Circling Birds of Prey

by Katy Winter

  Helplessly, Bethel flung out a hand that was firmly grasped. When his lips parted, he saw the amusement on the warlord's face deepen.

  "My lord," he mumbled, aware what Lodestok would now invariably do.

  These were old tactics that had kept Bethel servile and submissive for cycles, the young man unable to defend himself in any situation he found himself in with the warlord, physical, emotional, or verbal. He waited for the face to touch his and the hands to deal with him in their usual fashion. It didn't happen. Incredulously, Bethel opened his eyes, bewilderment in their depths when they met his master's.

  "I await your assessment of the northern army, son." As Lodestok spoke, so he pulled the young man higher up the bed. Bethel leaned against the massive chest. He quivered, his mind jumping.

  "I do not fear them as fighters, Father," he began, his voice tense. "They are committed because they have to be and I sense are driven, in many cases, by hate. It is that emotion, plus their determination, I fear. People driven by strong emotions know no bounds. They can lack any ability to show mercy. There is no compassion." Lodestok wondered, briefly, if his slave referred to his master.

  "That is an interesting comment," drawled the warlord. "Are they likely to cause us any trouble in the next battle, little flower?"

  "Yes," replied Bethel, always honest. He felt the hand about him tighten abruptly. "Yes, Father," he repeated. "I believe they will."

  "Who will gain victory?" As he spoke, the warlord sensed the shudder that shook Bethel. "Petal?" he enquired.

  "I do not believe anyone wins in war, my lord." Bethel tilted his head to stare up at his master, aware of the thoughtful expression on the warlord's face.

  "That has never been spoken by a Churchik warrior before. And you, flower?"

  "I will fight as I have been taught, my lord, and I will die as your son should the time come. It is what you have made me."

  "Do you consider me a cruel master, boy?"

  The question was so unexpected that Bethel gasped, his cheeks whitening with shock. He tried to look away, but a strong hand on his chin prevented him from moving and he immediately sank into passivity to avoid any suggestion he was other than docile. Even so, Lodestok noticed panic in the large eyes and waited for the evasive answer, smiling when it came.

  "I have never thought about that, my lord," lied Bethel desperately. "I know only that I am your slave."

  "That is true," observed Lodestok, dispassionately studying the stricken face. "I ask you now."

  His chest heaving and his insides making him feel squeamish, Bethel replied with creditable composure, "You have given me life, my lord, and deeply honoured me as your son." Lodestok knew, with an ironic half-smile, that he'd never get a direct answer from Bethel. He didn't now.

  "Rise, boy," came the soft command that Bethel more than willingly obeyed, his trembling hands pushing back curly strands plastered to his face. He realised he was damp with sweat.

  He wandered over to a table in a pretence of looking for his jerkin, though he was too confused and bothered to think straight.

  "It is on the chair, son," advised the warlord, on the ghost of a laugh. Bethel pivoted and picked up the jerkin, pulled it on and let it hang loose. He was very pale. He looked across at the huge warlord who steadily regarded him, then he bowed as of habit.

  "I beg to be excused, my lord." Lodestok nodded sharply.

  "Be it so, son."

