by Katy Winter
Ensore nodded and, putting an arm about Sarehl, they walked from the pavilion.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bethel felt himself lifted very carefully onto a horse and gasped when he was leaned back against a broad chest where a strong arm encircled him and held him firmly. He heard a curt command and moaned faintly when the horse moved forward.
The long, jarring ride had Bethel drift in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of being lifted down from the horse and laid gently on the ground where he had the wound attended to. He obediently drank the bitter doses and gritted his teeth at the regular and painful changes of dressings. He recognised Sarssen and the warlord, but mostly all he was conscious of was searing pain, his eyes clouding and tears dripping down his cheeks.
The army marched, at speed, for seven days, steadily north-westward and pushed the northern army hard. By the time they stopped both armies were deep inside Elban territory and were considerably closer to the Chasa Mountains.
Bethel had no way of knowing that the day he was so badly hurt the southern army lost fourteen thousand men, nor did he know the warlord lost as many again the following day, the battle lines drawn up a little to the east of where battle was fought the day before. Lodestok had pushed the northerners back, but it wasn't easy, with the southern army repulsed. And the warlord didn't have his victory.
The cost to both sides was horrendous. Nearly a third of the southern army lay dead on Kyaran and Elban soil and even worse were the thousands of wounded who'd die. The awful tragedy for many was the warlord's order that the worst injured foot soldiers were to be left behind to fend for themselves. Only those wounded and the warriors and slaves would move on.
Healers were appalled and flatly refused to move west, something no enslaved healer had previously done. Enraged at their unexpected defiance Lodestok dealt swiftly with them. As one was harshly beaten the others submitted, their faces parchment coloured with shock and revulsion. Lodestok didn't leave it there either. He had the defiant healers worked on by the barkashads with their wicked canes - not a word of protest was heard from a healer when, as a group, they were spread out down the line for the march northwest.
After resting for a day the army marched again for another six days before coming to a halt. This time the stay was permanent because the northern army had stopped and showed no signs of being moved forward again. In fact the Marshal made his intentions clear. The vanguard of the southern army that nosed the northerners suddenly found themselves on the end of a very sharp attack that reminded them they be careful. They pulled back and slowed to a distance that wasn't considered provocative.
Once camp was set, Bethel recovered quite quickly. The wound completely sealed and the pain lessened by the day. He was soon up and about and living back in his own pavilion though the warlord expected to have his company for most of the day. He wandered about with his arm in a sling, was pale, and his hair was shorter by at least eight inches. Bethel vaguely remembered Lodestok clipping it while he lay quiet days before and knew the axe blow took a large hank of his hair. He was grateful for that.
He was overcome by the devastation wrought by the north, many he'd known and liked lost, the warrior ranks thinned and his own men reduced by two-thirds, if not more. He was unsurprised to be told Bensar died in the fourth battle of the northern war, the haskar rallying his warriors for the final charge that pushed the northern army back. Like everyone else, Bethel acknowledged Kher was now second in command. He saw, too, how many slashes and deeper cuts Sarssen uncomplainingly bore when the older man came across to him the first day he was up and dressed.
"Little brother, it is good to see you up and about. How do you feel, boy?"
"Well enough, Sarssen," answered Bethel, with a watery grin. "You are badly cut."
"These are nothing, boy." Green eyes smiled kindly. "I hate to say this, Beth, but as soon as you are out of that sling you will be expected back out on the field."
"I know," sighed Bethel tiredly. "I feel better." Sarssen grunted. "Will I be with you, my lord?" Sarssen shrugged.
"That will be Kher's decision, boy. You will report to him, of course."
"Yes, my lord," replied Bethel tonelessly. Sarssen glanced at him.
"Would you want to be with me, boy?" He saw the blush touch pale cheeks before Bethel bent his head.
"Yes, my lord," came so quietly Sarssen nearly missed it.
"Well then, Beth, we shall see what can be done." He was rewarded with Bethel's still rather tremulous smile.
"My lord," he whispered.
