Wartorn: Resurrection

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.

DARDAS (2)

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.