Wartorn: Resurrection w-1

by Robert Asprin

  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.

  He wondered about the mild pity he'd felt for those Callahans who were being lashed. It was odd he should feel anything. Since his initial shock-horror at U'delph's destruction had worn off, since he had turned grief and hate into grim, focused vengeance, he hadn't felt much in the way of real emotion. Even deliberate thoughts of Aaysue and his children didn't provoke fits of sorrow anymore.

  So why should these Callahans matter to him? They were foreigners, a conquered people. They were merely players in the revenge that he was orchestrating.

  They were giving substance to his fiction of the Broken Circle by believing in it. They were, in a way, his audience. After all it had been his audiences flocking to see the likes of Glad of Nothing and Possibly I Misheard who made those farces almost real. Without performers to play the roles and without viewers to accept those characters as true, Bryck's works would have been only absurd fantasies scribbled on paper.

  This new "theatrical," however, was definitely a departure from his past works. The fabrication of the Broken Circle was so obvious a wish-fulfillment for these people of Callah. At the taverns where he quietly introduced the story, people were wildly excited. He'd claimed it was merely a rumor, but his talent for storytelling served well. With a few earnest whispers, reenforced by the curious sigils that had sprung up around the city recently, he created the Broken Circle from the air.

  Hopefully they were spreading the word themselves now, probably inventing "news" of the local uprising, the plans being made, the arms being gathered, the men and women preparing to usurp the Felk rule.

  It was a fine fantasy. A pity for these Callahans that it had no reality but what they gave it. Yet if it provoked one of these people to raise a hand against the Felk, it was an accomplishment.

  Bryck of course wanted more. He wanted these people to truly rise up. To annihilate the Felk. To slaughter them in the streets like diseased dogs. But until he actually saw that, he wouldn't know if his fabricated Broken Circle had inspired anyone.

  He was taking a roundabout route back to the building where he had his room. He consciously avoided falling into patterns. He didn't walk the same streets every day or eat at the same places. He was doing his best to stay anonymous.

  Nevertheless, as he rounded a corner, squelching through mud, an elderly but still burly blacksmith at the entrance to his shop lifted a hand and called a greeting. Bryck returned it and strode quickly onward. The man hadn't called him by name; that was good. He must have seen Bryck often enough in the neighborhood to recognize him, or perhaps he'd been at one of the taverns where Bryck played. He was careful never to perform at the same place twice.

  Maybe it was time to relocate, he thought. With the ridiculous amount of counterfeit money he still had, he could secure lodgings just about anywhere. Callah was a large city. Lots of places to hide.

  The candlestick swung at his side. Above, the overcast sky was darkening again. More rain, likely. Bryck pulled his coat tighter about himself as he turned another corner. There he hitched to a sharp halt. His heart suddenly thumped hard in his chest.

  Soldiers.

  It wasn't a patrol. That was evident at a glance. Four armed and armored soldiers were standing outside the entry into the ramshackle building that housed his room on its third floor. They were scrutinizing passersby. People were seized, their faces examined, then shoved away. The soldiers were only inspecting males.

  Bryck felt eyes looking his way. Even at a distance of half the street's length his abrupt halt may have drawn notice. Another helmeted head turned. Now wasn't the time to try to deduce how this might have come about, who might have given his description and whereabouts to the Felk authorities. All that could most certainly wait. He moved, turning, striding back the way he had come, doing what he could to make the move appear natural, casual. His boot heels slid over the mud.

  From the corner of his eye he saw two of the soldiers start in his direction. A voice rose. A command was snapped. The sound of armor rattling as they fell into a jog.

  Bryck let go the pretense and bolted. Fear was boiling through his veins, lending him speed. He pounded along the street, while behind the commanding voice barked once more—ordering him to halt, raising the alarm. No doubt now; they were after him ... or his fleeing had just singled him out. Maybe they were making some kind of random search. Maybe they were after some petty criminal that looked something like him. Maybe any number of things, and it could wait, he reminded himself fiercely.

  He had covered a full street by now, limbs pumping. Ahead, people, hearing the commotion, were shying back against the buildings.

  Risking a fast peek behind, he saw that three of the four were pursuing him. Their drawn short swords swung rhythmically at their sides, honed edges gleaming even in the dull daylight. One of the soldiers appeared older and somewhat hefty. He was at the rear and already lagging. The other two were youths, in their primes, legs flashing. The nearer was only half a street behind Bryck.

  He knew this quarter of Callah well. Being a poorer district, it had been built in rather slapdash manner, without the pleasing symmetry of more affluent quarters. This made for numerous alleyways, cul-de-sacs and some narrow, crooked streets that went nowhere.

  The burly old blacksmith was still in his doorway.

