Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "Sensible of you," smiled the scholar. He lounged back to a seat and stretched his long frame comfortably. When Josh stood beside him uncertainly, the scholar waved him away.

  The subsequent investigation shed no light on who the men were, or the immediate cause of the fight, though it became generally accepted that jealousy had much to do with it. When the scholar was rigorously questioned, he was vague, saying he'd noticed little until near the end of the fight. Asked what he'd said to Amus, the scholar merely looked surprised.

  "I offered the poor man a drink. He asked for one." When asked if the man had said anything else to him, the scholar smiled and said blandly, "He asked for a drink - what else was I to do? The man had a knife in him." When asked if he knew where the men were from, he shrugged indifferently, saying, "Southerners, by their colouring."

  There were headshakes all round and the deaths were topical for a day or two. Then strangely, everyone seemed to forget most of what had happened, recollection being only of the haziest: Josh's memory was vaguest of all.

  ~~~

  The scholar was deeply troubled by his actions even as he accepted the necessity that prompted them. He foresaw serious troubles ahead. These were put into frightening perspective by what he gleaned from Amus' mind, and they disturbed him so much he retreated into his study for a day, refusing to speak with anyone. Laras brought him food that she placed carefully on a side table. She made no effort to communicate, especially after she looked into the scholar's eyes that were so full of sadness and desolation she couldn't comprehend it.

  Though the scholar could see what would confront Ortok he was aware he could do nothing for the people with whom he'd lived for cycles. His actions were tied to Myme Chlo. He recognised, with a sense of haunting grief, that he may not even be able to help her siblings. He found no comfort in his thoughts. Coldness enveloped him as the hours passed. Laras found him sprawled in a chair, in a restless doze, at an early hour of the morning.

  ~~~

  The evening before Choice, the scholar found himself on the far edge of the common. He was in a copse of silver carth, golden fluffy-leaved manus and the drooping syrup trees with their distinctive lacy foliage that turned deep scarlet in autumn. He wandered past amorous couples and bored children playing hide and seek round the trees. It had got truly dark by the time the scholar came to the periphery of the common. From there he could see the city lit by multiple lights, swinging lanterns, oil lamps and even flickering candles. Brightest of all were the communal fires lit all across the common, heaped into blazes by children and adults alike where dancers cavorted around these huge fires, their elongated shadows capering beside them.

  There was music too, from drums, pipes and horns, to small harps. They were played separately and together, groups singing lustily in accompaniment. It was a scene of happiness and contentment, but it brought a cold shiver to the scholar as he stood there, alone, for long moments, a thin hand running down his beard. He looked reflectively to the lights of the city. They lighted all the lanes, the squares and markets - even encompassing the huge common and beyond that to the nearest canals. It looked neat and welcoming, but still the scholar stood quietly. He found it difficult to believe that not long ago, two southern strangers, intent on mischief, killed each other at his instigation. His nerves unusually taut, the scholar began the slow process of making his way across the common.

  He sought out an inn in the business quarter. Once he managed to push his way into the bar, he had a long patient wait because the room was full of patrons. He was finally directed to the merchant's room, went through a door, along a passage and up two flights of stairs, to knock on the third door along the landing. Getting no response, the scholar quietly entered the room, stooping to avoid cracking his head on the lintel.

  His eyes went to the man stretched out on his back, his breathing deep and regular. The scholar went over to the bed and in the half-light from an outside lantern could see Bruno had a bruised throat and the back of his wrists were likewise marked where the men had held him down. The scholar moved over to a chair. He sat waiting, looking up when Bruno snuffled, then twitched, before dozing again. The scholar wasn't aware Bruno had wakened until a deep and decidedly nervous voice spoke.

  "Who is it? Lian lad, is that you?"

  "It's your friend, Scholar." Bruno came quickly to his senses. He stumbled to his feet. "Do you have any light in here?" continued the scholar matter-of-factly. "That way you'll be able to see me." He could dimly see Bruno rub his hand across his throat and head.

  "Scholar?" he asked, in a thick voice. Bruno crossed the room. He stooped close to the scholar and lifted a lantern that he passed over with a shaking hand. "I've been a bit heavy on the wine," he admitted, sitting back on the bed with a yawn. "What can I do for you, Scholar?"

