by Katy Winter
When autumn turned into winter, the warlord had to halt his army at the Bay of Coldth, aptly named thought Bethel, on a shiver. The winter storms now made progress impossible and Lodestok knew very soon snow would blanket the land for a very long time. The landscape here in this part of the north was harsh and the winter climate appalling.
He awaited supply caravans with impatience, well aware they'd soon stop altogether. When the caravans did arrive he was irritated by how few slaves there were, but was content all but Kher, of his senior warriors, had now reached him. Bethel was curtly dismissed during the day and was glad to leave the pavilion. The warlord didn't wish to be disturbed.
Bethel's heart lightened with his dismissal and he went to those with whom he felt most at ease. The weather became worse as the days progressed, Bethel unable to get warm at any time of the day and shivering constantly despite Jane's efforts to warmly clothe him. He was so very tall and thin, he had no fat to come and go on.
The rain sleeted down, day after day, without pause. The skies stayed leaden. Icy winds bit through the warriors while they were unmercifully drilled. For hours at a time they were taken through their routines, as if the haskars didn't notice the appalling conditions, and the whip flailed with monotonous regularity while blue fingers gripped weapons and reins. Bethel shook with the penetrating cold. The chill touched every part of him. Alone sometimes he actually cried with the ice that seemed to congeal in his marrow. It made him ache unbearably.
While men struggled to carry out their disciplines, illness and injury began to take their toll, as did diseases become rife among the slaves. The sicknesses spilled over to the army itself. The slaves' conditions were atrocious, their food scarce and their immunity so low as to be non-existent. Bethel tracked some people he'd known in Ortok among the general slaves, and, over cycles tried to get them extra food or shelter. His efforts may have been limited, through necessity, but they were greeted with gratitude. Bethel saw the men become weaker and frailer each time he went to them, and guessed, with a very heavy heart, they'd not survive a harsh season, even though he managed to get them warmer clothing. With the progress of winter, the mortality rate among the slaves soared. Bethel knew he'd be a casualty by now had the warlord not taken him. Everyone suffered, but it was a matter of degree, the talk among the men mutinous and sullen.
Bethel's men were well cared for and, compared with others, wanted for very little. They were adequately fed and provisioned and yearned only for better weather. Bethel was prompt to call a healer should one of his men sicken and was willing to spend time among them, listening and responding. Kel sat back on these occasions watching the quiet youth, a hint of a smile in his harsh eyes and more than just a little respect.
Since the warlord didn't seem to notice much about Bethel other than at night, Bethel began to take his estibe with him in the mornings, so he could practise by playing for the men. The mercenaries may have been tough and ruthless men, but they lost their hearts to the young Samar who sat among them, hair shrouding his face and long slender fingers making music that could bring tears to the most hardened of men.
Since the night the warlord tried to contain Sarehl, Jane saw a change in Bethel. It wasn't dramatic. It came, he thought, from a sense of relief Bethel had. For once, the warlord's use of his boy slave failed and Bethel, through the protection of Sarssen, succeeded for the first time, in seven cycles, in preventing Lodestok from hurting and using him. There was, too, the relief that came from knowing Jaden, who actively conspired against him, was no longer a threat. The latest experience matured Bethel, but with that went new self-assurance. Bethel seemed happier within himself. Jane didn't reason it any further - he just saw the signs and that delighted him.
Luth noticed a subtle change in his tall friend. He commented on this one morning when he was discovered by Bethel trying to dry a ten week old pup. Bethel walked into Luth's unsel, unannounced, to find the blond warrior trying to hold the wriggling pup still while he tried to dry sodden fur. It was an impossible task. Bethel shook the sleet from his head and slumped down on the mattress next to Luth so he could hold the front paws while Luth dried the pup's rear end.
"You seem more contented these days, Beth," Luth observed, indicating that Bethel should now hold the back paws. Bethel looked down at the fluffy pup and absently stroked the damp ears with one hand whilst holding the pup immobile with the other.
"Do I?" he sighed. "I prefer being in camp to being on that slow freezing walk even if we are drilled without respite."
"What has changed, Beth?"