  Where sweat didn't run freely, his flesh was thick with soot. He lifted his hand again, seeing Bryck, then frowning, seeing his pursuers.

  Bryck thought frantically of dashing into the smithy, then discarded the impulse. He had a better

  plan—a grim and dangerous one.

  The hefty soldier was no longer in view as Bryck peeled off the main thoroughfare, dashing narrowly between a cart and a heavily loaded beast of burden. The two younger soldiers remained on him, gaining. Bryck was leaner and tougher than he had been in many a winter, but that couldn't erase the years he'd lived.

  Even so, he didn't flag, didn't break stride. His lungs burned, and the hand grasping the candlestick was starting to ache, but all physical discomforts had to be ignored for the time being. Whatever happened, he must not be captured.

  Cries of surprise and fear rose as people saw the rushing soldiers and drawn swords. The mud here wasn
't so churned up, but was no easier to navigate. Bryck had already nearly spilled twice.

  Bryck changed direction yet again, ducking this time into a stinking alley. He chanced another glance behind, just in time to see one of the soldiers lose her footing completely in the mud, short sword flinging from her grip, face plowing into the muck. The other soldier didn't glance back at his tumbled comrade.

  The alley had many sharp twists and jogs. There were moldering crates and debris scattered throughout it, also a few side entrances into dark little shops. Places to hide and places to burrow into.

  Bryck pulled up sharply just beyond the first corner. He braced his stance, listened intently, heart hammering. Coming ... coming ...

  When the soldier, still with all the momentum of the chase behind him, crashed around the corner, Bryck used the candlestick to club him across the face with every iota of muscle he could muster. The soldier quite simply never saw it coming. If a fleeing man ducked into an alleyway, he must mean to hide or must know some special escape from it or, even if he meant to waylay his pursuer, he would surely go deeper into the alley to do so, into thicker shadows and better cover, not make an ambush around the very first bend.

  The molded metal petals around the candlestick's socket dug into the soldier's cheek and jaw, tearing, spraying blood and teeth, snapping bone. The head whipped wildly about. The chin strap of his helmet wasn't secured, and that helmet flew off his head, clanging against a crumbling wall. His skull hit that same wall as his feet tangled.

  His sword dropped, as his body, following his head, smashed the wall. Then he crumpled to the ground. The head was now turned at a very peculiar angle.

  Bryck was ready—mentally and physically—to swing the candlestick again. It was not necessary. Instead, he tossed it down beside the soldier where he lay, ruined face turned upward.

  Then Bryck scrambled away.

  HE STILL HAD his cache of coins in the lining of his coat, as well as a small sheaf of counterfeit money, minus the two gold notes he'd spent on the candlestick. His vox-mellifluous, however, was back in his room, gone. That caused an unexpected pang. His pretense of being a troubadour had carried him far. He had grown comfortable playing his music ... as if he really were a minstrel.

  Dangerous to start believing one's own fictions, he thought, chopping and scraping at his bristly grey beard as fast as he dared with the razor. Beneath, he was finding a gaunt face, bones prominent—the reason he'd let the beard grow in the first place. There was no looking glass in the room. He waited for the water in the basin to settle and took another look at his reflection on the surface. It was a startling change. He looked a tenwinter younger. Or at least it took away a few years.

  He shook his head and attacked the last of the whiskers. It mattered only that he appear different. This shave was a start, but he would have to do more.

  Aboard gave a creak just beyond the door. Bryck turned sharply, then heard the two sharp knocks, a pause, repeated.

  "These," Quentis said, entering. "My father's."

  She laid out the clothes. The room was small and used for storage. Quentis shared these lodgings with her older cousin, Ondak. He was currently posted out in front of the house, watching, ready to raise the alert if soldiers came.

  Unlikely, thought Bryck, despite his own anxiety. If he had been followed here, the Felk wouldn't be

  delaying. They would storm the place for him, maybe kill him on the spot.

  "My thanks," he said to Quentis, eyeing the clothes. Typically Callahan in style. That was good.

  He realized he had been thanking this woman almost constantly since arriving at this house with her. He could not, of course, express the fullness of his gratitude. Not for lack of trying, but because it simply wasn't possible. He had fled the district where he'd killed the soldier and made his way as swiftly and invisibly as he could, expecting capture at every step, until he found the street where he had first met Quentis during that Lacfoddalmendowl holiday.

  Hers was a mobile vendor cart, not a stationary shop, but he had searched the area until he saw her. He approached, she recognized him, and he asked for refuge.

  It had seemed so suddenly and impossibly absurd at that moment. He had no right at all to ask such a thing; she had no reason to aid him. Yet, here he was. She had saved him.

