Wartorn: Resurrection

callousness.

Yet, crafting that emblem had engaged him. It wasn't of great importance what he settled on; he knew that. He needed only some distinct—preferably simple—symbol that people would readily recognize. It need only be original.

Nevertheless, the former artist in him insisted the sigil be just right.

Bryck had finally settled on a circle cut through by a vertical line. Simple. Easily memorized. It satisfied him. The circle, in old myths, was regarded as a symbol of evil. Its closed loop represented the eternalness of what was wicked in life, since bad times never went away entirely.

That was still true today, he thought ruefully.

The vertical line, of course, cut the cycle. Bryck was pleased with the sign's underlying message, even if no one else ever grasped it. After he had first conceived of the slashed circle, he had practiced awhile here in his room scorching it onto a scrap of cloth he'd found in the street.

That emblem was now burned onto twenty-eight wood surfaces in twenty-eight different places in the

city.

He found his weary eyes unfocusing as they turned up toward the ceiling. His left wrist was still trailing the pink and red streamers. He had used more wizardry today than on any other single day in his life. It had been costly, and now he was paying. He felt feverish.

It had gone so well, though, so successfully. He was proud.

Searing that slashed circle onto the surface of a wall or door was a different order of magnitude from influencing dice. He'd had to keep the sigil's shape clearly in mind as he cooperated with those energies that allowed the wood to heat and char. He had also been performing these feats at some minor distance—standing, say, across a street, focusing his will, burning the emblem onto a temporarily unnoticed wall, while all about, the Lacfoddalmendowl celebrants capered and raised their distracting tumult.

It wouldn't have done, for instance, to go wandering about Callah physically branding that design onto surfaces here and there. His way was safer, subtler, more insidious. It appealed to the style of vengeance he'd embraced.

Tomorrow and the days that followed he would give meaning to the sigil, which he'd gone to such lengths to make appear all about the city.

He had no accurate means of determining what effect his efforts were having. That was frustrating. But he had resigned himself to the fact. Surely flooding the market with counterfeit money was going to have a detrimental impact on Callah's economy. Just as surely, his tales of violent resistance against the Felk in Windal were stirring up these Callahans. Of that at least he now had some proof— and was grateful for it.

He was pleased he'd met that female vendor Quentis. He could see her amber eyes now, even as his were drifting shut.

Bryck at last untied the streamers and removed his boots. He felt even hotter now. Weaker. No. He couldn't afford a fever. He needed rest urgently. It had been a long Lacfoddalmendowl.

He collapsed into deep sleep.

DARDAS (4)

'HALT!'

Dardas reined his horse. It was a fine beast, strong and robust. It tossed its head as it came to a stop.

He held a gloved hand high in the air. It was well past midday, and the air was cooler than it had been yesterday. Of course, this weather was nothing compared to an average autumn day on the Northern Continent. As for a Northland winter, well, he wondered if snow even fell here on this Isthmus.

As general, he naturally rode toward the rear of his army. So it was that he had an excellent view of its many units as they, too, gradually came to a halt, as word of his order spread. It was by now quite a vast army, swollen with troops from Felk, Callah, Windal, and Sook. They were all under his command. With a word and a raised hand, he had halted this vast military force here in its tracks.

A rush of exhilaration surged through him. What power he had!

His senior staff was automatically gathering. Dardas remained atop his horse, surveying his mighty military apparatus. Matokin might think this was his army. He was wrong. Armies belonged to their generals.

This was not a scheduled food or rest break. Dardas's officers were curious as to why he had ordered the halt. They were only two more days of traveling from Trael.

Berkant, too, was lingering on the edge of the gathering. The Far Speak specialist no doubt imagined the general would want to make an immediate report to Matokin in Felk.

'Bivouac!' Dardas called in the same thunderous voice of command.

His senior officers looked bewildered, but they relayed the order. When it became plain that the general had no further commands, they dispersed. Dardas watched, pleased, as his army set about making camp. They were becoming very efficient troops.

Eventually, he dismounted. His groom took the horse. Berkant, Dardas saw, was still loitering nearby. He called the mage over with a wave.

'Yes, General?' the young wizard asked.

'Are we in contact with the advance scouts? Those Far Movement mages?'

'Uh ... of course, General. But it's Mage Limmel that is in charge of field operations—'

'I know,' Dardas nodded.

Those scouting parties, by necessity, included both Far Movement and Far Speak wizards. How else could the opening of a portal be coordinated between two distant points? Naturally, a squad of regular soldiers accompanied these parties.

'I want to know their exact positions around Trael,' Dardas went on. 'Report to my aide personally within the watch.'

'Yes, General Weisel.'

'And, Berkant.'

'General?'

'I will be reporting to Lord Matokin later in the day,' Dardas said, almost casually. 'He'll no doubt want to know what we're up to here.'

'I am at your disposal, sir,' Berkant bowed, his guileless face unable to hide an expression of relief. Off he went.

Dardas allowed himself a small, private smile. Naturally he had no intention of letting Matokin in on his real plans. He already resented having to report to the Felk leader.

His latest aide was also hovering nearby. Dardas called her over.

'General Weisel?'

'I've made a special requisition from the food storehouses in Windal,' he said. 'A shipment will be arriving from there by portal very soon. I've ordered some cured meats set aside for our troops. Choice cuts. Should be a welcome change from the rations they have been eating.'

Again, he smiled, this time letting his aide see. She couldn't quite repress an answering smile of her own. It was common knowledge among the ranks by now that General Weisel ate the same food as his troops.

Off she went as well.

Dardas saw that his pavilion had been erected. Instead of entering, however, he turned and strode off, snatching up an anonymous-looking cloak as he went.

IF ONE KNEW what one was doing, it was easy to move unnoticed through the camp.

Dardas avoided officers or anyone of rank who looked like they were in the mood to bark orders. His cloak hid his insignias. He looked like a nameless soldier, which suited his purposes perfectly.

This was something he had done from time to time in the old days, when he was leading his brave, ferocious troops across the Northland. It hadn't all been battles, of course, despite what history seemed to have recorded about Dardas the Butcher. Like this army, his former one had encamped regularly, pausing to eat, drink,