  The pale blue eyes followed the tall figure as it walked across the pavilion. Bethel didn't see the tremor that shook the warlord, nor did he see the sudden intake of breath Lodestok gave.

  ~~~

  That night came an attack that was swift and completely unexpected, because there'd been no close encounters with the northern army of any kind. It came on the southern army's north-eastern flank that was the least protected and the attack was dangerously close to the warlord's pavilion.

  Bethel heard the drum-roll at the same moment as Lodestok, the acedar out of bed in seconds, dressing hastily and out of the pavilion in short order, his running steps taking him to his men who were in that part of the camp. He found things strangely quiet, eerily so, his hands busy buckling on his sword and knife belts. He stood silently, his gaze reaching through the gloom and trees in an effort to see any movement.

  Signalling only three men to accompany him and gesturing to Kel that he remain behind on alert, he moved swiftly to where the sounds seemed to echo. Again, he stood still. His senses prickled with the sensation that there were enemies very close. Narrowing his eyes he saw what he thought were moving shadows but as soon as he focused on them they glided, then were gone. He pivoted where he stood, telling his men to stand and wait. Noiselessly, he edged his way forward, his hand on his knife hilt, only to collide with a very large figure who turned on him with raised knife.

  Recognising Sarssen, Bethel gave a choked cry of surprise and relief, gasping out his brother's name. The warrior stood still, startled awareness creeping into his eyes as he sheathed his knife and grasped the younger man by the shoulders. Bethel gave a shaky giggle.

  "Gods," he mumbled. "You nearly had me, big brother."

  "Ah," chuckled Sarssen, giving the shoulders he held a playful shake. He gave another low chuckle before releasing Bethel. His head turned from side to side. "There is something odd going on here," he muttered. "The attack took out the guards on the northeast side, the men very neatly slaughtered as though they were mere femerils. Their throats are neatly cut." Bethel swallowed. Sarssen rubbed his hand across his beard. "Odd," he repeated. "No women, children, or slaves have been touched, only the men. Whoever these folk are, boy, they have cut a swathe across the camp in one direction. I can only sense them. What have you seen, little brother?" Bethel shook his head, his skin prickling again.

  "I feel them about me," he whispered. "My lord, they are here, with us." Sharply, Sarssen turned his head. "They are shadows that slither past so fast, Sarssen."

  The warrior gently pushed Bethel to his left, saying quietly, "I will go right, Beth, do you go left and take great care, little brother. These are dangerous foes that can move so through the night."

  "Likewise," murmured Bethel, cautiously taking a step backwards.

  He reached his men, ordering them to follow as he slipped back, wraithlike among the trees. More than once he thought he saw looming shadows that dissipated on his approach, their forms fading like puffs of smoke. He stood a moment, puzzled and exasperated.

  At the northeast fringe of the camp, Bethel found the executed guards over whom weeping women bent while they tried incoherently to describe what had happened. Since he was the most senior there, Bethel took control, gave orders and assigned his men to temporary guard duty, though he had a strong inkling they'd not be needed again tonight.

  Relief arrived in the form of a grim-visaged and highly irritated Kher. He took in the situation at a glance, stared briefly at Bethel, confirmed the orders already given and then turned irritably to the sobbing, gesticulating women, his whip suggestively raised. Since most were slave women, he was unimpressed by their protestations of grief for those who'd used them unkindly. The women quietened as one, scared and resentful expressions on their faces as they backed away, sniffing and moaning.

  Just as Kher turned to speak to Bethel, both men heard the muffled curses behind them come closer. It was then they saw the attackers. Bethel noticed they had no substance. Nor was there anything about them that was identifiable. All he could pick up through the darkness was rapidly darting shadows in bare feet, flitting from tree to tree, with bows in their hands drawn taut and ready to shoot.

  Then Bethel saw the large form fighting to free itself from phantoms that seemed to encompass and restrain it with difficulty. There must've been at least ten wraiths to one warrior. With a cry, Bethel ran at the shapes that seemed to melt from him when he reached them, always a little ahead of him, the wrestling form of Sarssen dragged remorselessly into the distance. Bethel pursued his brother, his voice
becoming hoarse as he called and called to the diminishing figure. With the shadows retreating Bethel fell to his knees, his voice choked with sobs and his hands held out imploringly to beg whoever the beings were to let his brother go. Despairing, Bethel buried his head in his hands and wept.

  It took Kher a while to find Bethel because the young acedar had run so far so fast. He saw the bowed figure, head in hands, the shoulders heaving with grief and a sad smile came to his eyes. He quietly approached. A very gentle hand touched Bethel's shoulder. Instantly, Bethel was on his feet, the young body upright and rigid, the head deferentially bent. Kher thought how over-controlled this boy had been forced to become, the only sign of his grief the deep, ragged breathing.

  He took his hand away, speaking collectedly, "I recognise the depth of your love for your brother, Acedar. It does you credit. Take comfort from the fact they did not appear to be harming him in any way."

  "My lord." The voice was almost inaudible.

  Kher stared at the head bending again. He thought this boy and his brother had endured too much and found himself desperately wishing their pain could end. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

  "Courage, Sorien. I am sure no one will hold Losaren against his will and he will return to us. From other warrior dead beyond the camp perimeter, he is lucky they are taking him alive. Lift your head, Sorien."

  When the curly head lifted the haskar saw the depths of agitation, anguish and distress in the dark eyes and how white the young face was. Seeing the compressed lips and welling tears, he saw a young Luton and had to look away.

  "Have other warriors been taken?" Bethel nodded with an effort. "How many?"

  Bethel automatically fell into his role as a warrior, mentally counting those he'd seen slain, as well as those who would've supervised the watch.

  "Eight men, my lord," he answered bleakly. "Four warriors are missing."

  "There are three dead beyond the perimeter and there is also another man missing." Kher pursed his lips. "It suggests three have been taken, including your brother, Sorien."

  "Yes, my lord." Kher gave a low whistle.

  "Very neatly planned, boy, was it not?"

  "Yes, my lord," agreed Bethel, without any thought. Not unkindly, Kher considered Bethel.

  "You can do no more here, boy. Return to your bed." Bethel's cheeks went the colour of parchment. Seeing that, Kher realised what the boy had to face. "Shall I come with you to explain to your master, boy?"

  Bethel shook his head, turned very slowly and began to make his way back to the camp. Kher watched him go, the same sadness he felt for Luton welling in him at the sight of the tall, slightly stooped figure.

