Warlord

by Katy Winter

  After watching the warlord for several minutes, Sarssen signalled to the healer who followed him from the pavilion. As they went, Lodestok bent his head over the boy, murmured Bethel's name softly, several times, and stroked the dishevelled curls. It was the first time Sarssen heard the warlord use the boy's given name. Outside, Sarssen stared hard at the healer, his expression uncompromising.

  "How bad is he?" he demanded. The healer shrugged.

  "He's had a very heavy dose. He'll need rest." Sarssen sighed heavily.

  "Confirm my suspicions, healer. What was it?"

  "Septan, my lord. It's usually lethal. Prompt action saved him. Another ten minutes and that boy would be dead."

  Sarssen looked down at the healer contemplatively, "And?"

  "Before I give the lad his next dose, he must be given an emetic."

  "I see." Sarssen sighed again.

  "He must be very sick, my lord." The healer handed a small bottle to the warrior. "He must be given this now the convulsions have stopped. This'll ensure he empties his stomach." The healer turned away.

  When Sarssen returned to the pavilion, Lodestok looked up, his eyes glittering malevolently.

  "When should he regain consciousness?" His tone was imperious and cold. Sarssen crossed to the bed, holding out the bottle that Lodestok promptly took.

  "He has to be given this, my lord, straight away." Lodestok unstoppered the bottle, sniffed at it and gagged before he handed it back to Sarssen.

  "It will make the boy ill."

  "It is meant to, my lord. He has got to be made very sick."

  The warlord glared up at Sarssen. Then he held out his hand again for the unstoppered bottle, ruthlessly jerked Bethel's head back, and poured the contents down the boy's throat without pause. Bethel's eyes didn't open but his body contracted almost immediately and he began to make choking sounds as he was lifted to be carried outside. His slight body seemed turned inside out as he retched, and he was no sooner over one bout than he was wracked again. Lodestok and Sarssen held him grimly. The paroxysms didn't lessen in intensity or frequency for twenty minutes, by which time the warlord's temper was unspeakable. Bethel's eyes opened, but were glazed.

  When Bethel's body relaxed, Lodestok carried the boy back into the pavilion, laid him with surprising gentleness on the bed, stroked a white cheek before covering Bethel with furs, and tucked them carefully round the boy to keep him warm. The two men could see how Bethel began to violently shiver.

  "Do you sit by him," ordered Lodestok, in a menacing voice.

  Sarssen did so promptly, watching with a sad expression in his eyes as the warlord strode from the pavilion. Bethel would've been glad he was unconscious, because Lodestok's rage saw slaves lined up and despatched with ferocity. Sarssen had heard it all before, but it never got easier. The warrior pressed his lips tightly together at the sounds he was forced to listen to and when the healer returned in the middle of the slaughter, his face was white and strained. He quietly made Bethel drink a potion, then lifted the boy's limp wrist.

  "His pulse is nearly back to normal, my lord," he remarked, a gentle hand brushing the tumbled hair from Bethel's face. He stared down at the boy for a long minute. "He's a very lovely child. Where's he from?"

  "Ortok," replied Sarssen curtly. The healer still looked at Bethel, deep compassion in his eyes.

  "Poor lad," he murmured quietly. "Was he sick?"

  "Very," was the rather acid reply.

  "Then he'll heal all the faster, my lord." The healer lifted Bethel's eyelids, then looked directly at the warrior. "There's still poison in his system." Gently, he turned Bethel's head to the light cast by the nearest lantern. "His colour improves. Once he becomes conscious, he should be given liquids, but only in small amounts."

  "I see," said Sarssen, dispassionately regarding the healer before turning his gaze to Bethel. "We are grateful for your help, healer. You may go."

  It left Sarssen to calmly sit by the boy, a small phial in his hand that he unstoppered and held to Bethel's mouth, his patience rewarded when the lips parted a little way and the liquid seeped through. Sarssen waited until the phial was drained, then, after he quietly stripped Bethel, he began very gently and carefully to massage the boy from his chest to his feet, his movements rhythmic and smooth. Lastly, the warrior held another opened phial to the boy's nostrils, a cloud of vapour gathered about the young head then finally dissipated. Sarssen gave a satisfied sigh, checked Bethel's pulse, wrapped him in furs again and discreetly retired to a chair at the opposite side of the pavilion.

