Wartorn: Resurrection w-1

by Robert Asprin

  That fantasy had particular allure, because, if her mother were to be believed at all, her father was none other than Lord Matokin himself.

  As early as Raven could remember, the mage was known as one of the most powerful men in Felk. Now the entire city-state belonged to him. He had risen to power rapidly, promising great things for Felk's future, promising to expand the state's territory.

  The people had embraced him, investing him with the power to build up the military. Matokin was a magician and did nothing to hide his prowess at wizardry. In fact, he displayed it boldly, despite the Isthmus's cultural tradition of shunning the art. Magic, he had promised, was the key to Felk's ultimate triumph. The people believed his promises, and look how mighty Felk had grown! The army had gone southward, capturing other cities, swelling Felk's borders.

  The very thought of being accepted by this potent man as his daughter was enough to give Raven added determination to see her dream come true.

  When she had finally announced her intention to travel to Felk and apply to the school for magicians that Matokin had founded, there was surprisingly little resistance. Her mother had long since given up any hope of her daughter becoming a beauty and was increasingly at a loss to envision a role for her in life.

  Raven's idea, though something her mother had never considered herself, had no small merit. Even if her daughter proved to have little or no talent for the magical arts, there was a far greater chance of her meeting someone to take care of her in Felk than if she remained where she was. As such, she sent Raven off with a small but respectable purse of silver that she had been saving, and far more enthusiasm than Raven had ever seen her display in the past.

  Folklore had it that natural magical ability tended to appear most often among the nobility. This was supported by the fact that Matokin's closest political underlings were almost entirely picked from Felk's aristocracy. However, hidden talents turned up in odd places, and this seemed particularly true of magic.

  Raven rested her head briefly on her arms and smiled at the memory of her own naïveté when she had arrived in Felk and first presented herself at the Academy for testing. She recalled being puzzled when

  the testers showed surprise at her voluntary effort to enroll.

  Of course, at that time, she was unaware of the rumors that were now virtually accepted as fact. Specifically, that those having some capacity for magic, but of insufficient degree to invest training in, had a way of disappearing or suffering fatal accidents shortly after they were rejected.

  It seemed that Matokin was disinclined to have unaffiliated magic potential wandering the lands he controlled, however minor that potential was deemed to be. As a result, the number of those willingly submitting to the testing dwindled to a trickle and finally all but ceased entirely, requiring the implementation of roaming testers to find new students for the Academy. These feared individuals traveled the countryside encompassing Felk.

  Far from being repelled by these methods, Raven was struck with awe. How powerful a man he must indeed be, how sure of his vision, to act so drastically and decisively.

  The Academy itself was a grim affair, a campus more resembling a fortress or prison, than a school. A high stone wall circled it, and the buildings within those walls that held classrooms and living quarters had a dull sameness about them.

  The growing empire needed magicians, and students were hurried and badgered through their lessons and tests to fill that need. Felk was growing. The war had begun its southward push to take all of the Isthmus; for that was Matokin's goal. It was a heady thought, an exciting time to be alive ... if one could remain so.

  What was more, as they were learning to manage and control the powerful forces of wizardry, they had to also constantly affirm and reaffirm their loyalty to Matokin.

  Students were bound to the Academy by blood vows, literal ones, where blood was taken from a deliberately pricked finger, labeled with the student's name, and stored. It was said the blood could be used to bring harm or death to its source from then on, no matter where he or she was. It was a fine means of encouraging loyalty.

  Raven, of course, had gladly surrendered her sample. She was already bound to Matokin by blood, she thought secretly, or at least, so she believed. Let her mother have been right about that one thing!

  The students were also encouraged to inform on each other and even on their instructors, reporting any comment or action nonsupportive of empire policy, no matter how innocent or jesting. If it was learned that a student had failed to report such a comment, they were judged as or more guilty than the person offering the original offense.

  At the age of nineteen, after two years of training, Raven was adept at dealing with the wariness and backbiting that was so pervasive in the Academy. If anything, her childhood had given her a head start at adapting. She didn't have to unlearn the habits of friendship. The bullies at the Academy weren't especially different from the ones in her home village, so they were fairly easy to ignore when they weren't directly harassing her.

  She certainly had no difficulty devoting herself entirely to Matokin and the empire policies he set forth through his administrators. Before arriving at Felk, she had decided to keep her belief that she was his daughter a secret. To announce it upon her arrival would appear too much like she was trying to curry favor.

  Instead, she sought to be noticed for her devotion and growing skills. When and if she was ever singled out for his personal notice, that would be the time to mention her kinship. More than anything, Raven wanted her sire to be proud of her. Keeping her relationship to him a secret until she had proven herself could only intensify that moment.

  Raven's head came up with a start. There was predawn light showing in the corridor outside her cubicle! Against all her good intentions, she had dozed off.

  Panic and self-recriminations were useless. Her disciplined mind swung smoothly into dealing with this new set of circumstances. She had yet to master yesterday's lesson, a slightly more powerful version of the static electricity spell she'd already learned. If a test were sprung upon the class, she would perform poorly.

