Read Online Wartorn: Resurrection by Robert Asprin, Eric Del Carlo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Asprin, Eric Del Carlo
Tags: Fiction, General, Grief, sf_fantasy, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Epic, Fantasy Fiction; American, Revenge, War stories, Magicians, Weapons, Adventure fiction, Warlords, Imaginary empires
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scornful eyes. "What I question is the degree of credibility, believability ... and trustworthiness."
It hung there for a heartbeat, like a challenge.
"I don't bring the news personally," the hooded man said, utterly unruffled. "I comment on news we've all heard. Everyone, here in the city."
"To hear rumor and tradespeople's gossip is not to hear truth." The merchant pronounced this like he was quoting a verse of sacred wisdom.
Something flared red in Radstac's almost colorless eyes.
"And to spew shit like that," she said, a low growl that carried into every corner of the place, "is to say
nothing."
She had sat still and quiet for quite some time now. She had come into this reasonably posh pub specifically to take the pulse of these merchants—these people who had much to lose if Petgrad were invaded and captured by the Felk. And now had heard enough.
Every head turned, including the one under the cowl.
Radstac pushed off her seat, standing, finally allowing her pent-up contempt to show on her scarred features.
"I can't make up my mind if you're all ignorant, out-right stupid, or just cowards."
"Now that's—" It was the landlord, lumbering over, not about to let her go on insulting his spending customers.
She whirled, reached out over the bartop, clamped his knobby pink nose between her thumb and a knuckle of her forefinger and
twisted.
He yelped, then disappeared below the level of the serving counter. If he rose with a weapon, she would know it before the top of his head came back into view.
She wasn't done addressing the assembly, and they were all still staring. Some had the good sense to look scared.
"The war news comes. You all hear it. It washes down from the north, no different than news of crop failures in other cities—stories you place great faith in, seeing how there's a potential for profit there for some of you. You know what you hear of the Felk is true. You know this war is categorically different from those you've known in the past. Different from those your grandmothers and grandfathers knew. This is a war beyond the scope of you childish Isthmusers. And yet it's real. And it's coming this way. Frightens you, doesn't it? Petrifies you. Because by the time the Felk reach here, they'll have absorbed the man-power and resources of gods know how many city-states. You'll be calling it the Felk
Empire
by then. And they've got magic on their side, and that's maybe most terrifying of all to you. They'll be unstoppable. Certainly more than a match for your army as it now stands. And you—you people of some wealth, maybe of some rank and power— what do you do? Sit on your asses, swill beer, and reassure yourselves that the danger doesn't exist. Stories for children you said, you pathetic fop?"
She might have spat then, might have hurled her cup into the faces turned her way. But her tirade had done nothing but make her disgust rise to a boil. They were still staring, still in shock. It was a fair guess that these merchants and landowners weren't often spoken to in this manner.
The landlord with the tweaked nose stayed out of sight as she marched out of the pub, using the exit that led to the latrine.
Evening had settled over Petgrad while she'd wasted time in the pub. Late summer light grew paler. High clouds were discussing the possibility of rain. Still, autumn was very near, maybe already here. It might be a winter war, depending on how long it lasted.
Insects buzzed out of her way as she emerged from the latrine stall.
She heard footsteps—someone not trying to move stealthily, someone waiting to use the pisser... or waiting for her.
He was turned from the spray of waning sunlight that spattered down into this unroofed nook alongside the pub. The grey hood showed only a solid jaw, the suggestion of lips twisted into something resembling a smile. He stood well, balanced so as to move in any direction, though the stance would appear entirely casual to a citizen's glance.
"The barkeeper
It hung there for a heartbeat, like a challenge.
"I don't bring the news personally," the hooded man said, utterly unruffled. "I comment on news we've all heard. Everyone, here in the city."
"To hear rumor and tradespeople's gossip is not to hear truth." The merchant pronounced this like he was quoting a verse of sacred wisdom.
Something flared red in Radstac's almost colorless eyes.
"And to spew shit like that," she said, a low growl that carried into every corner of the place, "is to say
nothing."
She had sat still and quiet for quite some time now. She had come into this reasonably posh pub specifically to take the pulse of these merchants—these people who had much to lose if Petgrad were invaded and captured by the Felk. And now had heard enough.
Every head turned, including the one under the cowl.
Radstac pushed off her seat, standing, finally allowing her pent-up contempt to show on her scarred features.
"I can't make up my mind if you're all ignorant, out-right stupid, or just cowards."
"Now that's—" It was the landlord, lumbering over, not about to let her go on insulting his spending customers.
She whirled, reached out over the bartop, clamped his knobby pink nose between her thumb and a knuckle of her forefinger and
twisted.
He yelped, then disappeared below the level of the serving counter. If he rose with a weapon, she would know it before the top of his head came back into view.
She wasn't done addressing the assembly, and they were all still staring. Some had the good sense to look scared.
"The war news comes. You all hear it. It washes down from the north, no different than news of crop failures in other cities—stories you place great faith in, seeing how there's a potential for profit there for some of you. You know what you hear of the Felk is true. You know this war is categorically different from those you've known in the past. Different from those your grandmothers and grandfathers knew. This is a war beyond the scope of you childish Isthmusers. And yet it's real. And it's coming this way. Frightens you, doesn't it? Petrifies you. Because by the time the Felk reach here, they'll have absorbed the man-power and resources of gods know how many city-states. You'll be calling it the Felk
Empire
by then. And they've got magic on their side, and that's maybe most terrifying of all to you. They'll be unstoppable. Certainly more than a match for your army as it now stands. And you—you people of some wealth, maybe of some rank and power— what do you do? Sit on your asses, swill beer, and reassure yourselves that the danger doesn't exist. Stories for children you said, you pathetic fop?"
She might have spat then, might have hurled her cup into the faces turned her way. But her tirade had done nothing but make her disgust rise to a boil. They were still staring, still in shock. It was a fair guess that these merchants and landowners weren't often spoken to in this manner.
The landlord with the tweaked nose stayed out of sight as she marched out of the pub, using the exit that led to the latrine.
Evening had settled over Petgrad while she'd wasted time in the pub. Late summer light grew paler. High clouds were discussing the possibility of rain. Still, autumn was very near, maybe already here. It might be a winter war, depending on how long it lasted.
Insects buzzed out of her way as she emerged from the latrine stall.
She heard footsteps—someone not trying to move stealthily, someone waiting to use the pisser... or waiting for her.
He was turned from the spray of waning sunlight that spattered down into this unroofed nook alongside the pub. The grey hood showed only a solid jaw, the suggestion of lips twisted into something resembling a smile. He stood well, balanced so as to move in any direction, though the stance would appear entirely casual to a citizen's glance.
"The barkeeper
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