lay buried. He’d have to be lucky to find it so, and it would surely take a long time. Somebody was bound to find him first, to find him and to ask a great many questions he couldn’t answer.

“All right,” Annore said. “Limestone won’t be hard to find, not when we spread it crushed on the fields to mellow the soil.”

Garivald nodded. “I’ll just need a chunk a little bigger than most, and a string to tie around it so it swings free—oh, and aye, a dark night.”

“You’ll have those the next few nights,” Annore said. “After that, the moon will be getting bigger and setting later.”

“I need one other thing,” Garivald said, after a moment’s thought. His wife raised a questioning eyebrow. He explained: “I can’t find the cursed crystal if it isn’t there. If Waddo’s already gone and dug it up, I’m wasting my time.”

Waddo had talked about the two of them digging it up together, but who could tell what all went through the firstman’s mind? Garivald wondered what he’d tell the Unkerlanter irregulars if Waddo had decided to take it on his own. Whatever he told them, they wouldn’t want to listen. He didn’t think Waddo had told the Algarvians about the crystal; had the firstman blabbed to the redheads, they would have come down on Garivald and his family like a falling tree. But Waddo might well have taken the crystal out of the ground himself and hidden it somewhere else to keep Garivald, or one of the villagers who’d seen Garivald and him burying it, from betraying him.

“Have to hope,” Garivald muttered, and tramped back out to the fields. Finding a chunk of limestone the size of a finger joint didn’t take long. He unraveled some of the hem of his tunic, using the thread for a string. Annore wouldn’t be happy with him for that, but he had bigger things to worry about.

With the stone and the string in his belt pouch, he took care of endless chores till sundown. Supper was blood sausage and pickled cabbage, washed down with a mug of ale. After supper, Annore let the fire die to embers that shed only a faint red glow over the inside of the hut. She spread out blankets and quilts on the benches that lined the walls. Syrivald and Leuba curled up in them and went to sleep. Before long, Annore was snoring, too.

Garivald had to stay awake, though exhaustion tugged at him. He watched a stripe of moonlight crawl across the floor and up the wall. After the moonlight disappeared, after the inside of the house got darker than ever, he sat up, swallowing yet another yawn, and put back on the boots that were all he’d taken off.

Did Annore’s breathing change as he went out the door? Had she only been pretending to be asleep? He’d find out later. He couldn’t worry about it now.

Most of the village lay quiet. Farm work bludgeoned people into slumber when night came. That made the raucous singing from the house the Algarvians had taken as their own all the more irksome. But if they were in there carousing, they weren’t out patrolling. Beyond wishing them ugly hangovers in the morning, Garivald had no fault to find with their way of whiling away the hours, not tonight.

He stepped as quietly as he could. If anyone did spy him, he’d say he was out to ease himself. That wouldn’t work in the middle of the garden, though. Once he got there, he couldn’t afford to waste a moment.

The two-story bulk of Waddo’s house, looming dark against the sky, helped guide him to the plot he needed: Waddo’s was the only two-story house in Zossen. As far as Garivald was concerned, it was also a monument to wretched excess. But that, like the redheads’ racket, was beside the point right now.

Garivald took out the little chunk of limestone and swung it gently at the end of the length of thread tied to it. “Show me where the crystal went,” he whispered as it swung back and forth. “Show me, as was truly meant.” He didn’t know if it was truly meant or not, but figured the assumption would do no harm.

And the limestone began gliding back and forth, as if he were swinging it. But he wasn’t, not now; his hand and wrist were still. He went in the direction it led him, and it swung faster and faster, higher and higher. Then, after he’d gone on for a while, it began to slow. He stopped and reversed his field. The swings grew stronger and higher once more.

He stopped where the limestone swung most vigorously: stopped and squatted. That was where he began to dig with his belt knife. He didn’t know how deep he’d have to dig or how big a hole he’d have to make. The only way to find out was to do it.

The tip of the knife grated off something hard and smooth. “Powers above!” Garivald whispered, and reached down into the hole. After guddling about for a moment, his hands closed on the cool sphere of the crystal. With a soft exclamation of triumph, he drew it out.

Then, as best he could, he filled in the hole, trying to make it seem as if no one had ever been there. He hurried away, back toward his own house. Clouds slid across the stars, swallowing them one after another. The air smelled damp. Maybe it would rain before morning. That would help hide what he’d been doing, and hide his tracks, too. It would also be good for the newly planted crops.

“Rain,” he murmured, clutching the crystal tight.

Eighteen

N
ot even snowshoes helped behemoths make their way through the bottomless mud of the spring thaw. Leudast wished the thaw would have come later than it did—exactly the opposite of what he would have wished back in his village. An early thaw meant an early planting and a long growing season. But a late thaw meant the Unkerlanter army could have kept pushing the Algarvians eastward across solid ground. Solid ground, for the next few weeks, would be hard to come by.

His company was still moving eastward, one laborious step at a time. Paved roads in Unkerlant being few and far between, the highways down which they advanced were as muddy as the fields to either side. Sometimes, because so many men and horses and unicorns and behemoths and wagons moved along them and tore up the dirt, they were muddier than the fields.

During the thaw, ordinary wagons were useless. No matter how many horses pulled them, they bogged down. But every village had a wagon or two useful in the mud or in deep snow, one with tall wheels and a curving bottom almost like that of a boat. Mud wagons could bring supplies to soldiers at the front line where everything else got stuck.

The Unkerlanter army had its own fleet of mud wagons and confiscated any it found in reconquered villages. Such confiscations were few and far between, though, because the Algarvians stole the wagons, too.

Looking back over his shoulder, Leudast saw a couple of mud wagons making their way back toward the company he led. He waved to the driver of the lead wagon. The fellow waved back, calling, “You part of Captain Hawart’s outfit?”