  For her own safety and continuation at the school, she would have to gain some time. Perhaps some kind of a diversion.

  She could denounce someone. She always kept a few choice incidents in reserve that she could produce if necessary, and the removal of a student or instructor usually threw the Academy into a turmoil for at least one day. Still, if one did that too frequently, it simply tended to cast suspicion on the accuser.

  Maybe a training accident. They were not uncommon and not that difficult to arrange. Something that would make them empty the classroom or the entire school for a watch or two. In two years here, she had learned more than just her lessons.

  It might look suspicious if Hert was the one involved in the accident. Then again, the girl bullied many students, not just Raven. Frowning with concentration, Raven continued to review her options. Only one thing was certain. Absolutely nothing was going to stand in the way of her earning her father's love.

  BKYCK (2)

  HE KEPT THE grey at a calm lope, even as he spied the soldiers ahead at the entrance into the city. He had gained some practice in exuding the cool of a seasoned wanderer, though in his previous life he'd done little traveling—and when he had, he'd been .moved about in appropriate style. With an entourage, in the comfort of an enclosed coach; certainly not rambling alone on horseback, a bedroll beneath the stars more often than not his berth for the night.

  Many days' determined riding had brought him deep into the territory of the Felk. Now he was at the entry into Callan, the first of the cities to have fallen in mis war.

  He shifted the vox-mellifluous slightly with a shrug of his shoulders. He was by now rather accustomed to having the instrument strapped across his back. It twanged faintly with each step his horse took, knocking softly against his backbone.

  He'd bought the instrument at a roadside inn. As a part of his daily routine, he made s
ure to practice. It wasn't just a matter of reacquainting himself with music-making and

  the lyrics that went along with the songs he knew; it was acclimating himself to this particular instrument.

  A troubadour and his implement should seem as one, Bryck knew.

  Since he had started moving north, he had played the stringbox at several inns along the way. It was one thing to play for his horse, which was courteous and attentive; another to play for an audience. The first time he'd started cranking the winder and fingering the strings, he was nervous, aware that he had everyone's ear in the place. Once that would have been the natural state of things.

  Bryck of U'delph, playwright and noble, was often the focus of any gathering of people—be they guests to his villa or companions at the taverns he frequented. His store of anecdotes and witticisms was effectively inexhaustible, and his ability to keep people laughing in the flesh was perhaps as keen as his talent for amusing the audiences of the theatricals he penned.

  But Bryck of U'delph was, figuratively, no more. Just as U'delph was quite literally no more.

  The city-state had originally been laid out in a spiral, a single uninterrupted chain of structures that started at the east end and wound continuously inward. During Udelph's long, proud history, many other buildings had been erected, jostling for space as the city prospered and grew. That original fanciful spiral was all but eradicated and made sense only when one studied a map, eliminating every structure put up during the past hundredwinter or so.

  The city had been built on a broad prairie. With each and every multistoried building and tower now out of the way, Bryck had seen the spiral traced out clearly in the scorched foundations that were the

  blackened bones of his home.

  He had made the return journey in something near to half the time it had taken him to get to Sook. He had run his horse brutally for home, stopping only for a single watch when his vision had come over white and he fainted, exhausted, in the saddle. He'd encountered no Felk along the way—perhaps miraculously, perhaps merely due to blind luck.

  Rain had come, and no smoke rose in the windless mid-day. There was nothing left down there to burn anyway. The smell was terrible.

  . Six days of safety before the Felk arrived. Six days, the scouts had said.

  His villa was down there on the blackened prairie as well. Involuntarily his eyes strayed toward the spot, in the city's affluent westward quarter. Yes, there it was, with scarcely one stone standing atop another. Ashes and rubble.

  He could have searched that debris. He could have entered that maze of rubble and sifted the wreckage. He could have uncovered, surely, tiny fragments of memorabilia, items scorched beyond recognition to any eyes but his. He would find remnants and shards. He would pick out pieces of furnishings and know what the articles had once looked like. He would find bones and, with some effort, likely be able to identify their owners.

  His wife, Aaysue. His children, Bron, Cerk, Ganet, little Gremmest.

  U'delph's population had been roughly twenty-five thousand. By the madness of the gods, such a slaughter. Slaughtered and abandoned, for the Felk had moved onward.

  Atop his horse and upon the mild rise at Udelph's south end, Bryck was given a fine view. A lone thought beat in his skull. Actually it was less a thought, more a raw naked impulse. Unrelenting. Potent. Vengeance.

  Against the Felk, who had taken everything from him. Vengeance, because nature demanded it of him. Were this a drama and he a player, he would be overwhelmingly propelled into the role of avenger. He would not disappoint. What he required was a suitable vengeance, something worthwhile, something that both matched his natural talents and would inflict the greatest damage on his enemies.

  It was now half a lune since the fall of Udelph. Rumors along the road said the Felk had camped some while south of the devastated city-state, then moved against Sook, which had unequivocally surrendered. Evidently Udelph was an object lesson, and the people of Sook, led by that gaggle of ministers he'd once found so amusing, had learned that lesson well.

