Warlord

by Katy Winter

  Since the caravan was making a reasonably long stay in Norsham before moving south through the mountains of Dakhilah, the caravan was disassembled and all the men and boys were put back into slave pens. This way it was very much easier for Luton to keep in touch with his friend. He did so, several times a day, until one morning Luton couldn't find the man. He searched everywhere, scouring even the unlikeliest places. He couldn't ask where his friend was, nor did he stop searching for days, then, profoundly grieving, he crept to a corner of the old city and curling up, Luton wept deeply and long. He did not see his friend again.

  The loss of the one person who'd kept a spark alive in Luton, devastated the boy as much as the shock of his experiences in Ortok. Shek found him biddable, but lifeless. The boy's eyes clouded over as they'd done in the first weeks on the slave trail and Luton never smiled. He'd only begun to shyly and tremulously smile at his friend over the last few days before the man disappeared. Now Luton closed himself irrevocably from everybody.

  What he did learn to do was to watch, observing everything that went on around him. He watched how the garrison was organised and listened to the slave overseers, recognising what was going to happen and when. He learned the language of his captors even though he could never speak it. He quickly knew the nuances of the language so that he clearly understood what was implied rather than what was said.

  He made himself indispensable to Shek's comfort, and, as a reward for his acquiescence, was allowed some time to himself when he could wander round old Norsham if he wished. Certainly it was freedom of a sort, though the torc round his neck and his branded tongue marked him as a slave. He found these respites calmed him, even if at times they could be nerve-wracking because he had to keep dodging Churchik warriors. On those occasions, he'd crawl into a doorway and tremble. His terror was very real. The only two warriors he felt remotely safe from molestation with were Shek and Autchek, and Luton wasn't silly enough to think that Shek wouldn't hurt him very badly if he transgressed in any way.

  He was surprised to find he was relieved when Shek ordered him to prepare for a move south to the pass. Even though it took Luton ever closer to the slave market, he simply no longer cared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Daxel spent every morning and evening with his brother. Ensore noticed Sarehl brightened when the boy was with him so he encouraged Daxel to spend time entertaining his brother, Daxel under strict orders from the healer not to overtax Sarehl. He was most often found sitting with a book in his lap, reading out loud quietly, until he saw his brother's head droop. Then Daxel closed the book and crept from the tent.

  What delighted both Kaleb and Ensore one day was to hear Sarehl laugh over something Daxel told him, both men even more pleased to hear a boyish gurgle in response. Until then no one had heard Daxel laugh. Sarehl's nightmares continued, but Kaleb managed to reduce their intensity and frequency so that others in the camp now got uninterrupted rest at night. The foresters spoke of it one evening when Sarehl was resting and Daxel was with him. Kaleb spoke broodingly.

  "It's not just the nightmares. I'm a healer so can try to mend bodies and minds, but there's something more going on here. Sarehl's bond with Bethel is unique, his mental agony over the boy so profound it's unknown to me. It's more than a fraternal bond, or even a paternal one. It's beyond that. It's in the deep consciousness of the man."

  "It's not just Bethel, though with him it's to a marked degree. It's apparent when Sarehl's obviously thinking of Dase too." Ensore was pensive.

  "There's another thing," put in Kalor. "Dase has suffered like many others, but there's something more there too." He paused. "He still suffers very real anguish which hasn't lessened as you'd expect. I've seen him violently flinch for no reason I can see, and when he thinks no one's looking he puts his head in his hands. He seems to try to push something away in his mind. His knuckles go white with the pressure against his head."

  "His body quivers sometimes too," commented Sache. "I asked him about it once but all he said was he gets headaches."

  "Headaches be damned!" growled Ensore. He frowned. "He's said nothing to me, though I've noticed his almost total withdrawal at unexpected times. It's as if Dase simply can't cope with anything more and blocks out everything round him."

  "Trauma," mumbled Dalmin.

  "No," responded Kaleb. "Ens and Sache are right. Maybe, once we know Sarehl better, and he feels able – if ever – to communicate on a deeper, personal level, we'll understand more. All I can do at present is block Sarehl's worst agonies of mind."

  "And Dase?"