  By the early morning Lodestok's fury was spent, the healer had dosed Bethel several times and Sarssen sat by the bed with a book, quietly observant. The warrior thought the boy lay more naturally. He bent over the still figure, noting that Bethel's pallor receded and he breathed more deeply and regularly. What intrigued and astonished him was to see, out of the corner of his eye, a very small, unusual furry creature that sat at the end of the bed. Sarssen could've sworn the creature hadn't been there a few minutes before and he was startled when it made long eye contact with him in a way Sarssen found oddly disconcerting, then it dematerialised. Sarssen blinked.

  When the warlord entered the pavilion, he flung himself into a chair, his eyes still glittering, but the near madness that had shone in them, gone. Sarssen thoughtfully handed Lodestok a full goblet and knelt to remove the warlord's boots. Lodestok looked appreciatively at him as the second boot was removed. The warlord's smile was wolfish.

  "You anticipate all my needs, boy, do you not?" he commented softly. Sarssen smiled as he sat back on the bed. He looked at the sleeping boy.

  "He looks noticeably improved, my lord."

  "I should hope so," was the cool reply. "Has he gained consciousness?"

  "Not yet, my lord."

  The men drank in companionable silence, the warlord closing his eyes and seemingly asleep, until both men heard a sigh. The warlord was instantly on his feet and beside Sarssen on the bed, Sarssen prudently moving so Lodestok was next to Bethel. Bethel stirred as Lodestok took one of the boy's hands in his.

  "Boy," the warlord said quietly. The eyelashes fluttered, then the huge purple eyes opened, wide and confused.

  "My lord," Bethel whispered, trying weakly to move.

  "Do not move, boy," he was told in a sharp voice. The boy blinked wearily. "Are you still in pain?"

  "A little, my lord. I feel sick."

  "You will keep absolutely quiet."

  "Yes, my lord," murmured Bethel, closing his eyes. Both men looked up as the healer crossed the pavilion.

  "Has he woken, my lord?"

  "Just now," was the curt reply.

  The warlord watched the healer make the boy open his eyes so he could stare intently into the dilated pupils, before he let the boy shut his eyes again.

  "He needs another medicine now, my lord. He won't like it." Lodestok gave a harsh laugh.

  "Give it to me."

  The healer did, his eyes widening in surprise. Lodestok put the cup to Bethel's mouth. When Bethel turned his head away, it was sharply tilted back and he gave a small cry when Lodestok again tipped a medicine down his throat, giving the boy no time to protest. A shudder ran through Bethel and he licked his lips.

  "He will need to be given five doses during the day, my lord." Lodestok's smile was bleak.

  "He will get used to it."

  The warlord waved the healer away irritably, rose from the bed and flung himself back into a chair, one hand idly playing with a full goblet. He stared over at Sarssen meditatively. He flicked his fingers to indicate Sarssen was to approach. Sarssen saw the amused, cocked eyebrow as he did, his immediate compliance expected – the warrior, like Bethel, knew what would follow.

  As the day wore on, Bethel became restless. When his medicine was due, Lodestok held him in a steely grip and made him take it. The fourth time, Bethel fought the warlord, shook his head and put up his hands. The boy's eyes were black. Lodestok sat still and spoke, so gently, awa
reness returned immediately to dilated eyes.

  "You will open your mouth and swallow, boy."

  With a shiver, Bethel lay quite still, his hands fell to his sides, his mouth opened and he swallowed anxiously, his eyes fixed to compelling pale blue ones. The warlord made him keep swallowing until the cup was drained, the boy only relaxing when Lodestok turned from him, bidding him rest.

  By evening, the healer was satisfied Bethel wouldn't require his services until the following morning. He left a cup of medicine on a table by the bed and retired. Lodestok and Sarssen, clad in breeches, boots and shirts, were playing cards when they heard Bethel cough. The boy tried to haul himself up onto the cushions but was too weak and lay back quietly with a sigh.

  He lounged instead, watching the two men at their game. He idly noticed that Sarssen's hair was unplaited and fell in very long, thick blond ringlets down his shoulders and back. Bethel thought Sarssen looked very much younger with his hair loose, more like Sarehl's age he thought with a sharp pang.