  She was looking at him now, studying his face. At last she nodded. "It looks good." Her tone was businesslike. He knew virtually nothing about this woman, but he was certain she didn't easily panic.

  He patted a damp cloth over his face.

  He hadn't had time to examine the impulse—the sure instinct—that had caused him to seek her out. Surely he could have hidden somewhere else. Callah was indeed a large city. He couldn't go to an inn, however. Callah received no travelers these days, and such places were virtually deserted or shut up. Besides, surely the Felk would look for him there.

  Quentis's presence with him in this small room was pleasing.

  "My thanks."

  "So you've said." Her voice was gentle now, for the first time. It had all happened so swiftly. His accosting her on the street, his urgently whispered entreaty, her curt instructions that he follow as she secured her cart and led him here.

  "Sorry to repeat myself," he said. "I can't seem to properly express my appreciation."

  "We'll take your gratitude for granted."

  He gazed back at her amber-colored eyes, lingering there a moment. He laid a hand on the clothes she'd brought in.

  "Yes. Change into those. I'll get rid of what you're wearing now."

  His hand went to his pocket. He pulled out the money, all the notes in a wad. He hoped to keep some of this, needing money to survive; but he had to give this woman something, to balance at least a little of the enormous debt he owed her for her kindness.

  "Once you've changed," she went on, even as she glanced down at the money in his hand, "we'll get you safely out of here."

  "Before I go, though ..." Did she want it all? He would give it, if she said.

  She looked up. "That'll help when we get you settled."

  It wasn't making sense. "We?" He gestured vaguely toward the front of the small house. "Ondak, you mean?"

  "Ondak. Others. Change now." She exited, pulling shut the door.

  From his coat he took his coins and the falsified travel pass that might still allow him to leave the city. How much did the Felk know about him? Would the soldiers be waiting for a minstrel trying to pass the city limits? And who had betrayed him, and how?

  It was maddening to think about. He had been so very cautious, had moved so secretively. And yet soldiers had come for him, and he had been forced to kill one of their number.

  There was no time to regret the act, no time to feel the dismay he imagined anyone must feel upon taking a human life for the first time. He could see the soldier's lifeless face. Could even smell his blood, there in that foul alley.

  Yet... how many dead had been left at U'delph? Did the Felk soldiers who'd butchered his wife and children feel regrets for their deeds? Did it matter if they did?

  When Quentis returned, Bryck had changed into the clothes. Again she nodded approval. Outside, he heard the rain returning, pattering the roof. Quentis was wearing a cloak.

  "Come along," she said. "It's time to go."

  Since he had placed himself in her hands, he went.

  THE WAREHOUSE HAD fallen into recent disuse, as had happened to those facilities in Callah from which the Felk had thoroughly conscripted goods and horses. This one had been a freight service, Quentis told him as they stood in shadows. Her voice was soft, low, calm. Animal scents on the air, but no beasts in the stalls. One shattered wheel leaned on a wall, but there were no wagons.

  Bryck's new clothing included a thigh-length coat and a brimmed cap that hid his greying hair and made his newly shaven face appear even younger. It was a worthy effort at disguise, but he hoped not to have to test it against the eye-sight of soldiers armed with a good description of hi
m.

  The Felk patrols were in the streets, not on established routes and not at normal times. Armor rattled, voices barked. It looked like the full strength of the garrison that had turned out. Presumably the murder Bryck had committed had touched off this activity.

  With Quentis and Ondak he had traveled here street by street, stealing along, taking cover when necessary. They had entered this building by the cargo dock, where there were loose boards. Quentis had lit the stub of a candle that guttered atop an empty cask.

  A figure now emerged into the circle of pale light. He wasn't alone, but his companions stayed in the shadows.

  "Tyber!" Ondak said with some relish.

  A mask of freakishly unhealthy skin floated into the candlelight, a face immediately cut by a strangely winning smile, despite the man's horrid teeth. The creature named Tyber opened his arms away from a plump body, and Ondak—rather rounded himself—moved into the embrace. The two aging men slapped palms against backs, cackling with satisfaction.

  Ondak turned with an arm still around Tyber's broad shoulders. "That one's Quentis, my younger cousin. The other... a minstrel."

  Eyes widened in Tyber's blemished face. 'The minstrel with the news from Windal?"

  Murmuring voices rose in the shadows. It sounded to Bryck like a dozen or more. Why, exactly, had Quentis brought him here? There had been no time to ask.

  "The same," said Ondak.

  "The uprising," Tyber said solemnly.

  "The uprising."

  And behind, in the shadows, the voices took up the words.

  Tyber nodded at Bryck, turned and waved those shadows forward into the candlelight.

  They looked to be typical Callahans—most past the age of conscription, a few younger. They carried 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.