by Katy Winter
Luton stared up into each warrior's face in turn, only to see the same disinterest in all the pitilessly chilling, blue eyes. They were huge men. Two of them held his mother and another pair held Bruno. Luton glanced over to his mother who hung white and motionless, took a step towards her, his hand out, then flinched when he was yanked back and given a swift kick. Lban looked down at Luton.
"Where's your sister, Lute?" he asked quietly. Luton shook his head, saw Lban stiffen and the young man's eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Answer the man," snarled a guttural voice, in broken Samar, above Luton.
"I don't know," the boy whimpered. He got a second kick.
"Ask him again," came the same voice.
"Where's Myme Chlo, Lute? You'll regret not telling us," threatened Lban.
"I don't know. She stays with Lian or the scholar." Luton began to struggle in the warrior's grip.
"Start on the woman," came another deep, guttural voice. "That may help his memory."
For the next twenty minutes Luton knew he repeatedly screamed, his screams echoed by first his mother and then by Bruno. He was held so he couldn't move. The hands gripped him like steel. His head was turned to make him watch each stage of the atrocities being perpetrated and though he closed his eyes, he couldn't close his ears. His struggling was useless. He knew he bit through his lips and tongue, because he tasted the blood in his mouth, and if he put his hands to his head, they were pulled away and pinned to his sides.
When the screaming in front of him died to a choked gasp and then silence, Luton stood rigid. His eyes stared blindly at the floor where the remains of his parents lay, the boy's breathing ragged. His mind was blank. Then, unexpectedly, he threw back his head and howled over and over, without respite. He was overwhelmed not only by the shock of what he'd just witnessed, but also by the wave of terror that washed over him from Daxel. Emotions surged between the twins with such increasing intensity, Luton fell to his knees and rocked backwards and forwards with his hands to his head. He screamed again. His mind was unable to cope with the flood of agonised terror and pain. He'd no escape from the torment that swept over him. His own horror, terror and grief mingled with it and swamped him.
As suddenly as he started to howl, he stopped, his mouth still wide open. His lips moved, but no coherent sound emerged, only choked gulps. The warrior who held him, pulled the boy to his feet and shook him hard.
"Torch them," he ordered, in the strange guttural accent these men had. "You," he growled down at Luton, shaking him again until Luton felt dizzy. "Speak now, or you will burn!" Luton could only make choking noises. "Answer me! Where is your sister?"
When he stayed mute, the boy received a series of blows that shook him from his head to his toes. Again, he opened his mouth to howl, but this time there was no sound at all and when he looked up into the warrior's icy eyes, he received a slap across the cheek that nearly knocked him sideways.
The fire in the room spread quickly. Luton numbly watched it creep to where his mother lay, jerked himself out of the warrior's grasp and flung himself down beside her, gripping her nearest hand. He heard laughter and words above him.
"Let him burn," suggested a warrior, who cleaned his knife before re-sheathing it.
"He can speak," growled Lban. "He can lead us to the girl."
Luton felt hands haul him back. He refused to let go, until the kick he got in the ribcage so winded him, his grip lessened. He was thrown backwards on to the floor and then dragged by his hair out the door.
Luton didn't see the fire reach Melas, and none of the warriors stayed in a room rapidly filling with smoke. No one saw the faint mark on her upper arm, that Alfar commented on many cycles before, begin to glow and spread, so that, in seconds, what was a young woman's body shone with intense heat and luminosity. She burned without flame and then, when the glow faded, neither Melas nor Bruno lay on the floor. It was as if they'd never been. The fire licked the carpet where they'd lain, the flames intensified and the room all but exploded with the surge of heat.
~~~
Luton was half-carried, half-pushed from the house. He looked back to see wisps of smoke seep through the glass, and beyond that, to a deeply reddening glow. He turned to run but a strong hand entwined itself in his hair, jerking him back.
"No you do not," came the grim voice above him. "You have talking to do."
