Wartorn: Resurrection (8 page)

For her own safety and continuation at the school, she would have to gain some time. Perhaps some kind of a diversion.

She could denounce someone. She always kept a few choice incidents in reserve that she could produce if necessary, and the removal of a student or instructor usually threw the Academy into a turmoil for at least one day. Still, if one did that too frequently, it simply tended to cast suspicion on the accuser.

Maybe a training accident. They were not uncommon and not that difficult to arrange. Something that would make them empty the classroom or the entire school for a watch or two. In two years here, she had learned more than just her lessons.

It might look suspicious if Hert was the one involved in the accident. Then again, the girl bullied many students, not just Raven. Frowning with concentration, Raven continued to review her options. Only one thing was certain. Absolutely nothing was going to stand in the way of her earning her father's love.

HE KEPT THE grey at a calm lope, even as he spied the soldiers ahead at the entrance into the city. He had gained some practice in exuding the cool of a seasoned wanderer, though in his previous life he'd done little traveling—and when he had, he'd been .moved about in appropriate style. With an entourage, in the comfort of an enclosed coach; certainly not rambling alone on horseback, a bedroll beneath the stars more often than not his berth for the night.

Many days' determined riding had brought him deep into the territory of the Felk. Now he was at the entry into Callan, the first of the cities to have fallen in mis war.

He shifted the vox-mellifluous slightly with a shrug of his shoulders. He was by now rather accustomed to having the instrument strapped across his back. It twanged faintly with each step his horse took, knocking softly against his backbone.

He'd bought the instrument at a roadside inn. As a part of his daily routine, he made sure to practice. It wasn't just a matter of reacquainting himself with music-making and

the lyrics that went along with the songs he knew; it was acclimating himself to this particular instrument.

A troubadour and his implement should seem as one, Bryck knew.

Since he had started moving north, he had played the stringbox at several inns along the way. It was one thing to play for his horse, which was courteous and attentive; another to play for an audience. The first time he'd started cranking the winder and fingering the strings, he was nervous, aware that he had everyone's ear in the place. Once that would have been the natural state of things.

Bryck of U'delph, playwright and noble, was often the focus of any gathering of people—be they guests to his villa or companions at the taverns he frequented. His store of anecdotes and witticisms was effectively inexhaustible, and his ability to keep people laughing in the flesh was perhaps as keen as his talent for amusing the audiences of the theatricals he penned.

But Bryck of U'delph was, figuratively, no more. Just as U'delph was quite literally no more.

The city-state had originally been laid out in a spiral, a single uninterrupted chain of structures that started at the east end and wound continuously inward. During Udelph's long, proud history, many other buildings had been erected, jostling for space as the city prospered and grew. That original fanciful spiral was all but eradicated and made sense only when one studied a map, eliminating every structure put up during the past hundredwinter or so.

The city had been built on a broad prairie. With each and every multistoried building and tower now out of the way, Bryck had seen the spiral traced out clearly in the scorched foundations that were the

blackened bones of his home.

He had made the return journey in something near to half the time it had taken him to get to Sook. He had run his horse brutally for home, stopping only for a single watch when his vision had come over white and he fainted, exhausted, in the saddle. He'd encountered no Felk along the way—perhaps miraculously, perhaps merely due to blind luck.

Rain had come, and no smoke rose in the windless mid-day. There was nothing left down there to burn anyway. The smell was terrible.

. Six days of safety before the Felk arrived. Six days, the scouts had said.

His villa was down there on the blackened prairie as well. Involuntarily his eyes strayed toward the spot, in the city's affluent westward quarter. Yes, there it was, with scarcely one stone standing atop another. Ashes and rubble.

He could have searched that debris. He could have entered that maze of rubble and sifted the wreckage. He could have uncovered, surely, tiny fragments of memorabilia, items scorched beyond recognition to any eyes but his. He would find remnants and shards. He would pick out pieces of furnishings and know what the articles had once looked like. He would find bones and, with some effort, likely be able to identify their owners.

His wife, Aaysue. His children, Bron, Cerk, Ganet, little Gremmest.

U'delph's population had been roughly twenty-five thousand. By the madness of the gods, such a slaughter. Slaughtered and abandoned, for the Felk had moved onward.

