Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "He's my master - I'm his slave." Bethel pointed to the elegantly filigreed chain round his ankles and then to the heavy embossed torc with attached chain. "These aren't the ordinary metal fetters, are they?" he asked wistfully.

  "No, lad, they're not," murmured the pikeman, his expression still one of shock. "Gawd, child, what does a grown man want -." He broke off, his eyes widening in understanding and disgust. Bethel stayed quiet and still. The pikeman made a gesture of loathing, before saying hesitantly. "Of course that'd be so. It's common knowledge he likes boys. You say you belong to him?" Bethel nodded. Softly the pikeman asked, "Were you willing, lad?"

  "No," came the quiet answer. "I'm a slave. I've never been willing."

  "Gawd," muttered the pikeman again. Bethel didn't respond. There was a long silence that the pikeman broke. "Is it the warlord who does this to you?"

  "Yes." Bethel sighed. The pikeman plucked at his thatch and frowned.

  "How long have you been with him?"

  "Over two cycles. It may be longer. I lost count a long time ago." Bethel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "How long will he keep you, lad? You hear things, you know, there's always loose talk in a camp. I guess, if you were clean, you'd be an uncommon pretty boy, but.." The pikeman paused, then went on, "I heard lads didn't last very long. What have you got that they don't?" Bethel shrugged.

  "I'm lucky to be here at all," he said ruefully.

  "You wouldn't be in another couple of days without that cloak and being given little food," was the brutal response. "How long are you to be punished in this way then?"

  "It's been ten days or more. I expect to be here longer yet. I'm meant to be learning a hard lesson."

  "And are you?" Bethel nodded on a deep yawn. "I'll feed you, boy, but I'll not stay. I don't want to know anything. A lad like you who has the eye of Lodestok on him has peril enough without me adding to it. Finish the ale there and I'll be away. Keep the cloak. You can say you found it in the wagon and I can get another."

  "I answer to Beth. What's your name?" asked Bethel, draining the tankard quickly and passing it across.

  "Jane, lad, but don't think on it. Least either of us knows of the other the better." Bethel spoke in a low trembling voice.

  "You have my gratitude, Jane. If ever I -." Jane leaned across the wagon and put a compelling hand on the boy's arm.

  "Leave be. Lest spoken the better. We understand each other. That's all that matters. Get some rest. It's a long march in the morning."

  Bethel grasped the hand held out to him and then relaxed against the side of the wagon as he watched Jane disappear. In an odd way he felt deeply comforted. In a matter of minutes, he'd fallen deeply and restfully asleep.

  His next days with the slaves proved singularly gruelling. On the sixteenth morning camp was broken at an earlier hour than usual, which meant Bethel was shaken roughly awake from a refreshing slumber. Tiredly, he uncurled himself and shrugged the cloak to the wagon floor just as he was unchained from his post. He was flung unceremoniously to the ground.

  "Piss over there," he was curtly directed.

  Bethel had come to loathe the sight of the barkashads but obeyed immediately, conscious of both the whip and the wicked thin cane Grytch held. He moved across the ruts the wagon had made the day before and relieved himself in the bushes that edged the track, before a sudden and vicious yank on his chain brought him stumbling back. He tripped over a root and grasped at the wagon to steady himself.

  He was chained to the wheel and told to remain standing. A well-aimed cuff at his head would've made him reel had he not eaten but now he barely flinched and remained upright. He was spat at before the barkashad moved on up the line cursing, spitting, and kicking slaves as he went. In no time the slave and baggage train was on the move. Bethel faced another long day. Again he looked about for Jane and saw him some distance away, trudging with his troop, but the man didn't look in Bethel's direction and made no attempt to come any closer. The barkashad hadn't noticed Bethel's newly acquired cloak, so Bethel folded it once more and carefully hid it in the wagon for when it got cold.

  He'd no idea how long he tramped, his feet automatically going one in front of the other. The whip flashed round him and occasionally on him, but he never noticed, moving as he did like an automaton. When the train stopped for midsun he was made to remain standing, received no food and looked gaunt and very pale, his eyes huge in a drawn and thin face. Every so often, as he walked, he winced and there was the trace of a limp. The stop was a brief one before the interminable tramp resumed.

