Warlord

by Katy Winter

  "Was the hatchling forced to go?" asked another female.

  "No," said Estbane on a growl. "She chose to do so."

  "But why?" demanded a querulous, blue male with flecked eyes. "And why a hatchling?"

  "Could she have an affinity with the essence she stole?" came a lighter, younger voice.

  "How could she?" reasoned another older male, lashing his tail. "She's not old enough to know affinity, is she?"

  "She's a Crystal," murmured Leone, on a cough. "Don't forget a Crystal's development is unlike your own, so can't be judged in the same way."

  "She's so very young. Whose is she?" Estbane sighed before answering.

  "She's Goldlas, female of Siara's line. Can anyone think of anything else about her? I can't."

  A long silence fell on the bowl as bodies twitched and talons flexed.

  "She was too young, Ice Crystal or no, to mindlink with so many. We've doubtless hurt her, which was foolish, because we should know better than to communicate with a Crystal in such a brutal way. We should speak direct to the little one. Is she here?"

  The majority of the dragons craned their heads round to look at the frail old dragoness who'd spoken. Her eyes were, at that moment, gold-flecked, but she made no effort to colour herself, her old white hide wrinkled and blemished with age spots. Despite her advanced cycles, there was acuteness to the dragoness' expression and such wisdom in her eyes that no dragon was ever foolish enough to discount the few words Eilen spoke. She wheezed slightly and shifted her bulk uneasily, as if wary of causing herself pain. Her tail lashed irritably.

  "You ask yourselves why did she choose, young as she is, to go about Ambros?" Eilen asked of the assembled dragons. "Think, dragonkind, to the distant past, and not so far in dragon cycles either, to your links with the world of Ambros. Is it possible you've forgotten your history so soon?" Her wheezing became a hollow laugh that was followed by a deep-seated cough.

  A male voice probed cautiously, "Are you saying she's Ambrosian?"

  The old female rumbled with mirth again, warm water leaking from her nostrils.

  "Is it so inconceivable? I'd remind you that once all species lived on Ambros. By that I mean all. In those times interspecies mating was common. Here we have a dragonet, a rare Crystal too, whose origins we don't seem to comprehend in the usual way. It raises interesting questions I think. Are you all so sure of your own origins?" The growling dissent to her last comment made her sigh wearily. "Cast your minds back," she exhorted them, "and consider your history. Was there not a sprite – or, as Ambrosians call them, a nymph - who loved a dragon aeons ago? And was this occurrence so rare before we withdrew to Ice Isle where we now reside? Tell me, gentle dragonkind, that this was rare." There was an uneasy silence. "And could this hatchling be from such a line?

  There's no shame to it. There never was. Dragons once assumed other forms, however briefly, as Ice Crystals still can. Because doubt was cast on interspecies mating it was stopped long ago, but dragonblood flows freely in the veins of sprites throughout Ambros. Dragonblood encourages rebirth of its own kind, doesn't it? Or have you forgotten, since it hasn't occurred for so long? I haven't forgotten, dragonkind, and I'm ancient in both Ambros and dragon terms. Like our revered Sarbane of old -," here she heard hisses and nodded her head slowly, "- I, too, have Ambros blood in these old veins. I passed it to all my hatchlings. Could the little Ice Crystal have sprite and dragon blood from a line such as mine? And was she born of Ambros? Seek answers. Don't waste time in idle speculation." Again, there was a long, pensive silence round the huge bowl. The dragoness spoke final words very quietly so dragon heads had to tilt to hear her. "Never harm an Ice Crystal. This one's truly god-touched. Rebirth would come as no shock to me, should I be chosen to be so blessed."

  The old dragoness sank painfully onto her haunches, her wheezing distressing to both herself and to the onlookers. She quietly closed her eyes and within seconds was soundly asleep, her snoring rhythmic and soporific. A plaintive voice said into the silence.

  "Is it true an Ambrosian can be reborn as a dragon if he or she has dragonblood from so long ago?"

