by Katy Winter
"Not yet eight cycles, my lord." The warrior grinned widely.
"Just the right age for the boy harems," he chuckled. "Excellent, excellent. Maybe you would be of interest -." The warrior broke off.
He rubbed his hands in anticipation and took the boy's wrist in a firm grip that reminded the boy of how his mother was held. He flinched. The warrior hollered. Unexpectedly, a second warrior loomed up behind Sarssen, so suddenly the boy jumped with fright.
"You called, Alleghy; what is it?" Alleghy indicated the boy he held. He gave Sarssen a good shake and a sharp cuff.
"This boy is part of your caravan, Borwic. Not a slave?"
"No, this one is no Yazd from the look of him. I do not know where he is from. In fact, my friend, I have not set eyes on him before." Borwic spat at the boy's feet. Sarssen stayed still, not daring to look up as his future was so casually discussed. His heart raced uncomfortably.
"Do you fancy him?" asked Alleghy lightly. Borwic's laugh was a deep rumble.
"No," was the response. "They need more meat on them to give me an appetite. Pretty little face though, and decidedly wistfully appealing, do you not think?" Borwic stroked the boy's face appraisingly. Alleghy gave Sarssen a tug that brought the boy stumbling against him, off-balance. A strong hand clamped him to the warrior's side. "Not usually your style either, Alleghy," Borwic teased.
The boy didn't see the amused look in Alleghy's eyes as the warrior replied indifferently, "Not boys, Borwic, no. This one, though, could interest someone I shall see shortly. He could be an exceptional investment for me."
"Then he is yours," chuckled Borwic. "Take him away. We move out at dawn."
At this point, Borwic lost interest and drifted off beyond the fire. Sarssen was left confronting his father.
~~~
The scene shifted once more. The huge hall was the same as where Sarssen now sat, but the time setting was different. There were, at this time, fewer warriors ensconced in the hall. There was also a noticeable change in the composition of the warrior lords who either flanked the warlord or occupied the senior tables. As always, the carefully selected elite haskars of the High Council sat at the enormous table at the head of all the others, Lodestok the first warlord to have such a structured hierarchy at the top. There was much laughter and a great deal of drinking, while solid tables groaned under large platters of food and huge casks of precious lowland wine.
There was a lull in the noise. A warrior from the command table rose, clicked his fingers imperatively at a slave who served them, and indolently watched the slave immediately turn. Within minutes the man reappeared. He towed a thin boy who'd been left standing for hours at the far end of the hall. His blond head bent, the boy was led ungently down between the tables to the warrior who waited and tapped his booted foot impatiently. The slave bowed and left the warrior to pull the boy in next to him. Refusing to look up at his father, Sarssen swallowed. Alleghy turned the boy to face Lodestok.
"A gift for you, my lord," he smiled.
The warlord had been watching with grim amusement: now his eyes lit with a peculiar and predatory light that made the boy, when he glanced up, shiver. He stood his ground.
"Where is he from?" Lodestok asked. He idly surveyed Sarssen, one hand thrust in his breeches pocket while the other ran across his beard.
"When Borwic brought in the Yazd caravan, I found this boy, my lord." Lodestok's eyebrows shot up.
"A slave boy then?"
"No, my lord," smiled Alleghy. "I would not offer you something as dirty or common as a Yazd slave boy. From what I can gather he is a Churchik orphan, entirely dependent for his future on what a warrior may decide to do with him."
"Is he?" There was an interrogative note to the warlord's voice. He looked casually across to the boy. "Are you, boy?"
"Yes, my lord."
"How old are you?"
"Nearly eight cycles, my lord."
"Do you know who I am?" The boy looked directly up at the warlord before responding.
"Yes, my lord." Still stroking his whiskers, Lodestok stared contemplatively at the young face.
"And he is a gift you say, Alleghy?"
The warrior sat, indicating with a sharp shove that the boy was to approach the warlord. As Sarssen neared Lodestok, Alleghy grinned and nodded.
"Yes, my lord, he is."
