Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "You forget, little one, that your mother has needs no child, however willing, can fulfil." The scholar deliberately stayed silent so that Myme Chlo could take time to think.

  "I feel sad."

  "But she doesn't, little one. This is your mother's day."

  Myme Chlo snapped the connection. It made the scholar wince and reminded him sharply that he must teach her to do that more gently.

  Laras kept her arm firmly around Luton as the ceremony proceeded. Lian stood quietly beside them, watching his father with a distant look in his eyes. Laras reflected that it was a difficult time for Melas' young. Lian shook his head when Laras asked if he wanted to join them, barely aware of much that went on around him.

  "She's bound now and his mate, isn't she?" Luton whispered.

  "Yes, lad," Laras responded cheerfully. "She's chosen."

  ~~~

  The scholar absently watched the circling and dancing in front of him, until he was jerked to full awareness by Myme Chlo who stiffened in his arms. He was caught by surprise when her mind sharpened in his again.

  "I don't like this boy," came clearly into his mind. "He'll cause such great harm."

  The scholar stared down at the dark head, perturbed by the particularity of her vehemently expressed words. Then he glanced to his right, to see a stocky youth with gingery hair and the beginnings of red fluff on his cheeks, and immediately recognised Lban, a young man he didn't especially favour. The youth was a bully, who singled out younger and smaller ones for his attentions. More than once he'd thrashed the twins and he teased Bethel cruelly, mocking the boy for his looks and talent.

  "He makes me scared," came the small voice in the scholar's mind.

  "There's no need to be scared. You can reach me at any time."

  "He frightens me," repeated Myme Chlo. "You can't be near me always."

  "Not yet, that's true." The scholar inclined his head to Lban courteously.

  "What do I do?"

  "Think hard and carefully, little one. We've established that you can talk to most things."

  "Yes."

  "You can switch your mindspeak off and on."

  "Yes, Scholar."

  "Which reminds me, Myme Chlo," came a chiding voice in her mind. "Please don't break off the link so roughly." The scholar could sense the girl's amusement.

  "I'll try not to."

  "You can alter behaviour too, can't you?" The scholar felt the imperceptible withdrawal before she surged back into his mind.

  "I don't know what you mean." The scholar saw Lban had gone well past them.

  "Myme Chlo, you're playing with me." The scholar looked down at the dark curly head and Myme Chlo, looking up furtively, saw his grave expression. Her eyes wouldn't meet his and she hung her head.

  "I can change things, yes," came a whisper in his mind.

  "Keep your mindlink open to me, child," came the rebuke. Myme Chlo nodded. "You can alter behaviour in those close to you." The head went lower and the small shoulders slumped. "As in class when you're bullied." He paused and waited. When he got no response, the scholar mindspoke very gently. "Myme Chlo, this isn't a fault. Believe me when I tell you this is a rare and precious gift, especially in one so young." The little head came up. "A gift such as that must be cherished, little one. You also have talents that may take others many cycles of learning to acquire. How you come to have these talents isn't important, but how you use them is. You see, child, I can sense all you do and say, as you can't yet control your power. You're a danger to yourself, and to all living things, if you're a power out of control. Remember Trath in school, Myme Chlo?"

  "I remember. He hit me."

  "Who called you back?"

  "You did."

  "Were you going to do the same to Lban?" The mental confusion the scholar sensed gave him his unwelcome answer. "You mustn't do that, Myme Chlo."

  "Why not?" was the childlike response. "I don't like what he tries to do to me."

  "In life, my dear child," was the dry answer, "much of what happens to us we don't like. Because we don't like it, doesn't give us the right to damage or destroy those afflicting us."

