Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "Comb your hair, boy," Sarssen ordered.

  He noticed the bath had helped the boy considerably, Bethel moving with only a slight limp and a trace of stiffness. While Sarssen still lounged comfortably, Bethel looked round for a comb and finding one, obligingly dragged it through the long curls. Finished, he put down the comb. He stood uncertainly.

  "Now then, pretty boy, come over here," Sarssen said quietly. Bethel hesitated. Sarssen looked up sharply. "Do not make me come and get you, boy. You will regret that, believe me." When Bethel shuffled forward, the warrior got to his feet, firmly propelled the boy onto the chair he'd just vacated and turned Bethel's head to the right. "You may react in two ways, little boy," he continued in the same quiet, cool voice. "I can sit you here and mark you, or I can call in others to hold you down while I do it. Which is it to be?" Bethel went to rise, but a grip of iron on his shoulder stayed him and kept him still.

  "What mark?" Bethel whispered, his frightened eyes meeting Sarssen's cool green ones. Sarssen pointed to his own face, and for the first time, Bethel saw a faint, white, jagged line that cut from Sarssen's eye, across his cheek and down towards his ear. "Oh gods," he whimpered. His face blanched.

  "Our master marks all in servitude to him with the Vaksh sign of ownership. Where my mark is on one side of the face to denote Churchik warriorhood, your mark will show clearly whose slave you are. All warriors now know where to check for an escaped slave, boy: they look directly at the specific cut on the right side of the face and at the brand. The slave can then be returned to a master for flogging or execution. It is a simple but effective form of identification, is it not?" This explanation left Bethel feeling sick. He bent his head. "You, however, are a little different, because I am to leave your beauty as unblemished as possible. That is why you cannot be permitted to protest. We would not want you damaged for our master, would we?"

  When the knife neared him, Bethel cringed, but he uttered no sound when he felt the knife bite deeply. Tears came then, but he just let them fall, his hands gripped tightly together. When the warrior deliberately enlarged the cut, the boy gave a stifled sob because the cauterising liquid that was dripped into the wound made him feel his whole face was on fire. After all he'd endured over the last few days, Bethel was incapable of any reaction. He felt numb. Sarssen rested his hand on the dark head in a gentle gesture.

  "The pain will ease quite quickly, little boy. Also your cut is not as deep as mine, if that is any consolation. In time, yours will not even be noticeable. The liquid, though initially painful, heals the cut and stops any infection." Bethel watched the warrior clean his knife and resheath it. "Get up and walk about," suggested Sarssen. "I shall return shortly."

  He walked towards the pavilion entrance then turned, stooped low over the boy and calmly locked on the ankle chains. He left the boy alone for enough time for Bethel to recover from shock, and when he returned, he had a tankard in a hand that he held out. Not unkindly, he dropped a hand on the young shoulder.

  "Drink this, boy. It will help."

  Gratefully, Bethel held out hands that still trembled, drinking slowly at first and then in gulps. The liquid was sweet and steadied him. Sarssen waited patiently, then, when the boy finished, he removed the tankard and placed it on the table.

  "Did that help?" The boy nodded. "You will now follow me, boy."

  They left the pavilion and walked some distance to a part of the camp completely unfamiliar to Bethel. It was when they came in sight of the forge that Bethel remembered he was sure the warlord spoke of branding. He saw himself back in the pens, desperately avoiding the guards who took first one man then another and branded them despite the struggles the men put up. In panic, he turned and ran. He forgot the ankle chains that allowed him to walk only slowly. Sarssen turned to watch the boy stumble and trip.

  "Get up!" he said coldly. He made no effort to assist Bethel. Aware of amused and interested eyes watching his progress, the boy scrambled to his feet. Impatiently, Sarssen strode over to him, took Bethel's arm and spoke in blighting tones. "You have come so far, little boy. If I leave our master to deal with you, you will be very, very sorry."

  "I can't," protested Bethel, a dry sob in his voice. "Please don't."

  "You do not know what is to happen," mocked Sarssen.

  "I do, I do," pleaded Bethel, pulling back.

  "Tell me then, little boy."