Atop his horse and upon the mild rise at Udelph's south end, Bryck was given a fine view. A lone thought beat in his skull. Actually it was less a thought, more a raw naked impulse. Unrelenting. Potent.
Vengeance.

Against the Felk, who had taken everything from him. Vengeance, because nature demanded it of him. Were this a drama and he a player, he would be overwhelmingly propelled into the role of avenger. He would not disappoint. What he required was a
suitable
vengeance, something worthwhile, something that both matched his natural talents and would inflict the greatest damage on his enemies.

It was now half a lune since the fall of Udelph. Rumors along the road said the Felk had camped some while south of the devastated city-state, then moved against Sook, which had unequivocally surrendered. Evidently Udelph was an object lesson, and the people of Sook, led by that gaggle of ministers he'd once found so amusing, had learned that lesson well.

Such thoughts evaporated as he neared the small unit of soldiery waiting ahead. Beyond lay Callah, an impressive expanse of streets and buildings, though not as imposing as, say, Udelph, which was something near to twice this city's size. It wasn't a walled city, but no doubt each connecting road was guarded, and its perimeter probably patrolled as well.

He saw only one damaged structure, at the outskirts, a building whose roof had been burned off. A demolition crew was at work on it, salvaging its usable stones. Perhaps it was left over from the Felk's original assault against the city.

Bryck had been in Felk territory some while now. One could almost feel it, like a dark disquieting weight. Territories and state borders did occasionally shift, but rarely so dramatically. The Felk had advanced substantially south-ward. What had relatively recently been only a large city-state was now more the size of an empire. And still no one seemed to know what the Felk ultimately intended with these aggressive military actions. There were those Bryck had met or overheard during his travels who believed the Northerners meant to conquer the entire Isthmus. Others speculated that the future held more atrocities like Udelph's annihilation.

When Bryck had first encountered a detachment of Felk soldiers, they had interrogated him. Their job was to see that all who used the particular stretch of road they guarded had license to do so. Their real task, of course, was to make sure no fugitives fled southward. They were a bit perplexed by Bryck, who was riding north,
into
the new expanded Felk territories. He explained that he was a roving minstrel, that he hoped to continue northward, as this was his habitual route. He made it clear that he cared nothing about the war.

That attitude had precedent. Troubadours were traditionally neutral. Music knew few national

boundaries. For hundredwinters, even during the Isthmus's most notorious strife-filled times, musicians of this ilk had moved unmolested. In some regions it was considered severe bad luck to interfere with a troubadour.

Of course, he'd had to prove he was a minstrel by playing several songs.

That first contingent of Felk soldiers, though, had eventually issued him a civilian travel pass and let him through. That pass was a sheet of vellum on which had been dribbled hot yellow wax; in the center of that congealing blob, the Felk sergeant had imprinted some complicated shape with a small metal stamp. It wouldn't give Bryck unrestricted movement within the new Felk territory, but it would ensure that he wouldn't be summarily executed. The army was on alert for dissidents, deserters, and other runaways. Troubadours apparently weren't viewed as a threat.

Bryck now reined in his grey steed. He felt fortunate that no one had conscripted the horse. He raised an empty hand in the customary traveler's greeting. His other hand reached slowly into his coat to withdraw the wax-blotched sheet of vellum.

There were five soldiers in the Felk unit waiting at the road's terminus. From the deep ruts in the packed earth under his horse's hooves, Bryck guessed that this was" a major transit artery—or had been; there certainly wasn't much traffic on it now. Surely the Felk occupation had disrupted or even ended normal trade and travel. Indeed, he'd seen no other civilians at all on the road for days, this far into Felk territory.

Despite the disquiet of being so deep inside enemy lines, he'd seen no fighting, and the soldiers he encountered were occupiers, not combatants.

Fields of summer-yellowed grasses lay on either side of the roadway. Stones were gathered to make a fire pit, and there was presently something aromatic simmering in a bell-shaped pot over the flames. There was a water tub, laundry swaying in the breeze. Two of the soldiers were playing Dashes atop a small makeshift table contrived from a pair of supporting rocks and a shield laid across. Dashes was a game one played with cards, dice, and a good deal of underhanded cunning. Bryck had once been quite a deft player, even when he didn't sweeten his odds with a little subtle wizardry.