  "I wasn't going to hurt him." The scholar sensed the defiance.

  "Did you mean to hurt Trath?"

  "No, you know I didn't."

  "But you very nearly did, didn't you?" The scholar got no reply. "Is it worth it, Myme Chlo? Think very hard before you answer. While you do, ponder this. I won't let you wilfully enter someone's mind, let alone damage it. I'll make quite sure you can't even attempt to do so."

  The scholar felt a sharp infuriated surge before Myme Chlo's mind snapped closed. He waited as she wriggled round in his arms to glare up at him indignantly.

  "Can you do that?" she demanded. In spite of himself, the scholar began to laugh.

  "Don't be such a little crosspatch," he chuckled, adding on a more serious note, "Yes, I can do that very easily, child, but I'd prefer not to. My task is to tutor you and help you learn to adapt to a gift that could be a blessing or a curse, depending on what you make it. What I'll never permit, while I'm with you, is any abuse of that gift."

  Myme Chlo stood deeply thoughtful, her forehead wrinkled.

  The scholar and Myme Chlo reached Luton and Laras through a crowd rapidly becoming impassable, it swelled so thickly. They watched the oath taking and saw Melas move on the periphery of the crowd with Bruno, his red hair glinting in the sun and his arm around her waist in a highly protective gesture. The festival mood became even livelier. Among those gathered, inhibitions started to loosen. There was much bawdiness and laughing evident among groups they passed, so much so Laras raised an eyebrow at what she heard and noticed the scholar had a firm grip on the young ones. Once clear of the common, Luton and Myme Chlo dashed on ahead towards the main square.

  The scholar and Laras found them, perched on the top rail of a fence surrounding the square. Bethel and Daxel leaned on either side of them. It was obvious there was teasing from the flushed faces that turned to the scholar and grinned up at him, and as he watched them, he thought they looked delightful urchins each busily stuffing a blueberry pie into an eager mouth and talking at the same time. Even though juice dribbled down chins and hands were sticky, there was much laughter and lashing out of boots.

  Bethel began to tickle Myme Chlo, until she laughed so much she fell off the fence. Then the scholar was caught by both Bethel and Daxel who began to tell him what they'd seen and done. He stood tolerantly listening, first to one and then the other, until they chattered themselves quiet, then he suggested that they should all go somewhere away from the crowds.

  "Has anyone seen Lian?" asked Bethel as they walked.

  "I have," said Laras quietly. "He's gone back to the inn."

  She began to gather up the young ones as she spoke and shepherded them along the square towards the westernmost market. She and the scholar watched amused as the youngsters argued vociferously among themselves with much gesturing and shoving.

  It was an evening the scholar and Laras enjoyed. There was no need to entertain these youngsters, their very conversation a joy in itself. City gossip sounded quite novel when heard through youthful lips and it meant that every so often the scholar would wink at Laras, who lowered her head to hide a smile. At times the scholar's shoulders shook, but none of the boys noticed. Myme Chlo did. She shot a question at him in mindspeak.

  "Why are you laughing?" she sent.

  "Not at you, little one, I promise you."

  "What's so funny?"

  "Just the way young minds see life and people."

  "Can Laras mindspeak?"

  "Not as we can, no."

  "How can she share your laughing then?"

  "She knows me very well. This can happen if you're close to someone."

  "Will Mam be that way with Bruno?"

  "We can hope so. Break the link, Myme Chlo. Dase is watching you very closely. Speak to him."

  The scholar reflected on a joyful day with a happy family. I
t was a memory that would come back to haunt him for cycles.

