Wartorn: Resurrection (24 page)

He shook his head and attacked the last of the whiskers. It mattered only that he appear
different.
This shave was a start, but he would have to do more.

Aboard gave a creak just beyond the door. Bryck turned sharply, then heard the two sharp knocks, a pause, repeated.

"These," Quentis said, entering. "My father's."

She laid out the clothes. The room was small and used for storage. Quentis shared these lodgings with her older cousin, Ondak. He was currently posted out in front of the house, watching, ready to raise the alert if soldiers came.

Unlikely,
thought Bryck, despite his own anxiety. If he had been followed here, the Felk wouldn't be

delaying. They would storm the place for him, maybe kill him on the spot.

"My thanks," he said to Quentis, eyeing the clothes. Typically Callahan in style. That was good.

He realized he had been thanking this woman almost constantly since arriving at this house with her. He could not, of course, express the fullness of his gratitude. Not for lack of trying, but because it simply wasn't possible. He had fled the district where he'd killed the soldier and made his way as swiftly and invisibly as he could, expecting capture at every step, until he found the street where he had first met Quentis during that Lacfoddalmendowl holiday.

Hers was a mobile vendor cart, not a stationary shop, but he had searched the area until he saw her. He approached, she recognized him, and he asked for refuge.

It had seemed so suddenly and impossibly absurd at that moment. He had no right at all to ask such a thing; she had no reason to aid him. Yet, here he was. She had saved him.

She was looking at him now, studying his face. At last she nodded. "It looks good." Her tone was businesslike. He knew virtually nothing about this woman, but he was certain she didn't easily panic.

He patted a damp cloth over his face.

He hadn't had time to examine the impulse—the sure instinct—that had caused him to seek her out. Surely he could have hidden somewhere else. Callah was indeed a large city. He couldn't go to an inn, however. Callah received no travelers these days, and such places were virtually deserted or shut up. Besides, surely the Felk would look for him there.

Quentis's presence with him in this small room was pleasing.

"My thanks."

"So you've said." Her voice was gentle now, for the first time. It had all happened so swiftly. His accosting her on the street, his urgently whispered entreaty, her curt instructions that he follow as she secured her cart and led him here.

"Sorry to repeat myself," he said. "I can't seem to properly express my appreciation."

"We'll take your gratitude for granted."

He gazed back at her amber-colored eyes, lingering there a moment. He laid a hand on the clothes she'd brought in.

"Yes. Change into those. I'll get rid of what you're wearing now."

His hand went to his pocket. He pulled out the money, all the notes in a wad. He hoped to keep some of this, needing money to survive; but he had to give this woman something, to balance at least a little of the enormous debt he owed her for her kindness.

"Once you've changed," she went on, even as she glanced down at the money in his hand, "we'll get you safely out of here."

"Before I go, though ..." Did she want it all? He would give it, if she said.

She looked up. "That'll help when we get you settled."

It wasn't making sense. "We?" He gestured vaguely toward the front of the small house. "Ondak, you mean?"

"Ondak. Others. Change now." She exited, pulling shut the door.

From his coat he took his coins and the falsified travel pass that might still allow him to leave the city. How much did the Felk know about him? Would the soldiers be waiting for a minstrel trying to pass the city limits? And
who
had betrayed him, and
how?

It was maddening to think about. He had been so very cautious, had moved so secretively. And yet soldiers had come for him, and he had been forced to kill one of their number.

There was no time to regret the act, no time to feel the dismay he imagined anyone must feel upon taking a human life for the first time. He could see the soldier's lifeless face. Could even smell his blood, there in that foul alley.

Yet... how many dead had been left at U'delph? Did the Felk soldiers who'd butchered his wife and children feel regrets for their deeds? Did it matter if they did?

When Quentis returned, Bryck had changed into the clothes. Again she nodded approval. Outside, he heard the rain returning, pattering the roof. Quentis was wearing a cloak.

"Come along," she said. "It's time to go."

Since he had placed himself in her hands, he went.