  "They brand the tongue to show I'll be a slave, don't they?" Sarssen looked down a mite exasperated and nodded reluctantly. "No!"

  Since Bethel refused to take another step, Sarssen was forced to drag him to the forge. Bethel had only fought in play before with his brothers, but now he fought, so like a wild thing Sarssen was forced to call out sharply to two warriors to help subdue the boy. Bethel panted, sobbed, kicked, bit and scratched.

  "Best we cut his tongue out," growled one of the warriors, forcing Bethel's arm high.

  Sarssen stood back and watched, irritation giving way to resignation. Two Churchik warriors were more than a match for any boy. They soon had Bethel spread-eagled against the wall, his wrists gripped hard, and when the boy lashed out with his feet one of the warriors kicked him very hard in return. One warrior held Bethel's head immobile. Sarssen called for the smith, who watched the proceedings with a grin.

  "A veritable little spitfire, is he not, my lord?" Sarssen gave a tired smile.

  "You know what to do. It is to be the warlord's mark. Just get it over with." He stood well back.

  The boy gave a heart-rending and despairing cry. He made one last convulsive effort to pull free just as the smith forced open his mouth and inserted a metal bar. Bethel's tongue was clamped. His body arched and he almost choked when the brand met his tongue. It was very quick. While the smith went back to the forge, Bethel hung limply in the hands of the warriors, all fight gone from him and his face parchment white. He was a pathetic object of absolute defeat.

  "Keep hold of him," Sarssen advised, as the smith returned and pushed up Bethel's head. He removed the clamp, then sprayed a fine liquid over the boy's tongue, waited for a few moments while Bethel gagged violently and then removed the metal bar. Bethel tried to lick his lips. Then he began to sob, gut-wrenching and uncontrollable sobs that shook him from head to toe. Sarssen immediately stepped forward. He slapped the boy hard across his uninjured cheek. Bethel gulped.

  "Let him go," Sarssen ordered. Released, Bethel made no effort to defend himself. The sobs died to a forlorn hiccup. He didn't raise his head. "Pull yourself together. Can you feel any pain?" Sniffing, Bethel shook his head. "You will not do so, you little fool, because that is an anaesthetic. When it wears off, you should only feel discomfort for a day or two." Bethel scuffed the ground with a boot and didn't speak. Sarssen took the boy's arm and led him from the forge. "You may not feel hungry but you will be, so I shall feed you. Then you can accompany me about the camp so you know where you are."

  Bethel was too worn out to do more than acquiesce, his spirit not quite broken, but the last days had caught up with him. At that moment, he didn't care what happened to him. He wanted to die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  That evening before Sarssen returned the boy to the warlord, he instructed Bethel on what was expected of him as Lodestok's slave. The warrior was ruthless in his drilling, aware this boy might have a chance of survival, even if it was a very fragile chance.

  Sarssen didn't touch on the physical relationship, because he judged the boy knew well what awaited him. He spoke instead on practical matters, such as a slave being up at dawn, dressed and prepared to serve his master as soon as the warlord awoke. He warned Bethel what the warlord's reaction would be if he were not. Bethel, crushed and sore, licked his lips with a tongue that still felt swollen. He needed no other reminder.

  Among many other duties expected of a personal slave to a warrior lord, he learned that clothes had to be prepared the night before, boots polished until they shone, jewellery cleaned and burnished and the warlord's weapons kept in
order. He had to keep the pavilion spotless and had to learn what Lodestok ate at each meal. He learned too, that a slave never touched food until granted permission and ate in silence, apart from everyone else, only when given leave to do so. He discovered that small mats would be placed at strategic points round the pavilion, exclusively for his use, and that to transgress by occupying any other furniture would lead to the severest beating.

  He was told it was a slave's task to bathe and massage the warlord every evening and prepare him for rest. Bethel shook when Sarssen told him it would be his duty to oil Lodestok from his head to the soles of the huge feet after every bath the warlord took. As well, Bethel would be expected to brush and comb the warlord's long blond hair and luxuriant beard, several times a day. Sarssen noticed the deep shiver that shook the boy, but he made no comment. When Sarssen said it was even a slave's task to pare and paint the warlord's fingers and toenails, Bethel paled, conscious already how hard Lodestok could kick him for the most minor error. He learned the unspoken commands of clicked fingers and a raised, bent or crooked finger and recited them in a nervously jumping voice.