"Thoughtful of you," murmured Lodestok, continuing to stare at the boy. "Come over here," he said softly. Obediently, his heart in his mouth, Sarssen moved round the table until he was next to the huge warlord. He bent his head. The soft, cold voice spoke again. "Lift your head." There was a long pause while the warlord scanned the young face. "Quite a pretty boy, are you not? Do you wish to serve me?"
"I wish to become one of your warriors, my lord."
This was productive of an explosion of mirth. Only Lodestok didn't laugh. He took the boy's chin in his hand, tilted it sharply and said in a chilling tone, "You have a long way to go, and much to offer, before you think to survive to become anything, little boy." He watched the boy lick his lips and saw very real fear in the unusual and very beautiful green eyes.
"Yes, my lord," came the light reply.
Lodestok let the young chin fall and looked amiably across to Alleghy. He lifted his tankard in a salute.
"I thank you. He will entertain me awhile. I have become bored of late." The warlord placed a strong hand on Sarssen's shoulder, pressuring the boy to the floor where Sarssen crouched. A cold voice above him made him shiver again. "You will remain there. Later we shall see what you have to offer. If you please me, despite your being Churchik you will be branded as slave. It will be your life that might otherwise be forfeit. Orphans have no status in our society, none at all."
Sarssen never looked at his father.
~~~
Sarssen's memory flicked forward to a boy in a voluptuous chamber where the child smoothed the furs on an enormous bed that took up much of one-half of this palatial room. It was the same boy from the camp fireside, but this boy was heavily ornamented, from the long blond hair swept back from his forehead and held with jewelled hair clasps, to multiple earrings, bracelets and rings. He wore gold ankle chains that only permitted him to take small steps; they went with the ornate torc of slavery he now wore round his neck. Though it wasn't visible, he also carried the warlord's slave mark on a recently branded tongue. The boy moved fluidly and gracefully but was obviously ill at ease and apprehensive; his green eyes looked deeply troubled.
He turned at the sound of the opening door and went immediately to his knees, his head touching the floor.
"My lord," he murmured. "I am here to please you."
The boy looked up when the warrior closed the door and crossed to his side, Sarssen instantly aware of a sense of terrifying passion and power. His eyes locked with the cold eyes of his new master.
Lodestok turned from him with indifference, commenting acidly, "See that you do, boy, or your life is not worth a frigil." The warlord flung himself on the bed, then gave the boy a wolfish grin. "Come then, little boy," he invited softly. "Come and please me."
The scene changed rapidly. It showed the boy, quite alone, kneeling in the same chamber, his head in his hands as he rocked to and fro. Had anyone gone close to him, they would have heard his whimpers.
~~~~
Suddenly, Sarssen saw himself at ten cycles. Lodestok held the boy between his knees, the young chin tilted, so the warlord could stare deeply into eyes that always mesmerised him, they were such an oddly rare green. This day, it was at the moment of eye contact that Lodestok sensed something, so profound and powerful deep inside, he responded in spite of himself. His face gentled and his smile was one of warmth. He was momentarily transformed. So was the boy.
Lodestok saw for the first time, a radiant smile come to the very attractive young face that lit the innermost being of this child. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough for the warlord to pull the boy close, held against him protectively for long mome
nts. The release, when it came, was sudden and rough, as Lodestok shoved the boy backwards and got to his feet. Sarssen was subserviently back on his mat.
"It is time you served me, boy," the warlord ordered curtly. "Go and get food."
Sarssen slunk from the pavilion. He returned, a laden tray balanced on one hand and three heavy wineskins dangling from the other. In brooding silence, Lodestok watched him lay out the table and set out the food and a napkin, before Sarssen turned and bowed. Lodestok strode across and sat.
Just as the boy placed the chased goblet on the table and prepared to lift a wineskin, Lodestok swung round in his chair and swung the boy to face him, his grasp on the child's wrist like a vice. Lodestok jerked the blond head so Sarssen had to look directly up at him. The boy was swamped with anxiety. He swallowed nervously, his body immediately went limp, and his eyes veered away from the penetrating stare. He barely heard the soft voice.
"This gift is for you, child."
Sarssen felt the grip go from his wrist, his hand was lifted and he knew something was pushed onto his finger. He took a deep wavering breath as he was released.