  ~~~

  Lodestok's reaction to Sarssen's capture was violent and predictable. He watched the young man enter the pavilion, his eyes lazily observing hands falter with the lanterns. When Bethel turned to him and, in a halting voice explained that Sarssen was taken, ungovernable fury shook the warlord. It was as if he didn't see Bethel at all, just a messenger with the worst of tidings.

  Lodestok was off the bed and across the pavilion in a matter of enormous strides, Bethel lifted and flung onto the bed with a force that winded him, then he felt the riding crop used to brutal effect. His rage partially spent, the warlord only stopped when he stared down at the still figure, suddenly recognised who lay there and immediately threw the crop across the pavilion. His voice, vibrant with anger, was directed at Bethel.

  "Sit!"

  Slowly, Bethel hauled himself up against the cushions, where he lay unmoving. His hands trembled, a tic pulsed in his left cheek and his eyes were blank with shock. He felt unable to summon the energy to dismiss pain. Lodestok stared at his slave for a long moment before he strode over to a table to pour out two goblets of wine. Back at the bed, he sat and held out a goblet to Bethel who tried to take it, but his hands shook so much he couldn't grip properly. The warlord caught the goblet as it fell.

  On a sudden gasp torn from deep within, Bethel bent his head in his hands, and, unable to hold back tears, wept with wrenching sobs as if his heart would break. The warlord placed both goblets on a stool by the bed and patiently waited. Finally, he put a hand to the bearded chin and forced up the young head, to see, in the drenched eyes, wretchedness and despair. When he spoke his tone was more moderate and reasonable.

  "Son," he said quietly. "You tell me you tried to save your brother. That is so?" Bethel tried to speak, failed and had to swallow very hard. Their eyes remained locked. "Who were they, boy?" Bethel swallowed again, his voice hoarse.

  "Shadows, my lord," he managed on a gulp. Tears spilled down his cheeks and splashed onto Lodestok's hand. "They had no form. They dragged him, many of them to his one. I tried to -." His voice broke.

  The warlord let go Bethel's head, placed his arms firmly about the young man and drew him in close. His voice was softened and almost a caress.

  "I have seen you weep only once before, boy, and that was when you were poisoned long cycles ago. And you weep now but it is not because I have beaten you, is it?" Bethel shook a head now rested against the warlord's chest, conscious of a large hand caressing his hair. There was no threat in the gesture and Bethel felt strangely comforted. "You weep for the loss of your brother, boy, do you not?"

  "Yes," whispered Bethel huskily.

