by Katy Winter
Moisture touched Kher's eyes as he very carefully put his hand onto the young head, gently ran his fingers through the tousled curls and, when the dark head touched his lap, Kher was caught by a sudden and unexpected wave of emotion that shook him. He let the boy stay there until Luton lifted his head, his eyes full of tears, before he nodded at the haskar and then clambered to his feet. He ran swiftly into the darkness.
From that day, the haskar seldom saw fear in Luton when he was close to the boy. Luton never repeated the gesture, but he wasn't averse to being near the haskar and his dark eyes lit up when Kher called to him or asked him if he wished to play cards, or be read to. The boy never took a step beyond his slave status, the haskar conscious Luton completely accepted that his life was one of servitude. He obeyed without question. He also did small things for the haskar that he hadn't been asked to do. The other warriors saw this, but though none of them commented, Han and Emil noticed how much more Luton was at ease around the haskar than around themselves.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The plains were soon left behind and Luton found that on veering sharply west, they entered very hostile country where grasses petered out to sand. Even the scrub that had given them shelter didn't grow here. It was intensely hot by day, but chilly at night. The sand swept away for miles in undulating ripples that changed in the hot winds that blew relentlessly. After they'd entered the desert, Luton was unable to get his bearings, sometimes standing during a break from riding, his head turned to meet the haskar's look with one of enquiry.
By day, the sun cooked the riders mercilessly. Luton was shown how to drape cloth over his head and shoulders for protection, the cloth held in place by plaited rope. He discarded breeches and boots for a long cool robe, baggy pants and sandals, the latter briefly reminding him of Autchek and Shek. He pushed the thought of them into his memory so he could feel no anxiety or hurt.
The dunes wound away in never-ending slopes that hurt Luton's eyes to look at them. He found himself continually squinting in the glaring brightness and it seemed to him that they moved very slowly. He would have sworn some days they never moved at all. He only knew they did when Kher realised how bemused the boy was and took him outside of an evening to teach him the positions of the stars. It was only then Luton truly believed they made progress. After Kher had taught him the constellations, the boy would be found standing alone outside the haskar's unsel of an evening, his head up and his eyes fixed on the stars. They seemed to mesmerise him.
The warriors never complained, Luton noticed. They were efficient, well organised and were obviously pushing themselves and the horses hard. As autumn crept closer, the nights closed in and it became very cold. Kher kept a close watch on Luton and if he saw the boy shiver at night, he immediately handed Luton another cloak and instructed the warriors to pull out more skins for the boy's mattress.
Luton looked forward desperately to the oases, eagerly pointing when one came into sight. Sometimes he thought he saw glimpses of green and would look questioningly at the haskar.
"Mirage, boy, only a mirage," Kher would say, watching Luton spur his horse forward to where he thought an oasis was, only to rein in his horse with a baffled expression in his eyes. Luton didn't see the smile in the haskar's eyes every time he did this.
He began to hate the desert as much as he had hated the mountains. The temperature changes made him alternately sweat or shiver, bringing back unwelcome memories. He also learned though, through warriors, to respect the desert and admired those he saw at a distance who lived in it. Sand was everywhere. It got into his food and into his bed, while his hair always felt full of it. He didn't adapt to the discomfort of desert living.
His first sand storm terrified him. The warriors saw it come sweeping across the dunes, the dust whipped into a whirlwind. Luton was pulled roughly from his horse and had a large cloth knotted hard around his face so that his nose and mouth were protected. Lus pointed to Luton's horse. He handed another larger and heavier cloth to the boy, before roughly pushing him almost into his horse.
Trembling a little with fright, Luton made the horse come down to its knees, his hands encouraging the horse a caress. Watching what the warriors did, he swiftly copied them. He tied the cloth to cover the horse's nose and mouth as best he could, before pulling his horse into the circle that was forming, the horses with their heads facing the centre. All the animals were coaxed to lie. Luton saw how expertly sheeting was pulled over each horse, and then tied from one horse to the other in an effort to keep the animals prone and as quietly close together as possible. Saddles were hastily thrown into the middle of the circle. Luton, looking up from the centre, was caught by a gust of wind and dust that flung him backwards. One of the warriors grasped him and yanked him down so hard he gasped. He was pushed next to one of the horses. From there he heard Kher's deep voice yelling.
