Warlord

by Katy Winter

  As the warlord strode purposefully along, he felt he had dealt satisfactorily with Norsham, that there'd be no problem left behind when he moved north and no hope of rebellion. Norsham had ceased to exist. Approaching side streets and alleys, the warlord didn't notice how quickly they emptied where minutes before pale and wretched faces peered out through broken or collapsed masonry. He would've ignored them. Mostly there was brooding silence.

  He didn't, at first, see a small creature that hovered discreetly not far from him at any one time. Then, he wasn't sure why, he became aware of it. It hadn't done anything in particular. He noticed, as he irritably and halfheartedly tried to boot it, that it was a small furry creature. He didn't, though, notice the little creature dematerialise and reappear several yards ahead and to the side of him. As the warlord turned a corner and began a slow, gentle climb towards a large edifice, the furred creature paused behind him, meditatively licked a paw, then vanished.

  Lodestok entered what was the main defensive position of Norsham. The solidly constructed building was no fortress and had been badly battered in the attack, but parts of it still stood intact. It was here the fiercest fighting and slaughter had taken place because it was the last retreat for Norshamis, the most militarily minded of the non-warlike Samar people that made up the Confederation.

  The wall was breached in many places and the gate shattered, but the defence headquarters, though over-run and fired in the heat of battle, were mostly usable by southern garrisons. The southeast bridge had been hastily reconstructed for the constant comings and goings of Lodestok's senior warriors with necessary equipment. Lodestok's men manned the remains of the outer watchtower, even if militarily there was no necessity for it.

  The warlord stared hard at men as he sauntered past the burned out hulk that had been a basilica. He crossed the outer court. Men saw him coming and sweated, unease on their features, while slaves continued to slog in the stables and the armourer's smithy.

  He stalked up the steep flight of steps to the main stronghold. It was here he'd enjoyed the slow execution of the Dojon of Norsham, the leading citizen, in seasons past. On the third landing, he turned sharply left. He entered what'd once been the Dojon's private quarters, and it was here the warlord permitted himself a self-indulgent smile, for the bed hung with silk always amused him. Fully clad, he flung himself onto it, his legs crossed and his arms under his head.

  He thought deeply about the incident in Ortok. The more he considered it, the less he liked it. He now felt impelled to move north as soon as possible, especially if there was a mind user in the city ahead. If that was so, then Blach's plans for the girl could be in jeopardy. The warlord was unprepared to accept that.

  He frowned. He went over the conversation he'd had with Bensar, finding it of some consolation that the seekers no longer sensed a mind user in Ortok. That suggested there was no special guard placed over the girl now, which was another reason for an immediate northwards push, but then a less comfortable thought came into the warlord's mind. Why had the seekers sensed no little girl at all? If someone could protect her from seekers, then, Lodestok reflected viciously, that person had to be a mind user of some power. And then he thought of his warriors. His fingers curled in wordless fury.

  Restlessly, Lodestok got to his feet and began to prowl to and fro, his temper worsening by the minute. In the vile mood he was in, it boded ill for whoever his fancy lighted on. No one made any comment on Sarssen's battered appearance the next morning, Lodestok's callousness and brutality well understood by every man.

  The warlord, however, woke in a benevolent mood. Most would have agreed this was more unsettling than his vicious tempers. With his giant strides he ran down the stairs, three at a time, to the kitchens. Men responded promptly to any overture he made. He threw an order at a slave he roughly grasped by the shoulder and then lounged over to one of several trestle tables set up with benches, to await food. When he was served he ate ravenously, cleaning his bowl vigorously with bread, and then, contented, he leaned on his elbows, a tankard warm in his hands. His eyes scanned the hall to settle on Bensar who was further down the table. Tankard in hand, Lodestok sauntered over to him. Bensar was on his feet immediately.

  "My lord," he said courteously. Lodestok considered him, yawned, and took a long drink from the tankard.

  "We move in five days. There are smaller city-states between us and Ortok. I want no delay getting there. It will take us a while as it is," he said quietly. Bensar stared at him blankly.

  "My lord?"

