by Katy Winter
"Since that is what you do when you receive a slave, then by all means. Do not damage the boy irreparably, of course."
Bethel gave the warrior a piteous look. He was shoved roughly forward. Sarssen watched three barkashads respond to Grytch's signal and heard the wicked whistle of the barkashad's cane as he walked away.
Bethel endured harrowing days on the slave trail. The beating he received, similar to what he saw other captives receive in early Ortok days and given as a warning to him to obey, left him with cuts that hurt to such an extent he was unable to sit comfortably.
He saw the same treatment meted out to any who arrived at this part of the train after he did, and realised that his breaking was mild compared with what was administered to others. He knew it was intended to break a new slave's will and saw it was largely successful. Several slaves were brought to Grytch while Bethel was there and he saw the deeper cuts on them that went from shoulders to calves. It made the boy count his blessings. The canes the barkashads used inflicted considerably more pain than their whips, the men thoroughly expert in the way they flicked the wicked canes to deliberately draw blood. Bethel had no intention of behaving in any way that would merit another caning; he learned that lesson instantly.
He was chained to the wagon both by his torc and a heavy metal manacle round his wrist, the chains not especially long which meant the boy had to pace his small steps to keep with the speed of the wagon. Morsh's head still adorned the pike. It smelled and attracted flies. But it wasn't for nothing Bethel had survived cycles of life with the warlord.
To pass the time he practised what Morsh taught him, though at times he'd look at the head above him, grieving. If the march was a struggle for Bethel, with fetters in addition to his chains, plus his tattoo and the cuts from the beating, the only sign of it at the end of the day was a pronounced limp. Sweat plastered the boy's forehead. Any jibes, sneering and abuse he received, he just accepted. He made no effort to defend himself. By the end of the first few days he was largely ignored, though the barkashad continued to taunt him and treated him with bitter contempt.
Like the other slaves, he was given enough bread and water to survive on and no more. He took the cuffs and flailing whip as did everyone else. The nights were worst. He was shoved onto the wagon to be shackled so he was almost immobile, to the same pike as held Morsh's head. Wherever Bethel looked, he always came back face to face with Morsh and he'd shudder.
If the experience was meant to frighten Bethel, it failed utterly. It brought about a hardening in the boy that was unexpected, and, after several days, Bethel didn't see the head in front of him. Instead he saw only the kindly man who'd done so much for him and he swore to himself that he'd make the little elderly healer proud - that was if he survived. He never stopped practising, unless he drifted into an uneasy dose.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Luton came to a dead stop. Terror made him unwilling to move. When one warrior, older and more senior than the others, stepped forward, Luton took a trembling step back. Shek stood behind him and made him stay, a strong hand holding the boy's shoulder. Luton knew the language well enough to follow the conversation.
"Is this the mute from Ortok?"
"Yes," responded Shek. He bent his head respectfully to a warrior who clearly outranked him.
"As I said before, we have been sent for him."
"May we ask on whose authority?" The senior Churchik produced a seal that was unmistakable. "Ah, gods," breathed Shek, turning to look at Autchek.
"Tell the boy he is to ride with us." Shek turned Luton round to face him, noticing as he did how white and rigid the boy was.
He said quietly, "Karek, these men have come for you." Shek managed, but barely, to look over Luton's head to the senior warrior. "Is this to be his master?" The warrior nodded curtly. "Karek, you are to go to the sorcerer Blach. These men will escort you." When Shek looked into agonised dark eyes he was surprised to feel something akin to pity. His hand on the boy tightened.
"Why do you call the boy by that name?" asked the senior warrior, with a flicker of interest.
"We do not know the boy's name," responded Autchek, stepping forward from the background. "Silent One seemed to suit him." The senior warrior strode forward, caught Luton's shoulders and swung the boy away from Shek to face him again.
"One thing I need to know, boy," he said coldly. "Is your name Luton?" The shock of hearing his name after so long made Luton shake. "Is it, boy? Answer me."
Luton tried to turn back to Shek, but couldn't, and desperately looked beyond the warrior to Autchek. Autchek saw the imploring plea on the boy's face. He knew, instantly, this slave's name was indeed Luton.
