by Katy Winter
"It makes their suffering now almost incomprehensible, doesn't it?"
"To others, yes. Dase has begun to teach himself how to survive as a sentient half. Lute –". Sarehl broke off.
"The same," said Ensore softly. "It explains so much about Dase. I'll care for him, Sar, as if he's kin. I promise you that. Ongwin will watch over him too, and guide him as he did me. The boy will be nurtured to the best of our ability, so can you be more at ease about him?"
"I am, Ens, I am. I just thank the gods you and Kaleb found us. And the others. They've adopted Dase too, so, in a sense he's found a new family to relate to. I can't ask for more."
"Then look to yourself, Sar, and concentrate on getting stronger. Let go your worry about Dase."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On this day, Bethel, as usual, accompanied Sarssen who was on his way to organise and supervise archery training. Bethel fell a little behind, wandering along batting anything he passed with a switch he'd cut from the long autumn grasses that ringed the camp. Sarssen moved ahead, not looking back to ensure the boy was close to him, because it was unusual for Bethel to linger. He rarely felt safe out in the open camp. Even at the age he was now, and after life with Lodestok, he was acutely aware of his vulnerability in more ways than one, especially around many Churchik warriors. He'd seen enough sneaked and gratuitous rape about the camp to make him extremely wary.
It was as he passed a group of boys, older than himself, that he heard the yelled word. They were Churchik boys considerably more solidly built than himself, Bethel tall for his age and very slender. He stopped. He turned back to stare incredulously at the boy who yelled at him. The others giggled.
"What did you call me?" he demanded, his cheeks hot.
"Smernok, smernok, a cheap smernok," chanted the boy. Bethel's cheeks burned as the others took up the refrain. Bethel ground his teeth.
"You unsay that," he muttered. The flush died and his cheeks whitened.
"You come and make me," mocked the Churchik boy, squaring up to Bethel purposefully. Then he looked in disgust at Bethel and dropped his fists, saying scathingly, "Who would want to fight with a smernok anyway and a dirty slave at that?"
Bethel clenched his fists. He knew he was no fighter and had fought only in fun with his brothers but the insult was too much, especially since he'd no choice about what the warlord did to him. His anger mounted. His emotions had been so savagely repressed since he'd been with Lodestok, it was a relief to have his commonsense swept aside in a torrent of fury. He rushed at the Churchik boy in blind rage. They closed.
Bethel was at an immediate disadvantage because his hair was long and could be used against him, unlike the Churchik boy, who, as custom dictated, had his hair cropped short until he reached manhood at sixteen cycles. Bethel also wore a torc and ankle chains. He wore no jewellery because that was always removed by Sarssen in the morning - only warriors had the privilege of personal jewellery worn permanently. The Churchik boy got hold of Bethel's hair and torc and dragged the younger boy down to the ground where they grappled in earnest, biting and kicking like a couple of weirkits.
It turned out to be an even contest since, unexpectedly, frustration and rage gave Bethel an unanticipated edge. The other boys formed a circle round the scrapping pair, shrieked encouragement to their friend, and one boy every so often put a helpful boot into Bethel. First the Churchik boy was on top, pummelling, pulling and kicking, then Bethel. This went on for quite a while. The noise from the sidelines was deafening.
It was enough to arouse the interest of the warriors to whom Sarssen was speaking. Some ambled across to the rapidly swelling crowd to peer over the boys' heads in an effort to see what was going on. Immediately, one of them turned. He moved swiftly back to the target ground.
"What is it?" asked Sarssen coldly. "I do not wish to be interrupted." After bowing, the warrior bent his head. "Well?"
"It is the boy, my lord," answered the warrior breathlessly. Sarssen turned and looked about him.
"Where is he? He has orders to remain with me."
"In a fight, my lord." Sarssen compressed his lips in a way that made him look unusually grim.
"Where?"
The warrior pointed. He followed as Sarssen swung sharply in that direction. He felt a little sorry for the slave boy because he suspected Sarssen would do worse to him than would any boy his age. The Churchik boy was on his feet. He'd drawn a knife. He hadn't expected Bethel to be any sort of opponent and now sought to finish the fight as soon as possible. Bethel had no knife and was hampered by chains. He and the other boy circled each other warily, both looking for an opening, both the worse for wear. Sarssen reflected that he'd never seen Bethel look so grim and determined. He was inclined to let them fight it out, but the Churchik boy drawing a knife made that impossible.
