Wartorn Obliteration

You're taking it too personally, Dardas observed.

How should I take it? Weisel asked darkly.

Like a general. So the mission failed. That doesn't mean you failed.

But you said I was responsible, said Weisel.

You are. You take on the burden of making the final decisions. But you succeed when you accept that hardship, regardless of the relative success or failure of an individual operation.

Weisel put a hand to his head. Even with his newfound confidence, this was evidently quite a lot for him to handle.

For a fleeting moment, Dardas almost pitied the man. He was after all not built for this sort of thing. He was a noble who was playacting the role of a general, something far beyond his abilities. He had agreed, at Lord Matokin's request, to serve as the host body for Dardas. Weisel could really only hope to achieve a reflected glory, a surrogate fame. Certainly he didn't have the talent to lead an army, no matter what bits and pieces of command stature and military strategy he'd managed to garner from Dardas during their cohabitation of this body.

But Dardas's pity quickly evaporated. Weisel was vain and weak. If Dardas had faced him on the field of battle, with both men commanding their own armies, Weisel wouldn't have survived. He was a fraud.

And Dardas was committed to helping him maintain that facade.

'I wish I wasn't so tired,' Weisel said out loud, stifling a yawn.

Perhaps you didn't sleep well, Dardas suggested while he secretly laughed.

The senior staff reported back individually. Weisel, at Dardas's prompting, approved the incursion routes. Really, they could hit Trael any way they liked and the invasion couldn't fail.

All the while Weisel remained inside the pavilion, while his guards kept the tent encircled. It was, in Dardas's opinion, a very unexciting way to conduct an invasion, not the sort of thing Dardas would have done in his time as a Northland war commander. It occurred to him quite abruptly that he very much missed those days, his original life, when war was a way of daily life and his victories soon became uncountable.

War was, in fact, his natural element.

Soon, the invasion was under way. Reports came back to the pavilion that the archer companies had launched their salvos, picking off a number of Trael's defenders. Then the infantry was moving in, storming the city's streets. Weisel received fresh reports throughout.

As expected, there were light casualties for the Felk. They were very light actually, the sort of numbers Dardas or any other seasoned officer wouldn't have been concerned about for longer than a moment.

Weisel, however, was agitated. This was, after all, the first invasion he was ostensibly commanding. Dardas had decidedly been the prime mover behind the assaults on Callah, Windal, U'delph, and Sook.

I'm losing brave men and women, Weisel said mournfully.

Soldiers fight and soldiers die, said Dardas. Bravery figures into it less often than you imagine.

That's rather heartless, General Dardas.

It was yet another example of why this man was so unfit for the role he had assumed. Dardas said, It is a bloodthirsty business. There's no escaping it. But did you imagine the Isthmus could be captured for Lord Matokin by peaceful means?

Weisel, examining the latest field map, said, No. Or if I ever did, it was a foolish mistake, right?

Right.

Trael did fall before sunset, as Weisel had commanded. The Felk cut down the city's defenders until the few that remained surrendered. The members of the ruling council were ordered brought before General Weisel, but the order could not be obeyed. Those council members, four in all, had drunk poison, apparently just before the invasion commenced.

The bodies of the Felk guerrilla unit were discovered. The report Weisel received was sketchy. No witnesses to or perpetrators of their murders had yet been found.

'They died bravely,' Weisel pronounced to his senior staff, on receiving the news.

Careful, General Weisel, Dardas cautioned. You don't know that. They might simply have bungled the mission.

Later came the business of occupying the city. As mammoth an undertaking as this was, this army had performed the feat before. The various specialty units moved in to do their jobs.

Eventually, when Weisel's direct input was no longer needed for the business at hand, he summoned Fergon and explained that he was to be the general's permanent aide.

'I'm very honored, sir!' said the young man with freckles.

Weisel nodded. 'I will be allowing my officers to make a few personal communications with Felk via Far Speak. Do you think you might be contacting your father?'

'Most definitely, General. I can't wait to tell him the news!'

Weisel smiled. 'Then be so good as to tell him, from me, that when the red grass turns green, the dogs will come home.' He gave the junior officer a wink. 'Your father will know what it means.'

Fergon looked delighted as Weisel dismissed him.

Dardas, too, was pleased. It had gone as he had hoped. The last time Fergon had served as aide, back when Dardas still had exclusive control of this body, the freckly fool had used that same cryptic phrase from his father on him, expecting Dardas to know the proper secret response. Dardas, of course, hadn't. He had worried that Fergon might become suspicious about 'Weisel's' behavior. Now, Weisel himself had smoothed everything over.

You know, General Weisel, you are right. Things are better when we cooperate.

BRYCK (2)

The consistency had taken some while to refine. At first it had caked, then flaked; then it was too runny, sliding off Bryck's face at the least suggestion of body heat. With a little help from other members of the Broken Circle it was correct now.

It was still uncomfortable, provoking a maddening urge to itch, but as a disguise it was impeccable. Also simple. It appealed to Bryck. There was a certain bold panache about it. The Felk garrison was still searching for him, and he was now walking about in the daylight, unmolested, undetected.

Tyber gave him the sly nod, and Bryck concentrated, expecting and feeling the pressure around his skull and the mild wave of feverish chill. Tyber was juggling the three leather balls with a brash dexterity. He was competent enough keeping the trio of objects skipping through the air, but what held their audience was his accompanying patter, a mixture of ribald witticisms and fast awful puns.

Tyber's hands were gloved. Of a sudden one of the three balls erupted into flame, followed just as inexplicably by the second, then the third. The audience, a crowd of about twenty by now, sucked in a collective breath. It was a good trick. Good because as impressive as it was, everyone watching it no doubt thought it was a trick. Sleight of hand. Fakery.

They would think it magical, not magic. That of course was how Bryck wanted it.

Tyber kept the flaming leather balls, which had been treated so to resist melting, moving through their patterns. It made the juggling that much more impressive, as the spheres left behind trails of fire.

'My own balls have felt like this sometimes after a particularly harsh fuck!' Tyber cackled, and the crowd laughed along with him.

Bryck, in his time around various theatrical troupes that had put up his works, had occasionally met types like Tyber. Big, brazen, loud. More exhibitionist than actor. Such a variety of performer actually suited some of the roles in Bryck's plays, characters whose function it was to draw the audience's attention, to entertain in a broad way while subplots with more substance played out around them. Bryck had often found these 'buffoon' parts useful.