Wartorn: Resurrection (9 page)

Hatred. For what had been done to his home, his people, his family. That hatred had sired his thirst for vengeance. Killing all five of these soldiers—though he had no weapon with which to do such a thing—would be entirely justified, when compared with the numbers slaughtered at U'delph.

But his plan called for a different procedure; and so he played on until the sergeant brusquely returned him his travel pass and turned her back.

Bryck had at first been quite surprised how relatively easy movement was for him. He had yet to be thoroughly searched at any of these checkpoints, which was why he retained his cache of coin. Surely the folk taboo about meddling with a minstrel couldn't account for it. Then he'd realized that his masquerading as a troubadour was only an effective means of moving
one
individual within these Felk-held lands; for what damage, must be the thinking, could a lone individual do?

So he had asked himself when he'd concocted his scheme.

As he made to mount his horse, the older male soldier stepped forward.

"You play it Well."

Bryck nodded a civil bow but said nothing.

"You'll have to present yourself at the Registry," said the soldier. He recited the street where it was located. "How long will you be here in Callah?"

Bryck had been questioned about his plans a number of times by now. "Stay until winter. As I've done this past tenwinter and more."

The soldier was still studying him intently. "I don't recall you," he said eventually.

Again Bryck kept silent, though now he felt a cool wave of uneasiness wash over him. The others, even the sergeant, were no longer paying him any attention.

"I am... from Callah," the soldier said, finding some difficulty with the words. Bryck imagined he understood. The man was a Callahan, a native to this first city the Felk had conquered. He had evidently been absorbed into their army. That he'd gone happily or even willingly was unlikely; yet here he stood, in a Felk uniform, serving the military apparatus that had subdued his homeland.

At least that home hadn't been burned to the ground and nearly every inhabitant butchered, Bryck thought grimly,' noting the mostly intact buildings in the background, the denizens scurrying about the streets, very much alive.

"I knew quite a few of the troubadours that paid regular visits to the city," the Callahan went on. "What is your name?"

"Goll." Bryck had chosen the false name on a whim. It belonged to a very minor character from one of his own earliest theatricals. During this past half-lune he hadn't spoken his true name aloud to anyone. He was content to go unrecognized as Bryck of Udelph, renowned writer of stage comedies. Certainly he never intended to pen another. His life as a dramatist was as dead as his home.

"I don't recall you," he repeated.

Sweat was gathering beneath the collar of Bryck's coarse coat. The breeze rose, cooling it and chilling him. He itched to step his foot into the stirrup and ride onward.

Suddenly the man from Callah was patting the pockets of his tunic. A brass coin appeared in his hand. He held it out toward Bryck.

"Here." His eyes were moistening. He spoke in a hush that none of the others would overhear. "Had you come to my city ... to my beautiful Callah ... and had I sat and listened to you weave your music, as I once enjoyed listening to so many others of your kind, I would have applauded you. I would have given you this same coin."

Bryck accepted the brass, at an utter loss as to how to respond. Luckily he was spared the difficulty as the Callahan/Felk soldier turned sharply away.

Bryck at last climbed into the saddle and rode on into the city.

IT WAS GOOD to be at war. Even a war like this one, even with wizards everywhere underfoot, even (this was most galling) with those same magicians providing Dardas with the most amazing resources he'd ever known in combat.

Still, he didn't enjoy explaining himself, even second-hand, to Matokin, the leader of the Felk. The feats of his army's communication mages were remarkable. They called the magic Far Speak, and they could pass messages instantaneously across great distances, all the way back to Felk itself. It was a less strenuous, but ultimately no less impressive, accomplishment than moving troops, horses, and equipment through those portals.

However, it meant that Dardas couldn't get free of Matokin, not even here in the field, where he was well accustomed to having an absolutely free hand.

In his time as a Northland military leader, he had answered to no one at all. He hadn't represented a monarch or a sovereign state. His army
was
his nation, and his companies of fierce warriors were his nation's population. He had led them to glorious victories on the Northern Continent, and their loyalty

had been total.

Now, he was commanding an army again, two and a half hundredwinters after his own death. Once again, he was proving himself a successful commander, as his victories attested.

Sook had surrendered unconditionally without offering the slightest resistance, leaving Dardas with an army that was geared to a fighting pitch and no enemy to match itself against.

Objectively, it was the ideal situation for a commander. To accomplish one's goal without a single casualty or fatality.

While he had acknowledged the possibility, Dardas was nonetheless caught unprepared when the delegation of eight ministers from Sook had appeared, throwing the city-state on his mercies. Instead of dealing with scouting reports, skirmishes, and preparations for a siege, the general had suddenly instead found himself plunged into the details of taking control of a city-state that was intact and cooperative.

Occupying territories had never been his forte in his previous life. For Sook he had merely implemented the rules of occupation already in place for Callah and Windal. His army was presently encamped outside the city.

