Wartorn: Resurrection

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 a

"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 and his officers a favor now and then, and they would grow devoted to him. Using those communication mages to pass private messages all the way from Felk was quite a luxury.

"And how is your father, Fergon?" Best to go along with this for the moment, though naturally he had no idea who the man's father might be. Weisel would know, of course. But the Felk noble's personality had evidently been squeezed into nothingness by Dardas's dominant character.

"He says the red grass is knee-high," Fergon said, as if conveying something profound, "and the dogs are ru

Obviously, this was supposed to mean something, Dardas thought a little desperately. Some familiar code between Weisel and this man's father, maybe referring to a joke they had once shared. Whatever it was, a response to it was expected. Godsdamnit, why had he let this fawning, freckle-faced twerp say anything more?

"Well..." Dardas said, careful to appear unruffled. "That's as it should be, then."

Fergon's budding smile turned to* a puzzled frown. "Uh... of course, General Weisel."

It was the wrong answer, Dardas thought darkly.

"Enough, Fergon. Leave me."

The aide scuttled out of the tent.

He would have to be replaced, Dardas thought. Maybe more than replaced. He'd had no trouble killing that Far Movement mage with his poisoned knife. He was more than willing to commit such a deed again. To be honest, he had enjoyed it.

What he had learned from that mage was certainly valuable. He was basing this upcoming campaign against the city-state of Trael on the knowledge he had gathered about the true nature of Far Movement magic.

One of his great talents in battle, one that had served him so well in his last lifetime, was an ability to adapt whatever resources were at hand to further his position in the field. This was something ingrained in his nature. Once, as a child, when a much larger boy had assaulted him, young Dardas had snatched up a tiny twig from the ground and jammed it brutally into the bigger boy's eye. The twig was just a twig, not obviously useful as a weapon. But wielded correctly and without any mercy or hesitation, it had won him the fight.

Far Movement was powerful magic. The portals, so the mage had said before dying, opened into another reality, the reality beyond life.

Dardas had been dead once. He had no clear memories of what that had been like, but obviously his being had survived in some form, or Matokin wouldn't have been able to retrieve him.

His plan was to open several portals around the city of Trael. But... no exit portals would be opened. Those holes into the next reality would simply stand wide.

Whatever dwelt in that other world would be free to come into this one. And those inhabitants, freed from that milky limbo, would find Trael in their path.

Dardas wanted war. Perpetual war. He felt excitement tingle through him. Who knew what would come out of those portals. Monsters? The walking dead? Whatever, it could only complicate this war, thus extending it until he could consolidate his own position of power.