  Sarssen glanced over at Bethel when he heard the cough, but Lodestok didn't. Only after the hand was completed, did the warlord walk over to the bed to look down frowningly at the boy.

  "My lord," murmured Bethel, trying to rise. A large, strong hand pinned him against the cushions.

  "You are in no state to serve me," remarked Lodestok. "Sarssen serves in your place. Look at me." Bethel had his head turned from side to side. Lodestok looked long into the dark eyes. "How do you feel?"

  "Weak, my lord."

  "I am not surprised. You will doubtless feel better tomorrow. You are to rest. Do you understand, boy?" Bethel nodded. "But first you will drink this."

  Lodestok held out the cup as he let the boy's head drop. He saw the look on Bethel's face when the boy reluctantly accepted the cup, stooped to put his arm behind Bethel, and raised him so that he could drink. Bethel then felt himself gently lowered on to the cushions and knew the warlord ran fingers through tangled curls.

  After a moment, Lodestok got to his feet saying, "Go to sleep."

  Bethel murmured assent, his eyes closing. Sarssen, however, didn't miss either the look or touch of affection from the warlord. His eyes widened and he discreetly looked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The move of the army north came to an abrupt halt for four days as a result of the poisoning. Worse still, from a warrior point of view, was the warlord's unpredictable and violent humour while his boy was indisposed. They never knew what whim, nasty or otherwise, might enter Lodestok's head. They were told that a young slave boy was to be assigned to the warlord's pavilion to act as a taster for Bethel, this arrangement to be permanent.

  And warriors could do nothing, other than grit their teeth, when advised they were responsible for ensuring the warlord's boy was secure around them. The guards may not have been obvious to outsiders, but from the day Bethel went outside the pavilion, he knew he was constantly watched and no longer discreetly as before. He felt ever more a slave and a prisoner. He was left languid and low in spirit. Sarssen noticed the boy did everything he was told without the vitality or energy that usually characterised him. His eyes were dull. He moved as if existence was an effort. The warlord gave Bethel four day's grace to recover before he expected the boy to be restored to his normal self. Even his singing seemed to give him less comfort.

  As Bethel sat on the verge of a wide path late one afternoon staring moodily in front of him, he heard the pipers. He lifted his head and strained to listen. It was a relief after Lotos and Gariok, because his head still swam from a sound cuffing the bard gave him an hour earlier for a minor mistake in a chord. Now, drawn, he drifted towards the music where, like a wraith he settled close to the musicians. He forgot time. He crouched still, listening. Without being aware of it, he began to weep, the tears racing down his face and spilling to the ground, his thoughts on the Academy that he'd so loved. It had embodied all Bethel's dreams.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. He made no effort to move. A piper squatted in front of Bethel, gently wiped the tears from the boy's face, stared into the dull eyes for a long moment, and then helped the boy to his feet. Bethel accepted the hand that clasped his.

  The musicians stopped playing and clustered about Bethel, holding out their instruments. He looked carefully at the pipes, then shook his head.

  "I can't play them," he said sadly, looking longingly at them.

  "Try," suggested the piper.

  Bethel raised a pipe to his lips, then shyly put it down. The musicians watched as the boy touched each instrument in a caressing way, lingering over each one. Though the instruments were different from those he'd learned to play at the Academy, Bethel recognised shapes and forms as being essentially similar. He recognised variants on the fipple-flute, flageolet, the cithara, the Samar fiddle, and he fingered the sabbeka, then the recorder-type instrument that so closely resembled his Guildmaster's eafest, with wistful longing. The musicians could sense unspoken yearning. Bethel turned to them with the faintest of sad smiles.

  "Please play," he whispered to the piper.

  Bethel listened. He leaned against a wagon wheel and closed his eyes. As one piece of music ended and another started, he opened his eyes to let them wander beyond the immediate pipers, where they lighted on an instrument that lay against another wagon. Quietly, Bethel scrambled over to it, lifted it and stroked the pale wood. It was a stringed instrument with a long narrow neck and half-barrel base.