He was disappointed. What was wrong with these gods-damned Isthmusers? Didn't they have any backbone? Didn't they understand that if they didn't resist, he would subdue this entire land for Matokin?

And then ... what would happen to him, once the last battle was fought and the army didn't need its general anymore?

/ don't think the officers are in total agreement with your theories about sharing the food of the common soldiers.

By now, Dardas was used to his host-mind's thoughts intruding on his own. As weak as the voice and the personality behind it were, they was still present in Dardas's head.

It was truly amazing that Weisel was still dwelling on the issue of eating troop rations.

They may not agree, Lord Weisel, but they'll go along with it... and be better officers for the experience.

It was a subdued gathering, not at all like the high spirits that had followed the slaughter of U'delph, when most, if not all, of these officers had gotten their first real taste of blood lust. That had been more than half a lune ago now.

Dardas covertly studied the senior officers assembled around the campfire as he busied himself consuming the soldier's rations on his plate. They were talking quietly together in groups of two or three, or sitting alone lost in thought as they addressed themselves to their own lackluster meals.

I should think you'd want your officers to be happy. Happy officers are less likely to mutiny.

Happy is one thing. Smug and complacent is another. Besides, new officers have to be taught what they should be happy about. Wallowing in special privileges is point-less if the troops under you are discontent.

He eyed the small knot of magicians standing together at the edge of the gathering. As usual, they rarely spoke, even to each other, and almost never smiled.
There's a group that's primed for mutiny, privileges or no. If I were Matokin, I'd be keeping an eye on my underlings, and sleeping very light.

But the magicians are supposed to be unswervingly loyal to Matokin. I've heard they were screened for loyalty before being admitted to the magic school, the Academy. Besides, they're all bound by blood oaths and wouldn't dare to move against him.

That may be so, but I know discontent individuals when I see them.

Perhaps. Who knows how wizards think?

Weisel's thought was dismissive, almost indifferent.

He was an idiot, Dardas thought, but Weisel would never be aware of the thought. Dardas had surprised him-self with the strides he'd made in acclimating his resurrected self to living in this new body. He had gradually raised mental blocks against Weisel, exerting his will in ways he hadn't known he could. By now the Felk noble was boxed into a corner of their supposedly shared mind.

What was more, Dardas was certain that Weisel wasn't even aware of the situation. The man had effectively lost himself and didn't know it. Dardas felt that soon, very soon, he would, if he so chose, be

able to simply snuff Weisel into nothingness.

But there was no point in hastiness. The idiot might be useful for something.

"Berkant," Dardas called, having finished his meal.

The mage, a youngish man with an honest unaffected expression on his face, looked up sharply. He, too, was done eating. He came quickly but uneasily toward the general.

"Yes, General Weisel?"

Dardas kept his tone casual. "Any communications from Felk?" He knew there had been none. Berkant was in charge of relaying Far Speak messages directly from Matokin, and he naturally wasted no time delivering them. These wizards, loyal or not, plainly lived in fear of the Felk leader.

"No communications, General," Berkant said.

Dardas nodded. "Come with me—oh, if you've finished your meal?"

Berkant blinked at the general's unexpected magnanimity.

"I have, General."

"Good. Come to my pavilion. I may be charging my officers to eat regular rations, but they're free to drink whatever they can procure for themselves: As it happens, I myself have a fine bottle of something." Dardas was aware of the curious stares of the other officers that followed as they strolled to the tent.

Berkant was nervous, but Dardas wasn't without charisma and charm. He poured out two glasses, and they sat.

Dardas kept the talk initially about military matters, specifically communications. Far Speak mages had been installed in Callah, Windal, and now Sook, naturally, so that Matokin could receive direct reports about the status of the occupied cities of his growing empire.

Berkant relaxed a bit. The liquor was strong, but had such a mellow taste it snuck up on a person unprepared for it.

"Berkant," Dardas said finally, "it may be you can't answer what I'd like to know. I don't know if Matokin has placed restrictions on what information I should be privy to." He shrugged, as if to indicate that it was all right with him if he was so restricted. "But I would like to know something about magic."

"Magic?" Berkant said, his open face suddenly closing tightly.

Yes, thought Dardas darkly. That Felk bleeder Matokin meant to keep him ignorant.

These thoughts didn't show on Dardas's face. "Not the mechanics of magic," he explained airily. "It makes no difference to me how you wizards work your spells. I'm impressed by it all, to be sure. But, no. I'm interested only in the
history
of magic. It wasn't a field of study my tutors made much fuss about."

"I see, General Weisel." Berkant mulled it over a moment. "Well, perhaps I can enlighten you. Magic, of course, is a purely natural talent, one that has been with our species since it learned to speak. Maybe before. It—"

Already he was warming to the subject. Dardas let the mage ramble awhile. He seemed to enjoy holding forth. Probably Dardas was the only member of this military outside the circle of wizards who'd ever engaged him so in conversation. The animus between the army's regular numbers and its magic-using squads was quite strong.

