Circling Birds of Prey

by Katy Winter

  "He tells me about dragons, Sar, little ones and big ones. Big Ice ones have coloured eyes. Have you ever seen one, Sar?" Sarehl shook his head, his arms down to gather up the little boy. He caught Lian's eyes and saw the hint of a smile there.

  "No, little man, I haven't, but one day you and Lian could show me, couldn't you?" Kalbeth clasped his arms round Sarehl's neck as the tall man straightened.

  "I'd like to tell my farfar but he's gone, hasn't he, Da?" There was sad wistfulness to the voice that was slightly muffled.

  "No, lad," corrected Sarehl gently. "He hasn't gone and he loves you as dearly as we do. He wishes he could be with us, but remember he's a prisoner. One day he'll be free and he'll come home to his son, a musician like him of whom he'll be so proud."

  "Tell me again, Sar, what he looks like," begged Kalbeth. Hands held the little boy tightly.

  "I'll tell you about Mater and your father as you're put to sleep. It's time little boys dreamed of Ice dragons with coloured eyes." As he spoke, Sarehl nodded at Lian and began to walk to the pavilion entrance, saying, "Like me, and as you'll be, your Da is very, very tall, with long black curly hair like yours -."

  Lian closed his eyes and dozed.

  Ambrosian Chronicles

  Third Age

  12215

  Much is happening on Ambros. We're kept busy assimilating just how much is being learned by those living there. Knowledge comes very quickly. Those of the northern army are now in a strong position and will be a formidable force when battle is finally joined.

 

  Lian, son of Bruno, is a free man, though we can't assess how badly hurt he may be through Malekim's actions. He is with Sarehl, Dase and the youngest brother, Brue. Brue is Lian's half-brother. Brue interests us because he's an unusual boy with abnormal sensitivity to those round him. He led to the discovery of Malekim's henchman. The Mishtok gave us the details of what was learned before Queeb was executed. It disturbs us. The plans hatched long ago by Malekim are frightening in complexity and menace.

 

  We believe he's left the Keep. The Watchers are alert.

 

  We know the armies of north and south are now close. Conflict will be soon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Skirmishes began between the two armies, neither commander ready to commit his full force against the other but both sides engaging in forays that assessed and tested the strengths and weaknesses of the opposition.

  Lodestok noticed and appreciated the warlike spirit that pervaded the northern army and was apparent in the clashes on the fields. Those men were eager to fight, highly motivated, and, he acknowledged privately with a grim little smile, extremely well disciplined. They obeyed commands to break and engage almost on the order in movements of such precision he was reminded of the steppemen of the south. He heard their war cry echo across the countryside as swords were measured between northerners and southerners again and again.

  Though Lodestok was a cruel and impatient man of restless spirit, he was no fool as a commander. Once he may have thought to intimidate and overwhelm the northerners, but he was fast thinking of new approaches that would be required when his army finally confronted this highly organised and formidable force. He recognised significant numbers of Dahkilans.

  Then he thought of the Chamah's son who escaped Dahkilah and intended destruction. The smile faded to a scowl that intensified when the warlord's thoughts came back, inevitably, to Sarehl. Lodestok still dearly wished to know how someone as savaged as Sarehl was, and left out to die, survived. He felt there was something abnormal about Sarehl. He knew Blach thought the young man so dangerous he'd gone to inordinate trouble to have him eliminated, so Lodestok knew, too, that the sorcerer's plans had not gone smoothly at all. Quite the reverse. He'd also not found Myme Chlo. Nor was Bethel dead. The male line of Alfar and Melas was still very much alive.