"I do not know," said Bethel, a hand up to the short but silky black beard that now grew rapidly. "I am not aware of any change, Luth, though I do not get as tight in the stomach these days. Or," he amended, "not as often."
"You seem calmer and more in harmony with yourself," was Luth's comment. He rubbed the fur beneath his hand vigorously. "There is a peace about your face that is new." Bethel shrugged.
"I am become resigned to where I am, I suppose," he murmured.
"As a slave or as a warrior?"
"Both, I guess. I know my life will not change, however much I may wish it. I will always be the warlord's slave and his attitude to me will not alter. I have faced that. I am also now coming to terms with the knowledge that I am a warrior within your society and must succeed as one, or I will not survive. That is what my life is about, Luth - survival. I have no choices as you do. That is something that hurts; that I have no freedom to be what I want."
"What is that, Beth?"
"A musician, Luth. That is all I ever wished to be."
"I think," mused Luth, glancing briefly at Bethel, "that being a slave in our society is very hard. Your life, Beth, is such that it has made me think and have serious doubts about what we do. What we have done to you is wrong, I know that, but there is nothing I can do about it. If I could see you free, Beth, believe me when I say it would give me joy." Bethel touched his friend's hand.
"Yes, Luth, I know that, but you must not say such things. They could get you into trouble and that would grieve me."
"I am your friend, Beth." Luth stared across at Bethel. "Whatever happens in the times to come, Beth, remember that and hold to it." Bethel swallowed and shivered. His grip on Luth's hand was convulsive.
"Likewise, Luth," he whispered.
There was a long silence while each young man thought, then Luth observed thoughtfully, "You know, Beth, the warlord has not raised you and the tempkar just as ordinary warriors, has he?" Bethel looked across at his friend in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, both of you have been very widely taught, and I think I am right when I say I heard Efaron, one day, comment rather sourly that the tempkar was immersed in philosophy and antiquity well beyond his status as slave and junior warrior. And you have been immersed in an ancient southern bardic tradition, have you not? To the point where you are Caeom?" Bethel played meditatively with a curl.
"I guess," he agreed. "Why?"
"Who knows?" laughed Luth. "But I think you are both unusual in many ways." He got up and stooping, got tankards that he filled to the brims. Bethel gratefully took one. "Is the warlord still harsh and remote?" asked Luth, changing the subject. Bethel nodded. "None of the older warriors have seen him like this in many cycles. We all saw Tempkar Sarssen too." He saw Bethel's expression and grimaced.
"The tempkar was badly hurt, Luth." Bethel moistened his lips. "I believe he took that for me."
"I think so too, Beth," agreed his friend, "but I heard," continued Luth with a sudden chuckle, "that even Bensar treads warily these days."
"We all do," replied Bethel, as the dog snuggled up close to him. "He seems to spend all his day with the senior warriors. I am sent away."
"Preparing for a spring campaign, do you think, Beth?" Bethel sipped appreciatively.
"I think there will be a battle soon, Luth, yes."
"Good," said Luth decidedly, lounging back on his elbows. "I grow bore
d of eternal manoeuvres. I hope to do battle soon." Bethel felt another shiver of premonition and made no answer. Instead, he just stroked the pup. Luth watched him in some amusement. "Take him, Beth. I have only just rescued him. You keep him."
Bethel looked up, surprised, then glanced down at the trusting bundle next to him. He smiled.
"Very well, I will. I will call him Lute." Luth looked hard at him.
"What does Lute mean, Beth?" Bethel's laugh deepened.
"It is not an Ortokian insult," he assured Luth on a gurgle. "It is the name of the stringed instrument I used to play at home. I miss it, so Lute here will keep it in my mind."
While the pup dozed, the two young warriors discoursed amiably until Bethel was recalled to the time and had to leave, the pup carried protectively with its big furry paws flopped over his arms.
~~~
Lute became an important part of Bethel's life, though Jane, resignedly, had most to do with him. When the pup arrived, Jane and Mishak exchanged glances but nothing was said, while Kel, when he heard about it, gave a broad grin. Jane commented on the pup to Sarssen and got an answer that made him thoughtful and rather sad.