The five-strong unit looked like it had been at this post some while. It appeared to be rather light duty. They had shed most of their armor and made do with uniform tunics, though all were wearing their swords. The sergeant strode forward for Bryck's offered travel pass, barely acknowledging his presence with a swift sweep of her bland eyes. Behind her another of the Felk soldiers—this one male, nearer Bryck's age, with an intense air about him—eyed him more keenly.

The imprint in the yellow wax was complex and would have been difficult, if not impossible, to counterfeit. A glance seemed to convince the sergeant of its authenticity, but she held on to it anyway.

"Get off that horse." She sounded bored, not hostile.

Bryck climbed off. The other soldier continued to study him in a way that was becoming uncomfortable.

"What is that?" asked the sergeant, peering over his shoulder.

"Vox-mellie." No self-respecting troubadour would refer to the instrument as either a "vox-mellifluous," its formal name, or "stringbox," the nickname anybody but a troubadour would use.

"So, give us your best." She gestured for the attention of the pair playing Dashes and another soldier lethargically whetting his sword blade on a stool by the cooking fire.

Without lifting off the canvas tether, Bryck worked the instrument around to the front of his body, pausing briefly to tune a string, then launched into a number. His relentless practicing was paying off. Already his fingering had improved measurably. More important than that perhaps, was that he could now play on demand. He didn't need the spirit to move him, didn't need to be in a musical mood; if someone gave him coin (or in this case, ordered him), he could produce an entertaining song.

Which is what he proceeded to do, wishing as he had several times recently that his repertoire was more extensive. He knew a fine abundance of suggestive drinking songs, but a knowledge of some more traditional verses would strengthen the illusion of his being a professional songster.

He wasn't entirely over his stage fright. But he'd recalled a bit of sage advice thespians gave each other to combat such nervousness. Play your role to a lone individual in the audience and ignore

everybody else. The first time he'd played at an inn, he'd done just that, picking out a child, a girl, apparently traveling with a family of merchants. She was staring at him, large eyes following the movements of his somewhat bumbling fingers with fascination.

Bryck had played for her and her alone, and that some-how steadied his fingering of the strings, evened his voice. Actually his singing voice wasn't entirely miserable; it even had a certain flair, after a fashion. He performed a few of the more respectable ballads he knew, in deference to the young girl—three or four winters old—who was his audience. It definitely wouldn't do to belt out "Silda's Maidenhead" or "Man Drowned in Ale" for her. The girl seemed thoroughly enthralled, clapping small, chubby hands, giggling loudly. That, Bryck found, was gratifying.

So were the extra coins that appeared on his table as he'd played onward, enough to buy him a bed for the night, though he still had quite a few coins secreted in the lining of his coat. Aaysue had insisted he take the money with him on his heroic venture to Sook.

It was also gratifying that day that his audience had accepted him as a legitimate troubadour. It was essential to his entire scheme that he pass as one.

It was a full day later, riding north once more, that he had realized that the little girl at the inn reminded him of his daughter, Gremmest. That had made his throat go hot and thick. His youngest child had also enjoyed watching him play the stringbox.

These Felk soldiers didn't appear to care overmuch what Bryck played. They seemed interested in him only as a distraction from what must be a dull, if soft, assignment. The ribald wit of the lyrics he sang got an occasional chuckle, but by the third tune, the pair were back to their game of Dashes, and the soldier on the stool was stirring the pot over the fire.

Only the man standing behind the sergeant was still paying close attention. This was hardly Bryck's first checkpoint; he knew enough how to behave in the presence of armed warriors.

In the presence of the enemy ...

The thought beat—controlled but indestructible—behind his carefully flat expression. These were Felk soldiers. As ordinary and perhaps benign as they appeared here, these were the same creatures that had laid waste to U'delph, sparing only a handful of witnesses who had spread the stories of the city-state's destruction. Bryck had heard the stories on the road, tales of the Felk army appearing impossibly from the very air. If it was indeed magic, it was of a kind far beyond any he knew.

That these five particular soldiers had likely been manning this same post when U'delph was being annihilated meant, ultimately, little. Perhaps nothing. Felk were alike. They had to be. For the purposes of his vengeance they were as one. His hatred for them was expansive enough to accommodate them all.