THE WAREHOUSE HAD fallen into recent disuse, as had happened to those facilities in Callah from which the Felk had thoroughly conscripted goods and horses. This one had been a freight service, Quentis told him as they stood in shadows. Her voice was soft, low, calm. Animal scents on the air, but no beasts in the stalls. One shattered wheel leaned on a wall, but there were no wagons.

Bryck's new clothing included a thigh-length coat and a brimmed cap that hid his greying hair and made his newly shaven face appear even younger. It was a worthy effort at disguise, but he hoped not to have to test it against the eye-sight of soldiers armed with a good description of him.

The Felk patrols were in the streets, not on established routes and not at normal times. Armor rattled, voices barked. It looked like the full strength of the garrison that had turned out. Presumably the murder Bryck had committed had touched off this activity.

With Quentis and Ondak he had traveled here street by street, stealing along, taking cover when necessary. They had entered this building by the cargo dock, where there were loose boards. Quentis had lit the stub of a candle that guttered atop an empty cask.

A figure now emerged into the circle of pale light. He wasn't alone, but his companions stayed in the shadows.

"Tyber!" Ondak said with some relish.

A mask of freakishly unhealthy skin floated into the candlelight, a face immediately cut by a strangely winning smile, despite the man's horrid teeth. The creature named Tyber opened his arms away from a plump body, and Ondak—rather rounded himself—moved into the embrace. The two aging men slapped palms against backs, cackling with satisfaction.

Ondak turned with an arm still around Tyber's broad shoulders. "That one's Quentis, my younger cousin. The other... a minstrel."

Eyes widened in Tyber's blemished face. 'The minstrel with the news from Windal?"

Murmuring voices rose in the shadows. It sounded to Bryck like a dozen or more. Why, exactly, had Quentis brought him here? There had been no time to ask.

"The same," said Ondak.

"The uprising," Tyber said solemnly.

"The uprising."

And behind, in the shadows, the voices took up the words.

Tyber nodded at Bryck, turned and waved those shadows forward into the candlelight.

They looked to be typical Callahans—most past the age of conscription, a few younger. They carried weapons, of an improvised sort. Kitchen cleavers, an axe, a mallet. Tyber tossed open a flap of his coat, revealing the jeweled pommel of a short sword that looked both ostentatious enough for a royal honor guard and durable enough to serve in battle.

An adolescent, scratching at filthy hair with scabby fingers, studied Bryck somberly. In fact, they were all staring at him, seeming to want something from him.

"The minstrel," Ondak announced, "killed a Felk soldier today."

Gasps met this news. Ondak had said it with grave pride.

"That's why the whippers have stepped up their patrols," Tyber said, nodding. "Well... that's the first gods-damned Felk to die here since the buggers invaded us. Well done!"

Bryck didn't like this attention, didn't like so many eyes on him. He had presumed Quentis was taking him someplace to hide, at least temporarily, until he could arrange to escape the city. Did she mean to put him up here, in this abandoned warehouse?

More importantly, who
were
these people that knew he was a murderer?

Bryck's deed had obviously impressed them; he decided to play on that. "I have indeed killed a soldier," he declared. His audience hushed immediately. "I require sanctuary. Will you provide it?"

They stared mutely a moment. Then Tyber rumbled a chuckle deep in his chest. "The honor is ours, naturally," he said. "Most of us here have heard you before. Your songs, your news of Windal."

"The rest have heard the word passed from others," said Quentis.

"Your news gives us the only hope we've had since ..."

"The only hope—"

"—hope..."

They were all speaking up now. Bryck retreated a step. When he lifted a hand, they quieted. They were being deferential to him, he realized. He was important here. A celebrity, almost. As things had been in his playwright days. So long ago.

Well, he could certainly use this strange situation to his advantage.

"Very well," he said. "I should like to know whose hospitality I am enjoying."

It was Quentis who turned, a frown creasing between her amber eyes.