Sarssen turned to the warrior who'd summoned him and curtly demanded a whip, raised it and brought it down between the boys with considerable force. Bethel looked startled. Stumbling with the chains, he pulled back too slowly to avoid the whiplash that caught him on the elbow, gave a low cry, and immediately grasped his arm. The Churchik boy saw his chance and lunged. He caught the crouching Bethel a slashing cut across the hand.
An oath was jerked out of Sarssen. He took a step forward, turned the Churchik boy and brought the whip down, the boy dropped the knife with a whimper and fell to his knees. He crawled to his friends. His youthful supporters went quiet. When Sarssen glared at each of them in turn and took a step towards them, they all took one step back, eyes riveted to the whip held purposefully.
"Who started this?" snarled Sarssen, hauling Bethel to his feet. Nobody spoke. Sarssen's look down at Bethel made the boy blanch. "Well, boy?"
"No one, my lord," Bethel answered in a very shaken voice. He nursed his arm.
"I see," responded Sarssen. He picked up the whip he'd dropped and raised it. "Will this refresh your memory, boy?" Bethel bit his lip nervously, then determinedly shook his head. His eyes refused to meet the warrior's. His anger was gone.
"Manas did," piped up one of the youngest boys, glancing fleetingly, but admiringly, at Bethel.
"So that is how it was." Sarssen strode across to the Churchik boy who was curled into as small a knot as he could get. He didn't look up, even when nudged sharply with a boot. Sarssen stooped and yanked the boy to his feet. "If you provoke a quarrel," advised Sarssen very quietly, "you should learn to take the results like a man. What did you say to the boy to make him fight?"
"I called him a smernok, my lord."
Sarssen barely repressed a smile. His anger dissipated immediately. "In a challenge using a knife on someone who has no weapon is not acceptable. When a boy aspires to become a warrior, he undergoes challenges where both he and an opponent are judged equal in skill and weaponry, if not necessarily in strength. It seems such an elementary lesson is lost on you. You will come to me at dawn tomorrow for a lesson you will not forget."
Sarssen turned back to Bethel who stood alone, the crowd having thinned to only a few bystanders now the fight was over. His look down at Bethel was stern.
"Go to my pavilion." Bethel went to protest. "Now! I shall be with you as soon as I finish what I am doing. Then I shall deal with you. You will not find that at all pleasant. Go!"
Bethel cast a look of entreaty, mixed with contrition, at the impassive face above him, correctly read the expression, and with lagging steps turned away.
~~~
The result of the fight wasn't entirely what Bethel wanted. Though he didn't show it to Bethel, Lodestok was highly diverted, but also agreed with Sarssen the boy needed to be kept busy. That evening when Bethel entered his pavilion, the warlord looked appraisingly at the bandaged arm and hand.
"The scars of battle, little bud?"
"It's not much, my lord," answered Bethel apprehensively. "It's just that they don't stop bleeding."
"Where else are you hurt?"
"Nowhere else, my lord."
"You relieve my
mind," was the sardonic response. "I had an unpleasant thought that you may not be able to serve me - that I would find unforgivable, little man." The warlord's voice got very gentle, an ominous sign that Bethel quailed at. "You will bear that in mind next time you go brawling, little cock, will you not? I do not like damaged wares."
"No, my lord," replied Bethel.
"Now, little petal, before we go any further, I shall outline how you will spend your days. I would advise you to sit and pay careful attention to what I say." Bethel did, his large eyes fixed on Lodestok's face. "Good boy. You will, as always, be at my service. You do understand that all else is secondary to that, do you not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Excellent. If you are not required in the mornings, you will receive basic military training from Sarssen. You will learn self-defence as fast as you can. Your slave duties remain unaltered."
"Yes, my lord."