  This morning Lodestok stood on the hillock where Bethel and Sarssen stood previously, his eyes scrutinising isolated skirmishes that had broken out since early light. He watched the clashing sides, the smile on in his face broadening. He knew the battles that came close would be evenly matched, with neither side prepared to give ground as they surged back and forth. As a warrior, it excited and stimulated him. Even though he knew men would die in their tens of thousands, still that odd and menacingly predatory light, that so terrorised Bethel, lit the pale eyes. The warlord actually licked his lips. What he watched now was merely a prelude to what would come.

  ~~~

  These skirmishes may only have been amusing interludes to the warlord but it was different for Bethel, many of his men, and the men of other beduars. Like them he was sent out to tackle a small body of northerners who invited them out towards the left of the main camps and on thoroughly uneven ground.

  Bethel was told to move in from the right of a small detachment led by an acedar. It engaged a small group of northern foot and cavalry. Since he followed another group, he was spared the jarring, initial crash of the two opposing groups when they met head on, but he was, however, soon in the middle of the fray. Momentarily confused by deafening noise of metal on metal, yells, swearing and whinnying, he urged his men into the accepted formation to resist the small determined group of men who surged towards them. He sensed there were little conflicts all about him.

  Despite being initially a mite dazed, training reasserted itself. Bethel swung into action automatically. He waited, crouched over his horse, his men held back until the northmen were well-nigh on them, then he sat erect, his sword raised at the correct angle to signal the advance. As they clashed in earnest, Bethel saw, from the corner of his eye, a group of cavalry detach themselves from an encounter they'd obviously won and turn their attention to Bethel and his men. Bethel suddenly had to hold steady in the face of skirmishing from two sides. From the moment fight was joined, Bethel had no time to think.

  He had his first lesson of war. This was no practised drill in front of imaginary foes - this was no game. Repeatedly, Bethel engaged then fell back from the battering. Swept back, he and those of his men with him were forced to regroup. Bethel learned that war was cruel and brutal. No quarter was given by any to the other. Bethel heard sounds that seemed unreal, horses stamped or screamed, and men gasped, howled or bawled as they were wounded. The air in this small but sanguine melee actually smelled of blood.

  Bethel was unaware he received assistance because he was scarcely conscious of where he was as he was cut and slashed at with a fury and loathing he wouldn't have believed possible. His instinct was to stop. He knew he couldn't, driven on as he was both by his training and a refusal to be a casualty of the grim-faced northerners he knew would willingly die in front of him. Though only very few on either side were seriously injured, the faces of northerners were masks of bitter hatred. Bethel swallowed gorge as he disengaged and withdrew.

  Later that day, Bensar ordered Bethel to assist in a larger encounter centred around a small copse of trees at the base of the hillock he'd stood on days before. He was told to lend support on the right flank of a small detachment of Alleghy's men who were somewhat hard-pressed. It was in this fray Bethel sustained his first injury. An axe, held at close quarters, caught his left leg a glancing blow just as he wrenched his stallion back and round in a defensive move that should've protected the rider. Unfortunately, Bethel was pushed inwards by pressure from other riders and couldn't avoid the blow as it fell, his shield inadequate. Knocked sideways, he slipped from the horse. It plunged, ditched him and left Bethel to crash to the ground. He was lucky not to be beheaded when the axe came crashing down inches from his head. Winded, he struggled to his knees and then to his feet. His horse sensibly bolted.

  Bethel now found himself fighting for himself, not for the Churchik, or the warlord, or Bensar. He fought mechanically, his injured leg hampering him as he tried slowly to retreat, stumbling over men and weapons as he went. He felt everything happened in slow motion as he watched several northerners sight him as an easy
kill and converge on him at exactly the same moment.

  Then he was very roughly pulled backwards and half dragged from the clash, thrust roughly to the ground when his knees sagged then gave way and had his head pushed between his knees. He threw up. A strong hand hauled him to his feet again and held him as he floundered and occasionally fell, Bethel finally allowed to crouch on the ground in a nearby thicket. He gasped for breath.

  He thought he was a long way from the melee but when he got his wind back and looked up he saw this wasn't so. He felt nothing when he stared at the men milling on the meadow or when he glanced at his leg. He sat heavily. After a minute he looked up with dazed eyes, to stare into deep green eyes watching him, their expression sympathetic and kindly.

  "Well, boy, you have had your first taste of war," said the deep voice that always reassured Bethel and calmed him. Sarssen put his hand on Bethel's shoulder as the young man shuddered, unable to speak and not expected to. The quiet voice went on gently, "You were doing well in that minor scuffle, Beth, until your horse bolted. Then things got tense for you, did they not?" Bethel nodded. "What hit you, boy?" With an effort, Bethel spoke.

  "A Cartokian axe, my lord."

  "No wonder you slipped from your horse, boy. Is it deep?"

  "I do not know."

  Sarssen sat beside him and Bethel leaned gratefully against the warrior's shoulder, conscious of the big man's arm going round him.

  "Unpleasant, boy, is it not?"