When he asked after Luth of another warrior, he got a shake of the head and when he tentatively asked whether Luth was buried with the honour accorded a dead warrior he was relieved to be told curtly that indeed Luth, among others, had been honoured as Churchik tradition demanded. Biting back tears, Bethel turned away. It was only now he felt he could grieve properly.
He went to his pavilion where he grasped Lute firmly to him, before he went to his knees beside the bed to weep for an atypical Churchik who'd had as gentle an essence as his own. He cried for the loss of a dear and irreplaceable friend. Jane entered, then stopped when he saw how distressed Bethel was and sensibly retreated, leaving the kneeling figure that clasped a dog close, in solitude.
Bethel was overjoyed when he first sighted Manas approaching his table one morning early on in his recovery. Manas' blue eyes were alight with affection and pleasure when they lighted on Bethel quaffing badran and throwing dice with three other acedars. He, too, sported a nasty injury, his taken on the left thigh, and, though he was cheerful and his conversation sprightly Bethel sensed Manas' spirit was affected by his experience. The devilry was gone. So was the youth. After their quiet drink together after the other warriors had gone, Bethel was left thoughtful and a little sad because Manas seemed a sombre young man.
Bethel found Lodestok quieter, his rages less frequent though when they came they were no less ferocious and frightening and while Bethel recuperated the warlord made no demands of him. Their evenings were spent with Sarssen, mostly drinking, talking, gambling, or playing either mind or board games that afforded the warlord considerable amusement as he castigated his two sons for not being quicker.
As Bethel's arm and shoulder strengthened he was able to pick up the estibe for short periods. He knew it gave the warlord pleasure even though he'd been playing the pipes for some days now. He'd feel a large hand rest on his head, sometimes play with his hair or just rest there. These were days of rare contentment for Bethel. He saw a new relaxation about Sarssen too.
Out in training Bethel found that for training purposes he was directly under Kher, though his cavalry troop was a detachment that would fight under Sarssen. Bethel was highly efficient with the bow, so he welcomed this. Though his injury was tender and prone to a nagging ache, Bethel knew, after several weeks, that he was battle ready and would again be involved in the renewal of the war. Kher was no less tough than Bensar, though Bethel thought the man had more humanity and tolerance than his predecessor. Kher's whip fell less often than Bensar's but when it hit Bethel found it lacked none of the force he remembered from early days under Bensar.
He'd feared and then finally respected Bensar. He admired Kher who inspired rather than commanded respect, though his deep mistrust and subliminal fear of the Churchik was never far away. Watching the young acedar one day Kher saw that deep in the purple eyes when they fleetingly met his: it was then the haskar saw the subjugated slave as he'd seen it all those cycles ago in Luton. He wondered if either Luton or Bethel would ever come beyond it. When he asked Bethel to do anything Bethel responded instantly and efficiently, always aware the haskar's eyes rested on him. He never asked himself why.
He lived a hectic life that left little time for leisure or contemplation. Jane noticed that Bethel again showed signs of filling out his exceptionally tall and slender body. Bethel was no youth, the broad shoulders and firmly muscled body that of a young athlete and warrior. Bethel was mature.<
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~~~
With the close of the season came a chill in the winds that came up at the end of the day. Evenings began to darken early. It was on one such night that a stranger entered Lodestok's pavilion where the warlord sat with Sarssen and Bethel, the former humouring Lodestok by throwing dice and the latter playing the estibe.
Since Bethel's head was bent over the instrument, he didn't see the very tall, thin and robed man cross the pavilion behind him, but when he did hear the rustle of robes and look up, he saw shock clearly etched on Sarssen's face. His fingers stilled on the estibe, Bethel needed no other warning. He flinched at the voice that came curtly into his mind with a coldness that made the warlord's frigidity tepid.
"You play well, Bethel. Or should I call you Sorien, son of the warlord?"
Bethel bent his head, his mind reeling at the casual probing that analysed him and then discarded him. Stumbling to his feet as the slave he knew himself to be, he bowed and let the estibe fall to the ground with a discordant clang. He didn't see Lodestok look at him with narrowed eyes.