Maybe, like Dardas, they were simply unsettled by the presence of so many wizards. Matokin might have shown true brilliance in recruiting powerful mages into his new military (not to mention using magic to resurrect the general who led it), but did he truly grasp the tension he'd also created within these ranks?

"Before the Great Upheavals," Berkant was saying, "things were different."

Dardas perked up, paying closer attention now.

The Great Upheavals had occurred even before Dardas's day. Once, mighty empires had thrived on the Northern and Southern Continents, but they had both crumbled from within. Before that time, however, wizardry was relatively widespread. Both the empires of the Northland and the Southsoil had made efforts to develop the sciences. The best practitioners were kept at the ruling courts.

"When those continental empires fell, it was a time of much fear." Berkant was showing the effects of the liquor, though, like any amateur drinker, he didn't seem to know he was getting drunk.

"I see," Dardas said, refilling the wizard's glass.

"Rumors abounded that occult forces were responsible for the empires' collapse. Magical practitioners went into hiding or renounced their disciplines. Some fled to the Isthmus. In the Northland, a very few attached themselves as healers to the armies of the new warlords."

"Fascinating," Dardas said. He, of course, had been one of those warlords. "But what about
here,
on the Isthmus?"

"The Issh— The Issh—" Berkant actually giggled, then reined himself in. Overenunciating, he now said, "The Isthmus once served only as a trade route between the continents. When the Upheavals came, many trade clans were stranded here, and they, as you know, settled this land."

"Yes," Dardas said, hiding his annoyance. Soon the liquor would make this mage useless as a source of information. "But what about the magicians?"

"The wealthiest and most powerful of the trade clans had the insight to give shelter and succor to the suddenly outcast wizards. They recognized magic's value, its potential advantage. They didn't fear magic as did the rabble." Berkant drained his glass in one heroic swallow. This time Dardas didn't refill it.

The mage continued, "The wizards were absorbed into these newly founded wealthy houses of the Isthmus. They took mates and entered the families, and the penchant for magic was passed through the generations, though often the lore of it was distorted or outright forgotten, and the strength of talent weakened, in some cases all but disappearing."

That explained why magic ran strongest among noble families, Dardas thought.

"Very well, Berkant. That's enough for now. Dismissed."

Berkant teetered up onto his feet and exited the pavilion, managing to stay upright at least until he was past the flap.

Dardas sipped meditatively at his own drink, savoring the flavor, as he did all of life's little pleasures now.

Portal magic. Far Movement magic.
That
was what he needed to know about. It was a powerful tool in his arsenal, and it was completely at his disposal as this army's commander. But... he knew nothing about how it worked, and Matokin had evidently given orders to these army mages that Dardas remain in the dark.

He called for his aide.

The officer appeared immediately. "Yes, General Weisel?"

No one addressed him as Lord Weisel anymore. Apparently word had gotten around.

"We'll be moving in the morning," Dardas said. "Inform the senior staff."

"Yes, General Weisel."

To the south lay the city-states of Ompellus Prime, Trael, and Grat. All three were some distance away. But, of course, Dardas need only order a squad of Far Movement mages to scout ahead, and the army could transport itself to any of those cities' doorsteps.

Those portals. What sort of place, exactly, did they open up into? Did that strange, milky world have inhabitants?

Dardas had seen none when he'd passed through with his army on the way to level U'delph. But he'd barely gotten a glimpse of the place, so distorted was everything, so overwhelming the sense of
otherness
there.

Yet, very strangely and despite its alienness, something about that realm had seemed ... familiar. It was as if he recognized the place without having any memory of it at all, as if he was remembering something from a dream. It made no sense.

Yes, a strange war this was. But it was war, nonetheless. And war was the environment in which Dardas thrived. It was, in fact, the only state of reality in which he felt at home. That was why he had risen to such heights as a military commander in his first incarnation. The Northland had provided him with a virtually endless series of adversaries, peoples, and rival armies to be conquered.

He
loved
war. And he would do anything to preserve it. He had never wanted a final victory, never wanted to see the end of all hostilities.

Naturally, he did not wish to see the end of this war. But if war was to continue, he needed a foe, some force to stand against his growing army.

U'delph's ruthless destruction had real purpose. It was meant to horrify the remaining Isthmus states, yes, just as he'd told Matokin. But Dardas didn't want to provoke surrender. No. He wanted to goad the remaining city-states into action.

Perhaps you could requisition a student directly from the Academy.

Weisel caught him off guard, but he quickly recovered, assured that the Felk nobleman hadn't overheard his thoughts.

What's that you say?

You were wondering about magic and magicians. Someone straight from that Academy in Felk where they train them might be able tell you what you want to know.

Dardas considered. It was, he had to admit, a sound plan.

That's afine idea. My thanks.

Glad to help.

There was no mistaking the preening tone of the thought. Weisel
was
an idiot, but Dardas wasn't one to reject a good scheme simply because he didn't like where it came from.