Luton was in a cold sweat. His hands were clammy and his heart hammered wildly. His physical awareness was very real. It was his mind that was in shock, so profound, he was unable to speak. The grip on his hair was painful and strong as he was pulled out onto the cobblestoned road and hauled up very roughly on a horse. He wanted to cry out, but couldn't. His inability to utter a sound terrified him equally as much as did his captor.
He knew they rode out of Ortok and steadily towards the Churchik camp, where the horse was reined in sharply and Luton tumbled to the ground. He fell in a heap. He stumbled to his feet, only to be grasped again and marched some distance to a tent, there to be flung very hard onto a pallet, on his back. His Churchik captor knelt across him, at the same time as he drew a knife that he held to Luton's chest, point down.
"Now," said the warrior in the guttural, chilling voice of stilted Samar. "You will speak, will you not, and answer my question?" Luton stared up at the warrior, fear deep in his black eyes. He gave no response. The knife bit into his chest. "I ask again, boy. Where is your sister?"
Each time the warrior asked and got no answer the knife was pressed deeper until stains covered Luton's torn shirt, but still the only sounds the warrior heard were choking gasps for air. Enraged, the Churchik wrenched the boy's head back, his knife at Luton's throat.
"Why can you not speak?" The voice was an infuriated snarl. The warrior watched Luton's lips move. The knife pressed harder. "Speak, damn you!"
Miserably, Luton shook his head and waited for the knife to despatch him. It didn't. With another snarl, the warrior sheathed his knife and hauled Luton to his feet.
"You are of no use to me and are only fit for the caravan," he growled, striding to the other side of the tent and back. Then he looked down at Luton consideringly, a tigerish grin touching his face. "Come."
The second tent Luton was hustled to was considerably larger than the first and seemed to be full of enormous warriors. In reality there were only five, one standing and of the four lounging at their ease, two were sprawled full length on pallets. They all looked up when Luton and his captor entered. Amused grins greeted their arrival, comments and laughter filling the air, because the men were obviously bored and looked for entertainment. They were clearly not needed for the assault on the city.
Luton was pushed forward by his captor to be turned first one way, then the other. Huge fingers ran through his curls. Then to roars of appreciative mirth another hand went suggestively under his belt, before Luton was roughly pushed to the older, standing warrior. This man promptly sat. He pulled the boy between his knees, hands not at all gentle as they ran over Luton in an exploratory fashion. At that moment, Luton, his face white and pathetic, realised he was to be the entertainment. He waited with sick dread.
In the early hours of the morning, Luton was pushed from the tent to be chained by the neck to a post, where he remained until dawn. He was battered. At first light, his captor kicked him to his feet, and, making the boy keep up with him, led him to an assembly of large pens. Luton was shoved into one, chained and left. In unutterable pain and misery, Luton sank to his knees, his head bent into his arms. He didn't move until he was ordered to.
His life was monotonous. The pens became squalid and filthy despite the water thrown all over the captives every second day, the sluicing at least keeping the captives cool until the heat dried them again. All those imprisoned looked degraded and crushed. How Luton avoided the ritualistic, though mercifully brief, cut that sterilised all males he didn't know. He wasn't pushed, as were most others, from pen to pen. Perhaps his crouching hard up against an outside railing, as
Bethel did, saved him.
He didn't, though, avoid branding. It was an experience that tortured Luton, unable as he was to utter a sound. He was forced to the ground by guards who made him, despite his violent struggles, unclench his teeth so the smith could clamp his tongue. He received no anaesthetic and couldn't express the pain. In silence, he curled his fingers into his palms until they drew blood. More pain followed. He was dragged out to suffer the cane applied to all captives, impartially and passionlessly. It was called "breaking in" for those newly enslaved and it was a deliberate act to whip both Luton and others into immediate and complete submission. It was rarely unsuccessful. It saw the cane moved methodically from the shoulders right down to the calves, then back up again, and the experience left Luton barely able to stand. He staggered against the railing and clung to it.
He learned to do what he was told without question or he received no food or water, but instead received several cuts with the cane. It was quickly accepted he was mute, so he tended to be left alone, something that, in Luton's state of mind, was a blessing. He related to no one and shrank within himself.