  "I've tried to reach him by talking but his trust's gone. He's closed much of the time, again not consciously. To attempt anything else would be wrong."

  ~~~

  As the weeks passed, Ensore spent more time with Sarehl too. He lounged beside the pallet, and, as Sarehl's strength increased the forester encouraged him to talk. He tried to get Sarehl to speak of his society and his family so that he could get a clearer understanding of his friend as a person, but though Sarehl obliged about Ortok and the Samar confederation, he was as deeply reticent about his family as Ensore was of his. Sarehl learned that the forester was, in reality, not a real forester at all but a Dakhilan and that Ensore's society had suffered as grievously as his own, though in a different way. Ensore told him they were in subjection, paying tribute to a brutal overlord named Alleghy. Ensore gave the impression his people lived in a highly structured society, less free than Sarehl's had been.

  Winter passed into a very chilly spring. Ensore noticed that with Sarehl's increasing strength went an avid interest in what the foresters further north were doing, his questions pertinent and observations showing considerable thought and insight. The forester was well aware of the man's acute intelligence. Even more, Ensore was fascinated by the apparent empathy and instant understanding that characterised the man in many ways. Sarehl volunteered no comments, but Ensore could tell from Sarehl's expression that he critically evaluated all he heard with impossible accuracy and speed. Ensore thought the man's mind was like a machine.

  Ensore didn't push him. He told Sarehl what he wanted to know and patiently waited until the man showed signs of real recovery before he suggested Sarehl comment on what he now knew. Sarehl was reluctant, so Ensore didn't pursue it. One afternoon, however, as Sarehl lounged comfortably against cushions with his arms behind his head, he turned to the forester with his gentle smile.

  "When you asked for an opinion the other day, I didn't mean to be churlish in refusing one."

  Ensore, sitting back easily with his legs outstretched, looked across at Sarehl and twinkled at him. He noticed, too, how well the facial scar healed, the rawness to the wound gone. He curled a finger tentatively through his reddish copper beard.

  "Have you an opinion now?"

  "It just seems to me we needlessly dissipate our energies," sighed Sarehl. "Very soon, the warlord's going to move making the hit and miss manoeuvres you describe of even more limited value than they are now."

  "I understand that. So what do you suggest?"

  "How unified are all the men gathered about you and yours?" Ensore shook his head.

  "They're not. We're a disparate lot. Many groups are oddments, large and small, from the south, along with hundreds more Samar refugees of all persuasions. Not just Ortokians either. They all select their own leaders and work out their own spheres of influence."

  "It won't do." Sarehl gnawed quietly on his lower lip. "They must be combined into a unit of force. There's strength in unity. Piecemeal and uncoordinated groups of men can be picked off." Ensore stayed silent. "They must somehow be wielded into groups, with their own strengths certainly, but at the service of a whole unified force."

  "How do you propose to do that?"

  "How many Dakhilan men are there?"

  "Quite a few," admitted Ensore. "We managed to get the cream of our cavalry north, plus many other fighting men before Lodestok took Elibera, though he made the country pay dearly
for having done so. Our ruler's elite guards were put to death." He paused. Sarehl saw bleak sadness touch the gray eyes before the forester continued. "He demanded our men return, of course. When we didn't, the tribute increased."

  Sarehl stretched his upper body, saying interestedly, "How many are we talking about?"

  "About five thousand horse and more than twice that of foot." Sarehl stared speechlessly at Ensore.

  He finally croaked, "Where are they?"

  "The last I heard they were scattered about from Norsham to the upper reaches of Blenharm forest, though I doubt any are now outside the safety of the forest itself. They ferry still escaping refugees. They also indulge in the odd skirmish with the Churchik." Sarehl shook his head with disbelief.

  "My friend, you must gather in those men - all of them. Or someone in authority must do so."

  "Possibly. There's scarcely a trickle now of refugees, so the men may move on. No decision's been made as far as I'm aware. No one, as far as we can judge, has escaped from the warlord's camp over the last few weeks. Some passed through here three weeks ago."

  "Can you gather in any of these men?"