  The scholar lit the lantern. Within seconds there was a soft light thrown around the room. The scholar hadn't moved.

  "I came to see if you were hurt," he said calmly.

  Bruno gave the scholar a steady look, saying quietly, "You know more than people think, don't you?" The scholar looked back at the merchant, a smile in his eyes.

  "I know the two men who died in the inn came to you and probably to your son." Bruno put his hand to his throat in an unconscious gesture. He was clearly nervous. "Were they here to ensure your obedience?" Bruno nodded. He got to his feet and looked around him. "They're dead now, Bruno, so -." The scholar left the sentence unfinished.

  "They may be," replied Bruno, "but others will follow."

  Bruno was a very large man, so the note of fear in his voice seemed an odd contrast. He found what he sought. He held out two goblets to the scholar who looked him over critically.

  "You do look the worse for wear," he remarked.

  Bruno put his head down, saying softly, "You don't want to know, Scholar. It's something those men enjoy. We don't. I'm doing this for my son."

  He delved into a recessed cupboard as he spoke and came upright clutching a wineskin, a grin replacing the anxious tension on his face. The scholar placed the glasses in easy reach so that Bruno could fill them. He did generously.

  "Your health, Scholar," he saluted, raising his glass.

  "To you and to Melas tomorrow," responded the scholar amiably, sipping thoughtfully. He began to smile broadly as he took another sip. "My friend, where does this very fine wine hail from?" Bruno laughed, a relaxed laugh such as the scholar hadn't heard before. His blue eyes twinkled most engagingly.

  "Connoisseur are we, Scholar?" Bruno teased.

  "This is excellent - a Mellillan fine?"

  "Indeed it is," beamed Bruno. "I perceive you're a man of taste. I got it as an exchange for some trading I did, a long time ago it seems now, in Dakhilah. You enjoy your wines, Scholar?"

  "Indeed I do, if I can get them," chuckled the scholar, lounging against the trunk pushed hard up behind the backless chair he was ensconced upon. "You've lived the life, haven't you?" Bruno stared into his glass.

  "Oh, aye, at times," he replied thoughtfully. "Being away so much was hard on my wife, but aye, life was good."

  "And now?"

  "A new life, with a new wife and children; a new town." The scholar looked over at the merchant, sure he heard an almost imperceptible sigh. Bruno's head was lowered and his shoulders slumped a little. The man looked tired and dispirited.

  "Tell me about your wife," suggested the scholar encouragingly.

  Bruno's head lifted at the invitation and he looked directly back at the scholar. While he talked, haltingly at first, the scholar again slipped into the merchant's mind. He endured the pain and humiliation inflicted on Bruno by the warriors and eased the man's anxiety as best he could, quickly withdrawing and wishing he could reverse the damage done to Bruno's mind. Sadly, he knew that wasn't appropriate.

  The lantern was dimmed to a fitful flicker by the time the scholar and the merchant finished the wine. Bruno lounged pensively on the bed, but he looked up with a smile when the scholar rose
unsteadily.

  "Want to tell me about your life, Scholar?" he asked quizzically.

  "Mine lacks the tapestry richness of your experiences, my friend," responded the scholar, a faint tinge of regret in his voice. Bruno rose and clasped an arm about the scholar's shoulders so he could escort him to the top of the stairs.

  As the scholar wandered home in the pleasantly relaxed manner of one who has spent a convivial evening with friends, his main misgivings centred on Lian. Weaving his way through the revellers, the carnival atmosphere began to have an effect on him and he decided to fetch Laras.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lodestok prowled up and down one of the main roads that led north from Norsham, his stride impatient and his expression thunderous. He'd been stalking up and down this road off and on for some days so anyone with any sense kept well distant. His eyes blazed with barely restrained anger. As he scuffed a booted foot against a piece of protruding cobblestone, he heard someone call him from behind and turned to stride briskly towards the man who called him. They met at a junction between three streets. The warlord selected the nearest mile marker and sat on it, then looked the young warrior over in a brooding and irritable way.

  "Well?" he demanded in his curt, clipped voice. "Any news?"

