Warlord

by Katy Winter

  The little boy brought in with Daxel was gently removed, though he too screamed and clung to his brother. As he bore no resemblance to Daxel, it was assumed the older boy had simply rescued someone else's child so Brue was immediately sent on to an orphanage hastily set up further north in the forest.

  ~~~

  Daxel awoke to the soft springy feel of cushioning turf. Not really believing where he was, he opened his eyes to see sunlight filter through branches above. He lay still, luxuriating in greenery and comfort. The ground smelled sweetly damp as he rolled over to sniff it. He rolled back onto his side so he could nuffle at flowers that nodded lazily in the light breeze. The wild flowers were highly scented and made him sneeze. That hurt.

  His senses gradually returned. He became aware of aches that wracked him, saw his boots were gone and in their place were rough bandages - he knew his feet were injured. He began, too, to remember. He thought of fires and burning feet. He knew if he sat he'd be sick so carefully eased himself onto his back, and his swimming head became still.

  Slowly, the world came into focus. So did the boy's memory. Daxel wept, softly but very deeply, as if he was torn irreparably apart. Without his twin, he was. Then the boy vomited several times before he curled into a ball, too exhausted to do anything other than cry. He didn't hear anyone approach. In his misery, he wouldn't have cared if he had.

  The man, who looked down sadly at Daxel, was old. His hair was grey, his salt and pepper beard wispy, and he walked with a decided limp. He stooped stiffly to touch the boy gently on the shoulder.

  "Boy," he said quietly. Daxel began to cry again, sobs shaking him. "Child."

  "I want to die."

  "No, you don't," said the older man reprovingly. "That won't help matters, will it?"

  "Who cares about what happens to me? My family's probably dead and my elder brother -." Daxel choked and buried his head in his hands. The old man surveyed the boy for long moments before speaking.

  "Lad, I can't ease your grief, or the terrible experience you've had. No one can. All I can say is, we all have to face a future that's uncertain. We must have the strength, each one of us, to work with one another to survive. I feel for you deeply, boy, you can believe that."

  Daxel's sob became a sniff. He accepted the linen the old man held down.

  He mumbled his thanks, adding in a watery voice, "I can't walk."

  "Can't you? Have you tried?"

  "My feet are burned," said Daxel, a trace of crossness in his voice. That brought a faint smile to the old man's eyes. He peered down at the bandages.

  "Yes," he agreed, "they are, but you've been here for nearly three days, you know, so I imagine they're healing quite well by now." Daxel stared up into the seamed face and the gentle hazel eyes.

  "Three days? Have I slept for three days?" he asked incredulously.

  "You were very distressed," explained the old man, "so they decided to keep you resting." He saw outrage in the black eyes and smiled in understanding. "For your feet," he added tactfully. "Can you get up if I assist, do you think?"

  Daxel got to his knees, but his head swam unpleasantly and his knees were unaccountably wayward when they buckled at the first sign of effort. He waited for a few minutes, then took the old man's hand and clambered gingerly to his feet. He winced, because his soles were tender, and then he put his free hand unsteadily to his head.

  "Giddy," he mumbled.

  "Easy now. Lean on me, that's a good boy," said the old man encouragingly. This was so like how their uncle used to speak to them that Daxel stared hard at him. "Good boy," repeated the old man with a broad smile, nudging the boy as he spoke.

  Walking slowly and with Daxel leaning heavily on the old man's arm, the two made progress to a forest clearing where a camp of sorts had obviously been hurriedly established. The people looked subdued. Their hands went out to the boy as he drew near in gestures of comfort and sympathy. His hair was gently ruffled and he was quietly spoken to. The old man led the boy over to a group of men busy discussing something that made them shake their heads every so often. They broke off their conversation when the man and boy approached. One of them turned.

  "What have we here?" he asked calmly. He studied the young, white and strained face. The old man pushed Daxel gently forward before he went to lean against a tree.

  "I'm Dase, son of Alfar."

  "I'm Cardon." The man scrutinised Daxel with critical eyes. His appraisal obviously satisfied him. "You're to be answerable to me for everything, lad. In return, I'll ensure you're well fed and clothed and you'll spend your days with me as soon as you're able. You look as if the last days have been very rough. What's happened to you?" Cardon saw the young face pucker.

  "Meth and Falmar brought him in," said the old man, in a tired voice. "The healer thought he might lose the boy, his mind was such -."

  "Oh, yes," murmured Cardon. "I forgot. You've badly burned feet too, lad, haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "How are they?"

  "Sore," admitted Daxel.

  "And the rest of you?" Daxel shuffled a little and Cardon was quickly beside him to hold the boy steady.

  "Hungry," replied Daxel. Cardon laughed and patted his shoulder.

  "That sounds promising, lad. Go and have your feet attended to, then you return to me so you can be fed. We'll need your help when possible. Everyone has to help in any way they can; do you understand?"

  "Yes," answered Daxel, in a weary tone of voice.

  "Off you go then, lad."

  He was carefully turned to face a tent that bore a healer's sign. He looked for the old man, but he'd gone. Daxel limped painfully toward the tent, his eyes scanning the people as he went. He didn't see Brue or Luton in that first brief glance.

  Daxel's physical recovery was swift. As the weeks passed, he adjusted to what was expected of him, taking orders easily and quick to obey. He was at a stage of rapid growth too. Nor was it long before the boyish roundness was gone. With the new gauntness in appearance, went a distinct personality change. Once extroverted, he was now quiet, introspective, pensive and tense, the loss of confidence about his identity dramatic. The trauma of displacement was very evident in the boy's expression. The loss of his identical twin was devastating.

  The rebellious and engagingly naughty boy was gone. In his place was a thin boy who spoke seldom, developed very sharp wits, and was so changed that when he was moved north as a forager in Cardon's group, his family wouldn't have recognised him.