  "Quite easily," responded the forester. His eyes twinkled as they often did.

  "Are you an officer in your cavalry? Do you have influence you could use?" He stared thoughtfully at the chestnut-haired man and saw the twinkle deepen. Ensore gave the ghost of a laugh and nodded.

  "What do you suggest?" he asked, in a teasing voice.

  "I have several ideas," offered Sarehl, yawning.

  "Then let's take them one at a time," suggested Ensore quietly.

  "They all hinge on one idea, Ensore. That's unity. All men should be brought together, even if it means a camp will take time to organise. The forest's large enough to accommodate that, and a person who can coordinate and organise could do it. If I was well and it was wanted, I'd be willing. Maybe the men could be divided into divisions of multi-disciplines and then train as whole units for their particular skill."

  Ensore leaned forward. "Explain."

  "You have longbowmen, crossbowmen, pikemen and so on."

  "Yes, there are plenty of those. They're different ethnic groups, such as Samar, or Qaran, or whatever."

  "One option would be to break them all up. You could make each division not only of different skills but of mixed ethnic groupings if that would work. Make each man responsible for the man next to him. Turn them into a skilled and formidable fighting force of units that can be called upon to support any other unit as required. Each division has a name, a flag and a colour that can engender identity and pride, as well as be of use as recognition in battle. Assign them a leader." Ensore listened intently. "You also need a formalised military structure and hierarchy so everybody knows where they stand.

  Each unit or divisional leader is responsible to and for his men. He must also be answerable to the ultimate authority, a commander. Responsibility is vital in group discipline. What has to be done is wield all those groups you talk about, from a rabble taking unilateral action all over the place, into an army. If it's not done, we'll be eaten piece by piece until there's no opposition. Your Dakhilan troops must have some sort of order and hierarchy, surely?" Ensore was thoughtful, his brow puckered.

  "All our men owed loyalty to the ruler. Those responsible to him were from old families, so the arrangement wouldn't work even if just a handful of them survived. Our ruler was their commander. They pledged to fight to the death for him, and," added Ensore, rather mournfully, "they did, almost to the last man." He paused and stared at Sarehl. "Who," he asked gently, "is going to do this?"

  "I don't know," said Sarehl fretfully, plucking at his covers. "I'd talk to the Ortokian men, if they'd listen to me that is, but -." He broke off. "I was to be a scholar."

  "It's worth thinking about, Sarehl, though I personally wouldn't be keen to see the cavalry split into different divisions as well as among other groups. They are trained. Many others aren't."

  "True. They wouldn't have to be. There are always alternatives. Try this: each unit could have men culled but only for a specific purpose. Or you could have your elite corps stay as they are, like the cavalry. It might be better they're left that way." Sarehl was thoughtful for a moment. "Another way is this. How about making each unit an ethnic group - say, Dakhilan, with a specific military skill such as Dakhilan archers with their own leader. That may answer better. Or one ethnic group of multi-skills under their own leader, like Dakhilan bowmen and Dakhilan pikemen. That'd lessen the possibility of one ethnic race becoming dominant over another."

  "That would be preferable," mused Ensore. "I don't think, in these times when people's identities are fragile, that mixing ethnic groupings would be wise. I suspect for the suggestion to be palatable we must work around the problem in the way you just suggested."

  "But you must have one overall commander," insisted Sarehl.

  "Must we?" quizzed Ensore. "I'm teasing you, Sarehl. I take your point. Now then, what about all the men who've no military training at all? Or the women, for that matter?"

  "If we're to survive we must all learn new skills. That includes you and me if I recover. Dase was to be a merchant. Now he'll be a fighter."

  "Southerners are born horsemen," murmured Ensore, almost to himself, "whereas you northmen make excellent archers and swordsmen. I wonder if it could be done?" Sarehl stretched his arms.

  "The skirmishes must be properly organised, with specific targets in mind; there must be coordination and intent, whilst still giving the appearance of randomness. We wouldn't want to alert Lodestok too soon to the formation of a properly organised force because we desperately need time. And," added Sarehl on a deep yawn, "the raids must focus on our needs of the moment and not just on anything we can get hold of." Ensore rose and laughed down at black eyes rapidly become sleepy.

