Wartorn: Resurrection

Robert Asprin and Eric Del Carlo

BRYCK (1)

AT LAST HE rode to a halt. The hot living scent of the lathered mount permeated the rough traveler's clothes Bryck wore. He uncoiled from the saddle, climbing off, and stretched his softening middle-yeared body. The late evening was mild, with a hint of sultriness to the air. Above, stars and a crescent of moon stamped the sky. There were clouds, probably harboring late summer rain, to the distant north.

Bryck was sore to his bones. He was keenly aware of his every muscle and sinew, because each part of himself seemed to ache individually. Three days and two nights he had driven the fast borrowed steed, sleeping only during the darkest watches—and then only on a less than luxurious bedroll. It was all so very primitive, so brutally physical. Not at all the sort of activity in which he routinely engaged. Yet, this unaccustomed discomfort was pleasing. It was tangible evidence of the righteousness of his actions and of his personal sacrifice in undertaking this venture.

He surveyed the courtyard of the Chancellery to which the city guards had directed him. The building was a mean affair of grey stone—squat, functional, and unassuming, save for the high vaulted doors he now faced. The peaked panels were of glossy wood and etched with ornate images depicting the history of the city-state of Sook. It was not an awe-inspiring chronicle. Neither was Sook itself, which from what he'd seen was much less cosmopolitan than Bryck's home city of U'delph. He had wended its streets to this court, passing ramshackle structures and shabbier citizens.

Still, he had made this arduous journey to seek military aid from these people, so it wouldn't do to flaunt his disdain. And regardless, the humbleness of these surroundings only added to the marvelously crude reality of this adventure. Doubtlessly he had accumulated a wealth of creative material for his next several theatricals.

A lad with wispy red stubble outlining his jawbone detached from the courtyard's shadows and took the reins of Bryck's grey mount. The boy gurgled the unintelligible sounds of someone born deaf and waved toward the doors of the Chancellery. Oh the pomp, oh the circumstance, Bryck thought wryly. He hid his smile and watched his horse being led off to the stables, admiring the raw stamina of the creature. Its hooves clomped on the stones of the yard.

A pair of city guards bracketed the vaulted doors. They watched dispassionately as Bryck finished stretching the worst of the kinks from his body. Their uniforms were of blue and scarlet, the colors faded to similar states of drabness. Each leaned on a spear. Bryck wiped away the last trace of his droll smile and approached. This was serious business, after all.

"I was told I'd find an audience here."

The female half of the tiny guard contingent asked, "You the grink from U'delph?"

Not even trying to decipher that rustic grink, Bryck said simply, "I am."

They drew open the doors for him. He stepped through, unable to entirely suppress another small smile. Going unrecognized was most unfamiliar. In his home city-state, his face was well known, his reputation as a satirical play-wright even more so—to say nothing of his social standing as a noble, with lands, capital, and all the respect and prestige that his status presupposed.

Here, however, he was merely a rider from a neighboring city, seeking an audience with the local authorities. U'delph required military assistance ... required it desperately. The Felk wizards and their army were on the move. That was common knowledge. Now, however, those forces were closing toward U'delph. Scouts had assured that the city-state had six days of safety left to it. Before then, support from some other city must be secured. U'delph's standing army wasn't much to speak of, a few companies of undertrained recruits under the command of a handful of aging, experienced military leaders. They needed more and better numbers.

Volunteers had been needed to ride out to petition for aid. Too many of Udelph's concerned citizenry had turned out to offer their services. Dice had been thrown to decide who would take the fastest mounts.

Bryck wanted to do his share. Noble or not, celebrated dramatist notwithstanding, he wanted to help. He felt strongly about the matter. He felt, perhaps, magnanimous that he would risk a ride through open country to save his people. There was something heroic about it all.

He looked about the empty vestibule. Another set of doors stood at the far end. He crossed the dull tiles toward it.

He had cheated. He had used that trick of simple wizardry that aided him now and then in his gambling pastime. No one had ever trained him in magic; it came instinctively. Such minor talents were fairly common among noble bloodlines in the major cities.

He had influenced the roll of the dice. And had been selected to ride. And bade a farewell to his wife and children and friends. And rode off valiantly toward nearby Sook.

It might well be that he wasn't the most qualified of U'delph's citizens to have made this journey. He had, he admitted to himself, gotten lost on the way and used up much of a day reorienting himself after losing his bearings in a thick patch of woods. But he'd gotten back on course soon enough.

Bryck missed his wife, Aaysue, terribly, and his children—Bron, Cerk, Ganet, little Gremmest—and the comforts of his villa and lifestyle. But no matter. What he was doing was proper, honorable. And if his entreaty for military assistance met with success here in Sook, he might well prove himself to be the savior of U'delph.

Beyond the far doors of the vestibule, a corridor led deeper into the Chancellery. There were more guards here, their uniforms in no better repair than those he'd already seen. They eyed him warily. Receiving no verbal instructions, Bryck strode past them down the corridor, carrying himself with a lofty gait that was not quite a swagger. He smelled of the road. A steaming perfumed bath would erase these odors, but for the present, he was content to reek of his rough travels.

He couldn't recall the last time he had exerted himself so. He was nearing the end of his fourth tenwinter, moderately fit for a man his age. He was of average height, sagging a bit around the middle, owing to the luxuries of his class and the sedentary life of a playwright, which he'd been leading these past many years. His thick dark hair was streaked mildly with grey. His face, etched and some-what full, often lit readily with merriment.

These were grim times. With the Felk army mobilized and backed by powerful wizardry, the historically precarious stability of the entire Isthmus was threatened. No one knew what the Felks' ultimate goal was—expansion of their territory, full conquest? Individual city-states lay ahead of the Felk forces like so many children's stacking blocks, waiting only to be tumbled.

Grim times, indeed. Not the sort of period in which one would expect a satirical playwright to thrive. But so it was. Perhaps it was Bryck's audiences' need to lose themselves in his comic—and frankly silly—works that accounted for the durability of his fame. Bryck's name was synonymous with humor. People always needed to laugh. They perhaps needed that release now more than ever.

Bryck, of course, was aware of the perilous state of things. The pall of the Felk hung over the land. Yet, the threat had seemed remote, detached from the familiar daily business of living ... had seemed so until now, that was, when the invaders were suddenly closing toward U'delph, toward home, toward everything he held dear.

He didn't fault himself for his attitude. It was human nature. Certainly he felt proper sorrow for Windal and— what was that other conquered state?—Callah, yes ... but Bryck knew a menace only became truly real when it was directed at oneself.