"The pup brings out the trusting boy almost destroyed," the warrior said calmly. "Lute does not threaten Beth and so Beth feels he can open to the dog. Jane, deep inside Beth is too hurt and frightened to fully trust another, other than those very close to him like yourself, because he is afraid of the response. To survive he had to learn abnormal and rigid control, and had to sublimate who he really is. He is by nature impulsive, tactile, emotional and loving. He finds little of that around him.
What has been meted out to him for cycles has been devastating and made him withdraw. What you see, with the dog, is the real Beth as we might have known him. It gives me pleasure to see the lightness in his eyes. With Lute, Beth is happy, Jane."
"Aye," mumbled Jane, brushing at a tear that trickled down a seamed cheek. Sarssen looked down.
"Jane," he said gently. "Beth loves you, but you must understand what the warlord has done to him." Jane nodded and turned away.
When Bethel went to his men, Lute trotted along beside him. When Bethel catnapped in his own unsel, Lute curled up next to him and gave the young man additional warmth. Upon Bethel arriving back in the mornings, the pup was frenzied, squeaked and whimpered then tore round and round ecstatically, anything he could find to play with hanging from his mouth.
Jane watched the dog and youth play, Bethel's laughter delighted and boyishly infectious as he watched the pup's ridiculous antics. He didn't even seem to notice the cold in the same way, willingly going outside in the sleet or snow to gambol with Lute, the young man's eyes bright. The pup tore round in the elements, chasing anything he could find or that Bethel threw for him. Bethel laughed helplessly as Lute chased his tail until the dog fell sideways he was so dizzy.
Bethel and dog rushed back into the unsel and collapsed, Lute panting, his dirty paw prints all over the mattresses. Bethel didn't care and Jane never commented either. As the days passed, Bethel and Lute's bond strengthened. Jane was surprised Lute knew never to go near warriors and merely growled quietly in his throat if he ever saw the warlord in the distance.
~~~
Winter crept on slowly. Mid-winter settled inexorably on the land. Ice hung from everything, inside and out. The cold penetrated everywhere. A new wave of sickness swept the camp. Bethel caught a severe head cold which meant he spent a few miserable days struggling to breathe and was sharply reprimanded by Bensar for a fault in a drill. His eyes streamed and he developed a hacking cough the warlord tolerated for one night. On the second evening, Lodestok strode across to Bethel, roughly tilted his head, and stared down at the pale face, his eyes hard as flint.
"Have you seen a healer, boy?" came curtly. With runny eyes, Bethel sniffed and shook his head.
"No, my lord," came thickly.
The warlord let Bethel's head fall. He stalked to the pavilion entrance, disappeared, then returned with a healer at his heels. Lodestok indicated Bethel. He crossed the pavilion, sat and poured himself more wine. The healer went to Bethel curled up on a mat, and, as usual, also shivered. His food sat on a platter beside him untouched.
"You're not hungry?" asked the healer. Bethel sniffed again and shook his head.
"I cannot taste anything," he muttered.
The healer quickly examined him and handed him ointment and a large bottle that Bethel unstoppered, snuffled at cautiously and knew would taste vile because he could actually smell it. He grimaced as he put the stopper back and placed the bottle and ointment on the table above him. The healer rose. He bowed to the warlord and backed to the entrance.
After the warlord waved dismissal, his eyes settled on Bethel as the young man hunched himself on the slave mat. He spoke in his usual cool tone.
"You are cold, boy, are you not?" Bethel didn't lift his head. He just coughed.
"Yes, my lord."
"All the time, I seem to think." Bethel didn't answer. "Eat your food, boy. You have no meat on your bones." Though Bethel wasn't hungry and could taste little, he immediately obeyed. The cold voice went on. "You think I do not notice, do you not, petal?" Bethel swallowed nervously. The warlord hadn't used that malicious term of endearment for weeks and it unsettled him.
"You have been very busy," he answered.
"Not so busy I do not watch your every move, boy." Bethel's food tasted of ashes but he chewed grimly, aware of eyes that watched him so intently.
"No, my lord," he murmured, taking a deep breath.
"You have acquired a pup, I hear." Bethel's heart stood still with fright for his pet. He moistened dry lips.
"Yes, my lord. Luth gave him to me." Lodestok's voice was frigid.
"Do not bring it here, petal. It might come to a sorry end."