"Get hold of the horse, boy, and take care of him. Keep his head to the centre. Keep your back to the wind, boy. Stay down." The screaming of the wind tore any more words away.
Luton crouched down apprehensively, feeling his shoulders pushed forward and not daring to look up. He almost choked with the dust. He held his breath for as long a spell at a time as he could. The sand whipped his exposed face painfully, he felt as though great pressure was exerted on his spine and put one hand to his head as the wind roared. Aware of movement beside him, he had to struggle to pacify the horse that tried to rise.
When the storm passed as quickly as it came, Luton relaxed forward to be followed by a cascade of sand that fell from behind, half burying him. The horse snorted and tried to rear. Hastily, Luton scrambled free, shook himself so that he could help unknot the sheeting holding the horses together, then eased the horse he'd been holding to its feet and removed the cloth from about its head. He saw Abek next to him and realised it was Abek's horse he held. The warrior came across to Luton and nodded pleasantly at the boy.
"I thank you, boy," he said calmly, stroking his horse's nose and crooning to it.
Once the riders had remounted and were ready to continue west, Luton looked around him at the sand dunes, aware how they'd changed yet again. He knew he was completely lost. He learned to quickly recognise signs of approaching storms with almost, Kher thought, a second sense and was off his horse before any of the Churchik. The haskar noticed the boy's strong affinity with nature, so he was unsurprised by this new understanding the boy seemed to possess.
Nothing untoward happened as they moved steadily southwest. When they met with fellow travellers of any persuasion, be they natives or traders permitted mobility by Churchik overlords, Luton was aware he was carefully flanked by all five warriors. He wasn't encouraged, even had he wanted to, to communicate with strangers in any way.
~~~
They came to the edge of the desert late one afternoon in a way that was quite abrupt. They wended their way through a shallow valley of sand and stones, topped a rise and saw sprawling green beyond them. Luton, peering curiously into the distance, could've sworn he'd seen what looked like a lake. He was therefore taken completely by surprise when Kher signalled a halt.
The warriors dismounted, except the haskar, who remained pensively astride his horse, his eyes searching into the distance as Luton's had done. The warriors drew their horses back as Kher gestured for Luton to dismount.
"Give your horse to Lus," he said quietly. Beginning to tremble, Luton obeyed. "Now, boy, come to me."
Apprehension gripping him, Luton walked over to the haskar and accepted the hand held down. This time, Kher placed the boy in front of him on the horse, aware of the frail body leaning back hard into him as if for reassurance. Guiding the horse with one hand, the haskar held Luton close to him with a strong and comforting arm, Kher very aware of the head that fell back against his chest.
Kher rode easily along the fringe of the desert in a westerly direction, until he saw a figure at some distance. He reined in the horse and spoke very gently.
"Get down, boy."
"Come, Luton," he ordered softly, looking back at the boy who dragged his feet. He caught Luton's left hand and held it in a strong grip. "Boy, none of us knows his destiny. I do not know yours, but I would hope you find your peace one day. That is important to me. I so wish, Luton, I could do more for you. Do you believe me?"
Kher came to a halt. He felt the convulsive grip on his hand and when Luton looked across at him, he read sad comprehension in his eyes. When Luton nodded and raised the haskar's hand to his lips, Kher gently pulled the boy against him, held him very close, and ruffled the curly head in an unconscious gesture of affection before he turned and began to walk again.
The figure they approached came nearer. Luton swallowed rising panic. He knew who awaited him and felt dread threaten to choke him. Kher felt the sweat on the boy's hand still clasped in his and when he looked across at the boy to see the head bowed, as it hadn't been for a very long time, he knew another absurd surge of deepest anxiety for this child as the sorcerer neared them.