After several days when the slaves were being pushed and moved yet again, Luton stared across the sea of faces, seeing nothing. When his eyes focused briefly, he saw Bethel. He couldn't wave. It was impossible to signal with the pen so cramped, Luton so crushed he had no room to move or to turn, men and boys wedged in a tight bloc. He couldn't call out to his younger brother either, though he instinctively opened his mouth to try. When he saw Bethel hauled from a pen Luton tried desperately to see where he was taken, then, when he finally lost track of his younger brother his eyes went blank. He wasn't conscious of tears that dripped from his cheeks and nose. Nor did he see any of his family again.
This life continued for fourteen days, though Luton early lost count of days or interest in what went on around him. He took food and water without any emotion whatsoever and then stayed quietly wherever he was, oblivious to those immediately next to him.
One morning, however, he felt his chain tugged earlier than usual and glanced up at the burly slave barkashad who stood above him.
"On your feet, you!" came the barked order in the guttural tongue.
Clumsily, Luton obeyed. He was unchained from the pen and told to follow, the order punctuated by a sharp tug on his chain. They soon left the pens behind. Luton quickly realised he was being led to the south of the camp where a very long queue, two abreast, stretched for quite some distance. Luton was halted. A torc was snapped shut round his throat, then a chain from it was attached to that of the man in front of him and his left wrist chain was locked to that of the man who stood next to him. He heard movement behind, then felt his head roughly jerked so that his neck chain could also be attached to someone pushed in behind him. Finally, fetters were placed about his ankles, the chain linking them only long enough for him to take a reasonable step. None of the slaves would run anywhere. All chains, bar the fetters, were long and heavy for a mature man to bear, let alone for a boy to carry. Luton didn't know what this meant, but he was very frightened.
As the day wore on, he knew the line eventually extended a long way behind him. He stood unmoving for hours. People came and went around him, the chains well nigh pulling him to the ground. Had he been able, he'd have cried out with pain. As it was, he just hung his head. He waited.
The day was well advanced before the man in front of Luton took a shuffling step forward, jerking the boy to awareness. Close by, Luton heard the crack of the barkashad's whip and he took a faltering step. The slave caravan moved.
The ensuing weeks were a nightmare for all the slaves, Luton treated no differently from anybody else. The barkashads were brutal men who cared not a whit for any of the slaves in their charge. If a man or boy weakened, or held up the caravan, he was summarily executed. Luton heard and saw it so many times, he no longer even noticed.
The slaves received the minimum of food or water, just enough to keep them alive. Luton had been a slight boy. Now he was painfully thin. He ignored the lashes he got, didn't notice his torn and bleeding feet, was indifferent to sores that didn't heal and to burns that blistered from too much sun. He responded to nothing. Since his clothes soon became rags they gave him no protection from the weather or the whips and canes that caught him often enough. Death on the trail became commonplace after just a week. As men or boys were replaced about him, he didn't look at them, his whole concentration on putting one foot in front of the other from dawn to dusk without a break.
At night, he lay shivering as they moved further south and towards a southern autumn. He shook as though ague gripped him, yet by day the sweat streamed from him, making his cuts and sores smart. The slaves were left chained at night. They received the order to lie, and, like dominoes they obeyed, too exhausted and defeated to do anything but collapse. Some of the time they all had to cope with bodily needs where they lay, what clothes they had become soiled and noisome. This led to sickness, fever, and ultimately, death.
Luton never knew he cried day after day, even though sometimes tears were the only liquid he tasted for hours, but as days and then more weeks passed he became increasingly withdrawn and unable to shed a tear. Rarely, he'd shake or nod his head. Beyond that, he made no effort to communicate.
After three weeks on the slave trail, the mortality rate among the slaves rose sharply, many of those despatched relieved to die. One night, as Luton lay shivering on the ground a replacement slave spoke to him. As usual, the boy didn't respond. The man's voice was quiet and deep.
