It was the milky-eyed woman who'd spoken. Her pruned face was twisted into a look of profound commiseration. The others were staring with similar expressions. Despite the mild evening air, Bryck felt a cool fingertip tracing his backbone.
Without conscious will he found himself asking, "What do you mean?"
Silence once more; and now he recognized the tenor of the wordless pause. They were afraid to speak, as one will reflexively hesitate before imparting dire news to the individual it will most affect.
The chief minister folded his hands atop a scattering of paper, set his eyes to the table, then lifted them a moment later. His gaze was solemn.
"U'delph is no more."
Bryck did not react, outwardly or inwardly. Nonsense, was all he thought, the single word clanging through his head.
"Our scouts have informed us that the Felk overran the city last night."
Nonsense. Nonsense.
"It... has not been captured. It has been laid waste to. Likely as an example, so that other city-states will not put up resistance."
Nonsense.
"You have our sincerest sympathies."
Bryck made as if to speak, but no words came. His journey here had been a waste indeed. Three days and two nights, only to find this pack of moronic provincials playing at government. He had been quite correct, then, earlier when he imagined this group as players in a political farce. What could their scouts know that U'delph's did not? His city, he'd been told as he set out, had six days of safety left. It simply wasn't possible that the Felk armies had advanced so rapidly. It was ... nonsense.
He swallowed whatever pointless words he'd meant to utter, turned once more, and left the chamber.
Outside, in the courtyard, he called for his grey mount. It was eventually retrieved by the deaf lad with the wispy red beard. Evening had become night by the time Bryck rode out past Sook's limits, ignoring everyone and everything as he kicked the horse into a faster and faster stride. Its powerful hooves were soon tearing up patches of sod, as Bryck made for home.
DARDAS (1)
ONE NEVER REALLY appreciated being alive until one had been dead ... at least once.
It was not the first time this thought had run through Dardas's mind, and would probably not be the last, but he found it inescapable as he stood outside his command pavilion staring out over the ant-like activity of the Felk army bivouac. To all outward appearances, he was observing the efficiency of his officers and their troops as they prepared for evening mess.
Well, on one level, he was, though he had seen it all thousands of times before. Annies didn't change much over the centuries, except for the uniforms and the effectiveness of the weapons. He could monitor the movement and mood of the troops without really focusing on them, his attention only drawn to any abnormality or break in the rhythm. What he was really doing was enjoying the sunset.
The fiery colors of the dying day were accented by the gathering clouds. They had bivouacked just south of U'delph, or what had been U'delphand was now a jumble of smoldering rubble. In fact, the smoke added to the spectacular colors of the sunset.
Strange how he had ceased to notice such trivialities when he was alive before. Now that the gods of fate had given him another chance at life, he had every intention of savoring every moment of it.
That fate, it seemed, had taken the form of Matokin, a powerful Felk magician with a vision for conquest who needed a general to run his army for him. Dardas still did not truly understand just how Matokin had gathered his consciousness from beyond the void and deposited it in a host body. Neither did he have any clear recollection of the time while he was dead.
He was, in fact, astounded to learn after having been revived that more than two hundred and fifty years had passed since he had last been an active participant in life. Still, he had adjusted to the incredible fact. He had a soldier's grim constancy and could adapt himself to anything. He was alive again now and planned to exploit the opportunity for as long as possible.
What was most troubling to him right now was this mage. Matokin had brought him back to life. Matokin, in a sense, owned his life. Dardas was unaccustomed to any status other than that of supreme and uncontested leader.
He had had little use for mages in his prior life, in fact had only minimal dealings with them. They were few and far between, throwbacks to an age before the Northern and Southern Continents had collapsed into disarray.
In Dardas's day magicians mostly conducted themselves as healers. He had never really understood them, nor cared enough to educate himself as to the mechanics and limitations of their skills. Such creatures were often shunned. But that, he acknowledged, had been a long time ago, and even quite some physical distance away. This was the Isthmus, which lay between the two great continents. Once, it had been nothing but a trade route. Times, evidently, had changed.
In contrast to that of his old military career, the force he was commanding now seemed to be crawling with mages, like parasites on a feral dog. In addition to healers, there were also communication mages and transportation mages. These were daunting, he had to admit. Being able to move troops and supplies instantaneously over great distances was, frankly, the ultimate weapon of this Felk army.
And now they had at last used that weapon, in their latest conquest. U'delph had, almost literally, never seen them coming ... or even if that city's scouts had seen their approach, they could do nothing against an army that was so suddenly and overwhelmingly upon them.
It was a war of magic. But it was still war, Dardas told himself. And war was his craft.
Inquiries as to where all these magicians had come from were swept aside with vague references to the Academy, a school in the northern city of Felk that Matokin had founded to train those with magic potential for positions in his force.
What was even worse was that Dardas now had to adapt to having a magician as an immediate superior. Matokin was not only a rising major power figure in these lands of the Isthmus, but one who literally held Dardas's continued life in his hands. Dardas's resurrection, he'd been told, would have to be periodically maintained by rejuvenation spells. Clearly this was a situation he would have to deal with eventually.
"Lord Weisel?"
Dardas was suddenly aware that his aide was trying to get his attention. Had been trying, in fact, for some time now. It was one of the annoying sidelights, he'd learned, of living in a host body. Getting used to being hailed by an-other name.
He fixed the aide with a flinty glare.
"I'll say this to you once," he said. "We are in the field, not in court. You will address me by my rank, not my title."
"Yes, Lord ... General."
"Now, what is it?"
"I was just wondering, sir, if you would be dining alone or with your officers tonight?"
Dardas suppressed his annoyance at having his reverie interrupted for such a trivial matter. The junior officer was barely in his twenties and standing duty as aide for the first time tonight, so he couldn't be expected to be familiar with the general's routines or proper protocol.
"I'll dine alone tonight," he said. "In my pavilion, I think."
"I'll see to it at once, sir," the aide responded and hurried away, obviously eager to get out from under his commander's scrutiny.
In spite of himself, Dardas was amused by the youth's discomfort. Among others, he had implemented the policy that officers from various units were to rotate through the position of his personal aide. Partly this was being done so he could familiarize himself with the officers under his command. More important, however, was that it allowed him to dismiss those favored officers who would normally have held the post permanently. They would be the ones most likely to notice the changes in the "Lord Weisel" they had known for years.