  He sat very still in front of Sarssen, his hands gripped together in his lap, his huge eyes staring up intensely at the blond warrior who continued to speak in his deep, cool voice.

  Sarssen finished by saying, "You are his slave, boy. I know slavery is unknown to your people, but what it means is simply this. The warlord owns you in every way, body and mind, and you owe him absolute obedience in all things. At the very least he will whip you if you do not, and should you make any error, that, too, will be dealt with by a beating. You have ceased to be a person, boy. You are now merely an extension of your master and no longer an individual boy with self-will or independence. Do you fully understand what I am saying?"

  The voice that answered, quavered. "Yes, my lord."

  "You have survived so far, little boy, but you have a long way to go if you do not wish to suffer the fate of those who preceded you. I can not warn you more clearly."

  Sarssen saw deep fear in the eyes that stared into his. He was pensive for a moment, then thought reinforcement of obedience wouldn't go amiss. Taking the boy's wrist, Sarssen pulled Bethel from the pavilion and out towards the eastern perimeter of the camp where the warlord carried out executions, other than on the common. Feeling Bethel drag back, the warrior gave him a sharp yank and forced the boy to keep up with him.

  "No, my lord, no," Bethel whispered, his free hand tugging ineffectually at the steely grip on his wrist. Sarssen came to a halt, his head bent to the weeping boy. His voice was cold and emotionless.

  "Look up, boy, and see what awaits you if you incur your master's displeasure." Bethel raised his head, then tried desperately to pull backwards. Sarssen held him still and gave him an admonitory shake. He jerked Bethel's head to the left. "The warlord will crucify you himself. He will either execute you, or pass you on to others who will use you as they choose. Neither will be an easy death for you, child. Should you even reach the south in a slave caravan, your life, as a very pretty boy, will be in a boy harem. Believe me, that will be a fate far worse than death, or even life with your master if that is possible. Remember that. Do I make myself clear?"

  Distraught and terrified, Bethel went to his knees. Sarssen stooped, put a finger to Bethel's chin and found he stared down into a white face, enormous agonised eyes full of tears.

  "I merely warn you, boy, not threaten you," he said in a gentler voice. There was a very long silence. Neither boy nor man moved. Finally, Sarssen spoke quietly as he held down a hand to help Bethel to his feet. "I know, so very clearly, what your life will be, child, though that may mean little to you. Your master uses and disposes." There was a pause. "The interminable darkness of your existence will try to destroy you, but you must try as hard as you can to go beyond it and have hope, boy. Hold to hope. Remember, if you can, in your moments of terror and pain, you are not entirely alone."

  He watched the young head lift as he spoke and knew the boy heard his words distinctly and also understood them. Sarssen's grip on Bethel lessened, and now, almost absently, the warrior let the boy go. Bethel stood with bowed head, his breath coming in little gasps and he made no effort to move - he seemed incapable of doing anything. Sarssen looked down at him again, sadness in his fine eyes.

  "Come, boy," he said quietly. "It is time you were fed and prepared for your master." Bethel lifted his head and his voice was a thread.

  "Thank you, my lord."