"Boy," he whispered gently. Luton looked up, his face pathetic. "Have courage, boy. Gods willing we shall meet again."
The stranger stopped in front of them and looked coldly at both the boy and the haskar. His voice was emotionless.
"You may leave the slave with me, Haskar."
Kher felt a distinct qualm of unease as he reluctantly let go Luton's hand, his feelings about the boy confounding him and deeply disturbing his peace of mind. He took a step backward as Luton turned to him, fear mixed with entreaty in his eyes. The haskar's look at Luton was again compassionate and regretful.
The boy bit his lips as Kher quickly mounted and turned his horse, but glanced up at the warrior's retreating back knowing that again he'd lost someone who was kind and gentle and didn't harm him. He felt a wave of despair wash over him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The eleventh night for Bethel was worse than any other because it was suddenly bitterly cold. The chain holding him to the pike gave Bethel scarcely any room to move, and, because he'd nothing but a shirt and jerkin while his jacket was in tatters from the constant application of a whip, he nearly froze. There was little he could do to keep warm, except curl up into a miserable bundle and try to keep as still as possible to conserve heat. He was invariably hungry. He put that out of his mind by trying to ignore the gurglings of his stomach.
The warlord's cuts chafed abominably and caused him pain in those first days, but ointment Sarssen had placed in the jerkin pocket made the tattoo bearable. Where the cane drew blood eased and the boy recovered from that very quickly. The cuts healed within a matter of days. His jerkin, under the rent jacket, saved him from the worst of the whiplashes from the slave barkashads who ogled him daily. All barkashads seemed equally brutish and the way they leered at Bethel, with eagerness and longing, gave the boy a very fair indication of what would've been his lot by now had he not belonged to the warlord. That knowledge made him shiver with apprehension and revulsion.
To Bethel's surprise, he managed to communicate with one of a troop of enslaved pikemen who sometimes marched close to the slaves. These men weren't part of the slave train and got better treatment. This pikeman smiled at the boy stumbling along and made small encouraging comments if he was near enough. Bethel looked for him, a light coming to purple eyes that were weary and mournful. Other pikemen totally ignored his existence. This man neither physically abused him nor verbally berated him in the manner of the barkashads.
On the twelfth night Bethel shivered uncontrollably in the wagon. He couldn't sleep. While his chest ached with the cold, his feet burned from hours of tramping. He was so hungry he felt waves of faintness assault him. He forced them back. He wondered if he was to be left to die among the slaves. He now knew why so many gave in and let themselves die and it would be fitting, he thought in a state of light-headedness and exhaustion, for him to die as one of them.
He heard a slight scuffling beside the far wheel, but since it was the early hours of the morning he assumed it was one of the larger rodents that followed the army north. Indifferently, he curled himself again. He was about to close his eyes, when he saw a rough thatch of hair appear over the side of the wagon then recoil with a gasp when it came face to face with Morsh's head. It came back cautiously for a second time.
Bethel struggled to his knees, stiff and clumsy from the cold, put a hand to his breeches pocket and drew his hand out with a knife grasped firmly in it. Sarssen would have been surprised by the boy's forethought in bringing a knife but the barkashads would've flogged him senseless. A quiet, urgent whisper gave Bethel pause.
"Shh, lad, no harm meant, no harm." The thatch emerged right over the edge of the wagon and Bethel recognised the friendly pikeman. He stared at the man, astonished. "Gawd," muttered the pikeman, staring at the head with revulsion. "What an awful thing to put you by, lad."
"It's to teach me a lesson," murmured Bethel, through chattering teeth. He pocketed the knife.
"You're gammoning me," exclaimed the pikeman. "Gawd," he added again. He looked over at Bethel with respect. "What have you done to deserve this? You look only a boy to me."
"I disobeyed my master. My friend here," Bethel indicated the pike, "suffered dearly for my stupidity." The young voice quavered. "I'll never forgive myself for what I made him suffer."
