Circling Birds of Prey

by Katy Winter

  When Sarehl got to his feet and crossed to Leon with his hands out, the healer rose, too, and took the fine-boned hands in a firm clasp. His clear eyes stared up into dark ones.

  "Strategos, I know what your brother means to you. Take comfort from the knowledge that he'll live and heal quite quickly. One day he'll return to you, of that I'm convinced." Sarehl nodded.

  "I'll welcome that day, healer." The two men fell apart.

  "There are those needing a healer's help. I must go to them."

  The healer left Ongwin, Sarehl and Ensore together. Sarehl smiled kindly as the older man rose, sympathy and understanding in his expression.

  "Ongwin, in the heat of battle people die. No one, least of all me, would have held you responsible for Bethel's death. That you stopped in recognition of who he was speaks volumes and earns my gratitude."

  "I wouldn't willingly hurt anyone close to you, Sarehl." The voice was sincere. No one could doubt the words uttered in a still slightly shaken voice.

  "I know that very well," said Sarehl prosaically. He added, "Bethel won't be fighting anyone now, will he?"

  "Not with the stroke I gave him," murmured Ongwin, his face still pale.

  "That only leaves Sarssen we have to watch out for," muttered Ensore. "And since he seems to look like everyone else, that's no help at all."

  "He's an excellent archer, remember," reminded Sarehl, emptying his goblet as he spoke.

  "Don't torment yourself further, old friend," chided Ensore, looking up at one who'd been a father to him. "The lad's alive and will doubtless manage to cause us considerable more anxiety before he's done. Who," he added, "would've thought the lad would be in a frontal cavalry charge rather than backing up?"

  "I wouldn't put youngsters there," admitted Ongwin, tiredness suddenly overwhelming him.

  "No," agreed Ensore, "but then, we forget Bethel's an acedar and not considered inexperienced obviously."

  "He was one of a cut to pieces rump, my lord," Ongwin yawned. "He was exhausted and faltered only through that. He didn't lack expertise. Quite the reverse. I imagine he's a rigidly disciplined fighter. They all are. They fight unremittingly all day, are infrequently rested and are also expected to sustain constant attack."

  "Yes," said Sarehl, copying Ongwin's yawning. "They may be ferocious, but none of them lack courage, or stamina and determination."

  "They would make fine allies," commented Ensore unexpectedly, then he realised what he'd said when he looked up at two surprised faces. "Some of them," he amended. "Such as Sarssen." The smile crept back to tired eyes. "One can admire skill, Ongwin, isn't that so?" A reluctant laugh was drawn from Ongwin who shook his head reprovingly.

  "I don't think they'd consider peace terms. They fight to the death those ones." He straightened his shoulders and left the pavilion.

  "Not yet they don't," murmured Ensore, an enquiring eyebrow cocked at Sarehl who looked merely amused. He shook his head.

  The two friends sat in silence, quietly drinking from refilled goblets, both men suddenly feeling drained with the strain of the day and well aware that in an hour or two battle lines would again be drawn. Sarehl had sensibly added hefty doses of angwort to both goblets, because he knew perfectly well neither of them could possibly function for another day, like the one that had passed, without it.

  "My friend," he began. "The battle was very even though I suspect the tide turned against the warlord by the time darkness came. At what cost, Ensore?"

  "Colossal," returned Ensore, his brow darkening. "Gods, Sarehl, such horror and all because one race is determined to dominate Ambros."

  "How many?" whispered Sarehl, though he had no real wish to know.

  "Ongwin puts it as high as eleven thousand and that doesn't include the injured."

  "Gods," managed Sarehl, choking on his wine. He got to his feet and began striding about. "It never becomes less, does it? It's always more and more die. And today?"

  "We go back out, Sarehl, and we do it all again."

  "Licensed murder, Ensore, that's all it is," Sarehl said in a distressed voice, a hand running through already dishevelled hair. Ensore's voice was cold and unemotional.

  "That's what war is, Sarehl, you know that."

  "Bethel could've been merely one of thousands."

  "Aye," was the uncompromising reply.

  "Gods help us," mumbled Sarehl, sitting abruptly and relapsing into a longer silence.