"Are you alright, lad?" he repeated, concern in his voice. Luton's head stayed down so the man stretched across and touched the boy gently on the shoulder. Luton immediately shrank away, his mouth working.
"Lad," came the deep voice again. "What have they done to you?"
Luton looked up to see kindly, deep-set green eyes survey him. The man noticed how big the black eyes were in the thin white face and how full of desolation and suffering.
"Lad," he said gently, very gently, "Come now, speak to me. I won't hurt you." He noticed tears in the boy's eyes, but was distracted from this by Luton pointing to his mouth and shaking his head. "Can't you talk?" he asked, incredulously. His voice hardened. "Have they cut your tongue out?" Luton shook his head. "You spoke once, didn't you?" Luton nodded. "And you can't now?" The head drooped again. "Why were you scared of me? I'm a slave too, you know."
Luton didn't make any further response. He was left for a moment, then felt his chin lifted while the man looked searchingly into dark eyes. When he saw the shame and misery there, he gently let go the boy's head.
"Did they rape you?" Luton blushed and nodded. "More than once?" Another nod was taken as assent. "Many boys and quite a few of the men were," the man said softly. He watched the boy's head come up with a look of surprise. The man smiled calmly at him. "Oh yes. Quite a few were. Strange bastards." He let Luton absorb this, before saying in his quiet way, "Does that help?" Luton nodded. "Good lad," the man said softly, his eyes on the strained face. "You're perishing from the cold too, as thin as you are, aren't you?" He stretched as far over to Luton as he could, his broad shoulders almost touching the boy. "Now, lad, can you get any closer to me at all?" Luton looked nervously at the man and licked his lips. "If you can, you can get some warmth from me."
He didn't press Luton, but just stayed where he was. After a long pause, he felt the boy edge closer. He still made no movement. Not much later, he felt a small shivering form huddle into him. As best he could, the man arranged his wrist chain so that it didn't hit the boy's head, quietly put his arm round the thin shoulders and drew the boy close in an attempt to stop Luton shivering. A sad smile curled the man's mouth as he stared down at the curly head. It was the first time in half a season anyone had shown Luton kindness. When the tears fell, they were gently and carefully wiped away.
When dawn came, Luton felt himself shaken and waking with a start, he stretched. He was unaccustomed to having slept so deeply and pe
acefully. He looked up at his newfound friend who smiled down at him.
"Nearly time to move, little fellow," the man said quietly. "Did you feel any warmer?" Luton nodded quickly, lifted his unchained hand to touch the man's face, then pointed to his own mouth, saying a silent thank you. The man patted the boy's shoulder and then ruffled the lank curls. "If you want to give thanks, lad, just nod twice, eh?"
Luton managed a weak half-smile, just as his neck chain jerked and he was forced to stumble to his feet. His friend muttered imprecations as he too clambered to his feet.
He pushed Luton from him, saying in a whisper, "Keep well apart."
Luton nodded and shuffled into position as he felt tension on his chains. The caravan moved forward.
They passed through desolate Samar city-states like Sian and Myar, one after the other, across a landscape that should've been attractive in mid autumn. The hills undulated into the distance and flourishing fields had once flanked the narrow and winding road, or occasional lanes, the caravan followed. Now the lands looked as sad as the cities they once serviced. Lodestok's army had used what they could and burned what they couldn't. Still, the land was beginning to recover. Graceful trees lined the crisscross of roads that would take the caravan into the remains of Norsham, the most southern of the Samar city-states but now a fortified area of the Churchik.
Luton and his friend stayed together for weeks. The man kept the boy warm on nights that got steadily cooler and Luton gave the man something to think about other than his own immediate needs. He talked to the boy as often as he could, encouraged him at every opportunity, and, if he saw Luton stumble, was always there with a supportive word of kindness. As Luton got increasingly thinner his friend ate less of his food and made the boy take it, the man's care what saved Luton's life. His presence also gave the boy hope where none existed.
It was one evening, in late autumn, that found Luton unable to stop shivering. He was held close to his friend, looking up into the green eyes, his own bloodshot and his lips parched.