"Let me," suggested Shek. He turned the boy once more to face him. He grasped Luton's chin and made the boy look at him, reading the eyes as easily as he'd always done. "So, that is your true name, is it, Karek?" Pathetically, Luton shook his head after Shek let him go. The warrior glanced over at the senior warrior, saying, "His name is Luton."
"Tell him," came the coldly, disinterested voice, "that he will not be hurt. Our orders are to get him south as quickly as possible. The sorcerer, I believe, may have access to the boy's mind."
Luton put his hands to his head. He stared at the warrior with terrified comprehension. The warrior read the boy's instinct to run and promptly gripped a wrist.
"You understand Churchik, do you, boy?" Luton nodded. "Then your master will be pleased with you. You know he touched your mind, do you not?" Luton nodded again. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. "You will know then, that he can control you from where he is, if he so wishes?"
Luton stood limply for just a second, then unleashed all the strength he had. He fought. He was taller and stronger than he'd been, but he wasn't a match for even one warrior, least of all a senior one. He wildly shook his head. He pointed to his forehead. He bit the senior warrior who held him very firmly, wrenched free and threw himself at Autchek's feet, grasping the old warrior round the ankles as if his life depended on it.
The senior warrior had a hand to his whip, but the old warrior held up a cautionary hand and very gently brought the boy to his feet. He held the clutching hands, looked deeply into panic-stricken eyes and quietly waited for Luton's breathing to even. Then he calmly crouched and pulled Luton down beside him.
"Your mind?" he said gently. Luton nodded. "Has someone entered your mind?" The senior warrior stood back, flexed his bitten fingers and watched thoughtfully as Shek went over to the crouching pair. Luton still nodded. "Did it frighten you?" Luton gave a sharp intake of breath. "It was a very powerful mind, was it not?" The fear in the black eyes deepened. "You will get used to it in time, Karek. I am sure your new master did not mean to frighten you so much." The dark eyes stared intensely into warrior blue ones and Luton nodded. "You think he did?" When Luton showed agreement, Autchek shook his head. "Why? To make you fear him?" The nodding continued. "Well then, you will respect him, will you not?" Another deep intake of breath answered that.
"You have to go, Karek," said Shek, quietly from above them. Luton looked longingly and despairingly at Autchek, who sadly shook his head.
"I am so sorry, Karek," the old warrior whispered, tears in his eyes. "I wish I could keep you myself, but that is impossible." Luton hung his head. He made no effort to move when the senior warrior came up to him.
"On your feet, boy," he was ordered curtly. For the first time in seasons, Shek and Autchek saw tears fall when Luton obeyed. "Does he wear chains or just the torc?"
"Just the torc, my lord."
"Can the boy ride?" came the next abrupt question.
"No," answered Shek, his eyes on the forlorn figure with the bent head.
"Then he will learn the hard way. Come, boy."
The senior warrior grasped Luton by one wrist and led him over to one of the horses. He made no effort to pull away. He was thrown up into the saddle, his feet were placed in the stirrups and the warrior standing next to the horse was told to be mount
ed and to take the reins of the boy's horse.
The other warriors mounted and without another glance back, they urged their horses forward. Autchek took a step and then stopped, turned sharply and went into his unsel. Shek watched the frail form swaying in the saddle until he could no longer see it in the distance.
Luton had never ridden a horse, so just sat swaying to the motion of the animal for as long as the warriors rode. He didn't, they noticed, look up once. The beauty of the country seemed destroyed for him. All his terrors and dreads crowded in on him so oppressively he could scarcely breathe. To be in the hands of Churchik warriors in this way was more than the boy could bear.
When a halt was called and he felt his horse reined in, Luton swayed in the saddle. He was lifted down as though he weighed nothing and set on his feet, but was so giddy he couldn't keep his balance. He was lifted again and carried over to a tree. He was helped to the ground, where his head was pushed hard between his knees. He gagged but didn't vomit. A firm hand held his head down for a few minutes. Then he sensed another hand near him. He turned his head to see a goblet held close and, used to responding to commands, he automatically lifted his head as directed, to fearfully look up at the warrior who spoke to him. This man's face was impassive but unthreatening.
"Drink, boy," came the deep voice.
