Wartorn Obliteration

DARDAS (5)

Life pumped strongly through his veins. Life was there with every breath that moved in and out of his lungs. He surged with it, with its vitality, with its exuberance. He was alive, in every sense.

This was truly the medium of Dardas's life. Finally, this Felk war was delivering what he needed most—an enemy. So far, that enemy appeared to be worthy. There was definitely a tactical intelligence to that opposite army's movements, and in its replies to Dardas's feints and probes. That wasn't some mass of disorganized, armed rabble facing his army out there. Someone, or someones, over there had a knack for military strategies.

Dardas couldn't keep the grin off his face as the field intelligence reports continued to flow in. Never before, in his days of conquering the Northern Continent, had he had such speedy information available to him. He could know within moments how the enemy was responding to a particular thrust. He could have his orders relayed instantly to the various units he wished to mobilize. It was fantastic.

Dardas still had no real explanation as to why Weisel had so suddenly withdrawn from their dual consciousness, leaving Dardas with full command of this body once more. It may very well have been the intense fear the Felk noble had felt. Maybe strong negative emotions weakened one's hold on the shared host body, especially when faced with the equally powerful emotions of joy and expectation that Dardas was experiencing.

He didn't have time to bandy about the theory. At the moment, he was just glad Weisel was out of the way.

Dardas noticed Raven lingering on the periphery of where he'd set up his temporary base of operations. She had performed an invaluable service for him by pointing out the possibility, which he hadn't considered, that this enemy might have studied his ancient strategies. It was conceivable that Raven, with that one bit of advice, had saved this army countless casualties. Dardas couldn't imagine rewarding her enough, once this was done. Perhaps someday he would elevate her to the status of his permanent consort. After all, she knew his secret, knew he was Dardas. He would want her close to him.

The Battle of Torran Flats... that was why it had looked so familiar. It had been a great victory of his, and apparently history had recorded and remembered it. If he had acted as he had during that original battle, surely this enemy would have sprung some cunning trap. Maybe his whole army would have been slaughtered, the ferocity of his warriors and the might of his mages notwithstanding.

By now, there had been several, relatively small engagements between the two armies. First blood had been spilled, and Dardas fancied he could smell it on the night wind, the scent bitter and coppery and... stimulating.

As yet, however, the all-out clash between the armies hadn't commenced. Dardas had wondered if this enemy would show signs of shying from a nighttime battle. But each of his exploratory thrusts had been met with decisive force, to say nothing of the wily, bold move that had drawn out a unit of his fire-working wizards. Those casualties had been high, but his army could absorb the losses.

Of course, when things really got under way Dardas had several resources he could tap that would vastly increase his advantage. Those Far Movement mages were certainly going to earn their pay. Dardas had a number of strong, compact units of fighters scattered throughout his forces, with Far Movement and Far Speak wizards attached. He planned to use these for fast disruptive attacks, keeping them in almost constant motion through the portals, stabbing the enemy with short vicious jabs.

This Isthmus plain would be glutted red with blood before the sun rose.

Fergon delivered the fresh intelligence. Dardas looked it over and grinned anew.

"Send forward this cavalry company, here," he pointed to one of the maps on the table before him. One of his senior officers acknowledged the order and relayed it to a nearby Far Speak wizard.

The rhythm of battle was building. He could feel it. Soon, the full force of the two armies' front ranks would be sent against each other. Dardas keenly anticipated it. For the moment, though, he would continue with these jockeying maneuvers, studying how the enemy responded.

"Sir?"

Dardas looked up. Fergon was there again, but without a report in hand.

"What is it?" he asked. He would be very annoyed if the junior officer wanted to make mention of his father again, who Lord Weisel had known socially in Felk.

"It's Berkant, General," Fergon said. "He says he has a message from Emperor Matokin, an urgent one."

"Is there any other kind?" Dardas grunted. He looked past his aide and saw the wizard standing back some distance, waiting. "Very well. Bring him."

Fergon fetched the wizard, who appeared remarkably calm, despite the night's uproar. Then Fergon and the other officers withdrew out of earshot, giving the two privacy.

"Battle doesn't faze you, eh, Berkant?"

"I am not among your combatant magicians, General."

Dardas gave the wizard a nod. "As you might guess, I am extraordinarily engaged at the moment. I rely on your assurance that this communication is crucially important."

"It is, General." Berkant had his familiar shred of fabric in hand.

"Proceed," Dardas said.

Berkant fell swiftly into the seeming stupor. A moment later, with unfocused eyes, he said, "General, I am told you are facing an opponent army."