  ~~~

  After Choice, nothing altered perceptibly for the children. Melas gave birth to a boy named after his father. Even newly born, Brue had reddish thick down all over his head and the bluest eyes the scholar had seen. Lian adored him. The children adapted quickly to a new father, Laras commenting to the scholar that she thought both they and Melas thrived. With a chuckle, the scholar agreed.

  Lian was accepted as an older brother. The twins teased him, unable to understand why the youth should be so quiet and withdrawn. They noticed he devoted all his time to their little sister and baby brother. Sarehl and Alicia had a child soon after Choice too. He was called Saren.

  ~~~

  Time passed very quickly with Myme Chlo's ninth cycle day barely noticed. Only the scholar sighed as it went.

  Yarilan Chronicles 2470, Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2211.

  The Rox have asked us to ensure that a careful watch is kept on a city-state in the Samar Confederation, in central Ambros. Already the Watchers are alert. They are close to the city-state known as Ortok. It's a city of learning and culture, is renowned throughout Ambros and attracts scholars and musicians from all states.

 

  We, of course, oblige the Rox. We also believe our master mage is within the walls of Ortok, but we can't confirm this.

 

  The southern warlord's conquered most of the south and has now advanced, at alarming speed, into the Confederation. One city-state, Norsham, has already fallen. We believe an advance on Ortok is imminent; what we don't know, is whether there's any reason for this assault other than a lust for conquest. We suspect it's not all ambition and this concerns us.

 

  When the Conclave was attacked the Watchers were aware briefly of a breach and a minute rift in the aethyr. Only a mage could do such a thing. Our suspicions have firmed. We've advised the Rox.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun was not fully risen when Lodestok awoke. As he dressed, he felt a surge of anticipation at the thought of more conquest. He was dressed for riding. Like all southern warriors he wore a very heavy embossed leather gambeson, lighter hide leggings and long, strong leather boots. His heavy woollen shirt had a hood that could be drawn up and in to hold out the worst of the weather. He picked up a long and heavily woven black cloak that he flung over his shoulders, pinned it in place with an ornate brooch at the throat, and let the cloak fall in many folds to his feet. He picked up his riding gloves and gauntlets and stalked from the room.

  He stopped at the top of the flight of steps, looking contemplatively at a furry creature that sat on the first step, absorbed in cleaning. Lodestok sent out a quick, tentative mental probe that told him nothing. Nor did the creature react to his low snarl. It made no effort to move when he moved towards it, but what it did do was hold a momentary and off-putting eye contact with him.

  Suppressing an urge to kick the creature, the warlord nevertheless felt a faint trace of unease. He even thought, briefly, that the creature made fleeting contact with his mind. As he reached it, the small animal stopped licking its paw, stared hard up at him again, then dissipated into nothing. Startled, Lodestok prodded the area where it'd been with his boot, but, encountering nothing, he felt irritated and stormed down the stairs his brows hitched together in a beetling frown.

  Most of the warriors had eaten earlier so there was only a sprinkling of men still at table, the benches barely a tenth full. Those who were there rose promptly to their feet on the warlord's entrance, all heads bent for the first minute after his arrival. His nod granted them permission to sit. Men sharpened knives, flexed swords or twirled helmets. Some still gulped down food in haste, others teased each other or the slaves raucously. Since the kitchens were very warm, no warrior was anxious to leave them on this singularly cold morning.

  Shields, scabbards and swords were crowded against a far wall and it was to them the warlord walked, undoing his cloak so that he could fling it back off one shoulder. He stooped a little to the left of the main pile of armoury and picked up his baldric that Sarssen, limping painfully and very slowly, had carefully placed there the night before, buckled on the shoulder leather then bent and hefted his sword. He swung it in an arc before settling it in its scabbard. He straightened, let the cloak fall around him again, then moved to an empty bench and barked out an order to a slave as he sat.

  He looked a menacing figure, his curt nod acknowledging the men making them edgy. Most went on with what they were doing, but in a subdued way, because Lodestok's discipline was cruel and his whole being radiated raw power. He over-awed them. Those who'd been idly lounging for the sake of warmth chose to quietly gather their equipment and brave the cold.

  Norsham saw activity aplenty. When the warlord gave a command, warriors jumped, and this went from the elite haskars to the lowest ranked warriors. This morning of the move north, activity reached an even greater pitch as slaves rushed hither and yon, men yelled to each other and warriors yelled impartially at men and slaves alike.

  It looked like pandemonium. It wasn't. If nothing else, Lodestok's army was extremely well disciplined and superbly organised. The air was keen. Frosted breath of man and horses puffed and spiraled upwards. It was winter and it was raw. Horses whickered and stamped, harness jangled and men cursed hands turning blue as they struggled to tighten saddle girths. Smoke from so many dying fires melted into the damp early morning mist that overhung the city.

