But Hasso remembered what had happened the autumn before. Maybe there were reasons to fight the Lenelli after all.

Once they’d ridden out of Muresh, Hasso asked, “How far ahead are King Bottero’s men?” In Bucovinan, the question needed only two words. German often made compound words. Bucovinan revolved around them.

“We still have a ways to go,” Rautat answered – another two words. “They aren’t even where we fought the first battle last fall. Not a strike at the heart this time. More like taking away a hand and half an arm.”

Hasso nodded; he had the same impression of Bottero’s strategy. The Lenelli had got themselves a bloody nose when they charged ahead too fast. Now Bottero seemed to want a digestible piece of Bucovin. Once he had it, he’d go and take another bite, and then, no doubt, one more.

That wasn’t how Hasso would have gone about things, which wasn’t the same as saying it wouldn’t work. The rule here seemed to be that the Lenelli moved forward and the Grenye gave ground before them. Sometimes they didn’t move forward very fast – sometimes the frontier stood still for years at a time. But they never seemed to move back.

Maybe I’ll fix that, Hasso thought. Yeah, maybe I will. And maybe I’ll do something else instead. Who knows what the hell I can do if I set my mind to it?

He himself had no idea. That should have alarmed him. Sometimes it did. Sometimes he thought it was blackly funny.

When he came to the first battlefield, he wondered whether he ought to comb the ground for the cartridges his machine pistol spat out. Could wizards do something nefarious if they found one? For the life of him, he couldn’t see how, not when the Schmeisser would never work again.

“Do you know – did you know – a fellow named Berbec?” he asked suddenly. Rautat shook his head. Hasso asked the rest of the Bucovinans with him, but they didn’t know Berbec, either.

“Who is he?” Rautat asked. “Sounds like one of our names.”

“It is.” Hasso explained how he’d acquired the native on the field here. “I don’t know what happens to him after I get caught. Maybe he belongs to Velona now. I hope she treats him well.”

“Velona?” one of the Bucovinans asked.

“She was my woman.” Hasso would have left it there. Rautat, who knew more, shared the gossip with his countrymen. They all muttered back and forth, too low for Hasso to make out what they were saying.

Finally, the driver of the powder wagon, a stocky fellow named Dumnez, said, “The big blonds’ goddess is strong.”

“Yes,” Hasso said. Nobody who’d ever come within a kilometer and a half of Velona would have dreamt of saying no.

“That woman the goddess lives in is strong, too,” Rautat said, so maybe Dumnez hadn’t been talking about Velona after all. Rautat went on, “I saw her in both battles last fall. I’m glad I didn’t get within reach of her sword.”

One of the other Bucovinans pointed at Hasso. “He must be pretty strong, too, then, if she was his woman.”

“He is pretty strong – not the best swordsman, but pretty strong,” Rautat said. “Pretty tricky, too. Lord Zgomot thinks well of him.”

He does? Hasso almost blurted it out in surprise. If the Lord of Bucovin did think well of him, he kept it to himself mighty well. But if Zgomot didn’t think well of Hasso, all he had to do was say the word and the German was a dead man.

The native who’d pointed said, “The priestess likes him pretty well, too, even if he is a blond.”

Hasso stiffened. Rautat hissed like a snake. The other Bucovinan winced, though plainly he wasn’t sure how he’d stuck his foot in it. Hasso was, worse luck. Maybe Drepteaza did like him, but she didn’t like him enough, or didn’t like him the right way. Rautat obviously knew as much. If the other fellow didn’t, he had to be out of the loop.

Sure enough, Rautat said, “Don’t pay any attention of Peretsh. He doesn’t know what the demon he’s talking about.”

“I can see that for myself,” Hasso said.

They traveled west in silence for some little while.

When they started running into parties of Bucovinan soldiers, Hasso knew they had to be getting close to the marchlands Bottero’s men were trying to occupy. Lord Zgomot wasn’t going to give up his territory without a fight. In a way, seeing the soldiers made Hasso feel better – he wasn’t out here by himself against everything the Lenelli could throw at Bucovin.

In another way…

Well, my life gets more complicated, he thought. He hadn’t expected things to be simple. Every so often, he caught Rautat watching him when there was no earthly need for it. The underofficer always looked away in a hurry when he noticed Hasso’s eye on him, but Hasso had a pretty good idea of what was going on in his head. The native had to be wondering what the big blond would do when it came time to fight the folk who looked so much like him.

Who could blame Rautat for wondering that? Who could blame him, especially when Hasso was wondering the same thing himself?

Hasso stared into the setting sun, shielding his eyes from the glare with the palm of his hand. The village in the distance was only blackened ruins. He didn’t see any Lenelli moving around there, but they wouldn’t be far off. He wished he’d had a pair of field glasses around his neck when he splashed down into the swamp. He knew something about gunpowder, but he’d never worried his head about optics.

The Lenelli up ahead – whether he could see them or not, they were there – couldn’t see him. He and Rautat crouched side by side in thick bushes. The rest of the Bucovinan escort and the powder wagon waited behind the crest of a rise half a kilometer farther east.

“Somewhere around here, you’ll start planting them, right?” Rautat said.

“Ja,” Hasso answered absently. The Bucovinan accepted it; that was one word of German he’d learned. Hasso went on, “Run a fuse from here over to the road, wait, and watch for Bottero’s men to ride forward …”

Rautat laughed in eager anticipation. “Then they’ll find out they aren’t so cursed smart!”

“Ja,” Hasso said again, and then, “Let’s go back. Plenty to do before we start to dig and to hide.”

“Like eat, for instance.” Rautat rubbed his belly. As if on cue, it growled like an angry dog. The Bucovinan laughed. So did Hasso.

They scooted back through the bushes. Hasso had learned his forest-fighting techniques in Russia, where any mistake was worth your life. Rautat was as good at moving silently as he was, maybe better. Of course, Rautat had been hunting in the woods since he got big enough to carry a bow. He’d had more practice than Hasso had.

A tiny, almost smokeless fire crackled ten meters or so away from the wagon with the jars of gunpowder. The Bucovinans understood that they couldn’t get careless with fire around it. Hasso hadn’t let anybody who didn’t understand that come along with him. Dumnez was toasting a hare above the flames. Three more lay by the fire, already gutted and skinned and ready to cook. Yes, the Bucovinans could hunt, all right.

Hasso got his share of the tender meat. You couldn’t keep going forever on hare and rabbit – not enough fat in them. But they made a good supper every so often.

As the sun set and darkness deepened, Hasso looked westward again. He didn’t think the Lenelli would be able to spot the fire’s glare over the rise ahead. Even if they did, odds were they wouldn’t make much of it. They had to know the Bucovinans were keeping an eye on them. That wouldn’t impress them, not for beans. Nothing the Bucovinans did impressed them. Bucovinans were only Grenye, after all.

Softly, Hasso began to chant. Some of the charm was in German, some in Lenello. He faced away from Rautat and the rest. They wouldn’t hear his spell, or make anything of it if they did. He snorted – in rhythm with the spell. He wasn’t sure there would be anything to make of it if they did. For one thing, he was an altogether untrained wizard. For another, he was still in Bucovin, even if he’d come back close to the border with Bottero’s kingdom. If it didn’t work … then it didn’t, that was all. He would take a different tack in that case.