"Your afternoons will be with Lotos, from whom you will learn history, culture, philosophy, mathematics and every other subject a child should be taught. You will become proficient in spoken Churchik and also learn to write it - I do not believe you understand enough of the language. You are certainly not fluent as I expect you to be. From today you will no longer speak other than Churchik." The warlord paused, then added, "I shall examine you on all you study, so you know precisely what that means, do you not?" Bethel nodded bleakly. His eyes swerved briefly to the large hands that could administer such painful lessons. "You will remain with Lotos until you return to me for the evening." There was another longer pause, while the warlord looked down into the upturned face. "At no time do you wander off on your own. Should you choose to defy me, child, you will do so but once. Do you understand?" He saw the glimmer of resentment on the boy's face, even as Bethel answered meekly.
"Yes, my lord."
"And if," the silky voice went on, "you do not apply yourself, little bud, you will answer to me and that I can assure you will be very painful. You do remember what I can do to you, do you not, little one?" As Bethel could remember with dreadful clarity, he had no hesitation in answering in the affirmative. "Then, little petal, since we have sorted out problems that may have arisen, you will bring me wine before you serve me."
Bethel hastily rose, bowed and crossed to the far side of the pavilion where a goblet and carafe stood ready.
Next morning saw Sarssen sharply bid Bethel be fed without any waste of time. Bethel noticed Sarssen tapped his boot with his riding whip and he didn't argue, gulping down the food he was directed to, then stood to attention as all Churchik young did, hands clasped behind their backs. His session with the tempkar, after the fracas the day before, was so direct Bethel made a resolution not to disobey Sarssen again.
"Tie back your hair, boy," ordered Sarssen, frowning down at him. "It will be a nuisance. Do it now."
Sarssen waited, still tapping his boot. When Bethel was ready he pushed the boy forward, literally propelling him outside where Bethel came face to face with Manas who lounged negligently on a fence post. Bethel recoiled, his expression one of acute dislike.
"Why's he here?" he demanded, forgetting momentarily where he was and to whom he spoke.
"Did you speak to me?" asked Sarssen, raising an eyebrow. Bethel had the grace to blush. He quickly mumbled an apology. Sarssen stooped to unlock Bethel's chains that he lifted and pocketed.
Bethel looked over at Manas again and saw that despite his lazy posture, he actually leaned on the post for support. His look up at Sarssen was respectful. Sarssen looked from one boy to the other. He spoke quietly to Bethel.
"You, boy, will go and place your hand in his." Bethel stared incredulously at the warrior, a mutinous set to his mouth. "Do it," said Sarssen very softly, but in such a way Bethel didn't dare disobey. Reluctantly, he went over and placed his hand in Manas' outstretched one, Manas' hand closed over his, and he mumbled a few words in Churchik. "Do likewise, boy. He offers you his friendship and guidance." There was a malicious note of enjoyment in the warrior's deep voice. "Do him the courtesy of a response. You humiliate a Churchik at your peril." Bethel looked confused.
"What do I do after that?"
"You accept his offer and thank him," was the reply.
This done, the boys separated. They eyed each other and tried to sum up the other and looked so like wild cubs that Sarssen relaxed and grinned. He spoke to Bethel.
"You need someone near your own age to work and compete with. Manas has offered to do this." Bethel looked sideways at Manas, convinced it hadn't been by choice. "You will have much to learn from each other," continued the amused voice, "but you will soon see. Manas has already learned some warrior skills that he can teach you." Sarssen pushed both boys ahead of him.
~~~
Bethel watched Sarssen's behaviour when he was with Lodestok, especially of an evening when he had to serve both men. He sat on his mat, his eyes going from one man to another. He learned the card and board games they played by heart, simply as something to do. He struggled with all the warlord's set tasks, assiduously polished and burnished anything and everything he was given to do and obeyed the order to study of an evening if set something to learn.
He tussled with the Churchik language, his accent staying quaintly northern and when given a book to read, he tried hard to understand it. Sometimes Lodestok's hard eyes lifted from what he was doing, to let them alight on the slight boy, sometimes shivering as he curled up on his mat, a frown of concentration on his face and with a large tome open in his lap. The warlord's eyes would dwell long and thoughtfully, Sarssen noticed, unsure why Lodestok should look that way. It wasn't a predatory look – it was considered and measured. It didn't, however, translate into gentleness in his dealings with the boy. Sarssen just took note, quite unaware he'd been studied in the same way over many cycles.