  He suddenly felt unwell. Neither man had the will to speak. Ensore yawned deeply and sat with his eyes half-closed while Sarehl leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable in the now fitful lantern light. He seemed to stare at the faint streaks of light that heralded a new dawn.

  The brooding silence that summed up the men's real distress was only broken by the early rays of sun that slipped through the command pavilion entrance to glint on Ensore's chestnut hair, and by the blare of horns and the first drum roll, calling men to arms. Both men came immediately to their feet.

  "Dear friend," said Ensore tiredly. "As the day begins and progresses, I'll send to you as always for your instructions. I pray we'll be together this evening." Sarehl gripped the out-held hands in his.

  "I, too, pray we meet again, Ens. May the gods guide and protect you."

  He released the Marshal's hands and turned sharply, limping quickly over to the table where he fumbled with the lanterns. Ensore watched him with a wistful smile in his eyes before he strode from the pavilion, only to fall prey to the young man who hailed him. He stopped.

  "Dase lad. Shouldn't you be with your troop?" He looked Daxel up and down, noticing immediately that the young man was indeed ready for war. "What is it, lad?"

  "I just wanted to see you before it all begins again, Ens."

  "Aye, lad, I understand. Stand tall, Dase, and know your cause is just. In war, most often that can't be said to be true, but what we fight for is the survival of Ambros as we know it, though much is destroyed. I believe I'll still be here tonight. I believe and pray you will be, too."

  "Ens," whispered Daxel.