  Sarssen looked decidedly apprehensive, his head lowered as he answered, "Not really, my lord."

  "That is a little vague, boy, is it not?" Sarssen stared at the dirt, one booted foot nervously scraping the ground.

  "No one," he began, then he coughed before resuming, "knows anything about them, my lord. They seem to have disappeared."

  "Nonsense," snapped Lodestok, impatiently

  "We have been waiting as you instructed, my lord."

  Sarssen looked as if he wished himself anywhere but where he was. Even though he was as tall as Lodestok and was both big-boned and broad of shoulder, he still looked a stripling beside the warlord. The scar on the young man's face had faded to an almost invisible thin line that ran from his eye to his ear, the lower part obscured by an ash-blond beard. As a warrior, he responded to the title of Acedar, gained through achievements in battle some time before. Lodestok stood, smouldering anger in the set of his shoulders. He glanced at Sarssen, his eyes cold.

  "They cannot just disappear, boy. That is ludicrous." Tactfully, Sarssen said nothing. "Has Bensar used seekers to find them?"

  "Yes, my lord, he has."

  "Well, what of them?" Lodestok had turned from the acedar, but now he faced Sarssen and his voice was a harshly menacing threat. Sarssen stood very still.

  "They came back with nothing, my lord." Lodestok sucked in his breath.

  "Nothing at all?" he demanded.

  "No, my lord."

  Sarssen waited for the explosion of anger, his eyes flickering to the whip the warlord fingered most suggestively, and, at the same time, he heard breath hiss in and out ominously while the warlord struggled with fury. Lodestok, though, didn't raise his hand to the acedar as might've been expected. When he spoke, the warlord's voice was very quiet.

  "I ask seekers to find two beduars. They seemingly cannot be found. They were sent ahead to check on progress in Ortok. Why can we not find them? It seems a simple matter to me." Sarssen cleared his throat.

  "I do not know more, my lord. Haskar Bensar did not further enlighten me." The acedar stared at his feet again, so he missed the long look the warlord gave him.

  "Go and find Bensar for me, boy." Lodestok's voice was even softer than before. "He has explaining to do."

  As he spoke, the warlord rose gracefully and watched Sarssen bow respectfully before turning. A hand of steel gripped the young warrior's wrist. Sarssen made no attempt to move even though the hold was extremely painful and the warlord's voice was so soft, the acedar flinched.

  "Never, boy, bring me news such as that if you value your life." Sarssen saw Lodestok's free hand caress his knife belt. He sweated.

  "No, my lord."

  "Who sent you?"

  "Haskar Alleghy, my lord." An unpleasant smile curled the warlord's mouth.

  "Did he so?" He released his grip on the young man's wrist and gave him a sharp shove. "Go, boy, and send Bensar to me."

  Sarssen needed no second bidding. He left at a run. Lodestok stood watching him go, a deep frown between his brows as he pondered why Alleghy had sent him the boy with such bad news. The haskar was well aware how likely it was the warlord would turn upon the messenger of ill tidings and maul him. Lodestok pursed his lips and waited.

  Bensar pounced on Sarssen the moment he saw him.

  "Well, boy?" Sarssen looked into the haskar's pale blue eyes, to find them as cold and dispassionate as they usually were.

  "He wants you, my lord," he answered baldly. "And he is displeased."

  "Gods," muttered Bensar. "Why did Alleghy send you?"

  "Perhaps he hoped I would be chastised," responded Sarssen, unconsciously touching his cheek. "He thinks I am too much in the warlord's favour. So does Haskar Correc."

  Bensar regarded the acedar with surprising tolerance, asking, "And are you?"

  Sarssen smiled in his resigned way, saying tentatively, "I did not think so, my lord. Quite the reverse."

  "Because he sees you less often, boy, does not mean he cares less," Bensar said softly. "He constantly follows your progress." Sarssen's head came up with a grin. It earned him a hard cuff. "Get to your business, boy," he was advised. "Where is the warlord?"

  Sarssen explained, then backed hastily away before Bensar had the urge to chastise him further.

  Bensar found Lodestok in a black humour. Recognising the signs from some distance, Bensar found he too sweated because the warlord was too restrained, the voice threateningly gentle. Bensar knew unpredictability when he saw it.