~~~
It was as winter approached, that Sarssen noticed something else about this unusual boy. With the days growing colder and becoming dark earlier at night, the warlord instructed that huge fires be lit around the camp; here men could gather, tankards in hand, to be entertained by dancers, tumblers, singers and the bards, most noticeably Gariok, the war bard.
This huge Churchik, in true southern tradition, swept his bards before him as they sang their way round the camp hour after hour. Gariok didn't do much of that, because he preferred to recite sagas that he knew Lodestok enjoyed. He had no special instrument, though was highly proficient in many, and was an outstanding orator. Though he wasn't a musician in the sense that Bethel was, he had a powerful voice that Lodestok responded to in full measure as did the boy, his fascinated eyes watching the bard with awe. Gariok wasn't called the warlord's bard for nothing. He answered to Dominik.
Tempkars and haskars gathered round the fire built especially for the warlord, lounged back at their ease, often with slave girls or boys squatting beside them. Other slaves constantly came and went with refreshment. Junior warriors sat further back again. On these occasions, Lodestok, in control of proceedings, sat in a chair brought from his pavilion, his boy pushed to the ground at his feet. Sarssen watched as Bethel settled himself as comfortably as he could on the hard, cold ground, the boy shivering in the cool of the evening despite being near the fire. Sarssen thought he looked so out of place among southerners.
It was these nights the warrior thought Bethel's huge eyes looked at their most haunted. The boy listened to the sagas and the war songs, his eyes fixed on first one warrior's face, then another, as they chanted or sang refrains. The warlord never sang. All his warriors did, choruses swelling in the silence of the early Samar winter. Sarssen noticed Bethel was clearly distressed, knees hunched and hands clasped tightly round his calves. His head fell forward and only Sarssen, watching him, saw tears. The warrior saw, too, the imperceptible flinch the boy gave when the warlord caressed him or rested his huge hand on the dark curls. Sarssen wondered why music affected the boy so deeply.
On this evening, he began to understand why. They'd
all been gathered around the fire for hours. The bard had entertained and now leaned back against one of his apprentices quaffing from a tankard, while about those gathered there was a somnolence brought on by drink, warmth and entertainment. The dancers had come and gone. The musicians had paused, having played most of the night. The hour was advanced.
Sarssen noticed that Bethel was on his feet and now stood between the warlord's thighs where a strong arm held him firmly against Lodestok's stomach. Sarssen watched the warlord look down and say something to the boy that made Bethel, even in the fire light, blush very deeply, his head jerking up and round so he could meet Lodestok's eyes. The warlord's free hand tangled in the curls when Bethel shook his head. Sarssen saw how Lodestok laughed. His arm about the boy tightened possessively.
At that moment the musicians began to play a southern melody, an evocative one that reminded all the warriors of home. It suited the quietness of this evening's gathering, was often played because it was well known to everyone, and often signalled the end of the evening. Sarssen wasn't surprised when he saw Bethel's head come up at the sound of the music: what startled him was the look in the big eyes. There were no tears. The boy no longer reacted to the warlord's attentions. He wondered why.
Then, as deep voices joined the musicians, Sarssen saw, for the first time, that Bethel's lips moved. The boy sang. Sarssen watched him closely. The big eyes opened wider. Bethel clasped his hands in front of him, his bracelets fell to his wrists, and then, as the boy threw back his head Sarssen saw the warlord's stiffening surprise as they all heard the soulful and inspired soprano descant that soared above the other voices. Sarssen's eyes widened appreciatively.
While the musicians played on, the bass and baritone voices faltered to a stop as first one warrior, and then another, turned his head to see where the boy was. Sarssen gave a grin. The boy didn't notice. The vivacity of his expression and the unholy intensity in the velvet eyes, suggested to the warrior the boy lived entirely for the music as well as within it. He seemed to transcend time and place and his voice had an ethereal quality that held the gathering spellbound. Bethel had a rare and beautiful talent.