  "The gods watch over you, lad," said Ensore very gently, his hand up to the dark head in the familiar gesture. Daxel grasped Ensore's free hand and pressed it to his lips before he sought out his elder brother. Ensore walked briskly forward.

  ~~~

  Leon saw him come but waited outside discreetly because there were so many awaiting the Marshal whom they followed into the second command pavilion, one by one, Eli among them, in animated discourse with a Sushi commander who shook his head.

  Leon watched the pavilion slowly empty of serious-faced men who, with thoughtful countenances and frowns, were deep in conversation as they walked in opposite directions from allies they'd come to trust and depend on. Their seconds strode purposefully behind them.

  Leon waited a little longer until he was sure the Marshal was alone, then he walked quietly to the pavilion entrance where he paused. He saw Ensore stand still, his eyes closed. The Marshal breathed very deeply. Silently, the healer watched Ensore turn and begin to pace up and down a track worn firm in the dirt, talking quietly to himself. When the Marshal turned for the fifth time he became aware of the healer and stopped dead, his eyebrows raised in eloquent enquiry and surprise.

  "Did you wish to speak with me, healer?" he asked courteously. He gestured for Leon to enter and indicated a chair. Leon sat, but he was merely perched on the edge of the chair. Ensore lounged more comfortably.

  "Marshal," he began. "I didn't wish to speak further in front of the Strategos." Ensore's eyes were watchful.

  "What else is there, Leon? Gods, don't spare any of us now."

  "The Strategos was distressed enough by the news of one brother. I'd no wish to compound it by the mention of another. Dase was also present." Ensore sat, too, stretching out his legs as though they were stiff. "The twin brother, Marshal - I refer to Lute." Abruptly, Ensore sat upright, his expression intent.

  "Lute?" Leon nodded.

  "That's what th
e senior warrior who came to see Bethel called the young man, Marshal."

  "Is he well? Is he alone?"

  "He's the image of his twin in so many ways, Marshal, as we'd expect since they're identical but he's emptied, lifeless and he's physically extremely frail. He looks half of Dase."

  "This is presumably the mage's doing." Ensore's voice was devoid of emotion.

  "Yes," said Leon. "If you can imagine Dase without animation of any kind then you'll comprehend how this boy is."

  "Gods," whispered Ensore. "When I first met Dase I was confronted by a child scarcely half alive. He was a tragic little figure."

  "This one is many times more so, Marshal, I can assure you."

  "Is he alone?" repeated Ensore, the healer not missing the distress in the deep voice.

  "His master isn't yet with the southern army but I sense it won't be too long before he is."

  "Is Lute with Bethel?"

  "It seems they spend time together and, oddly enough, I think there's some sort of bond between them though Lute doesn't know Bethel as his brother. Lute's drawn to Bethel in a strangely compulsive way. I doubt his master would approve." Thinking quickly, Ensore stared down at his hands.

  "You were right not to distress the brothers so close to battle, healer. Can you tell me exactly what happened with Lute and Bethel when you were present? Did Lute recognise what you are?"

  "What I am, Marshal?" Ensore raised his head with the ghost of a smile.

  "I know you're an Adept, Leon, and that Sarssen's probably one too. I imagine, from Sarssen's protectiveness of Bethel, that the young one has talent in that direction and I've been sure for cycles that Sarehl has depths of perception unusual in a man. Even Dase hasn't escaped, has he? He has an ability to draw people to him and engenders trust beyond what one would expect. He has remarkable charisma. Brue has extraordinary sensitivity and can understand things well beyond his age. There's something about all of them that makes them unique. I'm not unusual in any way, healer, but I see and I can think." Leon's serious eyes became disconcertingly twinkling and he wore what was almost a grin.

  "Did Kaleb tell you this?" Ensore shook his head, his smile spreading mischievously.

  "No, Adept, Kaleb is a very reliable and discreet Level Four - isn't that correct?"

  Leon began to laugh. When he did, his appearance altered noticeably, making him look much younger. His chuckle was surprisingly deep-chested for such a slightly built man.

  "Yes, Marshal, as you say, he's a Level Four. I don't deny anything you say. Shall we get back to Lute?"

  "Yes," agreed Ensore cordially. "We should."

  "What do you know of him?"

  "That he was enslaved on a caravan sent south and that Kaleb was finally unable to reach him. By tracking through Dase later, he realised one of power had Lute and the young one has suffered to such an extent he became mute. I believed, as many did, that it was that which attracted the southern mage, but now I'm not so sure. Something else drew Lute to the sorcerer's attention. Dase had flares of anguish on and off for cycles, then nothing much."

  "There's another Adept, called Setoni, who has more knowledge of Lute, Marshal. He's followed the boy more closely. Let me tell you about Lute."

  His eyes keen and his mind fully attuned to any possible detail, Ensore sat back and listened to a tale that saddened and shook him. He grieved for what was done to one who was part of Daxel, a young one Ensore loved as though Daxel were his son. While the healer spoke Ensore vividly saw Daxel's double being abused, shamed and hurt and it twisted in him like a knife. He was silent when Leon stopped talking, his eyes on his boots.

  "And he's now with the warlord?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you sense?"

  "Power, Marshal, shaped and ready. No emotions. He's passionless."

  "Could he be dangerous?"

  "Oh yes, Marshal, very."

  "Against one who is part of him?"

  "He doesn't know that," corrected the Adept gently.

  "You're saying he's purely an instrument of his master's?"

  "It appeared so to me, Marshal, but I may be wrong."

  "That poor boy," whispered Ensore, in shaken tones.

  "You had to be warned, Marshal, but you see why I came to you?"

  "Yes." Ensore scuffed the dirt absently, dust covering his boot. "And Bethel?"

  "As I said, Lute's drawn in an inexplicable way to Bethel. He shouldn't be able to respond, but he does."

  "That suggests he could respond in alternative ways, doesn't it?"

  "His master isn't present," reminded Leon.

  "No," sighed Ensore. "You mention a warrior called Kher."

  "He's the haskar who cares for him all the time, though he in turn has other warriors who seem to keep watch over Lute."

  "Why?"

  "I gather that it's been they, with Kher, who've been responsible for Lute whenever he's been away from the Keep."

  "His new keepers in fact?"

  "No," disagreed the little healer, with a definite shake of the head. "Kher, who's second in command after Haskar Bensar, cares for the young man more than he'd wish it known I suspect. And the boy depends to a surprising degree on that haskar. I'd suggest that Lute, were he sentient, would have a deep relationship with Kher that would be reciprocal."

  "Physical?" asked Ensore startled.

  "No, Marshal, emotional. Kher, whether he's aware of it or not, treats that young man as though he is his son. And it's only Kher to whom Lute fully responds - to the extent that he can. Lute was spoken to by others in the warlord's pavilion -." Leon broke off at the look of surprise on the Marshal's face.

  "Warlord's pavilion," repeated Ensore.

  "Bethel's being cared for there," explained Leon. "When Lute was addressed by others he essentially ignored them. He responded time and again, instantly and with profound respect, to Kher. It's also only Kher who can touch him. No one else can other than Bethel. I saw that very clearly."

  "Interesting," muttered Ensore, through pursed lips. "How did Lute respond to Bethel's injury?"

  "He sat next to his brother, took Bethel's hand in his and spoke for all Ambros as though the boy was conscious. He said that the injury was a transient thing and that one day, the boy who is his brother, would come again. Then he and Kher left. And to answer your earlier question, no, Lute didn't notice me in the shadows.

  "Mm," murmured Ensore pensively. "Where the apprentice goes, so follows the master."

  "Exactly, Marshal," assented Leon, running a hand through sparse hair. "He also has a shade who stays close." He saw Ensore's face at that.

  "So where," wondered Ensore rubbing his beard, "is the mage?"

  "Very close, I suspect. We'll need to be vigilant." Ensore nodded briskly.

  "I'll advise Sarehl of all this later, when I feel it's appropriate."

  "Quite so, Marshal," agreed the healer, with the faintest trace of a smile. He knew, where Ensore didn't, that Sarehl was very heavily blocked again.

  "It gives much food for thought," mused Ensore. "And the warlord. Did you see him?' Leon gave a shiver.

  "Yes," he answered quietly. "He rarely leaves Bethel and tends him most gently and carefully."

  "And your impression, healer?"

  "There, Marshal, is a man of tremendous authority and overwhelming charisma. Had Bethel not been the gentle, yielding type of boy he is, he wouldn't now be alive. How he survived physically will always amaze me because the warlord would be the most powerfully built warrior I'm ever likely to see. There's frightening strength in every part of him." Leon paused, then added candidly, "Marshal, in his hands I wouldn't have lasted more than a few hours at most – Bethel's survived ten cycles with him. That boy is very, very special." Leon rose and looked down at a thoughtful Ensore. "Never let anyone tell you otherwise, Marshal."

  "I won't." Ensore watched the healer leave.