  "Your mind seethes, young friend. It's time it was rested."

  He crossed to a small table set at the other side of the tent and picked up a beaker that was full. Sarehl watched, sighed, and submitted. Ensore strode from the tent, his mind mulling over possibilities and fearsome obstacles.

  With Sarehl's recovery being a prolonged affair and the sick man's needs lessening by the day, Daxel spent an increasing amount of time with Ensore, for whom the boy developed enormous respect and near adoration. Sarehl was more than happy for his brother to be with the forester and urged the boy to learn all he could.

  "Ensore's not Samar, is he?" Daxel asked, one afternoon. Sarehl rested, a borrowed book lying open beside him. "I think from what I've heard he's from the south somewhere."

  "No, he's not Samar," Sarehl answered calmly. "He tells me he's Dakhilan. He's from the same place as Sache. You already know the other foresters are from even further south. The warlord's ravaging has dislocated at least half Ambros, if not more. I gather, from the little Ensore's said, his people have been over-run and now pay tribute."

  "Why didn't they fight?"

  "They did, fiercely from what Kalor tells me, though they're not a warlike people. They're mountain dwellers who controlled a vital trade link between north and south Ambros. Kalor's people, and Dalmin and Arth's, were worse treated. The warlord had to have the mountain countries to have access to Samar."

  "Dahkilans will be less passive in cycles to come, like us," mumbled Daxel, flicking over a page of Sarehl's book. His brother watched him with a smile in his eyes.

  "It was submission or genocide." The boy looked up with a frown.

  "They didn't offer us an alternative," Daxel answered, scratching at his cheek. "I wonder why not?"

  "We'd nothing of value, little brother." Daxel went to protest, but shut his mouth at Sarehl's raised hand. "The Dakhilan had a pass the Churchik needed to get troops north. Would you want a hostile force constantly organising against you or would you conquer and demand tribute and free access?" Sarehl saw the boy go very thoughtful.

  "They're clever thinkers the Churchik, aren't they?"

  "The
warlord understands strategy, little brother, which is more than we seem to do. We need to out-think him. He's ahead of us in organisation. We need to begin now – he's had cycles to prepare."

  "We do our best," replied Daxel defensively.

  "Yes, lad, but we aren't as effective as we should be," argued Sarehl, in a quiet voice. There was a long silence while each was deeply thoughtful, then Daxel looked across at his brother.

  "Has Kaleb seen you this morning?"

  "Yes. I try to make him let me stay awake," Sarehl murmured, "but he has ways and means. I think its because he's a Yazd."

  "A what?" exclaimed Daxel.

  "Yazd are southern people from, I think, the southwest. Ensore may not speak of his own people, but he certainly speaks of them and with the deepest respect."

  "What sort of people are they? Kaleb's eyes are the lightest colour I've ever seen. I don't think they have any colour, now I think about it." Daxel tilted his head in thought.

  "Typical of his kind, I suspect," commented Sarehl, putting his arms behind his head.

  "Are all Yazd like him - healers, I mean?"

  "I don't know," answered Sarehl, with a faint sigh. "Ensore tells me some of their people can seek out others mentally, and can read minds as well as heal. That," he added seriously, "was lucky for me, because healers like Kaleb are flung far and wide. Kalor tells me the warlord set out to exterminate the Yazd. Those who aren't enslaved are mostly scattered all over Ambros, but quite a few were taken to serve the Churchik. Ensore tells me Kaleb has lost family. So many of us have, Dase." Daxel gave a deep shiver.

  "So," he mused after a moment. "Can he make you go to sleep?"

  "Yes, damn him," responded Sarehl.

  As he spoke, Kaleb entered the tent. Daxel looked embarrassed and Sarehl gave a deprecatory cough.

  "You're referring to me, aren't you?" the healer asked, with his attractive and gentle smile. He advanced on Sarehl, a container in one hand. Sarehl flung up a hand.

  "What's that you've got?" he demanded. "More medicine?" The healer handed the beaker to Sarehl who sniffed at it suspiciously.

  "Drink it, my friend," ordered Kaleb, "or I'll ask your brother to hold you down." Sarehl eyed him, then with a sigh he drank. "That's excellent," murmured Kaleb. "Now, Dase, find Ensore for me, would you?"