Just as suddenly, Berkant's eyes came into sharp focus, fixing intently on Dardas. His hand shot out and seized the front of Dardas's uniform. Some vehement emotion spilled across his features. He was either frightened, or furious, or in great pain.
"Help..." Berkant panted, as Dardas moved to break the man's hold on him. Was this Matokin's doing? Had the Felk ruler somehow directed Berkant to attack him? But that made no sense, not if Matokin's threat about blood magic was real. Maybe it wasn't.
Another great shudder went through Berkant. He suddenly stiffened, then collapsed utterly, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
Dardas looked down at the body, stunned. Fergon rushed to Dardas's side.
"General, are you—"
"I'm fine. See if he's alive."
Fergon knelt and felt Berkant's throat, then his chest.
"He's dead, sir," Fergon said.
Dardas shook his head. "It was quite sudden." Then again, he mused, that was how death came sometimes—swiftly and inexplicably.
"I'll get him out of your way, General," Fergon said, summoning two of Dardas's personal guard to haul the body away. How quickly it had become an object, Dardas noted, something to be removed to allow freer movement for the living.
The episode had taken up a relatively large amount of time, considering the urgency of the battle his army was engaged in.
"Fergon! I need fresh field reports."
His aide scrambled to comply. Dardas glanced and saw Raven once again. He'd forgotten about her. She appeared now to be in a daze of some sort. She staggered where she was standing, and nearly fell.
Dardas motioned her over to him. She came, blinking, footsteps unsure.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked.
"I... I... I... General, it's—" She could barely make coherent sounds. Her lovely face was pale with shock.
He took her shoulders and leaned close to her. "Raven, what's happened to you?"
"Raven?" she murmured, forlornly. Then she shook her head. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "No. No Raven. Raven's gone. Just... gone. She just suddenly... I can't explain... I—"
Something cold and hard closed over Dardas's chest. "What do you mean she's gone?" he asked.
She blinked some more. "I'm just Vadya now. Raven's not with me anymore." The tears overflowed and streaked her face. "She wanted to tell... her father... wanted to tell him..."
Dardas turned away. Fergon was there. He, too, looked distressed.
"General," his aide said, "the Far Speak wizards—they, uh, sir, uh—"
"Godsdamnit, what's happened?" Dardas barked, but somewhere inside he already knew.
"They're dead, sir," Fergon said hoarsely. He turned and gestured.
Dardas saw the dark-robed shapes on the ground, a short distance off. His other officers were milling around the scene, unsettled, upset.
Had Matokin done this? If so, the man was insane.
Dardas called to his guards. "You and you and you and you," he said, pointing out each in turn. "You're going to be my messengers. Get yourselves some fast horses." He pointed out another group. "You four, scatter through the ranks. Find out if there's a magician left alive in this army. Go!"
They jumped to obey, and that was somewhat reassuring. But if this was as widespread as Dardas feared, then panic would be rippling through his army. His regular troops, his officers and soldiers, would have just witnessed the sudden and simultaneous deaths of the wizards they had fought alongside, and come to grudgingly respect, these past lunes. It would be like a shock to the body; and that body, his army, would be stunned from the trauma, and would be vulnerable while it tried to recover itself.
If the strategic intelligence behind the enemy army's movements realized the Felk army's sudden vulnerability, it could be disastrous. Dardas had to be pragmatic about this. He had to assume the enemy would thrust at them when they were weakest.
It was what he would do.
If every wizard under his command was indeed dead, then he was without his special advantages. But he was still Dardas the Butcher, and he would still demonstrate to any opponent how he had earned that title.
Dardas vaulted atop his map-strewn table. This plain was very flat and with so many torches burning among the ranks of both armies, he could see quite a distance.
There they were. The enemy. He saw the clumps of troops and horses. Dardas was indifferent to the ideologies that separated their two forces. The Felk wanted total conquest; this amalgamated army plainly meant to defend their homelands against that; whereas Dardas only wanted war. For him, it was a simple case of physical law. War required resistance. He had to have something to overcome, in order to justify his own existence. Without an enemy, he was incomplete.
But this might be more than he'd bargained for.
The word came back to him that every last wizard in the Felk ranks had apparently died, without outward cause, at precisely the same instant. As he'd suspected, panic was indeed running rampant through his army. Dardas was now without Far Movement mages to transport his forces, without Far Speak wizards to relay field intelligence or make contact with distant parts of the Isthmus. He had even lost Kumbat, who he'd gone to such lengths to acquire. Which brought up an interesting point.
What would happen to him, Dardas, the next time he required a rejuvenation spell?
Dardas climbed down from the table. The enemy had evidently seen the agitation in their ranks. They were moving now against the Felk. He had seen the forward ranks charging.
"Fergon," he said. "Bring my sword."
The aide delivered it, and Dardas strapped it on. His senior officers were gathered, their faces fearful.
"My fellows," Dardas said, his tone quiet and serious, "we are warriors, all. In our hearts is the longing to fight. Now is our time."
He called for his horse. He gave his last general orders, to be relayed through the ranks.
Attack. Attack the enemy.