"No, my lord," Bethel hastened to assure the warlord, looking up with anxiety in his eyes. For the first time in many weeks, he saw the faint flicker of a smile in the grim eyes.
"What is his name, petal?"
"Lute, my lord." Bethel's head went down as he picked at the food on his plate.
"Lute," repeated the warlord quietly. "After the instrument you once played, is it not?" Bethel was startled by the acuteness of the warlord's memory and glanced up involuntarily, surprise reflected in his eyes.
"Yes."
"You and Luth have developed a friendship, boy."
"I like him," said Bethel hesitantly, pushing his plate to one side. "I hope it does not anger you."
"You would soon know if it did," was the uncompromising reply. "It pleases me to see you at ease with our young warriors, boy. I quite approve of your friendships." Bethel sat still. He was caught unawares by the next question. "Do you miss your family, flower?" Bethel moved uncomfortably, his shoulders tense.
"Yes, my lord," he answered, honest as always, "though I no longer remember them distinctly. I was one of six."
"Do you wish to go back to your home, boy?" Bethel floundered, desperately seeking a non-committal answer.
"Any slave would wish to have freedom and go home, my lord. My home no longer exists, so any wish I may have could never happen. You have made me a Churchik warrior."
Lodestok was well aware Bethel would never answer such a direct question unless under extreme duress, because he'd be afraid to betray his emotions and make himself vulnerable, something inadvisable in the society he'd been forced to live within or with the man who owned him. The warlord understood his slave very well. He even knew the way Bethel breathed was a reflection of exactly what his slave thought and felt, something Bethel couldn't know and would frighten him if he did. So Bethel's answer brought a faint smile to cold eyes.
"You have been with me eight cycles, flower. That is a large part of your life." Bethel stayed still. "Bring your goblet and estibe over here beside me, boy."
Compliantly, Bethel crossed to sit on a mat next to the warlord's chair, sank to it, his goblet placed to one side of him and the estibe in hi
s lap. He sensed Lodestok's steady regard and licked his lips, bracing himself for another night of harshness. For the warlord to continue a conversation, after weeks of chilling silence, made him apprehensive.
"You have taken your estibe with you in the mornings, petal. Why is that?" Bethel felt huge hands twine through his hair.
"So I could practise, my lord. I do not seem to play at night as much as before." The hands momentarily tightened, then relaxed.
"I see," said the quiet voice above Bethel, some of the ice absent from the tone. "You will keep it here again, petal. That is my wish."
"Yes, my lord." The hands massaged Bethel's neck and shoulders.
"Play for me, flower, then you will have your medicine."
Bethel bent his head, his fingers plucking the strings in a soft dulcet melody that previously failed to satisfy or placate the warlord. When his hair fell forward, Bethel felt hands lift back the curtain of curls and heard Lodestok's deep sigh of pleasure. Bethel felt no anger in the fingers touching him. They were, instead, a caress. He felt more at ease with his master than he had for a long time, and breathed a sigh of relief that the warlord's dealings with him tonight wouldn't be harsh. The touch that went from his head and face to his chest was very gentle indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The dragon ride was swift and silent. Luton expected Harth to speak with him. The dragon was silent. Luton settled himself comfortably in the pouch, conscious Harth flew effortlessly and extremely fast. The dragon landed barely long enough to allow Luton to climb down. When Luton sent thanks, then met the speculative stare of the dragon, he sensed an enveloping warmth before Harth abruptly rose and disappeared. And the shade that stayed close to Luton since his departure from the Keep, slipped discreetly behind Luton as the young man began to walk east.
This time, Luton found Kher waited for him some distance away and held the reins of the very large, black warhorse Luton had ridden before. The haskar gestured to Luton that he be mounted. Once Luton was settled, Kher pointed to the young man's back. Luton's eyes flickered enquiringly.
"Is he part of your train?" Kher asked quietly.
Luton turned to look at the barely perceptible form that stood very still and locked eyes with the shade for a long moment, before he turned back to Kher. He gave a curt nod. Kher raised his eyebrows but said nothing, merely kneeing his horse forward. He watched the shade melt from the ground and materialise behind Luton on the horse. With something of a shiver, Kher looked away.