"Why," she said, sweeping a hand over the small band with their makeshift armaments, "this is the Broken Circle. We mean to rise up against the Felk."

Bryck slowly blinked. But they remained there. Not a dream, not the insubstantial creations that were the characters in his plays. Not even the fictional players who, in the new stories he'd been weaving, had risen up against the Felk in the city-state of Windal. These were the Broken Circle, the rebels of Callah. He had only written the roles. They were to make the parts real.

Finally Bryck pulled consciously at those unused facial muscles that allowed something like a smile to surface on his freshly shaven face. "It's a pleasure to meet you all," he said.

IT WAS ALL falling into place, like any good battle plan.

Dardas finally ordered a plate of the special rations he'd had sent in from Windal, by portal. The meat was the best he had eaten since Felk, where he had dined with Lord Matokin, and Abraxis, and some of those other chief magicians, on the eve of leading the army southward against Callah.

Matokin had been very expansive that evening. Glasses were lifted in toast after toast. There was excitement in the air, but also unease. Of all those wizard/politicians at that table, only Matokin had seemed truly confident that the Felk military, led by a resurrected Northland war commander inhabiting a nobleman's body, would succeed.

But Dardas had indeed succeeded in the feeble challenges he had so far faced. Callah, Windal, U'delph, Sook. Sook had surrendered, for gods' sakes, without an arrow being shot, or a blade raised. What soft stuff these Isthmusers were made of! In Dardas's heyday, he had faced real opponents, people who had at least put up a decent struggle before he trampled over them.

He let out a small sigh.

"Is the meal unsatisfactory, General?"

Dardas looked up. He was at his table. His aide, who had been rotated into the post just a watch earlier, was packing Dardas's gear. The camp was on alert, ready to be struck at any moment.

"The food is fine ... Fergon, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said the aide. His face was splashed with freckles.

"I'd say it was the tastiest supper I've had in some while," Dardas went on. "Did you get a plate for yourself?"

"Yes, General. Thank you. And I agree. It was a welcome treat."

Dardas wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, the sort of amenity he'd never known in his previous life. But one had to keep up appearances when one was wearing a noble's body.

"Tell me," Dardas said, "did the troops appreciate it as well, do you think?"

"Most certainly, General," Fergon said. "I think you'll find your praises being sung all over camp at the moment."

"Even among the wizards?"

Fergon paused as he was loading up a trunk. "It's ... difficult to tell sometimes what those people think. But they have stomachs, too, and they've been eating the same standard rations as everybody else. Yourself included, General."

Dardas waved that magnanimously away. He was pleased his little campaign of eating regular rations had paid off so well. He was pleased also about this latest ploy, the special meats from Windal. Binding his troops to himself was crucial. As Dardas the Conqueror, he had known fierce loyalty from his warriors. As the Felk General Weisel, he wanted the same.

He wanted these men and women to believe they were following
him,
not Matokin.

The real trick, of course, would be convincing the mages.

"Sir?"

Dardas thought for a moment that he had let out another sigh. But, no. Fergon, having finished the packing, was timidly trying to get his attention.

"What is it?"

"I hope this isn't inappropriate, General," Fergon said, "but I wanted to express my personal appreciation."

"For what?" asked Dardas.

Fergon looked genuinely surprised. "Why, for the successes we, as an army, have enjoyed under your command. Your genius for military tactics has become apparent to everyone."

Dardas favored his aide with a droll smile. "Or is it that everyone had low expectations? It's all right, Fergon. Speak freely. You broached the subject. Tell me."

The freckled officer looked at the ground.

"Well, sir... I think there might have been
some
reservations, at the start."

Dardas allowed himself a chuckle. "I think I understand, Fergon. That will be all."

"Um, sir?"

Dardas checked the flash of annoyance he felt. Most of his aides knew enough not to infringe on too much of his time. "What now?"

"My father sends his greetings."

"Your father?" Dardas blinked.

"Yes. The Far Speak mages have relayed a few personal messages for the officers. You authorized it a quarter-lune ago. Very accommodating of you, sir."

