Wartorn: Resurrection (14 page)

He lifted off the stringbox and waved over the landlady. Money had accumulated over time in the empty jar he'd set on the floor at his feet. Paper only, he saw, no coins. He recalled the Felk soldier, a conscripted Callahan, who at the city's border checkpoint had offered a coin (itself an illegal act!) for the music Bryck had played.

He counted out the notes from the jar where the landlady could see.

"Y'might've ended with something a mite more jolly," she muttered, but still seemed pleased with her take. She'd brought him his meal. He ate.

He waited, and they came to him slowly, the patrons. First, a few congratulators; then, the ones with questions.

"You're a real bard, then? A ... traveler?"

"Yes." He finished his food. Someone bought him a fresh mug of wine without asking if he wanted another. They pulled chairs near him. They leaned in. He was in a semicircle of ten, twelve, more. The vox-mellifluous stood propped beside him. Some had left the tavern when he'd finished playing. Everybody else was now gathered near.

"Have you any ... news?"

It was a man with the soot of a forge embedded in the age-lines of his face who asked. None in Bryck's audience was young. All were roughly his age or older. In Callah there were only such semi-elders, and children, and the infirm and crippled. All able bodies had been drafted into the military.

The man's question touched off many others, all at once. All wanted word about this place or that, cities and hamlets both nearby Callah and far away. They went so far as to ask urgently after specific individuals who lived in these places, some of which Bryck had never heard of. He lifted a hand and waited.

When he had quiet, he darted his eyes right and left, adding to the sense of secretiveness that had come over the scene. His questioners huddled closer.

"I've come from the south," he said, and they hung on his syllables. These Callahans were the first of the Felk conquests. They effectively knew nothing about the current state of the war. Or little enough that Bryck's inventions wouldn't immediately be decried as lies.

So he told them of the uprising against the Felk in the captured city of Windal, not far to the southeast.

The one-eyed landlady quietly took a seat to hear. Everyone behaved as he'd hoped, much like the gullible ensemble of
Chicanery by Moonlight
behaved when Gleed the wandering fortune-teller declared that their village had been built atop the belly of a slumbering giant. It was one of his more popular plays.

Bryck left while there was still time to get indoors before curfew.

DARDAS FELT THE cold. It was Weisel's body he was wearing, yes, but this chill came from deep within, and it had nothing to do with the cooling autumn weather of the Isthmus.

"Hurry with it," he said, intending the command to be stony but hearing a tiny thread of unease in it. That was nothing, of course, to the unease he actually did feel, and justifiably so.

He was, after all, dying. Or rather being returned to the death from which he'd been resurrected.

It was unavoidable, inevitable. So Matokin had explained it, some while ago. Matokin, naturally, was the first person Dardas had seen upon waking from his own death inside the fleshy vessel of Lord Weisel.

Resurrection magic was powerful, fantastically so. But it needed to be maintained, with rejuvenation spells. Without these, death would return, like a chronic disease.

It had started early in the night. Dardas had been informed as to what symptoms would present themselves, and had sent word directly to Matokin in Felk, via Berkant and his Far Speak abilities. The message was coded. Matokin had acknowledged.

A short while later, as Dardas felt his condition worsening, a mage came through a portal and reported immediately to Weisel's tent.

The army, which was marching and riding south by conventional means, was already camped for the night. Dardas hadn't yet opted to use the Far Movement magic to transport his forces instantly to the city-state of Trael, which was their next logical target.

This mage had identified himself as Kumbat. Like all the wizards Dardas had encountered, he looked no different from anyone else. Just a man. But he was more than that. He had powers that most men and women didn't possess.

"Hurry,"
Dardas repeated, barely able to hold back the fear now.

Death was coming for him... death that had been cheated once, and now wanted its property back. It

was like a great cold mouth was opening beneath him, rising swiftly now, meaning to swallow him whole.

Kumbat shed his dark robe and suddenly launched into a whirl of gestures and gyrations. Words croaked from his lips, fast and unrecognizable. His face contorted and reddened. Sweat stood out on his forehead. There was no one in the tent but the two of them. Dardas lay on his bunk, no longer able to keep to his feet.