  When at last he was allowed to stop an exhausted Bethel crumpled against the wagon, his breath ragged and sweat dripping from him though he already shivered. He looked down at his boots. He noticed, in an abstracted way, that through the dust and dirt they were the worse for wear and wouldn't last much longer. He assumed he'd be left to walk in bare feet when that happened and resigned himself. His whole body ached. His feet were agonisingly sore.

  He squatted on the ground to get his breath, aware he only had a short spell before a barkashad came, so he hauled himself up, every bone he possessed protesting. He stood to attention, head bent. The guard handed him a large chunk of bread and a beaker of water. Bethel didn't make the mistake of starting to eat.

  "Barkes slah," growled the barkashad, sniffing loudly. Immediately, Bethel ate, drank and handed back the empty beaker, the last of the bread still in his hand. He finished it, very slowly. Spitting, the guard moved on, leaving Bethel to lean thankfully on the wagon wheel. He closed his eyes. He was too exhausted to do other than just lean there.

  He became aware of a presence and slowly opened his eyes. The enormously powerful torso he knew so well stood in front of him. Bethel felt suddenly queasy when he looked up into cold eyes that regarded him in some amusement. The warlord turned the boy's head from side to side and then, in his usual rough fashion, he jerked up the young chin.

  "Well, my little flower. And how is it all with you?" Lodestok let the boy's head fall, fastidiously dusting his fingers on his breeches. Bethel prudently remained silent. "Are we learning anything, petal? Is life better here for a beautiful flower, or is it indeed preferable to be with me?" The cold voice sharpened. "Answer me!"

  "No, my lord."

  "No what, my little blossom?"

  "It's not better here, my lord."

  "Do they beat you?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Excellent. Are you fed?"

  "A little, my lord."

  "Have you missed me, little bud?" Bethel's head was lifted again and his eyes met the warlord's.

  "Well, flower?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  It wasn't entirely a lie. To live without the fear Lodestok constantly engendered in him was preferable, but with the warlord the boy had comfort of surroundings, cleanliness and food. He knew what he had to give in abundance in return for this, but since he'd been compelled to submit to the warlord's demands from his first day, Bethel didn't lie. Though he missed Lodestok's demands, capriciously violent tempers and frequent brutality not a jot, he missed everything else.

  "That is good, boy. You have learned another lesson, have you not? We shall see how much you missed me this evening."

  The meaning behind the words was quite explicit. Exhaustion made Bethel feel slightly sick. Lodestok ignored him so didn't see the dark head droop and the lips begin to quiver. Instead, the warlord roared for the guard. He came at a run. The key to Bethel's chains in his hand, he freed Bethel from the wheel, stepped back and then bowed obsequiously to Lodestok. The warlord turned without a word. He assumed the boy would be behind him.

  Lodestok had decided to stop for several days so his largest and most ornate pavilion was set up. Bethel blinked. In only a matter of days he'd forgotten how richly the warlord lived. Lodestok strode into his pavilion before turning to survey the boy trailing behind him.

  "You are disgustingly dirty, little petal, are you not?"

  "Yes,
my lord." Lodestok lounged at his ease in his chair.

  "Come here," he said gently.

  The warlord pulled Bethel between his knees in one swift movement and roughly hauled at the riband that held the black dusty hair confined. He yanked Bethel hard against him, not noticing the dust that flew all about them when he shook the curls free and hair spilled all about the boy's shoulders, to fall in thick ringlets down his back. Still holding the boy close, Lodestok undid the ankle fetters and removed them, then he unlocked the chain from the torc. It fell to the floor next to the fetters.

  "Have the cuts healed, petal?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Very good then, boy." The warlord continued to hold the boy firmly, his free hand tangling in the curls. "I am relieved to have you back, my little flower. It surprises me that I noticed your absence. I wish you to play for me, boy. I enjoy your music."

  He tilted Bethel's head. He looked down at the sensual mouth and the dark velvet eyes appreciatively before, with a satisfied sigh, he bent his head.

  When Sarssen entered the pavilion an hour later, he checked on the threshold. Lodestok sprawled sideways on the bed, wide-awake, and watched a sleeping boy who was pale, filthy, clad in ragged clothes, but also deeply asleep. The warlord's hand ran gently across the young forehead. Bethel didn't stir.

