Wartorn: Resurrection

weapons, of an improvised sort. Kitchen cleavers, an axe, a mallet. Tyber tossed open a flap of his coat, revealing the jeweled pommel of a short sword that looked both ostentatious enough for a royal honor guard and durable enough to serve in battle.

An adolescent, scratching at filthy hair with scabby fingers, studied Bryck somberly. In fact, they were all staring at him, seeming to want something from him.

'The minstrel,' Ondak announced, 'killed a Felk soldier today.'

Gasps met this news. Ondak had said it with grave pride.

'That's why the whippers have stepped up their patrols,' Tyber said, nodding. 'Well... that's the first gods- damned Felk to die here since the buggers invaded us. Well done!'

Bryck didn't like this attention, didn't like so many eyes on him. He had presumed Quentis was taking him someplace to hide, at least temporarily, until he could arrange to escape the city. Did she mean to put him up here, in this abandoned warehouse?

More importantly, who were these people that knew he was a murderer?

Bryck's deed had obviously impressed them; he decided to play on that. 'I have indeed killed a soldier,' he declared. His audience hushed immediately. 'I require sanctuary. Will you provide it?'

They stared mutely a moment. Then Tyber rumbled a chuckle deep in his chest. 'The honor is ours, naturally,' he said. 'Most of us here have heard you before. Your songs, your news of Windal.'

'The rest have heard the word passed from others,' said Quentis.

'Your news gives us the only hope we've had since ...'

'The only hope—'

'—hope...'

They were all speaking up now. Bryck retreated a step. When he lifted a hand, they quieted. They were being deferential to him, he realized. He was important here. A celebrity, almost. As things had been in his playwright days. So long ago.

Well, he could certainly use this strange situation to his advantage.

'Very well,' he said. 'I should like to know whose hospitality I am enjoying.'

It was Quentis who turned, a frown creasing between her amber eyes.

'Why,' she said, sweeping a hand over the small band with their makeshift armaments, 'this is the Broken Circle. We mean to rise up against the Felk.'

Bryck slowly blinked. But they remained there. Not a dream, not the insubstantial creations that were the characters in his plays. Not even the fictional players who, in the new stories he'd been weaving, had risen up against the Felk in the city-state of Windal. These were the Broken Circle, the rebels of Callah. He had only written the roles. They were to make the parts real.

Finally Bryck pulled consciously at those unused facial muscles that allowed something like a smile to surface on his freshly shaven face. 'It's a pleasure to meet you all,' he said.

DARDAS (5)

IT WAS ALL falling into place, like any good battle plan.

Dardas finally ordered a plate of the special rations he'd had sent in from Windal, by portal. The meat was the best he had eaten since Felk, where he had dined with Lord Matokin, and Abraxis, and some of those other chief magicians, on the eve of leading the army southward against Callah.

Matokin had been very expansive that evening. Glasses were lifted in toast after toast. There was excitement in the air, but also unease. Of all those wizard/politicians at that table, only Matokin had seemed truly confident that the Felk military, led by a resurrected Northland war commander inhabiting a nobleman's body, would succeed.

But Dardas had indeed succeeded in the feeble challenges he had so far faced. Callah, Windal, U'delph, Sook. Sook had surrendered, for gods' sakes, without an arrow being shot, or a blade raised. What soft stuff these Isthmusers were made of! In Dardas's heyday, he had faced real opponents, people who had at least put up a decent struggle before he trampled over them.

He let out a small sigh.

'Is the meal unsatisfactory, General?'

Dardas looked up. He was at his table. His aide, who had been rotated into the post just a watch earlier, was packing Dardas's gear. The camp was on alert, ready to be struck at any moment.

'The food is fine ... Fergon, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir,' said the aide. His face was splashed with freckles.

'I'd say it was the tastiest supper I've had in some while,' Dardas went on. 'Did you get a plate for yourself?'

'Yes, General. Thank you. And I agree. It was a welcome treat.'

Dardas wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, the sort of amenity he'd never known in his previous life. But one had to keep up appearances when one was wearing a noble's body.

'Tell me,' Dardas said, 'did the troops appreciate it as well, do you think?'

'Most certainly, General,' Fergon said. 'I think you'll find your praises being sung all over camp at the moment.'

'Even among the wizards?'

Fergon paused as he was loading up a trunk. 'It's ... difficult to tell sometimes what those people think. But they have stomachs, too, and they've been eating the same standard rations as everybody else. Yourself included, General.'

Dardas waved that magnanimously away. He was pleased his little campaign of eating regular rations had paid off so well. He was pleased also about this latest ploy, the special meats from Windal. Binding his troops to himself was crucial. As Dardas the Conqueror, he had known fierce loyalty from his warriors. As the Felk General Weisel, he wanted the same.

He wanted these men and women to believe they were following him, not Matokin.

The real trick, of course, would be convincing the mages.

'Sir?'

Dardas thought for a moment that he had let out another sigh. But, no. Fergon, having finished the packing, was timidly trying to get his attention.

'What is it?'

'I hope this isn't inappropriate, General,' Fergon said, 'but I wanted to express my personal appreciation.'

'For what?' asked Dardas.

Fergon looked genuinely surprised. 'Why, for the successes we, as an army, have enjoyed under your command. Your genius for military tactics has become apparent to everyone.'

Dardas favored his aide with a droll smile. 'Or is it that everyone had low expectations? It's all right, Fergon. Speak freely. You broached the subject. Tell me.'

The freckled officer looked at the ground.

'Well, sir... I think there might have been some reservations, at the start.'

Dardas allowed himself a chuckle. 'I think I understand, Fergon. That will be all.'

'Um, sir?'

Dardas checked the flash of annoyance he felt. Most of his aides knew enough not to infringe on too much of his time. 'What now?'

'My father sends his greetings.'

'Your father?' Dardas blinked.

'Yes. The Far Speak mages have relayed a few personal messages for the officers. You authorized it a quarter-lune ago. Very accommodating of you, sir.'

Dardas nodded. He recalled now permitting the indulgence. It was another ploy, of course. Give his troops