Wartorn: Resurrection

nothing about the wizardry I might employ in battle. Ludicrous, isn't it?'

Raven herself had certainly been surprised when she'd learned about the standing order there in Matokin's office at the palace.

Suddenly, Weisel erupted into laughter, much longer and louder than before. 'Then, of course, I realized,' he finally said, as Raven looked on, perplexed.

'General?'

He stood up, looking directly into her eyes. 'Matokin,' Weisel said slowly, 'doesn't want to win this war.'

Raven frowned mightily. Then Weisel waved her into a seat, and explained.

SHE HAD RETURNED to her unit, peripherally aware that here and there a male soldier was looking her way, a leer on his face. Being the object of a man's lust—again, an almost entirely new experience—should have been more interesting to her. But she was quite preoccupied.

She went numbly into the small tent that was hers and lay down, still in her new clothes, on the bedroll. She could still feel the hard ground underneath, but she ignored it.

Weisel's allegation about her father was the single most treasonous thing she'd ever heard anyone say! If any student at the Academy had spoken such a thing aloud, he would be reported by a dozen fellow students before he could take his next breath.

Matokin, Weisel claimed, was deliberately sabotaging the efforts of his own military to conquer the entire Isthmus. Weisel's explanation for such an unbelievable, outrageous course of action was simple.

Lord Matokin, supreme master of the expanding Felk Empire, wanted to perpetuate a state of war. While the Isthmus was at war, while lands and city-states remained unconquered, the Felk leader was

indispensable. The people looked to him for guidance, for authority, for assurance. He was at the very heart of things.

But without a war, without the urgency and fanaticism that accompanied it... he would, inevitably, diminish. He was a brilliant political leader. His rise to power alone proved that. But, without war, he would become an administrator. A caretaker of the lands he had sent his army of wizards and soldiers out to subdue.

Matokin, according to General Weisel, feared such a future for himself. So, he meant to sustain the present.

Thus, again according to Weisel, he was preventing the Felk war commander from fully using the magical potential supposedly at his disposal. If the general was kept ignorant, he would be less inclined to use such resources; and so the war would continue. The free states of the south might even rise up against the Felk advance.

Treason. Purest treason.

Raven must, of course, find that Far Speak mage mentioned in her orders. Berkant. Yes, find Berkant and inform Matokin immediately of Weisel's disloyalty. Here obviously was why they wanted her to act as a spy. Matokin and Abraxis had suspected Weisel's treachery.

Well, she could confirm it.

She rolled off her bedroll, groping for the tent flap. Why hadn't she gone straight to Berkant after being dismissed from Weisel's tent? Shock, probably.

Her hand, somehow, did not reach the flap. Weisel wanted to know about magic. He himself wasn't a wizard, but he was plainly a cunning military strategist. Why was all knowledge of magic being denied him? What sense did that make?

Did that lack of knowledge actually impair his ability to operate this army? It... might. It certainly couldn't help him, what with this huge force of mixed mages and regular troops, each hostile to the other.

Is that what it was? Raven wondered in sudden dismay. Did this all come down to the basic enmity between magic-users and non-magic-users?

Was there a similar irrational bigotry between Matokin and Weisel?

It seemed impossible. Or maybe she just didn't want to give the thought any space in her head. There was so much at stake. The fate of the entire Isthmus hung in the balance. So did the future of the mighty Felk Empire, which would stand for hundredwinters and more ... unless foolish men undermined this great war of unification.

She had to find Berkant and inform Matokin. Weisel was a traitor. Or he was at least harboring treasonous views.

Yet, even now, her hand would not part the tent's flap. After a long time she dropped it, and laid back down on her bedroll. She didn't sleep that night, so full was her head with doubts and distress.

BRYCK (4)

THE FIRST ATTEMPT squeezed his skull sharply and briefly, while a cold sweat broke out across his body. That was distinctly uncomfortable in the chilly morning.

Despite this, he persisted. The first attempt would naturally be the most difficult.

He had dedicated himself to this vengeance. Hardships would come with that. U'delph had suffered.

U'delph had met its end brutally, ferociously. He could at least endure a throbbing head and short fever chill.

Nonetheless, he stopped for a hot breakfast before trying the second one. The first had succeeded. So did this. It was also less taxing. As with the vox-mellifluous, Bryck had practiced this. It too was a talent that needed honing, but since the death of his old life he had found himself more disciplined in this one.

It was a sizzling kabob he'd eaten, the meat braised and the flavor startling but good. The same vendor was hawking cups of stife, a sharp-smelling green wine.

'Wouldn't be Lacfoddalmendowl without it.' This was said with an ingratiating semitoothless grin. It didn't entice Bryck into buying the drink.

He wended the streets. If by now every avenue and alley of Callah wasn't intimately familiar to him, then he had a more than rough idea of the city's layout. He had planned today's route carefully.

Today he meant to see a great deal of Callah.

Today the very air crackled. There was a palpable sense of jubilee—heard in every voice, seen in virtually every face, felt as he made his way among the milling, churning people. Songs whipped through the crowds. Felk occupation or not, evidently Lacfoddalmendowl would be celebrated.

It was of course the city's Felk conquerors that were permitting this festival. Without official approval, this mighty hullabaloo would have already been suppressed by the armed patrols. But the Felk governor of Callah— a colonel named Jesile, who resided at the Registry— had sent out the criers with the decree. A limited form of the old traditional Callahan holiday was to be allowed, though the curfew would remain in effect and some of the more boisterous customary events would be curtailed.

Bryck thought it a very wise move. This Jesile was no fool, surely. Let the Callahans—those that hadn't been conscripted into the Felk army—have their idiotic Lacfoddalmendowl. They would be joyous at being permitted to publicly observe the holiday. They would perhaps even be grateful to the Felk governor for his generosity.

And so the Callahans might sink a little further into their conquered complacency, which would make them easier to manage and of better value as assets to the growing Felk Empire.

Few adults were without their cups of stife. Bryck wondered what the streets would be like later in the day. No doubt, though, all these activities were being monitored. Even as he thought this, he saw two soldiers standing by a stone wall in armor and helmets, weapons sheathed, observing. If anything got out of hand, it wouldn't remain so for long.

Lacfoddalmendowl... the word sounded like some ancient bastardization. He had heard it was Callah's oldest festival.

To blend, he had purchased the pink and red streamers, had tied the strips of cloth appropriately about his left wrist, leaving the ends to dangle. One was supposed to wave one's arm, trailing the colorful ribbons, and this