  "Wake up, man," responded the warlord, with a touch of irritation. "We move north when I say. Set up a garrison to remain here and organise all surplus slaves into caravans. I want them moving out as we leave. Do I make myself clear?" Bensar stood erect and motionless.

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Then do it," drawled the warlord, smiling amiably at his second before he turned away.

  Bensar was left wondering how he could get such a huge army moving at such short notice, let alone have slave caravans organised. Some men saw him curse under his breath.

  The warlord was about to leave the kitchens when he saw a figure finish eating a bowl of porridge dripping with honey, then clasp an enormous mug for warmth. The young warrior sat stiffly. He became conscious of Lodestok's scrutiny and turned his head to respond to it. The warlord eyed him consideringly. Sarssen smiled, the smile a little strained Lodestok thought as he continued to study the young man.

  The warlord couldn't fully understand his response to this young warrior. Sarssen was a fine-looking man, with his silky youthful beard and the long silvery blond mane, plaited in the Churchik queue. Lodestok kept the warrior close to him, though the young man trained and fought directly under Bensar, and though the latter never praised Sarssen directly, he had complimentary comments to make to his master. Sarssen was an excellent warrior. Men placed under him treated him with respect.

  Sarssen was now nineteen cycles and he'd so far survived, even if the price he'd been forced to pay was very high. Many others hadn't. Perhaps the reason he was still alive, was Sarssen never forgot the lessons of life he was taught.

  "Here, boy," Lodestok called, clicking his fingers imperatively.

  Sarssen stopped fiddling with his mug and crossed to the warlord, graceful as Lodestok noticed he always was. The warlord frowned at him. His stare took in a bruise and a cut on Sarssen's right cheek.

  "Did I give you that?" Lodestok turned Sarssen's head to the light.

  "It is nothing, my lord," murmured Sarssen.

  "That is not your only bruising," commented Lodestok wryly, letting go the blond head. Sarssen made no reply. Nor did he see the glint in the warlord's eyes. "You are loyal enough, boy. I make no complaint. Can you ride?"

  "I shall manage, my lord." When he spoke, a chuckle escaped Sarssen. He added, "I have done so often before." Lodestok laughed at him, gave him a playful shake and strode towards the entrance. There he halted. He turned back.

  "A message for the haskar." Sarssen looked up, surprised.

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Tell him I want that face of yours attended to before I see you this evening, boy." On that rider, the warlord was gone, leaving Sarssen to hastily follow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The morning of Choice dawned very warm and clear. Ortok was in merry mood; lanes were decorated with bunting that hung from tree to tree and houses were adorned with garlands of berries and masses of tiny clusters of blossom. Wreaths were on nearly every door, made mostly of tock that was the plant symbolising fertility, while baskets of the same hung from every verandah. Windows were flung wide. There was a hum of anticipation in the air. Children, early risen, already danced round the beribboned maypoles that dotted the common. Even colourful paper lanterns were strung off lamp poles.

  Different costumes from all parts of Ambros could be seen filtering into the markets and squares, the people coming in ever-increasing numbers. There were fringed jackets, boots with jangling bells
, ornate caps and hats, embroidered caftans, beautifully hand-painted shirts and blouses and much jewellery that was worn by both men and women, this jewellery extravagant and unusual and mostly worn by those who came further south from Ortok. Necklaces ranged from hand carved wood, to gold and silver, all invariably intricately designed. Cloth varied too, from delicate lacework to fine leathers and silks.

  By mid-morning, the crowds ebbed and flowed around the stalls in the markets. There was scarcely standing room because of the number of booths all jammed hard one against the other, so dodging and weaving was the only way to get past the dense knots of people standing at each booth. There was much jocularity and gentle humour. Children, the elderly and the frail, were all represented at Choice.

  As if the activity was not frenzied enough, young folk were being organized, going to and fro, carrying huge platters of meats and giant tureens of soups, sauces and gravies. More carried dishes of vegetables or huge hollowed out bowls and gourds, full of salads soaked in a range of herb sauces or oils. Trays of loaves and spicecakes followed and so did bowls of fruit. At the same time specialty dishes were being ferried in from the stalls. Assorted aromas drew the crowds. There was standing room only. Giant urns full of liquid refreshment stood at the end of the trestles, acting like a magnet to the scholar who headed for the nearest one.