"My lord," he whispered, down on his knees, the warlord's hands clasped in his thin ones. "You honour me."
"Never take this gesture for granted," came the cold, impassive voice above him. "I wonder why I even care for you at all."
"My lord."
"As you serve me, I shall tell you what you will do in the coming seasons. I have thought long about you."
Aware his life was spared, yet again, Sarssen struggled with chaotic thoughts and emotions that surged through him. Relief was almost too much. It took every ounce of fortitude he possessed to stop trembling. He felt deeply sick. As Sarssen served his master, the warlord eyed him in silence and in a way that jarred already jangled nerves. He sat on his mat. His stomach snarled with hunger. Finally, the warlord filled a plate, gestured to Sarssen that he was to fetch it, and watched as, timidly, the boy took the plate and obediently sank back onto the mat with it.
"You are to study, boy, every day, in a concentrated manner to make up for lost time," came the icy voice. "We have scholars among us, also thinkers and philosophers, even a few seers, though sadly not many. They will all teach you. You will also study with the bards. Traditional sagas teach truths and encourage enlightenment. You already learn basic warrior skills, but I want you to learn to think, Sarssen. I wish there to be a mind around me that can offer challenge, distraction, and has learned in the way of a most ancient and venerable tradition, now mostly lost. You will develop an intellect that can reason, boy, because I believe you have a mind capable of these things. You idle about when you are not serving me, do you not?" Sarssen looked up helplessly.
"My lord," was all he could say.
"I do not want to see a mind such as yours wasted. It will not happen. You will tell me, each evening, what you have learned, and should you forget, you will feel my hand in full measure. Finish your food. When you have cleared away, you will show me how much you appreciate your gift, will you not?"
Sarssen no longer felt hungry, the blond head sank and he simply went through the mechanics of eating. He dared a look at the ring and almost gasped out loud it was such a dazzlingly beautiful thing, the rich red stone catching the light when his finger moved. Confused, he realised, yet again, he would never understand his master, but he remembered the words that went with the ring. In any quiet moment they sometimes haunted him. He wondered why Lodestok wished him to be taught in such a way where others were not, not even Churchik boys. His life became so busy he staggered with exhaustion from one day to another.
~~~
Sarssen's musings were interrupted by those at the high table rising. He put his tankard on the table and rose instinctively as the warlord and his command haskars swept down the hall between the benches. As a very insignificant youngster in order of status, Sarssen was at the bottom of the last table. Like all around him, Sarssen stood to rigid and silent attention. When Lodestok came abreast of him, the warlord barely paused, saying quietly with almost a chuckle.
"Be ready for me."
As Lodestok swept from view, Sarssen grasped his tankard with both hands and drank deeply. While other warriors relaxed back laughing, Sarssen wished he was alone, even more so because the men began to rag him. It was mostly good-natured, but Sarssen didn't feel responsive.
Men loving men had been common in the south for as long as anybody remembered. Nobody thought twice about Lodestok's preferences. What did cause comment was the sadistic and brutal nature of the warlord's play. Many of the young warriors there admired Sarssen as a survivor. He had outlasted all others. Not one of the warriors wanted to take his place, and since they knew what the boy faced, they gave him much more to drink. It was, thus, a most unsteady youth who staggered from the hall and along the corridors, holding onto the wall sconces for support. He traversed a series of hallways and staircases before he finally stopped, weaving gently, in front of a door. He gave a hiccup as he carefully lifted the latch. He walked into the chamber.
Lodestok's room was somewhat disordered. Sarssen bent gingerly, his head swimming and a curse on his lips, as he lifted clothes from the floor and tiredly flung them into a chair. He looked bleakly at the bed, walked carefully over to it and tried to tidy the rumpled furs. A cold voice behind him made him straighten and stop what he was doing.
"Why bother, boy? I shall use it shortly, no?"
Sarssen looked around with a wavering smile, to see Lodestok begin to disrobe. He said nothing. He just stood there, swaying a little. Lodestok unbuttoned his shirt.
"You have been drinking heavily, boy. Why is that?" Sarssen stared across at the unsmiling countenance that critically observed him.