  "Is this what it is always like, my lord?" Sarssen glanced down at the wilted figure and a sad smile came to his face.

  "No, Beth. When it comes the battle will be very much worse than this. This is only playing at war."

  "It did not feel like that to me," mumbled Bethel, suddenly feeling desperately sick.

  "You were in a fairly vigorous tussle, boy, but, believe me, when the big battle comes we shall be lucky to come through unscathed, any of us." Bethel licked his lips.

  "Did I disgrace myself?" he whispered. "I tried though I was not born a warrior." He felt before he heard the deep chuckle.

  "No, Beth, you acquitted yourself very well and your men are a credit to you." Bethel was silent for a moment then coughed.

  "The northerners are good fighters, are they not, my lord?" The arm around Bethel tightened as Sarssen looked over the meadow, his eyes narrowing.

  "Yes, boy, they are very well disciplined, their archers are excellent and they have a cause to fight for. We fight for conquest - they fight for their survival, their societies, and what they believe in." Sarssen paused. "The cavalry who retire now are Dahkilan, which is why your master was so angry they escaped all those cycles ago. If I am correct and that is the Dahkilan, they are quite formidable. You met them this morning, did you not?"

  Bethel tried to speak, but his nervous stomach got the better of him and his body convulsed again. Sarssen immediately pushed the dark head forward as Bethel heaved.

  Bethel was left with a healer who was brisk and curt and dealt dextrously and unceremoniously with the wound. The cut was reasonably deep but clean, Bethel gritting his teeth as it was stitched and dressed. Told to return the next day, he was pushed abruptly away. He limped from the makeshift sick area, stopped and stared around him, a sudden lump rising in his throat that had to be hastily swallowed.

  Jane took one look at the youth when he hobbled into the unsel and his face partly puckered, tears in his grey eyes and his hands out in a gesture of relief.

  "Thank the gods, lad. Your horse was found and returned so I was worried you'd been hurt. You have been, haven't you?" Bethel gave a shaken smile, his ashen colour not escaping Jane's observant eyes.

  "Only a very little, Jane. The healer has dealt with it so it should be alright." Jane glanced down at the calf of Bethel's left leg.

  "Is it painful, lad?"

  "Not much," admitted Bethel, with an indifferent shrug. "The warlord has done worse to me. I got hit there by an axe once before, Jane, when I became a warrior. Do you remember?" An answering smile came to Jane's face.

  "Aye, lad, so you did. You should take better care of yourself."

  The scold was the gentlest reprimand and Bethel responded by squeezing the hands he held. Jane bullied Bethel to lie on a mattress while at the same time he ordered Mishak to look sharp about organising a bath. Then he applied himself to hauling on the muddied boots that he threw to the unsel entrance.

  He even let Lute clamber up beside Bethel so the dog could energetically and affectionately lick the bloodied, dusty face. When Bethel quietly pushed Lute back, the dog stretched out beside his master, his eyes watchful.

  Bathed, dressed and with the wet off his hair, Bethel threw himself face down on the mattress, his right arm about Lute's neck and his head buried in the cushions. He didn't weep. He knew he'd gone beyond that. What he faced for the first time was the truth about himself. He was no warrior and never would truly be one in the mould of the Churchik - he couldn't look death in the face and laugh defiance at it. Each person he confronted this day represented a living and spiritual being to him that he had no right to destroy. Inside he knew war was wrong. That the north had to fight was accepted, but Bethel couldn't reject the knowledge that all that was carried out in the name of conquest and glory was false. And he acknowledged that he was part of this futility. He was reminded starkly, yet again, of his lack of choice.

  He thought of the ferocity with which the opposition, his own men and other warriors fought but it didn't give him courage. It sickened him. And he knew, with dreadful recognition, that what he witnessed on a tiny scale today would be repeated until one side was beaten to total abject submission or he himself was dead, whichever came first. He remembered, with a gasp, how he was reduced to the same abject submission in only a day by a new master and tried to dismiss the resurging, awful memory. He turned his head and buried it in his free arm.

  While Bethel lay there absolutely still, Jane gently brushed the long mane until it was dry, not speaking as he worked because he was well aware of the state of the boy's mind. Once the hair lay in glossy coils, Jane sent Mishak for food and, when the slave boy returned, he spoke softly to Bethel.

  "Young one, are you awake?" Bethel sighed. "Then, lad, though I know you'll say you're not hungry, you can't starve yourself. It's getting late and the warlord will expect you."

  Bethel rolled over, his face so white and his eyes so big, Jane couldn't speak further for a long moment. He noticed how the beard grew quickly on the youthful face, realising at the same time how cruel war was that it affected someone like Bethel in this way. He stared at an aesthetic face, finely and sensitively sculpted, and at the hands of a rarely gifted musician - and he knew that Bethel was no more made for killing than was the musical instrument the boy played.

  Bethel took the bowl held out to him by Mishak and absently ate in silence, obediently taking the bread that Jane kept giving him. Jane noticed how firmly Bethel clung to Lute, feeding the hound pieces of meat and crusts when the dog pathetically rolled his eyes and pawed at him. After eating Bethel lounged on his cushions, his tankard held in his hands and with Lute sprawled across his stomach and chest. Jane stretched out on his mattress and closed his eyes. He didn't hear Bethel leave.