  ~~~

  The assembly of Lodestok's warriors was a sight to strike dread into any person not part of it. Morning sunlight glinted off unsheathed weapons raised in salute, from large iron-mounted daggers to the more sophisticated slender knives the scholar had seen on the two warriors in Ortok. There were swords upraised in salute. Shield bosses with engraved city-state decoration clearly stated a warrior's origins and who he followed into battle.

  Many helmets had richly embossed skulls, again showing allegiance, these designs repeated on breastplates and greaves as it was on the chamfrain and breast ornamentation worn by their destriers. Armour coverings could be seen that were silvered or gilded. Masks attached to helmets were raised. There was a chill in the air and absolute silence now that the drums and horns had quietened.

  When Lodestok strode through the inner gate that led to the outer court, it was a strong and motivated warrior force that confronted him. Bensar, mounted rigidly erect, kneed his warhorse forward until he came to a halt three feet in front of the warlord where he saluted crisply before gently backing his horse. At a signal, Lodestok's magnificent black destrier was brought from the stables, the slave who led the horse releasing the reins to the warlord and prostrating himself for Lodestok to use as a step. Carelessly, Lodestok did so. He gathered the reins firmly in his hands.

  The warlord turned the horse so he could survey his men, each warrior astride a huge warhorse and as rigidly at attention as Bensar. All weapons were now sheathed. On these occasions, warriors were wont to hold their breath, because it wasn't unknown for Lodestok to order the immediate flogging of a warrior who was slovenly mounted or whose weapons were not immaculately presented. His warriors sweated as the warlord rode through the ranks. He was methodical and unhurried. Sarssen, mounted well back, could only admire the intrinsic authority that encompassed the black-cloaked figure as it moved steadily closer. Bensar wasn't the only one who sweated. With the inspection complete, the warlord rode slowly to the front of his men, speaking so quietly his warriors had to strain to hear.

  "Gather your men to be ready to march at my signal." Lodestok paused. His men found this unnerving. No one so much as blinked. "We march northwards. It is not the long march you endured coming from the south. I can assure you it will be well worth your while."

  After a moment there was a roar from the gathered warriors, then stillness. The mist mixed in with icy warrior breaths and swirled in waves before retreating. Lodestok waved his arm nonchalantly in a signal of dismissal and turne
d his horse away. A cruel smile curled his mouth.

  ~~~

  Many men who swelled the ranks were mercenaries who came from all parts of southern Ambros. In among them were renegades from among the vanquished whom the mercenaries treated with the utmost contempt. There were also slaves who had military skills and were now pressed into service, mostly in units of archers or pikemen. Most of the charioteers were Churchik, and, though they had been influential in southern battles, the northern terrain didn't suit them, so now the charioteers mostly concentrated their energies on archery. Lodestok knew as well as anyone that men, such as disaffected conquered men or mercenaries, who were prepared to fight their own, often became more vicious than ever the conquerors could be. Accordingly, the warlord encouraged them whenever he could.

  The warriors had much to organise. There were enormous numbers making up the army support that included among others, pikemen, archers, foot soldiers, waggoners, and armourers. And this didn't include the warrior's personal retinue and slaves that he had to marshal. Each personal warrior's escheli had his horse, as well as his warrior master's second warhorse that he had to lead. He was responsible, too, for luggage carried on small packhorses that included any armour not being worn by the warrior. He was also expected to be able to tell his master how many mounted archers would be riding with them, so that the wagons of supplies could be evenly distributed down the line.

  ~~~

  Most of the army and the slaves travelled on foot; the slaves, poorly clad and unarmed, went in long slave trains organised and disciplined by mostly Churchik guards, the barkashads. These men were vicious and used their thin canes and whips indiscriminately.

  The soldiers carried lethal-looking spears or javelins, swords and knives. Some had leather-covered shields, but most did not. Few even wore neck guards. Most of the soldiers only wore heavily padded jackets that opened down the side, these being their only protection. The others wore only tunics, breeches and boots, and were generally bareheaded or wore simple caps - few of them had shields or pikes and most were from the enslaved ranks. Even so, this diverse collection made up a frightening fighting machine that had steadily wreaked havoc as it moved inexorably northward.