"That's true, Lord Matokin." As always, communicating in this fashion was mildly eerie but Dardas had adapted to many strange things over the past few lunes. "I am confident we will be victorious against this—"

"I am confident, too, General," Matokin said through the conduit that was Berkant. "I have had confidence in you from the start. You were chosen very carefully."

Compliments from Matokin? Dardas wondered. Surely the great Felk lord hadn't contacted him just to say this.

"Thank you, Lord," he said, concealing his puzzled frown, though he still didn't know if Matokin could see as well as hear through Berkant.

"Everything regarding you has been handled very carefully, General... Weisel." There was no mistaking the ironic emphasis. "In fact, when you originally arrived here in Felk, before you even assumed your duties as commander of the Felk army, I made sure a token of your loyalty remained here with me. I keep it with me at all times, which turns out to have been a fortunate precaution. The idea was Lord Abraxis's, may the gods give him peace. I wouldn't take any credit away from him."

Whatever ploy this was, Matokin was at least getting to the point. Dardas waited grimly.

"Blood magic is an invaluable tool for maintaining discipline among the many wizards that have been so meticulously trained at our Academy here," Matokin's words continued from Berkant's mouth. "When I founded that Academy, and set in motion this unifying war, I fully understood the vast power and great delicacy of what I was letting loose into this world. Magic has, in the distant past of both the Northern and Southern Continents, been the cause of untold distress. Its misuse, in fact, was the root of the Great Upheavals."

Dardas blinked. The Upheavals were an ancient chaotic period of history that had occurred long before his original life, even. They had led to the fall of the mighty empires that had once ruled Northland and Southsoil.

Matokin was saying that magic was responsible?

"But," the Felk lord went on, "I will not allow that to happen again. I control magic in this world. I was born with a tremendous natural talent. I am also endowed with a perfect vision for the future of this Isthmus. Nothing will frustrate that plan. Nothing... and no one."

Dardas didn't cringe. Cringing wasn't in his nature. Matokin had powers, yes, but Dardas was a force to be reckoned with in his own right.

"What is it you want, Lord Matokin?" Dardas spoke it with a blunt edge in his voice.

"I want Mage Kumbat returned to Felk."

Dardas was silent a long moment. Finally he said, "And if I refuse?"

"I appreciate your not vacillating and still pretending Kumbat disappeared between portals."

"And I appreciate your appreciation," Dardas said curtly. "Tell me what you intend to do if I refuse to release Mage Kumbat."

"I believe I've made myself as clear as I need to, General. I have what I need, right here with me, to snuff you out like the flame of candle. Blood magic is potent, and very effective."

"Is that all you can threaten me with?" Dardas asked, adopting a milder tone now. Matokin could have obtained whatever measure of blood was necessary when Dardas was still insensible immediately following his resurrection.

"All?" There was a note of surprise in Berkant's voice.

"Yes. Is that all? Do you honestly expect me to believe that you would kill me right at the moment when you require my talents and services the most?" Dardas allowed himself a chuckle. "You say you've been told about the enemy army. No doubt you are aware of its size. Without me to command this Felk military, that other army could, conceivably, tear through this one, and thereby end your dreams of uniting the Isthmus under Felk rule."

Dardas savored the moment. It had chafed him from the start, being under Matokin's thumb, having to answer to someone "superior" to himself. Matokin may have indeed been the one to set this war into motion, but without Dardas's command of the army, that war of conquest would have remained an unfulfilled vision. The failed dream of a delusional, power-mad mind.

He waited for Matokin's reply. He would not surrender Kumbat. Kumbat was his. The mage would provide rejuvenation spells whenever Dardas needed them. Perhaps the wizard could even find a way to permanently expunge Weisel's presence from this vessel.

Berkant's face remained slack. A slow frown touched Dardas's lips. Was something wrong?

Abruptly, a muscle twitched violently in Berkant's cheek. The wizard's unfocused eyes widened, and he gulped in air. His whole body shuddered.

Just as suddenly, Berkant's eyes came into sharp focus, fixing intently on Dardas. His hand shot out and seized the front of Dardas's uniform. Some vehement emotion spilled across his features. He was either frightened, or furious, or in great pain.

"Help..." Berkant panted, as Dardas moved to break the man's hold on him. Was this Matokin's doing? Had the Felk ruler somehow directed Berkant to attack him? But that made no sense, not if Matokin's threat about blood magic was real. Maybe it wasn't.

Another great shudder went through Berkant. He suddenly stiffened, then collapsed utterly, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Dardas looked down at the body, stunned. Fergon rushed to Dardas's side.

"General, are you—"

"I'm fine. See if he's alive."

Fergon knelt and felt Berkant's throat, then his chest.

"He's dead, sir," Fergon said.

Dardas shook his head. "It was quite sudden." Then again, he mused, that was how death came sometimes—swiftly and inexplicably.