"I do not know, my lord," he mumbled apologetically. The icy eyes continued to watch him dispassionately, before the warlord tore off his shirt and threw it on the floor.
"It may be as well. Fetch goblets and the wine from that far table, then come and sit with me."
Clad only in breeches and boots, the warlord flung himself negligently on the bed. Sarssen complied. After Lodestok had hauled himself up comfortably on the cushions, Sarssen handed him the wine and the goblets. Lodestok poured out the wine, handed one goblet to Sarssen and patted the bed as he did so. Sarssen obediently sat. He felt a huge hand deftly and quickly unplait his hair and fingers run through it as it tumbled free.
"You are growing into a man, are you not?" Lodestok asked very gently. Sarssen waited. The breath caught in his throat. His eyes watered. His voice quavered.
"I cannot help that, my lord." Lodestok burst out laughing.
"No, neither you can, boy," he agreed. Then his voice became silky and threatening. "So, we have a problem with you, do we not?" Sarssen couldn't have spoken, even had he wished to. "I dispose of what is of no further use to me, boy, as you well know. You have seen it often enough, have you not?"
"Yes, my lord," came from very dry lips.
"But strangely," Lodestok murmured, his fingers still tangling in the thick blond hair, "I care for you, boy. What to do with you is the question. You have entertained me for a long time, have you not?"
"Nearly nine cycles, my lord." Sarssen knew he trembled, but he was unable to stop. He looked gravely down at the huge red stone he wore on one finger, a priceless gift from the warlord cycles before.
"Is it indeed? Then it is more than time the boy became a man, is it not?"
"My lord?"
Anxiously, the youth slipped from the bed to the floor. Lodestok sat abruptly, his feet to the floor close to the kneeling boy and at the same time he put his goblet on the table near the bed. He lifted Sarssen's head with a very strong finger under the chin, while with his free hand he took Sarssen's goblet and put it next to his. Sarssen realised he was being spared again.
"You wish to become one of my warriors, do you not?" The voice may still have been silkily quiet, but the warlord's threatening pale, blue eyes challenged the boy's green
ones. Sarssen made no immediate reply. He couldn't. His hands clung to Lodestok's boots while he struggled to stop shaking. "Boy?"
The question hung menacing in the air. Sarssen looked up. His eyes filled with tears of relief.
"If it pleases you, yes, my lord."
"You will not enjoy the warrior marking," Lodestok remarked coldly, letting the chin he held fall. He pondered for a moment. "We must think of some other way to identify and honour my warriors, must we not; what do you think, boy?" The warlord patted the bed again and Sarssen sat. He made no response to the warlord's rhetorical question. It was as well, because Lodestok didn't wait for an answer, he just turned sideways to look at the pale, fine-boned face beside him. He sighed. "You will be so drunk, boy, you will barely notice what is done to you," he observed coolly. Sarssen didn't move.
"Yes, my lord." The ominously gentle and persuasive voice continued.
"And, Sarssen boy -." Sarssen stared up at the warlord nervously. "I will still wish to have you in attendance, though you understand you will no longer spend every evening in my company."
"Yes, my lord."
"You will always be ready for me, should I wish for you, will you not?" Sarssen nodded immediate understanding. Lodestok smiled broadly. A hand caressed the youth's cheek. "That is excellent, boy. You will find, once we move out as an army, that a small pavilion will be set up for you, next to mine. Until then you will share quarters with other warriors where you will learn your place. You will be placed under Bensar for your training. You will do no further study. Your days will be too taken up with training for your initiation into full warriorhood. After that, study will resume. Now then, boy, you have not drunk your wine." The warlord picked up Sarssen's goblet from the table and placed it in the thin, outstretched hands. "Drink as much as you can. Correc is waiting. He enjoys marking the young." When Sarssen took only a sip, Lodestok, who was watching him, became impatient, leaned over him and grabbed the goblet. "Not that way, boy," he muttered.
With one hand, Lodestok grasped Sarssen's hair. He wrenched the youth's head sharply back, while with his other hand he held the goblet to Sarssen's lips, forcing the mouth wide. Ruthlessly, the warlord tipped the goblet contents down the boy's throat.