  Laras had made him dress for the occasion. He looked very dashing, she thought, casting a critical and affectionate eye over him as he handed her a drink. His crimson, silk shirt had voluminous sleeves gathered into embroidered cuffs and the large lawn collar was edged with fine strawberry lace. His black skin breeches matched an ornately decorated vest that hung open, because the weather was so warm. Only the peaked cap set at a rakish angle showed that it was indeed the scholar so smartly turned out. Even his tawny hair and golden beard were trimmed.

  Neither the scholar nor Laras was in any hurry. As they drew nearer to the trestles, the scholar's nose led him unerringly to a huge cask of lowland wine. They stopped in a desultory fashion at each booth they passed. He recognised panelling and gilt work as northern, paused to gently touch delicate work in gold leaf and lingered over the illuminated sheets. The latter was well known as an art at the artist guild in Ortok. The scholar wondered absently, if any of the displayed work belonged to Melas. The etching and filigree work he acknowledged as some of the finest he'd seen in many cycles.

  He turned to locate Laras. He saw her arguing with a vociferous gypsy woman at a needlework booth. Approaching quietly, the scholar was confronted by a bewildering assortment of silks, laces, and embroidery; there were trimming pieces in profusion jumbled together - piping, fringes, frills, feathers and ribbons all lay tangled. The seller scowled and muttered as she cast irritated glances at Laras. The scholar started to laugh as he tucked Laras' arm in his.

  "Did you see anything you wished to buy?" she asked interestedly.

  "I saw some exquisite marquetry," he sighed wistfully. He broke off and pointed. "There's Lute. That means Melas can't be far away. What on earth is that boy doing?"

  "Carrying a jar that's much too heavy for a lad that age," responded Laras, moving across to Luton as fast as she could.

  Lute gave a heave. He managed to just get the jar on the trestle. He stood trying to get his breath, before he turned and found himself staring up at the scholar, his eyes running over the scholar's attire in disbelief. A delightful boyish grin lit his face. Laras twinkled at him.

  "He does clean up well, doesn't he, Lute?" she teased. The scholar looked down at them, a smile curling his lips.

  "What a cheeky pair," he commented, without rancour. He then put his hand to the boy's shoulder and turned him round. "You, boy, are looking very fine yourself. Did Melas make your clothes?" There was a long-suffering note to Lute's voice.

  "Yes, we're all dressed like this, except Myme Chlo." The scholar and Laras grinned at each other and taking Luton with them, they moved forward.

  It was as they imbibed more wine and the scholar smacked appreciative lips, that Lute yanked unceremoniously on his sleeve. He started, nearly spilling the wine, and looked down frowning, only to see the boy nod briefly to his left. The scholar glanced casually in that direction and saw Lian come towards them.

  "Ah," was all he said.

  "Our new brother," mumbled Lute quietly.

  "Ah," said the scholar a second time, turning back to the stall.

  "Lute," greeted Lian, gently touching the boy on the arm. Lute grinned at the older boy, but said nothing. Laras looked over to the scholar, but since he was inexplicably absorbed in something he held in his hand, she turned to Lian to invite him to join them.

  "I'm a bit lost," he confessed, in his gentle and neutral voice. "I was with Myme Chlo, but she had to attend to her mother -." He hesitated and added, "our mother."

  "Well then," said Laras briskly, firmly taking the young man's arm. "You can escort me, since my man seems too busy to do so." The scholar turned at that and smiled affably as she moved on, Lian with her.

  "Do you like him, Scholar?" Lute asked, tugging at the scholar's arm.

  "Yes, lad, he seems a pleasant youth," remarked the scholar, being jostled rather vigorously.

  He looked across at the man who pushed him hard and got a grim stare in return. Lute's big black eyes showed apprehension because he was well aware no one in Ortok pushed the scholar around - not ever. It was a tacitly understood thing that nothing was said or done that might gratuitously upset the scholar, and not just because the man had an unnerving aura of power that all had come to respect. Also, he was very well liked. The scholar quietly stood to one side, suggesting gently that they follow Laras and Lian.