  Bethel lifted the neck of the instrument against his shoulder, settled himself back comfortably, and, with his right hand, tentatively plucked a chord. Immediately, he was lost. The sound was dissimilar to his lute lost in the fires of Ortok, because the shapes of the instruments were different, but he played it in a similar way, the chords essentially the same though this instrument had more strings.

  He wasn't aware the pipers stopped playing and gathered closely round him, their expressions appreciative. The music completely absorbed him. The velvet eyes reanimated, the drooping shoulders straightened and the mouth curved in a delighted and contented smile. Bethel's head was bent and slightly tilted. As he wrestled with the estibe's complexity, both fingers and lips moved and the long black hair hid his face. He'd no idea how long he played.

  He was brought to reality by a large shadow that fell across him, stopped playing, and his head lifted as he tossed hair from his eyes. He noticed all the musicians looked at him.

  "This is a beautiful thing," he murmured. "Whose is it?"

  "Not yours, I fancy," said a deep, soft voice above him. Bethel put the instrument to one side. With a squally stomach he got to his feet and suddenly apprehensive purple eyes looked up at the warlord who stared down thoughtfully. "Do you always play like that?"

  "I've no instrument, my lord." Lodestok bent, picked up the estibe from beside Bethel and turned it over in his hands.

  "Whose is this?" he demanded.

  A short, dark man stepped forward, saying, "Mine, my lord." Lodestok looked back down at Bethel.

  "You are inexcusably late, boy. I have been inconvenienced seeking you." Bethel glanced up, licked his lips, but made no effort to answer. "You had best explain to me why, little bud," continued the quiet voice.

  "I was coming, my lord. Then I heard the music." The cool, unruffled voice dripped with threat and got quieter still.

  "And?" A hand went under the young chin. Bethel bit his lower lip this time.

  "I stayed to listen, my lord."

  "Not wise, petal," was the soft comment. Lodestok turned the estibe over again. "You know what happens if you disobey me." He stooped, again staring down. "Do you not?" Bethel nodded. "However," purred Lodestok, "I have never heard the estibe played in such a way before." He still stared down at the boy. "When and where did you learn to play it?"

  "I've never played it before, my lord." The warlord looked quite surprised and let the chin he held fall. "It's new to me."

  "Are you telling me you have never played an estibe?"


  "Not until today, my lord, no. It's a little like a lute, but the shape is different and this has more strings."

  "Exactly what is a lute?"

  "It's a stringed instrument I used to play -." Bethel broke off forlornly.

  "So," came the soft voice, "you are a true little musician, are you not?"

  "I was being instructed to be one, my lord."

  "Where were you studying?" Bethel's voice quivered.

  "At the Aesthetics Academy, my lord."

  Lodestok tucked the estibe under one arm, and, with his free hand he grasped Bethel's wrist. He looked across at the small, dark man, his eyes cold and mocking.

  "The boy has need of this. Find yourself another one." The musician looked across at Bethel and smiled.

  "Certainly, my lord," he answered, stepping back.

  The warlord turned, giving Bethel a none too gentle tug. Stumbling a little, he accompanied Lodestok back to the warlord's pavilion.

  Lodestok strode over to a chair and threw himself into it as he usually did. Bethel stood uncertainly, bracing himself. The warlord, however, just studied him in a considering way. He'd thrown the estibe on the bed in a way that made Bethel flinch. Now, peremptorily, Lodestok nodded at it.

  "Get the estibe, boy."

  Bethel walked over to the bed, tremblingly picked up the instrument and stood cradling it. Lodestok gestured to the ground at his feet. Nervously, Bethel settled. He sat erect, but immediately felt a hand make him fall back against the warlord's knees.

  "Play for me," came the order above him.

  After a few false starts, Bethel played as he'd done before, becoming increasingly more familiar with the instrument and more confident. He bent his head and again his hair fell all about him. As happened before, the boy became lost in the music. Bethel didn't see Sarssen enter the pavilion, to draw up short, incredulous astonishment on his face as he took in the tableau of the warlord lying back in his chair, utterly relaxed with his eyes closed, while at his feet, a boy, lost in a dream, plucked strings to make music. Sarssen quietly withdrew. Bethel only stopped playing when a hand touched his head. He looked up, his eyes hugely luminous and alive.