  ~~~

  Daxel's mind came back to the present. He picked up the half-plucked auriol flower that he'd discarded and finished pulling off all the petals in an absent-minded way. Sighing, he realised he had to get back to camp.

  These days his thin face was strained with a harshness to the eyes and expression that shouldn't be there in one so young. His voice was hard when he bothered to speak, Daxel even more introverted than he'd been in the very early days after the tragedy of Ortok. He was biddable, but the black eyes looked haunted and his response to everyone was the same. He was lifeless. He simply didn't smile and eschewed company when he could. He was a solitary boy. He was left alone these days by those who'd tried to draw him out and failed. It was known he'd lost all his family, Cardon believing the hurt went too deep and was irreparable, though, in his way, he befriended the boy as much as he could.

  Daxel had been doing what he always did these days, foraging. He was tired and hungry on his return, but neither felt like food nor rest. His feet nearly always ached too, but he'd got used to that. He'd been commandeered to help dismantle the camp and that's what he'd obligingly done all afternoon, until he suddenly needed to creep away from the chaos of yet another move north deeper into the forest, the bustle and noise forever round him, day after day. That was why he enjoyed foraging; it took him away from the crowds that were an ever-present part of camp life.

  Even here where he now sat, his thoughts dwelling on Ortok and on the surges of terror and pain that came occasionally f
rom Luton, he could still hear camp activity. It included the crying of the pitifully few children who left first. They were always sent north, some with the few lucky unified families, because it was considered the children were still vulnerable to attack. Children went to certain safety and this rule was applied without favour immediately any child arrived at the camp. Within days they were gone to the orphan and children's camps already established at the northern-most reaches of this huge forest, which was why Daxel was sure it was where little Brue was. His heart ached for a little boy so torn from all the people he knew.

  He knew, too, that if Luton had escaped, his twin would have reached out to him by now. Daxel searched everywhere for him. He called to him repeatedly, desolation touching him as each succeeding day brought no sign. Though he felt blankness where his twin's presence should be, Daxel felt Luton wasn't dead but somehow removed and that frightened him even more.