It was a mighty display. Dardas watched, transfixed, still feeling the cold death-mouth rising to consume him, but distracted in these last moments of life by the uproar of the mage's movements and the atonal chanting.

Dardas remembered his original death. His heart had seized, and he had died a few days later, in bed, fading in and out of consciousness. This death, now, was much more intense, immediate, and personal. Death itself was coming for him specifically and the nonsensical actions of this so-called mage were doing nothing to stave it off.

Matokin had cheated him. The godsdamned Felk bleeder!

Kumbat, sweat streaming off his half-naked body now, lunged forward and laid his hands on Dardas's chest.

A great shock erupted through Dardas's body. Incredibly, he felt his hair actually standing on end. His body jumped, and it felt like his blood was suddenly boiling in his veins. He tried to cry out, but his tongue locked.

Kumbat removed his hands.

Death was no longer near. Dardas blinked wildly. He vaulted off the bunk, his heart racing.

"By the madness of the gods!" he exclaimed. It was one of those Isthmus sayings he had picked up in this new life.

New life, he thought, a grin cutting his features. That new life, it seemed, was going to continue awhile longer.

Kumbat, himself recovering, was putting his robe back on.

"That," Dardas heaved, "was fine work."

"I only obey my Lord's orders," the mage said.

That was Matokin, of course, not Lord Weisel he was referring to.

Dardas's grin cooled a bit. "Well, I'm glad for your efforts. Tell me, Kumbat, how did you accomplish it? It felt to me as if you were pouring, I don't know, naked
energy
into my body."

Kumbat's face went still. He looked levelly at Dardas. "I must apologize, General Weisel, for I cannot speak of such matters."

Dardas's grin had vanished entirely now. He was drawing steady breaths.

"General, I am to report immediately to Lord Matokin upon completion of this assignment. May I have your leave to go?"

Asking permission,
Dardas thought sarcastically. As if these damned mages needed his consent to do anything. They were all Matokin's instruments. He must never forget that.

"Dismissed," Dardas said quietly. Kumbat had arrived at the camp by Far Movement, and by Far Movement magic he would return to Matokin to report that Dardas remained alive.

Kumbat had even addressed him as "General Weisel," though this mage certainly knew the truth ... that another lived inside the host body of Lord Weisel. It was another subtle affront, a reminder as to who was really in charge here.

Suddenly, there was an intrusion.

What happened? That was the strangest experience I've ever had. Do I understand right, that the resurrection magic was wearing off—

With what was now a reflexive mental motion, Dardas suppressed Weisel's thoughts till they could no longer be heard. He didn't need the distraction or the annoyance right now. Offhandedly he wondered if Weisel would have died along with him if Kumbat hadn't intervened. Maybe not. Death had been coming for Dardas. The host body, including Weisel's consciousness, probably would have survived.

It was past the midnight watch, but Dardas felt charged with strength and vigor, despite the long ride today and the one he and his army would undertake tomorrow. He paced around his tent, flexing his

limbs. Death had been close enough that he'd felt its icy breath on him. Now, he was restored, just as Matokin had promised the rejuvenation spells would do.

He ought to call for one of the female playthings that his aides always seemed able to produce for him. Why, he would cork her brains out.

No. That student he had requisitioned. He had arrived today. No,
she
had. Sent by portal from the Academy at Felk, fresh, hopefully uncontaminated by the strictures Matokin had imposed on all the other mages in Dardas's army. Perhaps this student, if she was naive enough, could be manipulated to divulge the information he wanted.

He called for his aide. Just about every one of his junior officers had been rotated through the post by now. Dardas had learned a good deal about his army this way. These were good troops, for the most part. Dardas would lead them to victories, and their loyalty would grow.

While he waited for the student, he poured a glass of the liquor he had shared with Berkant. It tasted wonderful. His senses were preternaturally alive.

"General Weisel."

He had heard her being ushered inside and deliberately kept his back to the flap. He let a small smile move his lips now. She hadn't addressed him as "Lord Weisel."

He turned, taking his time. What he found was a rather stout young woman, her hair uncared for, her dour features indicating that she did not consider herself in any way physically attractive—and what's more she never had. There was a great purpose in her eyes, though. She was dedicated. She meant to perform well, to please.

