Out of the Darkness

The clouds were thick enough that nightfall took Spinello by surprise. He hadn’t expected it to get dark for some little while yet, and hadn’t seen anything in the least resembling a sunset. “Have to keep our eyes open,” he called to his men. “Swemmel’s buggers are liable to try to sneak raiders across the river.” They’d done that a couple of times lately, and created more chaos than the small number of soldiers who’d paddled across the Twegen should have been able to spawn.

But, a couple of hours later, two Algarvians came up to the river not far from where Spinello still kept his station. When he climbed out of his hole to find out what they were doing, one of them shook his head. “You haven’t seen us,” the fellow said. “We’ve never been here.”

“Talk sense,” Spinello snapped. “I command this brigade. If I say the word, you bloody well won’t have been here.”

Muttering, the man who’d spoken stepped closer to him, close enough to let him see the mage’s badge on the fellow’s tunic. “If you command this brigade, get us a little rowboat. I have work to do,” he said. “And if you try interfering with me, you’ll end up envying what happens to the cursed blonds, I promise you.”

Spinello almost told him to go futter himself. Outside the army, he would have. He’d come close to a couple of duels in his time. But discipline and curiosity both restrained him. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“My job,” the mage answered, which stirred Spinello’s temper all over again. “Now get me that boat.”

“Aye, your Highness,” Spinello said. The wizard only laughed. Spinello called orders to his men. They came up with a rowboat. It was, undoubtedly, stolen from a Forthwegian. Spinello cared nothing about that. He bowed to the mage and to the fellow with him, who’d said not a word. “Welcome to the Royal Algarvian Navy.”

He got not even a smile, let alone a laugh, and set them down for a couple of wet blankets. The mage began to incant. Some of his charms were in old-fashioned Algarvian, others in classical Kaunian, still others in what sounded like Unkerlanter. Spinello could follow the first two, not the third. The mage finished, cocked his head to one side, and nodded. “The confusion spell should hold for a while--they aren’t expecting it,” he said. “Now let’s tend to you.” His comrade only nodded. He got to work again, this time with a simple charm in classical Kaunian. Before Spinello’s eyes, the silent Algarvian’s appearance changed--he took on the seeming of an Unkerlanter. He then stripped off his own uniform and took from his pack that of an Unkerlanter major. He got into the rowboat and started rowing west across the Twegen.

“Good luck,” Spinello called after him. “Bite somebody hard.” Why send a man in sorcerous disguise into Unkerlanter-held territory if not to bite somebody hard?

From the boat, the fellow gave back the only three words Spinello ever heard from him: “I intend to.” Then he vanished from sight, sooner than Spinello expected. The confusion spell, he thought. He looked around for the mage to show off his own cleverness, but the fellow had already disappeared.

Spinello wondered if the disguised Algarvian would return to his stretch of the riverfront, but he never saw the man again. The next day, the Unkerlanters stirred and milled around in a way that made him hope the fellow had accomplished something worth doing, but no one to whom he talked seemed to know.

More of Hilde’s Helpers came by to give the Algarvians dishes they’d cooked. A rather pretty girl--pity she’s got that blocky Forthwegian build, Spinello thought--with a blue-and-white armband gave him a bowl with a spoon stuck in it. He sniffed and nodded. “Smells good, darling. What’s in it?”

“Barley. Olives. Cheese. Little sausage,” she answered in halting Algarvian. Her voice was sweet, and might have been familiar.

Laughing, Spinello wagged a finger at her. “I’ll bet you put some mushrooms in, too, just to drive me mad.”

He had to repeat himself before she understood. When she did, she jerked in surprise, then managed a nod of her own, a halting one. “Aye. For to taste. To flavor. Chop very fine.” She mimed cutting them. “Not to notice. Only for to taste. For to taste good.”

Spinello considered. After some of the things he’d had to eat in Unkerlant, what were a few mushrooms? He grinned at the girl. “Kiss me and I’ll eat ‘em.”

She jerked again, harder than she had before. He wondered if some other Algarvian had given her a hard time, who could guess when? You‘ve got to be careful with Hilde’s Helpers, he reminded himself. Treat ‘em like noblewomen, even if they are just shopgirls. This one, though, hesitated only a moment. She nodded and leaned toward him. He did a good, thorough job of kissing her. “Now,” she said, “you to eat.”