Dardas glanced a last time at the dazed woman who had been a vessel for Raven. He thought of his own fellow occupant within this body, poor piteous Lord Weisel, who had imagined an exalted role for himself in this war.
Weisel, ironically, would be remembered, no matter if this night ended in obliteration for the Felk army.
Dardas's teeth bared as he rode toward the front ranks, drawing and swinging his sword overhead, rallying his fighters, letting them see him, leading and inspiring them, calling them to the only true glory that life could ever offer.
BRYCK (5)
At that moment of ultimate crisis, when the soldiers spotted them atop that roof, he, curiously enough, had only one concern in mind—Quentis's safety.
Deo had fired off one bolt from his crossbow. Bryck watched as he slapped the weapon to his shoulder a second time, a fresh bolt in place, grinning as he worked the trigger.
"Got him!"
No matter how accurate a shot it had been, Bryck noted silently, it couldn't make nearly enough of a difference. Not with the number of armed Felk in the street below, now alerted to their position above.
Quentis was by Bryck's side. Radstac, sword in hand, had joined Deo. The others of the Broken Circle, including Aquint and Nievze, had made their escape off the far lip of the rooftops, Bryck saw with a distant shudder of relief. It was of course crucial that the blood magic wizard got away, so to perform his spell.
But still Bryck's only real priority was getting Quentis out of danger.
Below, the soldiers were charging toward the buildings that held the Circle's rooms and the craft workshops, looking for access to the roofs. They would find it. The patrol was very large, bigger than the entire original garrison put together. Aquint had been correct; reinforcements had obviously been Far Moved to Callah.
Also in the streets were the Callahans that the soldiers had turned out from their homes. Several of these were prone on the ground. Bryck saw blood.
It'll be worse than last time? Gelshiri had wondered.
The last ti
me the Felk had run rampant through the city, it had been because of Bryck's inadvertent murder of a garrison soldier. This time a Felk mage of great political importance lay dead. These soldiers had probably received their orders from high up the chain of command. They wouldn't be concerned with the niceties Governor Jesile had tried to observe while occupying this city for the Felk.
Callah's streets would be wet with blood before sunrise.
These thoughts flashed through Bryck's mind, not eclipsing his concerns for Quentis's safety. He seized her hand. Her returning grip was strong.
Deo's crossbow gave another sharp twang, and another Felk soldier dropped in the street.
"We're going to run!" Bryck said to Radstac and Deo.
Radstac was studying the terrain below. "Too late," she said, clearly and calmly.
And it was, of course. He wanted to say some last thing to these two; both had been instrumental in this desperate and supremely important Broken Circle operation. But Deo was busy with another bolt, and Radstac wouldn't waste her attention listening.
"Thank you," he whispered. It was lost in the general tumult.
He turned, with Quentis, and they raced across the rooftops, over onto those atop the shops. The Felk clogged this street as well. Bryck hunkered low, pulling down Quentis, then dropped to his knees. His fingers clawed the squared sections of a particular roof.
"What're you doing?" Quentis asked, imitating his actions anyway, fingertips probing the edges of the squares.
"Looking for a trap door." Bryck was scrabbling hard now, trying not to let his fear overwhelm him. The roar from below was growing louder, more violent. He hoped the others were making good their escape.
Suddenly his fingers found a groove, and he pried upward. The hatch came free. No hinge, just a loose segment of the roof. Beneath was an invitingly dark hole. No doubt the Felk would break into all these shops, but maybe they could hide themselves down there somewhere, somehow—
"What is that?" Quentis asked.
Bryck lifted his head from the hole. The turmoil was louder still, and it had taken on some new quality, it seemed. Quentis, on one knee, was trying to peer cautiously over the roof edge.
"Be careful," Bryck said, grabbing for her again.
She instead took his hand and drew him near. She was not one to panic, he knew, and in that moment he appreciated that trait fully.
Together they looked down on the street. The Felk soldiers were no longer alone.
Bryck felt a wave of such strong emotion that at first he was wholly unable to identify it. His eyes widened, and his breath went still in his chest. His fingers tightened around Quentis's hand, until his bones ground against hers.
They came in a gathering wave. Bryck saw individuals joining the mass, and by the time they actually came into contact with the patrol, the numbers were substantial. They brandished improvised weaponry, mostly objects that would serve as bludgeons. The added noise was the general cry of battle, a high taut note, a collective voice of frustration and fury. These people had suffered enough under their occupiers. They had withstood the conquest of their city, and they had acquiesced to the laws of their conquerors. But surrender wasn't enough apparently. Tonight the Felk had come once more into their homes, and the violation and violence was, finally, too much.
And so the Callahans were rising.
Even with these numbers they weren't going to have an easy time of it. The Felk were professionally armed. They were troops drawn possibly from Felk itself or some other occupied city, but as likely had been culled from the active ranks in the field. These soldiers almost certainly had combat experience of some sort. It was unlikely many of these Callahans did.
The Felk cut into them, without hesitation or mercy. Bryck was still holding's Quentis's hand, still overwhelmed with feeling. But what was it he was feeling?
"Should we help?" Quentis was asking.
