Robert Asprin - Wartorn - Resurrection

But it did bring up another point, Radstac mused. What was she still doing here?

They heard no alarm. Around them the camp buzzed and bustled, apparently in readiness to move out. It was a staggering number of troops, filling this shallow valley, a larger army than any Radstac had ever seen. She had already known that this war was not a typically petty Isthmus conflict, but seeing the evidence spread so impressively about drove the fact home.

How, she wondered, was all this going to end? Deo's uncle had hopes of raising an army to meet this one ... but it might well be too late for such measures. Look at these numbers. And these Felk had magic—remarkably sophisticated magic—on their side.

If they did indeed capture the entire Isthmus, would they be content with that? Something cold rippled through Radstac's innards at the thought. It was a possibility she had not considered before. But it was an eventuality that her cold-blooded mercenary's mind had to acknowledge.

What if the Felk, having conquered this land, decided to invade the Southsoil?

She stayed alert, as she and Deo picked their way along. No one accosted them, which was fortunate.

They had left the Felk scouts in the hands of those bandits. Deo hadn't given any last orders about their disposition, which likely meant that Anzal's band had simply done the sensible thing and dispatched the whole group. Radstac couldn't imagine what else they would do.

And why exactly wasn't she doing the smart thing? Accompanying Deo on this final leg of his self-appointed objective to assassinate the commander of this huge army was not a wise decision on her part. Then again, it wasn't her decision. Not really. She was still in Deo's employ ... although she suspected that if she asked to be released, he would grant the request. But she couldn't bring herself to go.

Do the smart thing first. Next, the most economical, the safest, the most self-fulfilling, and the thing that will most confuse your enemies. When all that is done, do the stupid thing.

Evidently Radstac had reached this last point in her personal itinerary of behavior.

Deo's elbow nudged her leather-padded ribs.

"The high ground," he said softly.

She nodded.

He was really going to try it. Find a vantage, find his target. Put a crossbow bolt into the war commander who had led this army to capture half of the Isthmus. Radstac imagined she knew what would immediately follow that assassination—or its attempt. The Felk would seize them, and their deaths

would likely be appropriately grandiose, if they were taken alive. Radstac assured herself that this last wouldn't come to pass. Nor would she let Deo be captured.

They climbed the mild grade. There were still a few tents erected on the ridge.

She wondered why this army had halted. This wasn't a mere rest period; they had bivouacked. She wondered further if they were indeed headed for Trael. Too late in that case for the diplomatic errand Cultat had sent Deo on— and which Deo had abandoned. That alliance the premier had in mind would have to do without Trael. Once the Felk reached the city, its fate would be sealed.

A sergeant, standing on the ridge, frowned their way.

Radstac's hand was still on her sword's pommel. With a pivot of her hips and a fast smooth draw, she could decapitate the sergeant before he uttered a sound. What she would do after that, however, was unclear.

Deo saluted. His manner remained easy. They kept moving. Radstac felt the sergeant's gaze on her facial scars. She stared back with colorless eyes, until he shrugged and turned away.

Deo let out a breath. "I think soldiers are supposed to salute their superiors," he said quietly.

"I'm not a soldier. I'm a mercenary."

They moved along the ridge. Deo was scanning the camp below, blue eyes picking through the tangle. Radstac considered the odds of spotting this army's leader, a lone individual who might not even be wearing identifying insignias, who might not be out in the open, who might not—

Deo stopped. Radstac tried to follow where he was now peering so intently.

"I see officers, a number of them, gathering ... there." He pointed furtively with his chin.

Radstac gazed, eyes narrowed. It was hopeless, just a jumble of troops and horses and wagons and gear. Deo must have keen eyesight, indeed. Then she did see. Distant bodies in the uniforms of officers. They were converging on a tent. She focused there. She saw.

"He's the one," Deo said, voice low and hard, eyes suddenly filled with wonder. He had never expected to get this far, Radstac reminded herself.

She could see the figure, standing out in front of the tent. Emblems of rank on his uniform, his very stance commanding. Someone at his side. Female. Stout. The site was some distance off. It would be quite a shot, if Deo could manage it.

His arm was rising. Radstac caught it, held it. She felt how tensely he gripped the crossbow.

"What," she gritted, "you're just going to shoot from here, right out in the open?"

Deo blinked back at her.

Don't do this. She nearly said it aloud, though it wasn't her place.

'Take some cover at least," she said instead.

A tent was nearby, its flap open and stirring in the breeze that was picking up. Deo nodded, slipped inside. She followed.

There were a few crates inside, a cot, nothing more. Deo crouched behind one of the crates, cranking the crossbow vigorously, the string tightening, tightening, quivering with the desire to let fly the bolt that he laid in the firing groove. Radstac had never been good with projectile weapons. She liked her blades, liked her hooks. Liked the immediacy that went with them. But those who could handle bows were impressive in their own rights. She hadn't forgotten the notch that bandit archer had taken out of her left ear.

Deo rested on one knee, planting elbows firmly on the top of the crate. He put his eye to the weapon's sights.

Gods, Radstac thought. He was really going to do it. Up until now this entire episode had somehow remained unreal, like the swirly narrative of even the most vivid dream. Surely something would cause Deo to forsake this ill-ad-vised venture. Surely they would turn back while they still could.

She stepped aside, away from the open flap. The ebbing sunlight was at their backs. The tent's interior was in shadow. This was, she admitted, a good vantage point. It offered a clear shot at the target, though that shot was going to have to be uncannily accurate.

Deo's lips were working silently as he steadied and aimed. Concentrating. Droplets of sweat stood out quite suddenly on his forehead. His shoulders were bunched. Crow's-feet etched around his squinting eye.

Radstac quietly drew her sword. The next moments promised to be lively ones.

She saw Deo's finger squeeze the instrument's trigger. There was still enough mansid in her that she could actually see the bolt as it launched. The flanges of feathers— purple and white—shivered as the hand-length metal bolt shot out through the tent's flap. Twang went the bow string. Deo let out a sharp gasp, not unlike the sounds he made during lovemaking, Radstac noted.

At that moment it occurred to Radstac what they should now do.

She tugged the flap shut. Deo was rising from behind the crate. "I have to see if I got him!" he cried breathlessly.

She thought she heard voices rising outside. She sheathed her sword.

'Take off the tunic." She wrested the crossbow from his grip, broke the stock cleanly over her knee and jammed the pieces into one of the crates.

Deo had never gotten his rightful chance to be Petgrad's premier. He was instead merely Cultat's nephew, a publicly adored philanthropist, a hero of the people without having done anything, really, to have earned that regard. If he had just now succeeded in killing the Felk war commander, all that would change. He would rewrite his place in Petgrad's—and even the Isthmus's—history.