Dardas nodded. He recalled now permitting the indulgence. It was another ploy, of course. Give his troops and his officers a favor now and then, and they would grow devoted to him. Using those communication mages to pass private messages all the way from Felk was quite a luxury.

"And how is your father, Fergon?" Best to go along with this for the moment, though naturally he had no idea who the man's father might be. Weisel would know, of course. But the Felk noble's personality had evidently been squeezed into nothingness by Dardas's dominant character.

"He says the red grass is knee-high," Fergon said, as if conveying something profound, "and the dogs are running free." The officer couldn't completely suppress the expectant smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Obviously, this was supposed to mean something, Dardas thought a little desperately. Some familiar code between Weisel and this man's father, maybe referring to a joke they had once shared. Whatever it was, a response to it was expected. Godsdamnit, why had he let this fawning, freckle-faced twerp say anything more?

"Well..." Dardas said, careful to appear unruffled. "That's as it should be, then."

Fergon's budding smile turned to* a puzzled frown. "Uh... of course, General Weisel."

It was the wrong answer, Dardas thought darkly.

"Enough, Fergon. Leave me."

The aide scuttled out of the tent.

He would have to be replaced, Dardas thought. Maybe
more
than replaced. He'd had no trouble killing that Far Movement mage with his poisoned knife. He was more than willing to commit such a deed again. To be honest, he had enjoyed it.

What he had learned from that mage was certainly valuable. He was basing this upcoming campaign against the city-state of Trael on the knowledge he had gathered about the true nature of Far Movement magic.

One of his great talents in battle, one that had served him so well in his last lifetime, was an ability to adapt whatever resources were at hand to further his position in the field. This was something ingrained in his nature. Once, as a child, when a much larger boy had assaulted him, young Dardas had snatched up a tiny twig from the ground and jammed it brutally into the bigger boy's eye. The twig was just a twig, not obviously useful as a weapon. But wielded correctly and without any mercy or hesitation, it had won him the fight.

Far Movement was powerful magic. The portals, so the mage had said before dying, opened into another reality, the reality
beyond
life.

Dardas had been dead once. He had no clear memories of what that had been like, but obviously his being had survived in some form, or Matokin wouldn't have been able to retrieve him.

His plan was to open several portals around the city of Trael. But... no exit portals would be opened. Those holes into the next reality would simply stand wide.

Whatever dwelt in that other world would be free to come into
this
one. And those inhabitants, freed from that milky limbo, would find Trael in their path.

Dardas wanted war. Perpetual war. He felt excitement tingle through him. Who knew what would come out of those portals. Monsters? The walking dead? Whatever, it could only complicate this war, thus extending it until he could consolidate his own position of power.

Someday maybe he would even be in the position to turn the army back northward, to conquer the city of Felk itself and unseat Emperor Matokin.

He laughed aloud, savoring the thoughts, as he had savored every sensation since returning to life.

At the moment he was waiting on Raven's return. How thrilled the girl had been when he named her his liaison officer to the army's magic-using forces. At first, he had thought to use the granting of the title as just another means of tying her tighter to him. But he had quickly realized the immense value of having such an officer at his side.

The rift between his regular troops and his army's magical units had been obvious from the start. That rupture had to be mended. Matokin had given him wizards, the best he had to offer, and told him to make use of them. So be it. Weapons had been turned on their masters before.

In the meantime though, it was crucial that those scouting parties he'd sent ahead to Trael obeyed their new, unorthodox orders. Dardas had figured there would be resistance, especially from the Far Movement mages. Whatever else, this was no doubt a dangerous gambit.

So he had sent Raven, who had a foot in both societies, so to speak. Magical and nonmagical. She wasn't an official wizard, but she didn't fear magic, and her loyalty to the empire was impressive. Dardas had worked to turn that loyalty more directly upon himself, by taking her into his confidence, showering her with attention. He felt his scheme had succeeded.