  The shaking eased, the sobs died to a forlorn half-sob, Bethel swallowed again and ran a hand across his eyes and cheeks, brushing at the wetness. He didn't see the unexpected or rare smile touch frosty, blue eyes that stared down tenderly at him.

  "I did not mean to so badly hurt you, son. You were unlucky to be the messenger." Bethel mumbled something that Lodestok didn't catch. "Tell me again, flower, what occurred so we can sort out exactly what seems to have happened. It would appear, from what I have gleaned, that Losaren was uninjured and fighting. If that is so, boy, you can be sure your brother will find a way to escape. I do not underestimate my elder son, petal, and neither should you."

  "No, my lord," murmured Bethel submissively.

  "A warrior may mourn the loss of a father or a brother without disgrace, Sorien. I would suggest you save your grief until we know more of Losaren's fate."

  "Yes, my lord," repeated Bethel.

  "Then, petal, I await a warrior's account."

  Bethel heard the coldness of the voice, though he was still aware of the hand running gently backwards and forwards across his head, down his neck and then massaging his shoulders. He coughed twice, cleared his throat, then felt himself lifted higher up against the piled cushions. A huge hand brushed at his wet cheeks before he was handed a goblet.

  "Drink, boy," he was commanded.

  He obeyed, his controls more firmly in place. He spoke without emotion, his attention to detail meticulous, his answers to rapidly fired questions, instant and precise. He noticed that, even as the warlord drilled him, Lodestok was pulling a robe from under a chair. He moved as if to assist but was kept still by the sharply up-flung hand and the curt nod.

  He continued his account before falling quiet. The warlord was lounged back in his chair, one leg characteristically hooked over one arm, his goblet casually held in the left hand, the eyes staring into the distance and the right hand contemplatively stroking the lush beard.

  Bethel studied the chair in a detached way, conscious it was one of the symbols of his servitude. The chair was always assembled at each stop immediately after the huge bed was put together, both objects of slavery that Bethel couldn't get away from. He thought of things the warlord had done to him in both bed and chair, then his mind shied away from such disturbing thoughts. They persisted.

  His eyes fell on the mat at the foot of the chair where he'd spent so many hours crouched, then his gaze wavered to the other mat beside the table on the far side of the pavilion. Everything he looked at reminded him vividly of his complete subjection to the man sitting pensively. On a sudden sob, Bethel drank hastily from the goblet, praying as he did his master didn't notice his distress.


  Desperately, Bethel forced himself to calm. He remembered how Lodestok saved him after he was poisoned and, again, at much risk to himself, how the warlord saved him from the battlefield when death was very close. He thought how fiercely and determinedly Lodestok encouraged his musicianship and ensured his survival to be a warrior. None of these things were done for a child merely a slave. Bethel's tumultuous thoughts went to how the warlord took two young men, both lowly slaves in his society, and exalted them to the status, not just of warriors but to that of Sarats and a ruling warlord's sons. It was something that gave them odd protection in an unpredictable and frequently violent society. In his dazed state, Bethel knew the man opposite may have abused him but he also cared enough for him to ensure his survival, however brutal the methods sometimes employed to do it. Bethel felt it in gentle hands and unexpected expressions that came to Lodestok's face and he knew the words of, "I did not mean to so badly hurt you," were quite genuinely uttered, without conscious thought. Lodestok's soft drawl brought his head round.

  "Shadowlanders, son. Maybe Esok has made an impression on them after all and this is their way of reminding us who and where they are. They sound unusual foes from whom we could learn much. We need to capture them, enslave them, and learn." It was on the tip of Bethel's tongue to say the warlord hadn't thought to learn anything from Samar, but he knew better than to speak. "It is possible, is it not, son?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  The warlord fell silent again. For Bethel, wrung out and sore, it was a blessing. Lodestok might be aging, but his arm lacked none of the force Bethel so painfully remembered. If he moved, he flinched. In his shocked state he thought that at least the bed took much of the force of the blows, whereas, as a youngster bent across the warlord's knees he felt every ounce of Lodestok's strength and anger, sometimes barely able to crawl from the pavilion after being flung to the ground. When Lodestok spoke again, Bethel answered mechanically. He felt strangely detached and tired.