"Look at me, slave of the warlord," came the order in Bethel's mind. He obeyed instinctively. "Still as pretty as the babe in Ortok, aren't you?" sneered the voice.
Bethel shivered as he looked into eyes that didn't seem to be there, yet were somehow overpowering and profoundly threatening. He knew deep terror as he realised he stared up at his brother's master. His eyes dropped, unable to hold the menacing contact. "You've been well trained as a slave, haven't you?" the mocking voice went on. "Yes, you do well to fear me, son of Alfar and Melas. I can enter your mind at will, as I do your brother's. You wouldn't wish to disobey me or refuse me in anything, child, now would you?" Helplessly, Bethel shook his head. "You're deeply favoured by the warlord. Your body offers him untold pleasures presumably, as it was meant to for a time." Bethel coloured.
"My lord," he mumbled.
"Answer me!"
"Yes, my lord, it must be so." The words were wrenched from Bethel. He couldn't move.
"You are not tormenting my boy, are you, mage?" came an icily, amused voice. Bethel felt himself released. He stood limply before he sank weakly to his knees, his hands seeking the estibe. He saw the contemptuous gesture flicked in his direction and flinched.
"Not at all, Warlord," replied the mage blandly, his eyes coming to rest on Sarssen.
"That relieves my mind," came the sardonic comment. "Be seated, mage."
"Neither of your sons," came the scornful voice, "has any talent that could be of use to me. I thought the boy, because of his brother, may be valuable, but his mind is useless and simple. Doubtless he entertains you pleasurably of an evening?" Lodestok's smile was extremely unpleasant, his lips curling in a sneer.
"We manage," he responded evenly.
"Have you more slaves and riches, Warlord, and more mutes for my entertainment?" Bethel shivered.
"I do not believe that is why you have come north, mage." Lodestok's voice was cool and unfriendly. Malekim looked across at the warlord who hadn't moved.
"Have I angered you, my friend?" he enquired, his tone such that another deeper shiver shook Bethel. He dared a glance at Sarssen but saw the warrior's face was unusually blank. "If the two of them mean much to you as sons, I shall leave them alone, Warlord."
"They can serve you no useful purpose," Lodestok replied, his eyes steely and implacable.
Bethel and Sarssen both heard the mage's laugh echo in their minds because they winced at the same moment. Lodestok didn't move. The mage stood still with an aura of power around him that was frightening and the smile, writhing on his almost non-existent lips, was menacing. His words were spoken softly, almost with a sibilant hiss.
"As you wish, Warlord. I would, however, speak with you, as much time has passed since we came to such a mutually satisfactory agreement so long ago. Can you get rid of your sons, metaphorically speaking, of course, so that we may converse uninterrupted, and you address me, I notice, as mage. Why is that?" He sat as he spoke.
Lodestok nodded a curt dismissal, both Sarssen and Bethel coming to their feet at the same instant. The warlord's voice followed Bethel.
"You will be sent for, Sorien."
"Yes, my lord," managed Bethel on a whisper, aware of eye sockets that followed their exit with interest.
The last words they heard were, "And how is my apprentice? Is he well?"
~~~
Bethel was shaking so much by the time he and Sarssen reached the latter's pavilion, he was quite unable to hold a goblet to his mouth let alone drink from it. Quietly the warrior knelt beside him so he could hold the goblet for Bethel.
"Drink, boy." Sarssen tilted the goblet so Bethel had to swallow.
He choked and coughed but swallowed again. The big eyes were wild and frightened, Bethel's hand going to his healed arm as if seeking reassurance.
"It is him," he mumbled, drinking again.
"Yes, boy, it is the mage."
"Lute's master. Ah the gods, big brother, what Lute must have -." Bethel gasped and bent his head into his hands.
"Beth, it is a shock for us, but we knew sooner or later the mage would come. I find such a man as distressing as you do though I have not a brother used by a mage in the way you have. If it were you used so, I would be distraught as you are, but Beth, you must have courage and face up to him. Such as the mage thrive on the fear they cause others, just in the same way our master engenders fear in us."