"Now, lad," was the bracing comment. "Your master must like you if you're still alive that's all I can say. Usually they don't bother punishing disobedience. It's simply the end of the line for a slave." The pikeman shivered and not with the cold. "Took his eyes out too. Look at the flies."
Bethel tried to turn his head away from the pike but couldn't. He brushed ineffectually at the flies that assaulted him, then just gave up.
"I'm getting used to it. My dead friend told me you can get used to anything with time."
The pikeman stared at him searchingly, his eyes crinkled with straining to see through the gloom. When he saw how the boy shivered he took off his horsehair cloak and moving cautiously across the wagon, draped it round Bethel's shoulders. Bethel's shirt was in tatters, his jerkin was badly cut from whiplashes and the jacket was now useless and discarded, so the cloak, rough to the touch, tickled his exposed skin. It offered warmth though and he shrank gratefully into it, hauling it round him tightly with shaking hands. As his teeth still chattered, he found it difficult to speak.
"Thank you," he whispered incoherently. The pikeman looked consideringly at him.
"You look to be in a bad way, lad," he said calmly. "Wait here."
Then he realised what a silly statement that was and gave a low chuckle before abruptly disappearing. Bethel pulled the cloak even tighter. With warmth gradually spreading through him, he felt able to stretch out his long limbs more comfortably. Relaxed, he dozed as he'd been unable to do since he came to the slave train. He came to sharply when he heard the pikeman return.
The man clambered back into the wagon, settling himself against a large bale before he undid a knapsack he carefully carried. He pulled out a tankard, a small stone-stoppered bottle and two covered bowls. Bethel watched speechlessly. These were followed by a loaf of bread and a hunk of weln cheese. Without a word, the pikeman scrambled over to Bethel and placed one of the bowls in the thin, outstretched hands.
"There, lad," he murmured. "I tried to heat it over some embers so it should be edible. Eat that and it'll pluck up your spirit no end."
Bethel gave him a look of deep gratitude. His long fingers curled round the bowl to garner its heat. Trembling, he removed the lid and eagerly began to pick out pieces of meat, stuffing them in his mouth as fast as he could.
"Take your time, lad, take your time," admonished the pikeman. "You'll make yourself sick if you gobble so fast. Starving stomachs can't take that."
Bethel gave a small shaken laugh, but slowed enough to take half the
loaf that was proffered. For a time he was too busy eating to even think of talking, but after the worst of his hunger was assuaged, he looked across at the pikeman thoughtfully.
"You've put yourself in danger by helping me," he commented. "Would you tell me why?" The pikeman kept eating. He didn't answer for a moment. When he did, he chose his words carefully.
"I don't hold with cruelty to young ones," he began. He looked hard at the boy. "And seemingly you've had a very hard time of it. It shows in your eyes. Am I right?"
"Not as bad as some," mumbled Bethel, through a mouthful.
"From what I see, lad, you've got pluck enough for many a grown man. You face the daily grind of slavery with courage and I've not heard a squeak from you, not one." The pikeman hesitated. "You remind me of my boy. The Churchik killed him. He was the same as you, tall and skinny-like, and he'd just take things passively the way you do." There was a note of anger in the man's voice. "So you did wrong - that isn't a good reason to starve you and tie you to a damned pike. Anyone would think they were trying to break you, young one. Would that be so?"
Bethel sighed, twisting a finger absently round a long curly strand that escaped the riband.
"My lord is trying to, yes," he admitted. The pikeman pulled thoughtfully at his beard.
"And who might this warrior lord be, lad? What troop?"
"The warlord, Lord Lodestok." The pikeman's face paled, even in the rather pallid moonlight.
"You're bamming me, aren't you?"
He saw the slow shake of the dark head. Bethel put his bowl on the floor of the wagon and lifted the full tankard placed in front of him. He took a long draught to wash down the bread and cheese, then another, gave a long shuddering sigh, then looked across at the pikeman who was hunched and stared at him aghast.