  The compassion in the eyes above Bethel deepened, then changed to surprise when a small slender hand tremblingly clasped the warrior's. Sarssen briefly met the huge eyes, before the boy looked down again. The blond warrior felt an odd sensation, nor did he disengage from the grip, though his lips twisted as he began to move back to the pavilion, the slight boy trailing beside him.

  ~~~

  The next morning Bethel woke with a fright, aware the warlord turned. He hoped Lodestok wasn't wakening. He lay there panting at the thought that he may have overslept, moistened his lips, and was conscious of both deep aches and that it was dawn. He could hear distant bird-song and knew it was time he was up and dressed.

  When he went to move, he realised he was trapped by a strong and heavy arm that rested across his stomach. He felt quite sick. He forced himself to lie absolutely still. Quivering with the fear of reprisal should he wake the warlord, he began to ease himself from under the arm but wasn't quick enough and had to bite down on a groan when the huge hand moved from his stomach to settle on his leg. Gritting his teeth, Bethel pulled himself free and crawled across the huge bed so that he could slip off it.

  He dressed in clothes that hung on him. His own clothes, reduced to filthy rags, had been disposed of, so he was now clad in the clothes an eleven cycle Churchik boy would wear. A boy that age was considerably broader than Bethel and not as tall, so the breeches were loose and too short, though the long boots hid this. The shirt hung loosely over the belted breeches but the sleeves were too short, the cuffs closer to Bethel's elbows than to his wrists and the jerkin, even buttoned, constantly slipped from the boy's shoulders, Bethel resigned to hauling at it to keep it on. He looked a waif. Sarehl wouldn't have recognised his young brother in the very thin, timid boy who crept, heavily limping, from the warlord's pavilion.

  He stopped in his tracks when a huge form loomed in front of him. The boy squeaked with fright when a warrior gripped his shoulder and held him. He panicked, until he realised the warrior dangled his ankle chain from one hand, then, submissively, he stood still while the warrior went to one knee and locked the chain in one swift movement. A sharp cuff about his head sent Bethel away looking for food, his eyes watering.

  As it was very early and there was little activity in the camp, Bethel wandered apprehensively about, knowing he mustn't wake Lodestok. With nothing to do, he found himself drifting towards the perimeter of the camp closest to Blenharm forest, and there he stood, still, tears coursing down his face as he thought of Sarehl, his home and his family. He thought, too, of the Academy that was probably destroyed and even more wistfully of his old master there. He stayed still for some time, his mind a long way from the camp. Then he gave a forlorn sob, sighed, brushed his cheeks and began slowly to limp painfully again.

  He was unaware how far he'd strayed from the warlord's pavilion until a whiplash curled about him and sent him to his knees. A second lash had him crouch, abased, with his head in his hands. Bethel had never known physical chastisement of this sort and his mind reeled.

  A harsh, guttural voice ordered him to his feet. He obeyed without question. Already, he recognised the warrior who strode towards him snarling guttural words the boy couldn't understand they were uttered so quickly. It was Lodestok's protégé, one Correc. He was thought to be the warrior who'd inherit the warlord's titles and wealth in cycles to come and was equally ferocious. He grasped Bethel and half-lifted the boy in a march back to the warlord's pavilion.

  Bethel saw that Lodestok
was awake and stretched luxuriously, his eyes coldly watchful as Correc thrust the boy, very roughly, into one of the huge chairs. Bethel cowered, conscious of pain from the whip.

  "Correc," came the soft, deep voice from the bed. "What brings you to my service at such an hour?" Correc glared contemptuously down at the boy, before he turned to bow to Lodestok.

  "The boy was running away, my lord." Lodestok looked over at Bethel who shook his head desperately, his eyes wide and pleading.

  "Well, little bud? Is that so? How very foolish of you," chided the silky voice. The mildness of the rebuke was deceptive.

  "No, my lord, no," gasped Bethel. He surged to his feet and threw himself prostrate beside the bed. A huge hand grasped his torc.

  "What then were you doing, young bud? Correc, I thank you. You may leave the boy to me."

  Correc bowed again, cast another look of intense contempt at Bethel, then left the pavilion. Bethel didn't dare move. The hand gripping the torc nearly choked him and the image of the execution field so terrified him, he couldn't utter a sound. Tremors shook him as he was bodily lifted to his knees. The hand transferred from the torc to his curls and his head was jerked up, so hard, his eyes watered. The voice was still very soft and quiet.

  "I would advise you to explain yourself, little bud, or I shall crucify you myself."

  The warlord looked icily into eyes so frightened they were black, then, realising the boy simply couldn't speak, Lodestok shook him and let him fall to the ground, where Bethel stayed on his knees. Lodestok lazed back on his cushions, studying his nails. After a moment, the warlord glanced down at the boy in amusement and watched while Bethel struggled to gain control of his speech and licked his lips. The boy's eyes were quite wild.