  No one bothered to answer. Voices demanded to know more, and argued and questioned. What seemed a moral tale of long ago was no longer a fable to amuse. Only the old dragons, thousands of Ambrosian cycles old, had any first hand knowledge of Ambros, and there were very few of them still alive. Those who were, said nothing. Only the nostalgia, showing in their rheumy eyes, spoke volumes. The young looked askance at them.

  At this moment, so much heat was being generated that the surface ice in the huge bowl melted. The dragons found themselves standing, or squatting, in puddles of water, and, since dragons loathed water this exacerbated tempers. Feet stamped and wings twitched or flapped. Estbane looked up at the enormous and magnificent ice carvings that gripped the edge of the bowl. He sighed.

  As he did, he became aware of the young Crystal gliding slowly off one of the upper ledges to settle a distance from the oldest dragons. She made no attempt to approach.

  "We didn't expect you," Estbane said gently. "We apologise for pain we caused you earlier. It should have been a single mind meld so as not to harm you. Can you yet tell us who you are?" The little dragoness moved closer, her head on one side.

  "Though I sense many things, Respected Elder, I can't recall with clarity or make any order of them."

  "But Sophos Rox telethed you?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "To accompany our estani butterfly cousin to Ambros, to retrieve an essence. It belonged to one named Lian. This I told you. I'm told Lian knew me once."

  "So you're partly of Ambros?"

  "I don't know." All the dragons heard the uncertainty in the young voice. "It would seem this is so, since I knew Ambrosians."

  "Do you know anything else?"

  "No, Ancient One, though I'm told I will, sooner rather than later."

  "Who advised Sophos Rox this was necessary?" The little dragon bowed her head.

  "I don't know, Respected Elder."

  "Who is Lian?"

  "I should recall him, but I don't." This time there was anxiety in the voice. Estbane's voice was deep and kindly.

  "We thank you for coming to us, little Crystal. I would speak with you later. Will you come to our cavern?"

  "I'll come," acknowledged the little dragon.