However, Raven was overdue from her mission. Dardas frowned and stepped out of his tent. He surveyed the camp, seeing that the troops were indeed prepared to move put whenever the word came. Dardas didn't know what exactly would happen when those portals were locked open, but he wanted his army ready to move, in any direction.

He drew in the air. Even this was still exciting, the simple act of breathing. He
had
to stay alive. He needed someone like that wizard Kumbat on hand, at his personal beck and call, for whenever death tried to reclaim him. Matokin's greatest hold over him was the unspoken threat of withholding those rejuvenation spells that prolonged the resurrection magic that had brought him back to life.

It was a complex game, but his plans were falling into place, neatly.

They had bivouacked in a shallow valley. Spotters and pickets guarded the ridges. Nothing was going to sneak up on his army.

Finally, he saw Raven striding across the grounds toward his pavilion. She moved with a greater confidence these days, he noted. It was appealing. Perhaps he would find the time to bed her one of these days.

She saluted when she reached him. "General Weisel."

"Raven," he nodded. They should probably go inside for her report, but he was enjoying the feel of the waning day's breeze on his face too much. "What is the word?"

The girl looked somewhat troubled, he saw. "I contacted three of the four scouting parties, sir," she said. "The Far Movement mages will all comply with your orders when they receive the signal."

"And the fourth party?" he asked.

Raven shook her head. "None of the Far Speak mages was able to make contact. The Far Speak wizard assigned to the fourth squad simply did not respond. Without him to correlate the location, there was simply no way to transport there." She looked rather pale.

Dardas considered. "Well, scouting parties get lost. It is all a part of warfare." Any number of mishaps might have befallen the squad.

"Yes, General."

He peered closely at her. "But there's something further disturbing you, Raven. Am I right?"

"It's ... nothing, sir."

"I think not. By now, girl, you surely realize that I value you. I've made you an officer. I've entrusted you with important secrets." He moved a step nearer to her. "You must be able to confide in me." He spoke this last in a tone that was like a purr. It was better to charm her than to order her to divulge.

Raven bit her lip, then said, "I encountered some difficulty while I was being Far Moved."

"Difficulty?"

"Yes, General." She explained. It was a strange little tale about hearing voices, a whole host of them, closing in around her while she was in transit through the milky, limbo world of the portals.

"Interesting," he said, genuinely intrigued.

Voices. No doubt the voices of that reality's inhabitants—presuming that Raven hadn't imagined the whole thing. He doubted that, though. She was made of cooler stuff.

"Fergon!" Dardas called.

The aide appeared at once, waiting attentively for Dardas's orders. But there was a lingering uneasiness on the young officer's face. Yes, thought Dardas. Something would definitely have to be done about this one. It could wait though.

"Assemble the senior staff. And get me a Far Speak mage who can communicate with our scouts."

"Yes, General Weisel." Fergon was gone.

"In a few moments, I'll give the signal." Dardas turned once more to Raven. "Exciting, isn't it?"

"Yes, General, it is." Color was returning to her full cheeks. Her breasts were rising and falling as her breath quickened.

This one understood how arousing a good war could be, Dardas thought with a silent cackle. On impulse, he reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Her flesh was smooth, young.

Raven froze, then flushed heavily.

The senior staff was gathering around the front of Dardas's tent. He dropped his hand. A mage in dark robes came forward.

Now it was time to bring forth onto this Isthmus a whole new breed of warfare, thought Dardas.

I don't think I want to be remembered as the madman who allowed the dead to roam free into this world.

A huge shock went through him. This was Weisel's voice in his head. Impossible!

More impossibly, Dardas suddenly felt resistance when he tried to move his limbs. It was like someone was pulling them in another direction.

I think you have abused my hospitality long enough.

With that, Dardas felt an overwhelming mental force closing in around his consciousness, strangling him, suffocating him.

It's time you gave me back what you've borrowed.

With a last surge of effort, Dardas forced open his mouth to give the order to the mage. Whatever else happened, his plan would go ahead.