Going forward in the open seemed wonderful to Trasone after so long scuttling among the ruins like a rat. And, for the first few hours, the Algarvians did nothing but go forward, smashing through one Unkerlanter line after another. “They didn’t think we had it in us,” Trasone exclaimed. “They don’t know what we’re made of.”
But the Unkerlanters, though they buckled, did not break. They fought fiercely even when taken by surprise, and soon began throwing swarms of behemoths at the Algarvians. Panfilo had been exaggerating when he said they had most of the behemoths in the world around Sulingen, but not, it seemed, by much. The Algarvian crews were better trained than their Unkerlanter counterparts, but that mattered only so much. Swemmel’s men could afford to lose three, four, five behemoths for every one they slew and still come out ahead in the game.
Despite everything, the Algarvians kept making progress to the north through most of the second day of the attack. By that afternoon, they were down to a bare handful of behemoths. The Unkerlanters still had plenty. And dragons painted rock-gray appeared overhead in large numbers. They dropped eggs on the Algarvians and swooped low to flame soldiers caught out in the open.
“I don’t know how we’re going to go any further tomorrow,” Trasone told Panfilo.
“Got to try,” the sergeant answered.
Try they did the next morning, a convulsive, desperate attack that carried them another couple of miles farther north. And then, try as they would, they could advance no more. When the Unkerlanters counterattacked, behemoths leading the way, the Algarvians fell back before them. They retreated faster than they’d advanced. By the time the sun rose yet again, they-or those of them who still lived-were back among the ruins of Sulingen. The Unkerlanters had fought for those ruins street by street; now Mezentio’s men would have to do the same.
Having beaten the Algarvians into the city once more, Swemmel’s men showed no great eagerness for a final struggle among the ruins. Trasone understood that; it would have cost them more men than even Swemmel might feel comfortable paying. They gave the Algarvians three days of near quiet to rebuild their defenses as best they could.
On the fourth morning-a freezing cold one-Trasone stood sentry at the northern outskirts of the city when he spied a lone Unkerlanter coming toward him. The fellow wasn’t a solitary madman or an infiltrator; he carried a white-and green-striped flag of truce. “Parley!” he shouted in Algarvian. “I come from Marshal Rathar with a message for your commanders.”
“What kind of message?” Trasone asked.
“A call on them to surrender,” the Unkerlanter answered. “If they yield now, they and all of you will be well fed, well housed, generally well treated. So Marshal Rathar swears, by the powers above. But if you go on with this senseless, useless fight, he cannot answer for what will happen to you.”
“Well, I can’t answer for my generals,” Trasone replied. He stood up in his trench and waved the Unkerlanter forward. “Come ahead, pass through. I’ll take you to them-or I’ll take you to somebody who’ll take you to them, anyhow.” He didn’t suppose there’d be any fighting till the generals made up their minds. If nothing else, that bought a little more time.
“And what did the Algarvian generals say, Captain Friam?” Marshal Rathar asked when the young officer who’d gone into Sulingen with his surrender demand came into his presence once more.
“Lord Marshal, they rejected your call out of hand,” Friam answered. “They were full of oily politeness-you know how Algarvians are-but they said no, and they didn’t say anything else.”
“They’re out of their fornicating minds!” General Vatran burst out. “They’re crazy if they think they can hold us back very long. And they’re worse than crazy if they think they can lick us.”
“My guess is, they don’t think either of those things,” Rathar said. “But they know how many men we’ll have to use to slam the lid onto their coffin and nail it down tight. If they give up, we can take all those men and throw them at the Algarvians farther north, the ones who aren’t surrounded.”
Vatran rumbled something deep in his chest. After a moment, he nodded. “Aye, that makes a deal of sense, however much I wish it didn’t. They’re good soldiers, curse them. They’d be a lot less trouble if they weren’t.”
“That’s all too true.” Rathar gave his attention back to Captain Friam. “Take a chair, young fellow. Don’t stand there stiff as a poker.” He raised his voice. “Ysolt! Bring the captain some tea, and pour some brandy in it.”
“Aye, lord Marshal.” Ysolt had a real hearth to work with now. After the attack that cut the Algarvians in Sulingen off from their comrades, Rathar had moved out of the cave overlooking the Wolter and into a village halfway between the encircled city and the Unkerlanter attacks farther north. This surely had been the firstman’s house. The cook gave the captain his tea, and an alarmingly predatory smile to go with it.
After Friam had gulped down the steaming contents of the mug, Rathar asked him, “What did you see? How did things look, there inside Sulingen?”
“Well, as to the city itself, lord Marshal, there’s no city left, not to speak of,” Friam answered. “It’s all rubble and wreckage, far as the eye can see.”
Rathar nodded. He’d already known as much. “What about the Algarvians?” he said. “What sort of shape are they in?”
“They’re worn,” Friam said. “They’re scruffy and they’re hungry and their peckers are drooping on account of they didn’t break through to the north.”
“They never had a chance to break through to the north,” Rathar declared. That was the public face he put on the fighting that had followed the redheads’ desperate push. It was, in fact, likely true. But, considering what the Algarvians had had with which to attack, they’d come appallingly close to success. Vatran hadn’t been wrong-no indeed. Mezentio’s men made good soldiers.
“What happens if we hit ‘em a good lick?” Vatran asked Friam. “Will they fold up and make things easy for us?”
“Sir, I don’t think so,” the young captain replied. “We all know how Algarvians are-when they’re down, they don’t show it much. But I think they’ve still got fight in ‘em. And the field works they’ve built in Sulingen. . they’re formidable people.”
Even trapped, even driven back into their den after daring to stick their noses outside, Mezentio’s men still exerted a malign influence on the Unkerlanters who fought them. Rathar knew too well they exerted a malign influence on him. Because they were so good, they made their enemies believe they were even better. “Have they got any behemoths left?” he asked.
“I saw some,” Friam replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they led me past ‘em so I would see. And I saw dragons flying in more supplies and flying out wounded men.”
“We haven’t been able to cut them off,” Rathar said discontentedly. “But I think we will soon-we’ve finally got egg-tossers up to where they can bear on all the parts of Sulingen they hold. They won’t land many dragons once they see the beasts going up in bursts of sorcerous energy as soon as they touch.”
“How long can they go on fighting without supplies?” Vatran asked.
Rathar’s smile was even more predatory than Ysolt’s had been. “That’s what we’re going to find out,” he said, and Vatran and Friam smiled in a way that echoed his. He slapped Friam on the back. “You did very well, Captain. If they won’t yield, they won’t. And if they don’t, we’ll just have to make them. You’re dismissed. Go on, get some rest. We’ve got more fighting ahead of us.”
As the captain saluted and left, one of Rathar’s crystallomancers said, “Lord Marshal, I’ve got a report from the force moving on Durrwangen.”
By his tone, Rathar knew the report wouldn’t be good. “Tell me,” he said.
“They brought up behemoths from down this way and smashed up our attacking column pretty well,” the crystallomancer said. “Looks like they’ll be able to hold west of the city.”