  The warlord looked up and across the ground, smiling with an unexpected affection he reserved for the tall young tempkar.

  "Sarssen," he said, almost caressingly. "Come in."

  Sarssen advanced and stood looking down at the huge, muscular Vaksh who leaned casually on one elbow. He glanced then at the tall, slender boy lying asleep beside the giant, his cheek pillowed on one hand and long, dusty matted hair all about him. He looked back at the warlord who gestured at Bethel. His hand now held the boy's outflung one.

  "What is so unusual about him?" Lodestok asked, staring at the slumbering figure. Sarssen transferred his gaze back to Bethel.

  "Well, he is, of course, quite beautiful," he suggested, grinning when the warlord raised an eyebrow. "Not just at the moment," he conceded, "but all would agree that under different circumstances he is remarkably pretty."

  "Prettier than you were, my boy," concurred the warlord.

  "Infinitely, my lord. I could never match him."

  "Ah," sighed Lodestok, "not in beauty perhaps, but -." He broke off and rolled onto his other hip to look more closely at Bethel again. "Like you, Sarssen, there is something else about him, something different."

  "He is surprisingly courageous and damnably stubborn," said Sarssen, a twinkle the warlord didn't see coming to his green eyes. To his surprise, the warlord gave a crack of laughter that made the subject of the discussion sigh and turn onto his back. His hair fell across his face, so Lodestok lifted it clear.

  "Yes, he is," he agreed thoughtfully. "I do not understand his behaviour. When his back might be broken or he could be made mindless the boy refused to fight." Sarssen, thinking this was the only reason the boy was still alive, forbore to look into the chilling pale eyes in response.

  "Perhaps it is where he comes from, my lord. He is a very gentle and pacific child."

  There was a long pause that Sarssen didn't break, the young warrior sensibly maintaining a discreet silence while the warlord considered Bethel. Lodestok sat abruptly, shook the bed and woke Bethel just enough for the boy to turn again, mumbling as he curled himself tighter. Lodestok got to his feet and in his inimitable way began to pace up and down. Finally, he turned to Sarssen and pointed at the bed.

  "Take him," he said sharply. "Clean him and bring him back as soon as you can. It is not," he added, with the fierce and frightening grin, "that I did not appreciate our time together, Sarssen, it is just that I insist on having this child restored to me as well." Sarssen wore a singularly saturnine grin.

  "I understand, my lord, but," he paused, "will he waken?" Lodestok shrugged.

  "Dose his wine with quineth. That should do more than make him responsive." He saw the touch of uncertainty on the warrior's face. "You do not surely disagree with me?"

  "Certainly not, my lord," Sarssen replied hastily. "It is just that quineth will leave him very unsteady on his feet tomorrow."

  "Then he can stay with me all day, can he not?" was the bland reply.

  Sarssen nodded and stepped over to the bed. He shook Bethel twice, but the boy just sighed and curled up tighter. The warlord watched the warrior's efforts for a few moments in amusement, then strode to the bed, stooped, and his hand touched Bethel's torc. Bethel's eyes flew open in alarm and he stumbled sleepily to his feet. Blearily, he saw Lodestok's pointed finger.

  As usual, Sarssen spoke little. Bethel found him remote and taciturn. He thought wearily he would never know the warrior though, as the seasons passed, his respect for Sarssen continued to deepen.

  Bethel languished in the tub, luxuriating in the heat and curling his toes. The warmth soothed his aching muscles and sore feet. He was still awed he'd been allowed to sleep in the warlord's pavilion and wondered if perhaps the warlord had indeed missed him. Bethel wasn't foolish enough to linger on that thought. People of strong passions, like his master, could as easily kill as love and Bethel knew Lodestok loved no one. He'd never forget the strength of Lodestok's hands as they compressed his spine, nor would he forget the look in the warlord's eyes as he'd done so.

  Despite the hot water Bethel shivered and decided to get out. As he dried himself he looked at the Vaksh word cut into his lower abdomen, thinking that the warlord had indeed taught him a lesson. It was one Lodestok made sure his slave wouldn't forget - Bethel would always see the word and accept he lived at the exclusive whim of a master. The boy felt of all the marks he'd been forced to endure, this was the cruellest because it was the most mocking.