"I'll get him out of your way, General," Fergon said, summoning two of Dardas's personal guard to haul the body away. How quickly it had become an object, Dardas noted, something to be removed to allow freer movement for the living.

The episode had taken up a relatively large amount of time, considering the urgency of the battle his army was engaged in.

"Fergon! I need fresh field reports."

His aide scrambled to comply. Dardas glanced and saw Raven once again. He'd forgotten about her. She appeared now to be in a daze of some sort. She staggered where she was standing, and nearly fell.

Dardas motioned her over to him. She came, blinking, footsteps unsure.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"I... I... I... General, it's—" She could barely make coherent sounds. Her lovely face was pale with shock.

He took her shoulders and leaned close to her. "Raven, what's happened to you?"

"Raven?" she murmured, forlornly. Then she shook her head. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "No. No Raven. Raven's gone. Just... gone. She just suddenly... I can't explain... I—"

Something cold and hard closed over Dardas's chest. "What do you mean she's gone?" he asked.

She blinked some more. "I'm just Vadya now. Raven's not with me anymore." The tears overflowed and streaked her face. "She wanted to tell... her father... wanted to tell him..."

Dardas turned away. Fergon was there. He, too, looked distressed.

"General," his aide said, "the Far Speak wizards—they, uh, sir, uh—"

"Godsdamnit, what's happened?" Dardas barked, but somewhere inside he already knew.

"They're dead, sir," Fergon said hoarsely. He turned and gestured.

Dardas saw the dark-robed shapes on the ground, a short distance off. His other officers were milling around the scene, unsettled, upset.

Had Matokin done this? If so, the man was insane.

Dardas called to his guards. "You and you and you and you," he said, pointing out each in turn. "You're going to be my messengers. Get yourselves some fast horses." He pointed out another group. "You four, scatter through the ranks. Find out if there's a magician left alive in this army. Go!"

They jumped to obey, and that was somewhat reassuring. But if this was as widespread as Dardas feared, then panic would be rippling through his army. His regular troops, his officers and soldiers, would have just witnessed the sudden and simultaneous deaths of the wizards they had fought alongside, and come to grudgingly respect, these past lunes. It would be like a shock to the body; and that body, his army, would be stunned from the trauma, and would be vulnerable while it tried to recover itself.

If the strategic intelligence behind the enemy army's movements realized the Felk army's sudden vulnerability, it could be disastrous. Dardas had to be pragmatic about this. He had to assume the enemy would thrust at them when they were weakest.

It was what he would do.

If every wizard under his command was indeed dead, then he was without his special advantages. But he was still Dardas the Butcher, and he would still demonstrate to any opponent how he had earned that title.

Dardas vaulted atop his map-strewn table. This plain was very flat and with so many torches burning among the ranks of both armies, he could see quite a distance.

There they were. The enemy. He saw the clumps of troops and horses. Dardas was indifferent to the ideologies that separated their two forces. The Felk wanted total conquest; this amalgamated army plainly meant to defend their homelands against that; whereas Dardas only wanted war. For him, it was a simple case of physical law. War required resistance. He had to have something to overcome, in order to justify his own existence. Without an enemy, he was incomplete.

But this might be more than he'd bargained for.

The word came back to him that every last wizard in the Felk ranks had apparently died, without outward cause, at precisely the same instant. As he'd suspected, panic was indeed running rampant through his army. Dardas was now without Far Movement mages to transport his forces, without Far Speak wizards to relay field intelligence or make contact with distant parts of the Isthmus. He had even lost Kumbat, who he'd gone to such lengths to acquire. Which brought up an interesting point.

What would happen to him, Dardas, the next time he required a rejuvenation spell?

Dardas climbed down from the table. The enemy had evidently seen the agitation in their ranks. They were moving now against the Felk. He had seen the forward ranks charging.

"Fergon," he said. "Bring my sword."

The aide delivered it, and Dardas strapped it on. His senior officers were gathered, their faces fearful.

"My fellows," Dardas said, his tone quiet and serious, "we are warriors, all. In our hearts is the longing to fight. Now is our time."

He called for his horse. He gave his last general orders, to be relayed through the ranks.

Attack. Attack the enemy.

Dardas glanced a last time at the dazed woman who had been a vessel for Raven. He thought of his own fellow occupant within this body, poor piteous Lord Weisel, who had imagined an exalted role for himself in this war.

Weisel, ironically, would be remembered, no matter if this night ended in obliteration for the Felk army.

Dardas's teeth bared as he rode toward the front ranks, drawing and swinging his sword overhead, rallying his fighters, letting them see him, leading and inspiring them, calling them to the only true glory that life could ever offer.