  "So," began the scholar conversationally, "Lian was with Myme Chlo."

  "Oh, yes," piped Lute. "He's always with Myme Chlo. They seem to like each other very much. Myme Chlo tells me she'd always trust Lian."

  "Does she indeed," said the scholar, a decidedly grim note to his voice.

  Lute didn't miss it. He stared up at the scholar. His eyes were enquiring and wide, but he merely got a reassuring pat, the scholar asking him how they adjusted to their new father. A grin came in response. Lute prattled happily away with the scholar who lent him half an ear, whilst at the same time his eyes scoured the crowds for some sign of Myme Chlo. He urged Lute towards the meadow, pointing out that it was where Melas would be.

  ~~~

  Melas struggled to get to the common. She kept a firm grip on her daughter and appreciated Bethel being there with them. When Dase appeared with a large jug of juice for them to share, he got a hug and a smile from his mother as she drank gratefully, then she beckoned Bethel closer so the two boys were beside her.

  "You may go now," she whispered. "Go and have fun. Myme Chlo will join you shortly. Have a care to her, won't you?"

  Bethel stood on tiptoe to kiss his mother and she stared down into his huge velvet eyes, tears in hers as she held him very close.

  "Blessings, Mam," he whispered, touching her hair. He stood back so Daxel could embrace her too.

  "Be happy, Mam," Dase said gruffly, his voice breaking a little. "Lute wants you to be too."

  Melas raised a hand to them, then turned with Myme Chlo to walk slowly towards the centre of the common. Melas found most of the Choice candidates assembled, Sarehl among them, but far distant from her. They'd spent their evening together and Melas felt easy about the son she saw move into manhood. A little smile trembled on her lips as she thought fleetingly of Alfar. She went to her knees beside Myme Chlo. It was just noticeable she carried Bruno's child.

  "Thank you for being with me, little love," she murmured. Myme Chlo put her arms around her mother's neck, hugging hard.

  "Blessings and happiness, Mam," she whispered, burying her head in Melas' hair.

  "Watch yourself," her mother cautioned. "Stay with the scholar tonight and keep away from drinking lads, however young you still are."

  The girl nodded obediently. A smile and a wave from her
mother sent her running from the gathering. Melas was swept into the surging crowd. Musicians, led by the drummers, had already struck up in the centre of the common. A piper played, preparatory to the start of the dancing that signified Choice had begun. Those standing at Choice drank vrie. It was said to be only a stimulant, but the scholar suspected it was considerably more than that because those who drank it had pupils suddenly wide and black, and speech was impaired. The drink loosened inhibitions to a noticeable degree.

  The dancers began to organise themselves into circles, stamping to the drum beat, their arms entwined as they swayed to and fro in unison. After some moments, the dancers began the Samar dance. It started with a shuffle, then, as the tempo of the music increased and the onlookers began to clap, they broke into the full Samar dance of Choice. Linked arms disengaged as moves became more individual, sensual and frantic. Some of the crowd began to dance as well.

  The scholar was usually bored by these proceedings, but not this time. He could see over the heads in front of him and saw Melas quite clearly. He grinned appreciatively. She'd discarded the mantilla, the comb holding her hair in place was gone, as were her boots, and she moved her body in a most disturbing way the scholar thought, her long black curls tumbled in disarray. She looked abandoned and quite seductively lovely. He thought, for such a large man, Bruno was very agile.

  The music stopped and the drums fell silent. The crowd's anticipation swelled. The scholar's attention was distracted by the sight of Myme Chlo, alone in the crowd, her head bowed, so he edged his way to the little girl, people cheerfully giving way before him. When he reached Myme Chlo and looked back to the common, couples knelt facing one another.

  The scholar looked down at the small form and gently circled Myme Chlo. She didn't look up, but did snuggle back into his arms, her mindspeak coming as a surprise and sounding quite forlorn.

  "She's bound to him now, isn't she?" came the sad voice.

  "She's still your mother, child," he sent back. "She cares very much for each of her children."

  "Then why mate with Bruno?"