  "Have you more to tell me?" the warlord called out, catching sight of Bensar who hastened towards him. Bensar was short of breath. He accepted the steady glittering look he received without flinching.

  "A little, my lord. There is something very strange about all this."

  "Get on with it." Bensar breathed deeply.

  "My lord, the seekers found traces that Erek and Amus were in Ortok. Well," he amended, "we think they were the two men. We can only be sure if we know no other warriors were sent earlier or later." Bensar took a step back when Lodestok advanced on him, the warlord's lips drawn back in a snarl. "My lord - hear me out, I beg of you." The warlord stood still, eying Bensar malevolently.

  "Go on!"

  "The seekers had to rely on reading local minds. They are very hazy and gave no names to two warriors who were in Ortok. The seekers read that apparently two men, who answer the descriptions of Erek and Amus, did arrive some time before some celebration called Choice. They did read that these men were seen with a merchant called Bruno."

  "Ah," smiled Lodestok. "Success at last. They met the new husband. And then?" Bensar almost quailed.

  "This, my lord, is where things seemed to go wrong." He saw Lodestok's choleric eye on him and continued quickly. "The two men, presumably our warriors, got into a fight."

  "What?" snarled Lodestok. His eyes blazed.

  "It seems unlikely, my lord, but this is what the seekers told me they guessed from the very vague outline they received."

  "And?"

  "They fought each other. Both died." Bensar's voice dropped. He looked acutely uncomfortable when he saw the warlord half draw a knife from his waist belt sheath. Lodestok appeared to look through his second-in-command.

  "Why were they fighting?" he asked.

  "My lord, I can not explain why -."

  "Why?" interrupted the soft voice again.

  "The seekers said it was over an inn girl." Lodestok's breath hissed out. He turned briefly to look away, then turned back.

  "Do you know how close to death you are?" he murmured to himself. Bensar stood very straight, his head bent.

  "Yes, my lord, I do."

  "Yes, I think you do," the soft voice went on. "While you still have bre
ath, Bensar, explain to me why two of our younger warriors, both highly disciplined, should brawl over a girl. And an inn girl of inferior race at that." Bensar passed a hand over his beard.

  "Could there have been a mind user?" he asked, almost without thinking. "Only that would explain behaviour so out of character." The warlord looked at him with a grim smile.

  "You have reprieved yourself, Bensar. I almost think you may be correct. Was there any evidence of mind tampering?"

  "I asked the seekers that, my lord, but they said, apart from universal haziness of memory, they found nothing unusual. The minds were easy to read."

  "That does not mean it was not done though, does it, and by a most skilled practitioner?" mused the warlord.

  "No, my lord."

  "You may go, Bensar." As Bensar turned, he was forestalled by the warlord asking gently, "Why think you, would Alleghy send the boy to me with bad news?"

  Bensar looked back, saying quietly, "Perhaps he thought the boy needed a reminder of his status, my lord."

  "I see." The warlord stared ahead for a moment before speaking again. "Give Alleghy a reminder of his, would you, Bensar, and make sure he remembers it."

  Bensar glanced at the uncompromising profile and muttered, "Yes, my lord."

  ~~~

  Lodestok stared into the distance for a long time before he finally turned and walked back to the centre of the city. Norsham had once been a proud and attractive city-state but now it looked sad and forlorn, damaged irreparably by war. Tall, graceful buildings with colonnades and courtyards had been commandeered by senior warriors and their men. Many houses, shops and warehouses had been plundered then torched in the initial assault. There were gaping shells of ruined buildings everywhere, more destroyed than left intact. The warlord was thorough when he ordered the sack of a city.

  Once fine cobbled streets and avenues were filthy. Even the elegant civic buildings and basilicas were torched, their ruins used as doss-houses for mercenaries, while the populace was ruthlessly slaughtered or enslaved in the true deep southern tradition of victor over vanquished. Caravans plying their way south every week carried slaves and looted riches. Lodestok had spared some slaves from the caravans; they were kept back to work in the few fields left that were necessary to serve the immediate needs of the army. Later, the fields would be fired.