Obediently, Luton took the goblet and drank. It was a fiery brew of some sort and he choked a little. The warrior nodded at him, and, as he drank again, a pleasant warmth crept over him that made him forget his aches and pains. He felt drowsy. The warrior looked thoughtfully down at the boy then left him.
When Luton woke, he was disoriented. He blinked, sat abruptly and looked straight into the face of the senior warrior who lounged opposite. All his terrors resurfaced. He struggled to his feet, retreating step by step, until he bumped into another warrior who stood behind him. The boy froze. His hands went up in a mute appeal. Making no effort to move, the senior warrior watched him.
Luton promptly went to his knees. When the warrior behind him raised an eyebrow at his senior and looked an enquiry, the older warrior gestured at the younger man to get the boy to stand. Luton sensed someone in front of him, felt hands pull him to his feet and shrank back from the warrior with so much dread in his eyes the warrior took an involuntary step back himself.
"Come back and sit," ordered the senior warrior. Luton obeyed, his fingers twining until they were white. He sat as far from the warrior as he could, head down.
"You will not be hurt if you do as you are told," the warrior said coolly, his eyes staying fixed on the bent head. This didn't reassure Luton at all. He didn't move. He wouldn't dare intimate that their ideas of hurt didn't coincide with his, nor did he have the courage to show he was frightened of being touched by any Churchik, let alone being near them. Shek he'd accepted as his master and the boy had come to like Autchek, but other warriors he feared to his very essence.
"We need to talk," went on the senior warrior. "How do you communicate?" Luton timidly lifted his head. "Do you know a sign language, boy?" He shook his head. "Do you just nod and shake your head?" Luton nodded. "Is your name Luton?" There was a tiny pause, then a reluctant nod. "Why did you say it was not?"
The senior warrior saw panic touch lovely, large, dark eyes. The boy noticeably paled. The warrior was silent for a long moment, his cold blue eyes scanning the emaciated form that sat still and cross-legged in front of him.
"Are you afraid?"
When Luton looked pathetically up at the warrior who stood directly behind him, the senior warrior immediately indicated, by the flick of a wrist, that his junior was to move well away. When Luton saw the man back to the other side of the fire, the senior warrior gave a grim little smile. His guess the boy was scared witless of Churchik was correct. Unobtrusively, he moved back from the boy as well. That made surprise break through apprehension in eyes fringed by impossibly thick black, curling eyelashes.
"Are you afraid?" the senior warrior repeated. The head nodded. "Is this easier for you?" Again the head nodded. "Will you answer my question about your name?" Luton pointed to his head in a way that made the warrior looked frowningly at him. "Your head?" The warrior watched carefully. "Inside your head?" The boy nodded. "You are frightened of something inside your head?" The head moved again. "Do you wish to know how I know your name?"
He watched as Luton sat more easily, his expression one of wary acceptance. "Then first," continued the warrior, "you tell me what happened to you." He saw terror and distress swamp eyes before the boy bent his head. "Look up, boy," came the quiet, deep voice. Luton obeyed, to see that the warrior held up his hand. "If that frightens you, I shall not demand an answer. Do all Churchik warriors frighten you so much?"
The warrior didn't need an answer in words. It was writ plain on the young face. He looked calmly at the boy. He hadn't had any time, other than when the boy was briefly asleep, to study him. He noticed several things about Luton. The boy was very tall. He was so painfully thin his ribs were exposed, was too frail looking for the experiences he'd obviously undergone and had suffered the ravages of fever. He'd been severely flogged, because the warrior felt the raised scars when, back at the camp, he touched the boy's shoulders, while some experience with warriors had left as indelible a mark as the whip. Though the boy was a survivor, he was as terrified as any boy the warrior had seen. He was about fourteen or fifteen cycles, and had endured, the warrior judged, a living hell for some time.
The warrior spoke quietly.
"I repeat, boy, you will not be hurt, nor will you be chained. You will obey us, will you not?" Luton nodded, his eyes wide and watchful. "You will not run away and make us bring you back?" Luton shook his head. "You know where we are taking you, do you not, boy?" The warrior could see terror back in the eyes, but he kept talking calmly and made no unnecessary movement. "He made contact with your mind and that frightened you?"
Luton put his hands back to his head. The warrior remembered how Shek said you could read the black eyes so easily. The answer was quite clear.
