Robert Asprin - Wartorn - Resurrection

He gazed back at her amber-colored eyes, lingering there a moment. He laid a hand on the clothes she'd brought in.

"Yes. Change into those. I'll get rid of what you're wearing now."

His hand went to his pocket. He pulled out the money, all the notes in a wad. He hoped to keep some of this, needing money to survive; but he had to give this woman something, to balance at least a little of the enormous debt he owed her for her kindness.

"Once you've changed," she went on, even as she glanced down at the money in his hand, "we'll get you safely out of here."

"Before I go, though ..." Did she want it all? He would give it, if she said.

She looked up. "That'll help when we get you settled."

It wasn't making sense. "We?" He gestured vaguely toward the front of the small house. "Ondak, you mean?"

"Ondak. Others. Change now." She exited, pulling shut the door.

From his coat he took his coins and the falsified travel pass that might still allow him to leave the city. How much did the Felk know about him? Would the soldiers be waiting for a minstrel trying to pass the city limits? And who had betrayed him, and how?

It was maddening to think about. He had been so very cautious, had moved so secretively. And yet soldiers had come for him, and he had been forced to kill one of their number.

There was no time to regret the act, no time to feel the dismay he imagined anyone must feel upon taking a human life for the first time. He could see the soldier's lifeless face. Could even smell his blood, there in that foul alley.

Yet... how many dead had been left at U'delph? Did the Felk soldiers who'd butchered his wife and children feel regrets for their deeds? Did it matter if they did?

When Quentis returned, Bryck had changed into the clothes. Again she nodded approval. Outside, he heard the rain returning, pattering the roof. Quentis was wearing a cloak.

"Come along," she said. "It's time to go."

Since he had placed himself in her hands, he went.

THE WAREHOUSE HAD fallen into recent disuse, as had happened to those facilities in Callah from which the Felk had thoroughly conscripted goods and horses. This one had been a freight service, Quentis told him as they stood in shadows. Her voice was soft, low, calm. Animal scents on the air, but no beasts in the stalls. One shattered wheel leaned on a wall, but there were no wagons.

Bryck's new clothing included a thigh-length coat and a brimmed cap that hid his greying hair and made his newly shaven face appear even younger. It was a worthy effort at disguise, but he hoped not to have to test it against the eye-sight of soldiers armed with a good description of him.

The Felk patrols were in the streets, not on established routes and not at normal times. Armor rattled, voices barked. It looked like the full strength of the garrison that had turned out. Presumably the murder Bryck had committed had touched off this activity.

With Quentis and Ondak he had traveled here street by street, stealing along, taking cover when necessary. They had entered this building by the cargo dock, where there were loose boards. Quentis had lit the stub of a candle that guttered atop an empty cask.

A figure now emerged into the circle of pale light. He wasn't alone, but his companions stayed in the shadows.

"Tyber!" Ondak said with some relish.

A mask of freakishly unhealthy skin floated into the candlelight, a face immediately cut by a strangely winning smile, despite the man's horrid teeth. The creature named Tyber opened his arms away from a plump body, and Ondak—rather rounded himself—moved into the embrace. The two aging men slapped palms against backs, cackling with satisfaction.

Ondak turned with an arm still around Tyber's broad shoulders. "That one's Quentis, my younger cousin. The other... a minstrel."

Eyes widened in Tyber's blemished face. 'The minstrel with the news from Windal?"

Murmuring voices rose in the shadows. It sounded to Bryck like a dozen or more. Why, exactly, had Quentis brought him here? There had been no time to ask.

"The same," said Ondak.

"The uprising," Tyber said solemnly.

"The uprising."

And behind, in the shadows, the voices took up the words.

Tyber nodded at Bryck, turned and waved those shadows forward into the candlelight.

They looked to be typical Callahans—most past the age of conscription, a few younger. They carried weapons, of an improvised sort. Kitchen cleavers, an axe, a mallet. Tyber tossed open a flap of his coat, revealing the jeweled pommel of a short sword that looked both ostentatious enough for a royal honor guard and durable enough to serve in battle.

An adolescent, scratching at filthy hair with scabby fingers, studied Bryck somberly. In fact, they were all staring at him, seeming to want something from him.

"The minstrel," Ondak announced, "killed a Felk soldier today."

Gasps met this news. Ondak had said it with grave pride.

"That's why the whippers have stepped up their patrols," Tyber said, nodding. "Well... that's the first gods-damned Felk to die here since the buggers invaded us. Well done!"

Bryck didn't like this attention, didn't like so many eyes on him. He had presumed Quentis was taking him someplace to hide, at least temporarily, until he could arrange to escape the city. Did she mean to put him up here, in this abandoned warehouse?

More importantly, who were these people that knew he was a murderer?

Bryck's deed had obviously impressed them; he decided to play on that. "I have indeed killed a soldier," he declared. His audience hushed immediately. "I require sanctuary. Will you provide it?"

They stared mutely a moment. Then Tyber rumbled a chuckle deep in his chest. "The honor is ours, naturally," he said. "Most of us here have heard you before. Your songs, your news of Windal."

"The rest have heard the word passed from others," said Quentis.

"Your news gives us the only hope we've had since ..."

"The only hope—"

"—hope..."

They were all speaking up now. Bryck retreated a step. When he lifted a hand, they quieted. They were being deferential to him, he realized. He was important here. A celebrity, almost. As things had been in his playwright days. So long ago.

Well, he could certainly use this strange situation to his advantage.

"Very well," he said. "I should like to know whose hospitality I am enjoying."

It was Quentis who turned, a frown creasing between her amber eyes.

"Why," she said, sweeping a hand over the small band with their makeshift armaments, "this is the Broken Circle. We mean to rise up against the Felk."

Bryck slowly blinked. But they remained there. Not a dream, not the insubstantial creations that were the characters in his plays. Not even the fictional players who, in the new stories he'd been weaving, had risen up against the Felk in the city-state of Windal. These were the Broken Circle, the rebels of Callah. He had only written the roles. They were to make the parts real.

Finally Bryck pulled consciously at those unused facial muscles that allowed something like a smile to surface on his freshly shaven face. "It's a pleasure to meet you all," he said.

IT WAS ALL falling into place, like any good battle plan.

Dardas finally ordered a plate of the special rations he'd had sent in from Windal, by portal. The meat was the best he had eaten since Felk, where he had dined with Lord Matokin, and Abraxis, and some of those other chief magicians, on the eve of leading the army southward against Callah.

Matokin had been very expansive that evening. Glasses were lifted in toast after toast. There was excitement in the air, but also unease. Of all those wizard/politicians at that table, only Matokin had seemed truly confident that the Felk military, led by a resurrected Northland war commander inhabiting a nobleman's body, would succeed.