Robert Asprin - Wartorn - Resurrection

Bryck let go the pretense and bolted. Fear was boiling through his veins, lending him speed. He pounded along the street, while behind the commanding voice barked once more—ordering him to halt, raising the alarm. No doubt now; they were after him ... or his fleeing had just singled him out. Maybe they were making some kind of random search. Maybe they were after some petty criminal that looked something like him. Maybe any number of things, and it could wait, he reminded himself fiercely.

He had covered a full street by now, limbs pumping. Ahead, people, hearing the commotion, were shying back against the buildings.

Risking a fast peek behind, he saw that three of the four were pursuing him. Their drawn short swords swung rhythmically at their sides, honed edges gleaming even in the dull daylight. One of the soldiers appeared older and somewhat hefty. He was at the rear and already lagging. The other two were youths, in their primes, legs flashing. The nearer was only half a street behind Bryck.

He knew this quarter of Callah well. Being a poorer district, it had been built in rather slapdash manner, without the pleasing symmetry of more affluent quarters. This made for numerous alleyways, cul-de-sacs and some narrow, crooked streets that went nowhere.

The burly old blacksmith was still in his doorway.

Where sweat didn't run freely, his flesh was thick with soot. He lifted his hand again, seeing Bryck, then frowning, seeing his pursuers.

Bryck thought frantically of dashing into the smithy, then discarded the impulse. He had a better

plan—a grim and dangerous one.

The hefty soldier was no longer in view as Bryck peeled off the main thoroughfare, dashing narrowly between a cart and a heavily loaded beast of burden. The two younger soldiers remained on him, gaining. Bryck was leaner and tougher than he had been in many a winter, but that couldn't erase the years he'd lived.

Even so, he didn't flag, didn't break stride. His lungs burned, and the hand grasping the candlestick was starting to ache, but all physical discomforts had to be ignored for the time being. Whatever happened, he must not be captured.

Cries of surprise and fear rose as people saw the rushing soldiers and drawn swords. The mud here wasn't so churned up, but was no easier to navigate. Bryck had already nearly spilled twice.

Bryck changed direction yet again, ducking this time into a stinking alley. He chanced another glance behind, just in time to see one of the soldiers lose her footing completely in the mud, short sword flinging from her grip, face plowing into the muck. The other soldier didn't glance back at his tumbled comrade.

The alley had many sharp twists and jogs. There were moldering crates and debris scattered throughout it, also a few side entrances into dark little shops. Places to hide and places to burrow into.

Bryck pulled up sharply just beyond the first corner. He braced his stance, listened intently, heart hammering. Coming ... coming ...

When the soldier, still with all the momentum of the chase behind him, crashed around the corner, Bryck used the candlestick to club him across the face with every iota of muscle he could muster. The soldier quite simply never saw it coming. If a fleeing man ducked into an alleyway, he must mean to hide or must know some special escape from it or, even if he meant to waylay his pursuer, he would surely go deeper into the alley to do so, into thicker shadows and better cover, not make an ambush around the very first bend.

The molded metal petals around the candlestick's socket dug into the soldier's cheek and jaw, tearing, spraying blood and teeth, snapping bone. The head whipped wildly about. The chin strap of his helmet wasn't secured, and that helmet flew off his head, clanging against a crumbling wall. His skull hit that same wall as his feet tangled.

His sword dropped, as his body, following his head, smashed the wall. Then he crumpled to the ground. The head was now turned at a very peculiar angle.

Bryck was ready—mentally and physically—to swing the candlestick again. It was not necessary. Instead, he tossed it down beside the soldier where he lay, ruined face turned upward.

Then Bryck scrambled away.

HE STILL HAD his cache of coins in the lining of his coat, as well as a small sheaf of counterfeit money, minus the two gold notes he'd spent on the candlestick. His vox-mellifluous, however, was back in his room, gone. That caused an unexpected pang. His pretense of being a troubadour had carried him far. He had grown comfortable playing his music ... as if he really were a minstrel.

Dangerous to start believing one's own fictions, he thought, chopping and scraping at his bristly grey beard as fast as he dared with the razor. Beneath, he was finding a gaunt face, bones prominent—the reason he'd let the beard grow in the first place. There was no looking glass in the room. He waited for the water in the basin to settle and took another look at his reflection on the surface. It was a startling change. He looked a tenwinter younger. Or at least it took away a few years.

He shook his head and attacked the last of the whiskers. It mattered only that he appear different. This shave was a start, but he would have to do more.

Aboard gave a creak just beyond the door. Bryck turned sharply, then heard the two sharp knocks, a pause, repeated.

"These," Quentis said, entering. "My father's."

She laid out the clothes. The room was small and used for storage. Quentis shared these lodgings with her older cousin, Ondak. He was currently posted out in front of the house, watching, ready to raise the alert if soldiers came.

Unlikely, thought Bryck, despite his own anxiety. If he had been followed here, the Felk wouldn't be

delaying. They would storm the place for him, maybe kill him on the spot.

"My thanks," he said to Quentis, eyeing the clothes. Typically Callahan in style. That was good.

He realized he had been thanking this woman almost constantly since arriving at this house with her. He could not, of course, express the fullness of his gratitude. Not for lack of trying, but because it simply wasn't possible. He had fled the district where he'd killed the soldier and made his way as swiftly and invisibly as he could, expecting capture at every step, until he found the street where he had first met Quentis during that Lacfoddalmendowl holiday.

Hers was a mobile vendor cart, not a stationary shop, but he had searched the area until he saw her. He approached, she recognized him, and he asked for refuge.

It had seemed so suddenly and impossibly absurd at that moment. He had no right at all to ask such a thing; she had no reason to aid him. Yet, here he was. She had saved him.

She was looking at him now, studying his face. At last she nodded. "It looks good." Her tone was businesslike. He knew virtually nothing about this woman, but he was certain she didn't easily panic.

He patted a damp cloth over his face.

He hadn't had time to examine the impulse—the sure instinct—that had caused him to seek her out. Surely he could have hidden somewhere else. Callah was indeed a large city. He couldn't go to an inn, however. Callah received no travelers these days, and such places were virtually deserted or shut up. Besides, surely the Felk would look for him there.

Quentis's presence with him in this small room was pleasing.

"My thanks."

"So you've said." Her voice was gentle now, for the first time. It had all happened so swiftly. His accosting her on the street, his urgently whispered entreaty, her curt instructions that he follow as she secured her cart and led him here.

"Sorry to repeat myself," he said. "I can't seem to properly express my appreciation."

"We'll take your gratitude for granted."