But,
Dardas mused, sipping more of his drink,
who did she mean to please?

He let himself chuckle aloud. Judging character was a talent every commander needed.

"If I have amused," she said, carefully, "I hope I have not also offended."

He shook his head. "No. Neither." He slung himself into a seat, putting his bare feet up, taking a deliberately relaxed posture. "It's ... Raven. Right?"

"Yes, General."

"They got you here quick enough."

'Traveling by portal is definitely expedient, sir."

Dardas nodded. "A bit unnerving, though, didn't you think? Or maybe you've got guts made of metal."

"It doesn't take nerve to go through a portal, General," Raven said. "It only takes the willingness to obey one's orders. My orders said to go through, sir."

Dedicated, indeed.

"How good a wizard are you?" he asked, bluntly.

At last a look of hesitation crossed her otherwise stoic face. "My training is incomplete."

"That I know. Answer my question." But he didn't say it too sharply.

"I can perform, successfully and consistently, only the simplest spells we were being taught at the Academy." Her eyes flickered downward. "I... I am not of the caliber of those who serve you here in the field."

Dardas took another swallow from his glass. "What is your favorite spell?"

"Sir?"

He waved. "Not the one you were best at, or tried the hardest to master. Which one did you like to do the very most?"

Raven, a bit taken aback, nonetheless considered. She was about to answer.

Dardas cut her off. "No. Don't tell me.
Show
me."

She frowned, deepening the normal dour look on her chubby face. If she could learn to smile, he judged, she might just be on her way to being passably attractive.

He watched, interested, as she looked about the tent. He had a lamp burning, but there was a candle stub on the small table on which he was resting his feet. He had been examining maps earlier.

Raven drew a long, deep breath. Dardas eyed her young breasts as they pushed outward. She was concentrating, gathering herself, much as Kumbat had in this same tent only a short while ago.

Dardas's eyes moved to the unlit candle, which Raven's own gaze was now fastened to.

Suddenly, a large curl of flame erupted around the wick. A spark leapt off, touching Dardas's bare foot.

"Sorry, General!" she said, suddenly fearful.

Dardas chuckled again, slapping casually at his foot. "What for, girl? That was good. I've witnessed acts of magic in this army that I never in all my years expected to see. Amazing feats. But, I tell you now, it's the little things that impress me most."

She looked perplexed.

Dardas continued. "I've seen this entire army, every last man, woman, wagon, and spear, moved through those portals. It's incredible. Mind-boggling, in fact. But, somehow, you can't really
believe
in it. It just seems too impossible to be happening, even with the evidence right before your eyes."

He nodded toward the candle. The flame had steadied. "Now, that is something I can believe in. You made it happen. I saw you do it. And even though I don't understand how you accomplished it, I can believe. Understand?"

He watched her carefully. He saw her digesting his words. When he saw the faintest tickle of a smile pull at her mouth, he knew he had his first victory.

"Yes, General. I think I see."

He smiled back.

"That's all for now, Raven. We'll talk again, when I have time. Get some sleep."

She exited the tent. He called his aide again as he reexamined the maps. Trael was still some days of marching away, if he didn't order the portals to be used. Naturally, he had advance scouts, mages among them, who were reporting directly to him (and probably to Matokin as well) by Far Speak about any signs of organized resistance ahead.

There was nothing to speak of, just small local militaries desperately and futilely preparing against the coming onslaught. No great army rising in the path of his forces.

It offended Dardas's sensibilities. What was he going to have to do,
create
an enemy worthy of standing against him?

"Damned Isthmusers," he muttered.

"General?" The aide was still waiting.

Dardas waved it off. He gave his instructions. The newly arrived fledgling wizard, Raven, was to be groomed and given something flattering to wear. Mages weren't required to dress in uniforms, but they all seemed to opt for those dreary dark robes. The next time Dardas saw her, he wanted Raven to look more presentable.

The aide didn't even blink, simply acknowledging the orders. Weisel had proven himself to be an able military commander; he'd earned the respect of his officers.

His eyes fell again to the maps. Trael. There he was going to have to take drastic actions once more, as he had at Udelph. This time it would be even worse, though. U'delph had merely been obliterated.

But, as Dardas knew from a lifetime of warfare, there were worse things than death.