  He turned absently to the bottle of perfumed oil. Just after he put the stopper back in the jar, Sarssen walked in carrying an armful of clothing that he spread out on the bed. He beckoned Bethel over with a reluctant grin.

  "You are to be royally decked out, boy," he said, his voice quivering with amusement.

  He held up breeches in a very bright shade of blue. All Bethel had the energy to do was blink and look up at the warrior in a rather stunned way. Sarssen began to laugh. Hearing that, Bethel realised it was an unfamiliar laugh of warmth he only associated with his lost family. It touched a chord. He smiled up at Sarssen, as he'd have done to Sarehl, his eyes alight and responsive. Seeing such a glowing look, the warrior, for the first time, gently ruffled the damp curls, then turned back to the bed, pulled up another garment and chuckled.

  Dressed and booted, Bethel gave a deep sigh and looked up enquiringly, to see Sarssen dangle a torc from his fingers; the ironic gleam in the green eyes wasn't missed by the boy. Sarssen let the torc fall into the boy's hands. Bethel nearly dropped it. It was unexpectedly heavy, and then, when he turned it over, he gaped at it. Like the one he'd seen lying on Sarssen's chest so often, one the warrior no longer had to wear, this torc, too, was deeply encrusted with precious stones, but whereas the one he knew Sarssen once wore was rich in stones of white and red, this one he now held was in tones of green and blue. The gems winked in the lantern light. He stared up at Sarssen who not unkindly watched him.

  "To replace your gold one, boy. It is a gift from your master. Lift your head and give the torc to me."

  Even though it was heavy and wide, the warrior thought it looked quite lovely on that long slender neck. The gold torc was discarded. Sarssen gave an inward chuckle at the warlord's impeccable taste as he snapped the torc shut, and removing the key, put it into his breeches pocket. Bethel's ankle chains were next closed and locked.

  When his hair was tidy, he sat on Sarssen's bed. Weariness overcame him, and he let himself slip onto the cushions, but just as his eyes began to close Sarssen was quickly there, a hand down imperatively. Bethel took it and allowed the warrior to pull him to his feet. He yawned widely, his eyes flickering apologetically to Sarssen.

  "So tire
d, my lord," he mumbled, running a hand across his eyes.

  "You cannot rest, boy, though I know how exhausted you are," said Sarssen quietly. "You have to show gratitude to your master and falling asleep will not do that." He gave the boy a sharp shake. "Go to the table and sit, boy."

  The warrior joined Bethel at the table. Beginning to slice meat from a joint he put several slices on a platter and passed it across to Bethel. Absently, the boy took it and ate as he was told. He found he was very hungry as he munched his way through one dish after another. His goblet was steadily refilled as soon as he emptied it.

  Bethel wasn't conscious of it at first, then he became aware of renewed energy coursing through him, his slumped shoulders straightened and the lowering eyelids snapped open. He looked suspiciously at the wine, then across at Sarssen.

  "My lord," he began uncertainly, "what have you given me to drink?" Sarssen barely looked up from the fruit he was peeling.

  "Quineth," he said curtly. He then gave Bethel a measuring look.

  "What's that, my lord?"

  "It is a drug to keep you awake. You would have been useless without it." There was a glint in Sarssen's eyes.

  "Have you had it, my lord?"

  "Eat your fruit." The warrior waited until the boy picked up a wedge placed on his platter. "And to answer you, boy - yes I have, many times."

  "What does it do, my lord?"

  "It literally stops your body from resting, boy. It can be dangerous so I have not dosed you very heavily."

  "I feel very alert, my lord."

  "Yes, you will for the time being," agreed the warrior drily. "Just do not be surprised when you wake in the morning, will you?" Surprise lit big eyes meeting his. Sarssen smiled a tad sourly. "You will feel half-dead, boy, and scarcely able to move your limbs. It will last most of the day so do not say you were not warned." Bethel fidgeted with his goblet.

  "My lord, how can I explain this to my master?"

  Sarssen's smile was bleak. "No worry, little fellow," he replied coolly. "Your master knows."

  "Did he order you to give me this, my lord?"

  "How else can you serve him if you are three parts asleep?" Sarssen asked a little maliciously. Bethel stared down at the liquid he swirled in his goblet.