"I sense evil about the mage," whispered Bethel. "It is an all-embracing sense of all that is wrong and malevolent. It terrifies me."
"And our master, Beth? Do you not sense this?"
"With the warlord?" asked Bethel, running his hands through his hair in a distracted way.
"Yes, Beth, with the warlord."
"No," came the response, then Bethel hiccupped and looked across at the still kneeling warrior. His hands a little steadier, he took the goblet held out to him. "No," he repeated. "Our master is cruel and can be brutal. At his hands I suffer fear and pain. I will again as long as I live as his slave - he has agonised and threatened me and I am deeply afraid of what he can do to me. It is why I obey him without a second thought, but the warlord is not the personification of evil. A monster at times, yes, I do not deny that, but he is not totally evil as I sense the mage is." Sarssen stood.
"Would the mage have saved you in battle, little brother?"
"No."
"Or when you were poisoned?"
"No."
"You see clearly, Beth. Like you, I fear our master because I know just a little of what the warlord is capable. I fear his terrible tempers and even though I am no longer a boy who can be as physically hurt as I once was, I am always conscious, in the way you are, of what he could do.
Neither of us will ever be immune to what he has made us - slaves coerced to believe we are inferior to what the warlord is and represents. But I, too, sense that with the mage there is something more than ordinary callousness and indifference - with one such as he nothing matters, not even a warlord, and that fact frightens me more than anything. That mage has no scruples, boy, and will kill with impunity if anyone gets in his way and that includes our master."
"How does he know me, my lord?" Sarssen looked perplexed.
"Does he, boy?"
"Yes," whispered Bethel, his face quite white. "In my mind he said I was still as pretty as the babe in Ortok. He was there, my lord, in Ortok. He knew me from then. Gods, what does it all mean?"
"That I do not understand, little brother," came the soothing, deep voice. "It interests me very much but it does not help us at the moment. Can you drink by yourself, boy? If so, drain that goblet."
Bethel stared at the warrior, whispering helplessly, "Lute?"
"I am sorry, Beth, but Lute means nothing to his master."
"He will hurt Lute again now he is here."
"That, sadly, Beth, is probably true."
"Hold me, big brother," shivered Bethel, downing the contents of the
goblet and letting it fall to the ground. He felt strong arms about him and shrank back into Sarssen as if being close to the warrior could help alleviate his distress and fear.
~~~
Luton knew his master was present by the prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. He swung round from his work, saw the shade fade to nothing and threw himself prostrate at the feet of the mage.
"My pavilion has been readied, slave. Follow!"
Luton scrambled to his feet and obeyed, unaware of Kher watching him as he emerged from his unsel to follow the fluttering robes. The haskar had a sinking heart as he saw how the young shoulders suddenly became bowed, when Luton had walked tall for seasons, and his heart grew heavier when he saw the alienation in the beautiful black eyes that stared straight ahead at nothing. Coldness gripped Kher and refused to leave him. He turned abruptly away. Inside the mage's pavilion Luton again prostrated himself, but this time he got a hefty kick.
"Stand and look at me," came the command in his head. He rose and stood obediently, his eyes transfixed to ones that controlled his every move and thought. "Submit yourself!"
Luton yielded in totality so his master could trace in the young mind wherever he wanted to go. Luton came to, trembling and blinking rapidly as he tried to orient himself.
"Your brother is persistent, slave. He wishes you to know who he is."
"I wish to know him, Master." Luton felt excruciating tightness in his head.
"Of what use is he to you, slave?"
"None," whispered Luton abjectly.
"Then you can have no desire to know him, can you?"
"No."
"You will not see him while you work towards your next trial, Luton. Is that clear?"
"Yes, quite clear."
"I'm angered, Luton. Two of my reader-seekers are dead. I wish you to endeavour to find out all you can about Lokar. The name is all you need to know. The second reader was a fool to let himself be used as he was – he's insignificant. Lokar is not. How has your study gone in my absence?"
"I've worked as you instructed."