"And you do not wish to speak of where you once lived, perhaps as a child?" The head went down and stayed down. The warrior was silent for a few minutes, then said softly, "Answer me, boy." Slowly the head came up and was shaken. "Very well for the moment. You are well used to taking orders, are you not?" There was a nod and a distinct sniff as well.
"I know your name because I was told by your master who to bring south, but I cannot be sure how he knew where you were, boy." Luton looked across at the warrior uncertainly. "My name is Kher, but you will hear my men call me Haskar Kher. That is what you northmen would call my rank. Do you understand me?" Luton nodded quickly.
"Where did you learn to speak Churchik?" Luton mimed chains on his arms and throat. "A slave caravan?" Kher looked closely at the boy. "Were you part of one?" Luton nodded. "You were not, when we came for you." Luton shook his head and pointed to his mouth. The warrior's frown deepened and his eyes narrowed. "I know you cannot speak, boy, and that you are a slave," he said with some confusion. Luton patiently repeated the mime, but this time showed money changing hands. Kher's frown lifted.
"Ah," he uttered, with satisfied comprehension. "Mutes mean much more money at the slave market, do they not?" Luton nodded. "So you were taken to Shek?" The questions were answered with alacrity. "And he was going to sell you to the highest bidder. Do you know who would inevitably be drawn to a mute?" The black eyes clouded with the fear that was never far away, but the curly head nodded. "So, boy, you have known you were destined for the sorcerer?" The young head drooped, but nodded a second time. "Well then, you have merely changed escorts, have you not?"
The head lifted. The dark eyes looked very briefly into Kher's blue ones before Luton's nerve broke and his eyes dropped again. Kher stayed quiet. He studied the appealing face opposite and was acutely conscious he felt an odd surge of emotion when the boy had the courage to look directly at him.
"You must learn to ride, boy," was all he
said, stretching. "We have a long way to go and we do so on horseback." Luton nodded, though Kher saw a flicker of disquiet in the big eyes and wondered why the mention of horses should evoke such a response. "You will look after us and do whatever we ask, is that understood?" Luton's eyes showed compliance. "On your feet then, boy."
Luton stood and waited. Kher looked at him surprised, wondering why the boy made no other move.
"You had better follow me," he said gently, suddenly understanding that this slave initiated nothing and was so submissive he only responded to direct orders.
~~~
The days that followed eased much of Luton's immediate dread, because none of the warriors showed the slightest interest in him. He was told what to do and then was left to do it. They didn't crowd him and when he withdrew at eating, as he'd been taught to do as a slave, he was left in peace. He'd not enjoyed such freedom for a very long time.
He began to eat more, though his habits were slow to change. At the first meal Luton hung back, anxious not to cause offence, then, when told to eat, he crept forward and nervously took a small piece of meat and a hunk of bread. He withdrew to eat it. When Kher stared at him, he immediately dropped both bread and meat. He didn't see the grim look come to the haskar's face; he only heard the quiet, deep voice tell him to pick up the food and come back to the fire. Apprehensively, he obeyed. He refused to look at the men.
"Look up, boy," instructed Kher. Licking his lips Luton did, astonished to see that the warrior held out a plate to him piled high with food. His eyes were riveted to the plate. "Take it, boy, and eat it."
Luton stood motionless, disbelieving, until Kher pushed the plate into his hands and repeated the command. From that meal on, the boy always stood a little back, waiting to be handed a plate. He never filled one for himself. It took him a while to understand he could drink whenever he wanted, and would stand uneasily, then wait until he thought no one was looking before he bent and helped himself.
He learned to ride, simply by doing it. For the first few days his horse was led, the pace set by Kher, gentle. Luton breathed more easily again and began to enjoy being out in the spring air. In the evenings, when camp was set and Luton had done his assigned tasks, Kher instructed the boy to mount the horse and he taught the slave boy how to ride. Though Luton flinched when the haskar was near, Kher noticed the terror lessened by the day and the warrior could eventually, very gently, touch the boy. Fear gave way to curiosity. The more the boy was taught, the more he wanted to know. After a week of intensive instruction, Luton developed a reasonable seat and could ride on his own alongside the Churchik. It would take him much longer to be confident, but he no longer fell off the horse and didn't dismount at night feeling crippled.