  ~~~

  When Bethel entered the warlord's pavilion he was met by a growled demand for an explanation, but Bethel looked so bewildered Lodestok paused, eying the youth speculatively.

  "How late is it, boy, that another has had to serve me in your place?" Bethel shook his head slowly.

  "I do not know, my lord." Lodestok continued to watch him.

  "Come to me, boy," he suggested, hoisting himself up on the huge bed more comfortably. Upon Bethel approaching, he held out his hand and grasped Bethel's wrist. "Sit, boy!" Bethel obeyed without a second thought, automatically taking the full goblet the warlord offered him. He murmured his thanks. "I believe you did well today, boy, and kept your head in the face of assault. Bensar says your men fight remarkably well and seem
to have loyalty to you."

  "My lord." Bethel's voice was colourless and the warlord noticed the apathy.

  "Does something trouble you, boy?" Bethel shook his head.

  "I had a few men with injuries today, my lord," he said quietly. "I went to see them and the others before I came to you. I am sorry I am late to your service."

  "Drink your wine, boy!"

  It was a curt order that Bethel obeyed. When he finished the goblet it was immediately refilled. This was repeated three times, until Bethel began to suspect the warlord of making him drunk. He asked if that was so. To his surprise, Lodestok laughed.

  "You have been in your first fight, boy, and crossed the threshold into true manhood. I do not pretend to understand your apparent shock, but you need to have your mind taken from the events of the day, would you not agree?"

  "My lord," mumbled Bethel, lifting the goblet yet again at the nod from the warlord.

  He'd rapidly drunk four goblets of wine and felt warmth envelop him as he sank back onto the cushions beside the warlord, his hand up to his head and his eyes less black and haunted. Lodestok saw they were luminous and soft, and the mouth was relaxed and curled upwards at the corners in the irresistible and sensual way the warlord appreciated.

  "Ah, boy," he said silkily, taking the empty goblet from the slack hand and placing it with his own on the table by the bed. Bethel stared up at the warlord's touch on his belt, then closed his eyes.

  ~~~

  It was still only spring this particular evening when Bethel arrived in the warlord's pavilion to find Sarssen comfortably ensconced in a chair opposite Lodestok. His expression was calm and unreadable, so Bethel wasn't alarmed. Both men drank amicably, Lodestok appearing unusually relaxed, though his eyes glittered when he looked up on his slave's entry. Bethel knew the warlord had consumed a lot of wine.