  Such thoughts evaporated as he neared the small unit of soldiery waiting ahead. Beyond lay Callah, an impressive expanse of streets and buildings, though not as imposing as, say, Udelph, which was something near to twice this city's size. It wasn't a walled city, but no doubt each connecting road was guarded, and its perimeter probably patrolled as well.

  He saw only one damaged structure, at the outskirts, a building whose roof had been burned off. A demolition crew was at work on it, salvaging its usable stones. Perhaps it was left over from the Felk's original assault against the city.

  Bryck had been in Felk territory some while now. One could almost feel it, like a dark disquieting weight. Territories and state borders did occasionally shift, but rarely so dramatically. The Felk had advanced substantially south-ward. What had relatively recently been only a large city-state was now more the size of an empire. And still no one seemed to know what the Felk ultimately intended with these aggressive military actions. There were those Bryck had met or overheard during his travels who believed the Northerners meant to conquer the entire Isthmus. Others speculated that the future held more atrocities like Udelph's annihilation.

  When Bryck had first encountered a detachment of Felk soldiers, they had interrogated him. Their job was to see that all who used the particular stretch of road they guarded had license to do so. Their real task, of course, was to make sure no fugitives fled southward. They were a bit perplexed by Bryck, who was riding north, into the new expanded Felk territories. He explained that he was a roving minstrel, that he hoped to continue northward, as this was his habitual route. He made it clear that he cared nothing about the war.

  That attitude had precedent. Troubadours were traditionally neutral. Music knew few national

  boundaries. For hundredwinters, even during the Isthmus's most notorious strife-filled times, musicians of this ilk had moved unmolested. In some regions it was considered severe bad luck to interfere with a troubadour.

  Of course, he'd had to prove he was a minstrel by playing several songs.

  That first contingent of Felk soldiers, though, had eventually issued him a civilian travel pass and let him through. That pass was a sheet of vellum on which had been dribbled hot yellow wax; in the center of that congealing blob, the Felk sergeant had imprinted some complicated shape with a small metal stamp. It wouldn't give Bryck unrestricted movement within the new Felk territory, but it would ensure that he wouldn't be summarily executed. The army was on alert for dissidents, deserters, and other runaways. Troubadours apparently weren't viewed as a threat.

  Bryck now reined in his grey steed. He felt fortunate that no one had conscripted the horse. He raised an empty hand in the customary traveler's greeting. His other hand reached slowly into his coat to withdraw the wax-blotched sheet of vellum.

  There were five soldiers in the Felk unit waiting at the road's terminus. From the deep ruts in the packed earth under his horse's hooves, Bryck guessed that this was" a major transit artery—or had been; there certainly wasn't much traffic on it now. Surely the Felk occupation had disrupted or even ended normal trade and travel. Indeed, he'd seen no other civilians at all on the road for days, this far into Felk territory.

  Despite the disquiet of being so deep inside enemy lines, he'd seen no fighting, and the soldiers he encountered were occupiers, not combatants.

  Fields of summer-yellowed grasses lay on either side of the roadway. Stones were gathered to make a fire pit, and there was presently something aromatic simmering in a bell-shaped pot over the flames. There was a water tub, laundry swaying in the breeze. Two of the soldiers were playing Dashes atop a small makeshift table contrived from a pair of supporting rocks and a shield laid across. Dashes was a game one played with cards, dice, and a good deal of underhanded cunning. Bryck had once been quite a deft player, even when he didn't sweeten his odds with a little subtle wizardry.

  The five-strong unit looked like it had been at t
his post some while. It appeared to be rather light duty. They had shed most of their armor and made do with uniform tunics, though all were wearing their swords. The sergeant strode forward for Bryck's offered travel pass, barely acknowledging his presence with a swift sweep of her bland eyes. Behind her another of the Felk soldiers—this one male, nearer Bryck's age, with an intense air about him—eyed him more keenly.

  The imprint in the yellow wax was complex and would have been difficult, if not impossible, to counterfeit. A glance seemed to convince the sergeant of its authenticity, but she held on to it anyway.

  "Get off that horse." She sounded bored, not hostile.

  Bryck climbed off. The other soldier continued to study him in a way that was becoming uncomfortable.

  "What is that?" asked the sergeant, peering over his shoulder.

  "Vox-mellie." No self-respecting troubadour would refer to the instrument as either a "vox-mellifluous," its formal name, or "stringbox," the nickname anybody but a troubadour would use.

  "So, give us your best." She gestured for the attention of the pair playing Dashes and another soldier lethargically whetting his sword blade on a stool by the cooking fire.

  Without lifting off the canvas tether, Bryck worked the instrument around to the front of his body, pausing briefly to tune a string, then launched into a number. His relentless practicing was paying off. Already his fingering had improved measurably. More important than that perhaps, was that he could now play on demand. He didn't need the spirit to move him, didn't need to be in a musical mood; if someone gave him coin (or in this case, ordered him), he could produce an entertaining song.

  Which is what he proceeded to do, wishing as he had several times recently that his repertoire was more extensive. He knew a fine abundance of suggestive drinking songs, but a knowledge of some more traditional verses would strengthen the illusion of his being a professional songster.