Wartorn: Resurrection

a favor by having her made over.

'I am General Weisel's personal liaison to the magic-using units of this army,' she said, proudly announcing her new title for the first time. Weisel had appointed her to the post last night. The soldiers all looked her way now.

The Far Movement mage shrugged again. It seemed to be a habitual gesture. 'What does that mean exactly?' he asked.

'It means this army is dangerously divided. Magic-users and non-magic-using troops are indulging in a useless bigotry that will only undermine our glorious cause. I have been appointed by the general himself to act as an intermediary, a first step toward repairing an ancient, stupid prejudice. I expect the full cooperation of every person in this army.'

She spoke with impressive authority. She felt, at that moment, that she radiated the air of the officer she now was.

The ranking soldier stood and approached. 'Do you have orders to back that up?' She asked it neutrally, careful not to make it a challenge.

Raven produced the document Weisel had drawn up. The mages and the soldier all studied it.

The soldier saluted. 'How can we serve you?'

Raven liked the reaction. 'I have orders for this squad. And for the other scouting parties that have been sent ahead to observe Trael's defenses.'

The soldier snorted. 'Defenses? They've got maybe a few dozen troops. This place'll rumble easier than U'delph did.'

'The general has heard your reports,' Raven said. She turned her eyes on the mages. 'He has decided to use the portals.'

The Far Movement mage nodded this time, instead of shrugging. 'We've been waiting for that order,'

he said.

'But why didn't the general just relay it?' asked the Far Speak wizard. 'Why send you?'

'Because General Weisel isn't planning to Far Move the army,' Raven said.

'Then... what does he want to use the portals for?' The Far Movement mage suddenly looked uneasy.

Raven explained the plan in the simple terms that Weisel had spelled out. By now the rest of the soldiers had gathered around, listening intently. One or two gasped as she spoke.

'That's ... risky,' said one mage.

'That's not how die magic is meant to be used,' said the other.

Raven alone kept her composure. 'Those are the general's orders. He guessed there might be some reluctance, which is why he sent me. I will be visiting the three other scouting parties. You will all take up new positions just on the outskirts of Trael. When you've received the signal through your Far Speak mage, you will obey those orders. Any questions?'

They had none.

Raven ordered the mages to arrange her transport to the next scout camp. She hid her uneasiness about passing through the portals again so soon after that last disquieting episode. She could still hear those voices, in her head.

But she squashed her fear, and stepped through when the portal opened. Loyalty could serve as well as bravery.

BRYCK (5)

HE LOOKED AWAY from the naked backs that the soldiers were methodically flogging. The sounds of hide whips impacting flesh and bone, and the attending cries for mercy and shrieks of agony, echoed across the plaza even as his eyes furtively roved the crowd. Bryck was vaguely repelled by the violence of the punishments being meted out; but these were, after all, only whippings. No one was being butchered. Acts of inhumanity were inevitably measured against the annihilation of Udelph. That was his standard.

Nonetheless, it was difficult not to feel a little pity.

The turnout was sizable, though attendance wasn't mandatory. Everybody liked a show though, Bryck thought with a callous cynicism that would have once shocked him. In bygone days when he was a husband, father, noble, playwright, he had somehow always managed to see the better side of people.

No. No point in taking a revisionist view of his past. He had almost always been able to find the comical side—of people, of events. But humor had such amazing scope. Humor had the capacity to contain horror, sadness, murder, epic tragedy. Some of his most beloved theatricals embraced such subjects but did so in that special way that permitted laughter. That had been his gift.

Still, he was hard-pressed to imagine what sort of slant would make humorous this row of ten stripped bodies being beaten bloody by whips. The Felk soldiers had erected a long horizontal crosspiece and shackled each of the criminals with his or her hands well above the head, backs exposed to the two floggers that were working their way inward from either end. They were professionals, not sadists. Bryck had counted them delivering equal numbers of blows to each offender. It was a high count, but it was equal.

He blended easily enough in the crowd. He no longer radiated a forceful presence, no longer drew attention automatically. The extrovert in him had gone grey and numb.

So, almost invisibly, he slipped away through the grimly watching faces. He could still hear the blows as he left the plaza behind. The Callahans under those whips had all committed various offensives against the Felk laws of occupation. The charges had been read by an officer of the garrison at the start of the proceedings. Most of the people had been caught transacting illegally in coin. No doubt displays like this would deter other potential offenders.

Lately the Felk had stepped up their enforcement efforts. The patrols through the city weren't strictly for show anymore. Bryck wondered if these Callahans were stirring up trouble, causing the Felk to clamp down. But, as it had been from the start, he had no way to accurately gauge what effect his efforts to sabotage the Felk occupation were having.

He passed the door of a shop where, during that Lacfoddalmendowl festival, he had branded a sigil onto the wood. The door was gone now, replaced with boards. He had discovered that at virtually every site where he had left it, the brand had been defaced or removed completely. Apparently the Felk had taken note.

He had pushed himself too far that day, and he had paid. He was no wizard. The magic had drained him, and he had lain in bed, burning with fever and unable to eat, for two days. Once he had recuperated, however, he had set about spreading word of the Broken Circle, the name of the cell of rebels here in Callah who were planning to overthrow the Felk occupiers. As before, he used his capacity as a stringbox-playing minstrel to deliver the news.

The market nearby the Registry was doing its normal business. He entered it.

Moments later Bryck was handing over two blue-colored goldie notes and carrying away an ornate candle- stick from a stall. It was heavy and, looking at it closely for the first time, also quite handsome. He had of course purchased it merely to put yet more of Slydis's ingeniously false currency into circulation. The stall's keeper was certainly pleased Bryck had agreed without undue dickering to pay nearly the full asking price. Nothing was said about coin fetching a better price. Perhaps those public floggings were already having effect.

The candlestick was finely molded to resemble the stalk of a plant; around the empty socket the metal flared out like petals.

Normally he would dispose of something like this. He regularly bought expensive items only to discard them in waste barrels. Once, he had collected and taken pleasure in objects—pieces of art, items of decor. Pointless, frivolous things. But that was a different life.

Still, he might keep this candlestick, take it back to his room. It might brighten up his modest lodgings ... not that he cared anything about his own comfort any longer.

He moved through the streets. Rain had fallen earlier, enough to make a thick paste of mud for everyone to trudge through. Those rains were coming more frequently

and turning colder. Autumn came sooner in this northern city than in Udelph.