Pride, Bryck realized. He felt pride for these people. At long last they were doing as he'd hoped. He had created for them a fictional revolution, one that had become, by increments, real. Now these people of Callah were giving it its final authenticity.
Yet even under the sway of such powerful emotions, Bryck's prime concern was still Quentis's safety.
"We've done enough," he said, pulling her toward the opening in the roof. An arrow or crossbow bolt streaked past her shoulder, perilously close.
Quentis dropped her legs into the hole, swung by her hands planted on either side and shot her eyes up at him. "You're coming, too, aren't you?"
"I am." Another missile whisked past, just overhead.
She disappeared into the dark. He barely heard her landing over the uproar. He didn't have time for a look back at Radstac and Deo. He just went down into the very relative safety of the empty shop below, hoping fervently that these Callahans had success with their uprising.
* * *
The Isthmus, Bryck later learned, became once again a very large place that night. As large as it had been before the advent of Far Movement and Far Speak magic. Distances were once more their normal and natural scope. If three days of horseback travel were required to traverse two points, then that was just how it had to be done once again. No more portals. No more wizards to make them appear.
However, Bryck and many others in the city of Callah had concerns of a more immediate nature.
For a quarter-lune the fight for Callah's freedom splashed blood into the streets. The patrol that Bryck and Quentis saw that first night weren't the only Felk reinforcements transported into the city. Quite a large company had been ordered in, to recover Abraxis's bag of blood samples and to crush the evident rebel element in the city. But now no further reinforcements would arrive; and no Felk could be Far Moved to safety.
As the uprising carried on, growing bloodier by the watch, it also drew more participants. More Callahans joined their fellows. They saw an opportunity to be rid of the Felk. They saw the moment of their revenge against their oppressors. Some no doubt simply succumbed to the frenzy of the bloodthirsty spectacle.
The Callahans fought the Felk, neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street. The natives grew more organized. As they recovered weapons from the fallen soldiers, they became better armed. It was war. It was a second chance. Callah had fallen too easily the first time to these invaders from the north.
There were no more curfews, no more public floggings, no rules of any kind that these occupiers could enforce any longer. Eventually the Felk retreated toward the Registry, and eventually the rebels—so many now—surrounded that building from every side. A siege ensued.
Rumors circulated wildly in the city that the Felk, everywhere throughout the Isthmus, had suffered a crippling blow. Their wizards, all of them and all at once, had been struck mysteriously with death. No one could say where the rumor had originated, but it was evident that no Far Movement magicians were currently operating within Callah.
With the surviving soldiers barricaded in the Registry and veritable droves of Callahans encircling the site, Governor Jesile prudently announced the garrison's surrender. He came to a window to do so. The mob hurled stones and obscenities. They had several times tried unsuccessfully to set fire to the combustible parts of the building.
Despite the furor and carnage, Bryck and Quentis had little trouble staying out of the chaos after that first night. They had hunkered there inside that shut up shop, listening to the violence outside, holding tightly to each other. Time became fluid, imprecise, and that ambiguity was its own special sort of fright.
But the time did pass, and the battle did drift away, and the Felk didn't trample their way into the shop. Bryck and Quentis stayed there until morning, until the primitive comforts of light and warmth returned. When they emerged, they saw the bodies, smelled the blood. Radstac and Deo weren't among the corpses. Bryck found himself thinking suddenly and very vividly of Setix, the man who had changed his mind about joining the Broken Circle and who Bryck had ordered killed. He couldn't regret the n
ecessity of that act, but it was one more death, and there was so much death.
He wiped his eyes. Revenge against the Felk. For so long it had been the only motive urging his life forward, allowing him to go on living, rather than choosing to join Aaysue and his children. It was a good motive. The Felk deserved their destruction. But a better reason for living was perhaps the desire to live for something, for someone.
He and Quentis went to ground. And stayed there.
Later they learned of the rebel actions against the Felk, of the standoff at the Registry. Someone emerged from the mobs surrounding the building, someone of calm and reason and extreme pragmatism, and a negotiation between the two parties followed. What resulted was Jesile's agreement to submit himself to a beheading, with the understanding that the remaining soldiers would lay down their arms and be treated to thorough floggings, after which they would be set free.
Jesile, the erstwhile Felk governor of Callah, was by all accounts quietly heroic about his fate. The crowds that gathered to see him dispatched didn't cheer, either before or after the deed.
When later on the bloody-backed soldiers were turned loose, the people of Callah found themselves faced with the business of ruling their own city once more. It was, to the surprise of many, a daunting challenge.
It was at this time that Bryck and Quentis at last emerged from hiding. They walked the streets of the stunned city. People were trying to resume their normal lives, but for the lunes since war had come, the concept of normalcy had shifted radically. Callah was still an isolated city. They had no news of the war. They had learned from the former garrison soldiers that the wizards in residence at the Registry had indeed all died suddenly and inexplicably.
These Callahans were of course the dregs left behind after the Felk conscription efforts, the very young and the oldish. It now fell to them to reestablish a local government. Foodstuffs still had to be transported in from the city-state's surrounding farmland. A police force needed to be recruited. The Callahan economy had to be stabilized, and the Felk-issued scrip eliminated.
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