  ~~~

  Ensore had just finished readying himself for war and was slamming home a sword into
a scabbard when he turned round instinctively, aware he wasn't alone. He stared across the pavilion perplexed, wondering if the stooped figure had somehow lost its way that it should have strayed so near to the front line. Such an elderly man shouldn't have got anywhere near military action. Ensore went forward with the intention of assisting his visitor to a safer zone of the camp. He saw a hand held up and hesitated.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, in his usual even-tempered tone. He stood still with his hand courteously extended.

  The venerable man came across the pavilion to stand near Ensore, the stranger's eyes meeting and holding with the Marshal's. Ensore saw expressive and big violet eyes that seemed to look through and beyond him, with an uncanny knowledge of all he was or could be. The old man grasped the extended hand, looking down at Ensore from a greater height despite his stoop.

  "Do you mind if I sit, young one?" A good-humoured smile lit Ensore's eyes.

  "Please be my guest," he answered obligingly.

  "Are all Dahkilans as polite and discreet, young man? Or is your manner because you are Chamah-Elect of your people and thus so courtly to uninvited guests?" The smile disappeared from Ensore's eyes to be replaced by a wariness that wasn't missed by the old man. "Very proper, young man," he observed. "You've no idea who I am, have you?"

  "No," replied Ensore deliberately. "Nor are these days to take such an appearance lightly."

  "True." There was a note of mirth in the voice as well as the trace of a wheeze as the old man drew out a very small pipe that he filled in a leisurely fashion. Ensore's concern ebbed. To his mind, menacing figures didn't sit back puffing gently with their eyes closing.

  Ensore studied the figure intently. The man was extremely tall, he was robed and very thin, almost transparent; the hair was an unruly mass of luxuriant whiteness and the eyes, when open, were a deep velvety violet, large, alluring and extraordinarily luminous. The man appeared to be very, very old - older than a normal man should be. Ensore's heart almost stood still as he thought of his conversation with Leon about Luton and his master. The half-closed eyes opened and regarded Ensore thoughtfully.

  "I'm not the southern mage, young one, if that's what's bothering you," he said quietly, taking his pipe from his mouth. His assessment of Ensore's thoughts was so accurate the Marshal couldn't help but let a reluctant chuckle escape. He saw the old man nod approvingly at him.