  Daxel knew he should get back to camp and began to walk a little wearily, no spring in his step. He turned slowly and looked around the spinney where he often come for solitude, aware that he'd be leaving, probably in the early morning, with the mass exodus north. He walked through the undergrowth and stopped at the edge of the camp, his eyes following the last of the children to leave. As they disappeared among the trees, it was as if they'd never been. He quickened his step and entered the camp to see what he could next do to help. Cardon immediately saw him. He called urgently and pointed to a small cavalcade coming towards the camp from the south and gestured for Daxel to go and help, as it seemed, from their slow progress, there were injured among the approaching refugees.

  Daxel joined several other boys already running towards the group, slowing as he neared the cavalcade. Now that he was near them he understood their slowness, because the foresters led horses draped with the hurt, others carried litters of three worse injured, and carts of the wounded followed them.

  Daxel reached the foresters and stood silent. He listened to what were the immediate needs of the injured, before he turned sharply and sprinted back to Cardon who waited, a frown in his eyes. Cardon nodded sharply. He considered for a moment, then quietly ordered Daxel to go and ask for more transportation to be organised for additional wounded. All wounded, the boy was told, would move out tomorrow. Daxel hadn't seen the intent scrutiny he was subjected to by one of the arriving foresters.

  ~~~

  Sarehl didn't remember being dragged behind the horse into the centre of Ortok, because he drifted in and out of consciousness. When alert he tried to keep his head from hitting the ground, but finally surrendered, hoping to die. The kicks he received from the horse shattered his right hip, cracked his left hip in several hairline fractures and mangled both legs, so badly, Sarehl was effectively crippled.

  He didn't die. He was dragged by the horse out of the city, to the edge of the camp, where the warriors cut him loose. As he drifted in and out of awareness, Sarehl knew the warriors further brutalised him before they left him for dead. The next sensation he felt were rough hands lifting him. He knew he screamed. He heard laughter and then nothing. He drifted in and out of consciousness for some days, and later still, barely aware where he was, he heard a beseeching and very young voice call his name. Sarehl tried desperately to respond to the call of the younger brother he loved so dearly, hearing the despair and desperation as his name was repeated over and over. He knew he was within touching distance of Bethel, but could neither move nor speak. This episode became a vicious recurring nightmare. It haunted Sarehl. He knew he was helpless to assist the boy who was a son to him, though he tried to scream that he'd come when he could.

  At the time, he barely knew the voice stopped or that again he was moved. He received water for only two days. There was no more. He forced himself to remain conscious, instinct telling him it was his one chance of survival.

  His crushed hip and twisted legs stabbed with pain and his face was sheer agony, but he used the pain to keep himself sane, while he lay, day after day, following the last move. He had no food and no water. The flies settled on him even though he tried weakly to brush them away, nor did he know why he hadn't been slain. He suspected he was one casualty that was merely being left to slowly die, away from others. His death was to be lingering.

  Sarehl knew he weakened as one day succeeded another. On this day, he gritted his teeth against a howl of pain as he rolled over on to his side. His vision was blurred, but he could see enough to recognise that he looked back at the slave pens, so, with a groan and clenching his teeth, he forced himself to roll back and onto his other side.

  He sweated profusely and shook with effort. Feeling deeply nauseous and beginning to sob with the shafts of pain from his legs, he almost lost consciousness. He lay unmoving for the rest of the day, until in the evening, in the cool, his eyesight cleared enough for him to see what he thought was the outline of trees. He doubted if he could be seeing true, but continued to lie on his side throughout the night awaiting a dawn that would confirm what he desperately hoped he'd seen. When light came, Sarehl opened his eyes and looked to the north. Disbelievingly, he did see trees, not just a clump of them either - it was Blenharm forest. He almost gave way to despair: he could see hope, but it was so far away.

  He realised the Churchik had carried him quite some distance from the immediate camp so his death wouldn't be a health hazard, and he knew the slave pens were behind him, without wire around the camp perimeter. He'd learned why not very quickly. He wondered if there were any others like him, but his mind shied rapidly from that to the question of his survival.

  He was aware he'd been laid on a pallet of some sort that he could roll off on to the ground, but had no thoughts of what he'd do next. He just knew he couldn't stay where he was any longer. He rolled from the pallet. The small distance, from the pallet to the ground, jarred him to such an extent that he bit through his lower lip to refrain from screaming. He landed on his stomach. He lay still and tried to get his breath, and because his lower lip bled, he deliberately swallowed the blood. It was the first liquid he tasted in a long time.

  After lying on the ground in the scorching heat for some time, Sarehl realised the only way he could move was by dragging himself along by his arms. He had no mobility from the waist down, so crawling on his stomach it had to be. His hands and arms were scarred and scabbed from the ride he'd endured, but he didn't think about the pain as he punished them again.

  His progress was pitifully slow. He inched his long body along over the next four days, always turning his head back to see if anyone from the camp bothered to check his pallet. No one did. He still kept looking, as if to reassure himself that he indeed moved forward and no one could stop him. Scrubby bushes he struggled through hid his progress from anyone in the camp.

  Over those days, he tried, through lips sliced by the sword, to eat dirt and suck the juices out of the stems of any plants he could find. On the third day he tasted a poisonous plant because he nearly tore himself apart retching, the paroxysms leaving him almost too weak to move. By the fourth morning, he was well beyond the camp and close to the outskirts of the forest, his need of pauses for rest increasing with fading strength. The burning heat of the sun made his struggle one of sheer willpower.

  He knew he had another day's crawl before he'd have shelter among the smaller copses of younger trees closest to him. The effort was almost beyond him. He never knew what drove him as he tried to go faster, but the pain that engendered brought him to an abrupt halt. He literally forced himself to ignore the pain and move again, not to the first copse, but on to the second that was denser where there were eight young trees growing very closely together, their canopies entangled and extremely dense.

  It began to rain an hour or so before, so Sarehl lay thankfully under the shelter of large leaves. Had he been in any fit state he'd have laughed at the irony. For many days he'd yearned for the drought to break, but now, with the rain becoming steadily heavier, he was relieved to be out of it. He wondered if Bethel was gettin
g wet. That thought was too much. He rested his head on the ground and wept for himself and for his gentle little brother.

  Sarehl hauled himself in as close to the trees as he could, wedging himself between the trunks of the two largest trees closest to the denser forest so that he'd be as inconspicuous as possible. He'd eaten more dirt and had drunk plenty of water, but while his body shrieked for rest, Sarehl was too tense to let himself sleep.

  He heard the riders from some distance away and fought terror and panic. His throat was dry. His heart jumped uncomfortably. Sweat moistened his forehead and palms. He kept very still. The hoof-beats thundered nearer and Sarehl could plainly see it was a warrior security team doing a forest perimeter sweep from the camp. The horses were briefly pulled up at the first copse, where there was a lot of guttural shouting and arm waving, before the men rode on back to the camp. Sarehl felt too sick to move and couldn't stop trembling or retching, but even though it was dusk and coming night quickly, he finally decided he was too vulnerable and had to move.

  Early the next morning, Sarehl reached well inside the border of Blenharm forest. It took him five days to reach there and to achieve it he'd pushed his body beyond its limits. He faded into unconsciousness.

  ~~~

  A forester, named Ensore, cantered along the perimeter of the forest on an early morning patrol. He didn't see Sarehl at first. As he flashed past he thought he saw some thrown away clothing, and, aware that anything foraged was a boon he turned the horse and cantered back. He swung himself from the saddle and went over to inspect the mound of garments.

  He stopped abruptly and went to his knees. The long body lying flat on its stomach was motionless. Ensore was moved by pity. Since he'd come north he'd seen tragic sights, but none touched him as this scene did. He stared down at an emaciated man, dark-haired and very, very tall, with deep scarring on hands and arms, some of it bleeding sluggishly, but what told him most were the twisted legs and shattered hip. The man's head, fallen to one side, showed a savage slash that almost cut his face in half. Ensore gently touched the hand flung forward.