  There were rumblings, and more stamping of damp feet, before the assembly broke up, loudly hissing dragons beating wings as they rose from the bowl within mere seconds of one another.

  ~~~

  Inside the ancients' cavernous lair two old dragons rested, aware of considerable degrees of stiffness in the joints and of aching muscles. Of habit, dragons loathed unnecessary exertion such as they'd undergone this day. They were indolent by nature. The exertions of the day left Eilen fractious, peckish and very stiff.

  She growled angrily at her equally ancient mate, objecting that the bowl was uncomfortable and too crowded. When Estbane went against convention by blowing a gentle blast above her eye ridges, she cocked her head at him and hissed affectionately.

  "You forget," he prodded her memory, "that you were one of those who insisted the bowls not encourage unnecessary discussion or argument. You said that if," he continued mercilessly, eying her in amusement as she tried to interrupt, "dragons were uncomfortable, they'd rush through anything to go elsewhere. And you were right."

  "Well," she agreed mollified, "one doesn't expect to be called to a bowl at our age."

  "It's made you alert though, sloth that you are," Estbane teased her, a chuckle in his voice. "I do feel the same alarm about the little one as you do," he added thoughtfully. "Perhaps Dramas can enlighten us when he comes next to the Isle – if he can."

  "Perhaps," murmured Eilen. "What do we do about the little Crystal, Estbane?"

  "We leave her to come to us," he replied softly. "As she matures, she'll remember exactly who and what she is. We're inordinately blessed to have her
among us and must cherish her." He paused and added pensively, "Though, my dear, I can't help wondering about that block of ice that hangs so solitarily in a northern cavern. Could that be the Lian the Crystal speaks about? And the essence in our keeping - can it be linked to the figure entombed there?"

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Bethel strode over to his small pavilion where a stocky man with a thatch of brown hair awaited him. Jane quickly divested Bethel of belt and sword, breastplate and helm, but ignored the knife-belt that Bethel would only remove when he was with the warlord. Nor did Jane speak, though he thought again how very graceful Bethel was at almost sixteen cycles.

  He also noticed how fatigued Bethel looked, the boy's face pale and his eyes dark-ringed. He glanced up fleetingly at this very tall youth who'd just come from the last ceremony that completed days of gruelling initiation into manhood. Jane recalled how, only yesterday, he'd sympathetically cringed for Bethel's most recent ordeal. Four senior warrior lords stood above the boy and his partner and monitored their consummation, a ceremony that ended the trial of initiation into manhood. Jane knew the boy found it extremely traumatic.

  Jane could only guess at how stressful the weeks were for Bethel leading up to this moment. The boy's time with the warlord was such that Bethel was incapable of coherent speech in connection with his thorough, daunting and impassioned preparation for the occasion. He came to Jane exhausted and utterly desperate for rest. Even more than usual he couldn't bear anyone to touch him, the youth flinging himself away from any in close proximity. His eyes were quite wild and dark.

  Bethel was six feet six inches tall. He'd still not finished his growth, was as slender and girlish as ever, and still looked a beautiful boy with clear skin and no trace of dark fluff on cheeks or chin. Beside those his age, among the Churchik, he looked a mere child, and when he wrestled with southerners, even more so. That was deceptive if any chose to look closely at him because he was built in the mould of his brothers and father, and Alfar wasn't a slight man.

  Bethel stretched, yawned, and flung himself back onto the bed, flat on his back. He scratched absently across his facial slave mark, then let his hand slide to his neck. The young man's voice was deeper these days and richly mellow, with speech patterns now very southern. He sat and pulled ineffectually at his boot.

  "Tell me, Jane," he said pensively, "what is to become of me?" Jane hastened over to the bed to help the boy with his boots.

  "You'll become a Churchik warrior in less than a cycle from now, lad, that's what'll happen to you. You're trained for it. Another season and you'll compete, even though you're younger than your opponents."

  "Jane," said Bethel pleadingly. "Jane, look at me." Jane gave the boots swift hard tugs and stood them neatly by a chair, then looked up, concerned at the overtone of distress in Bethel's voice. "Can you not see what bothers me?" There was a puzzled look in Jane's eyes.

  "No, lad, I can see no difference from when you went out."

  "Look at my throat," suggested Bethel, putting hands to his neck in a bewildered way.

  "Your torc," murmured Jane, watching as Bethel ran his hands through his hair.

  "My maturation," Bethel said in a bitter voice. "My master says a Churchik man does not need a torc." There was silence, then Bethel raged in a choked voice, "I almost miss the damned thing. Here I am, initiated to maturity with a Churchik girl, and in a season or two I must please my master, again, by becoming a Churchik warrior. Jane, what have I become?" Bethel bent his head in his hands, his extraordinarily long hair falling in waves down his back. He ran his fingers through the curls, tearing at them.

  "You're what you have to be," Jane responded. "You've no choice if you wish to survive, have you?"

  "I will have to fight my own people, Jane. Oh gods, was life ever so ironic?" Bethel got to his feet and began to pad up and down. "I loathed that torc for nearly five cycles because it was a symbol of my slavery, even more than my tongue and scar. It was a visible and tangible reminder of my status, was it not?" Jane nodded. "I thought the day it went I would be freer, but, now it is gone I know I am not. Am I left with any more choices than I had an hour ago?" Jane heard the note of despair and responded calmly.

  "No, none that I can see." Bethel still paced.

  "I could use the torc as an excuse. I could say, see this torc, it makes me do what the warlord wants. Now that excuse is gone."

  "No, lad," said Jane gently. "That's not so." Bethel turned, stopped, and looked sadly back at Jane.

  "I have no excuses."

  "But you have," contradicted Jane. "You do as the warlord commands or else. Besides, you need no excuses. You're enslaved in the same way as are thousands of others who don't wear torcs. Don't torment yourself over nothing."

  "I have been made a Churchik. I am Samar." The bitterness was back in the young voice. "Once I was to be a musician and a composer."

  "You still are a musician, Beth." Jane went over to Bethel and put a hand on the youth's arm, shaking it gently. "You're as much a Samar as I'm Mellilan. You'll always be Samar because nobody can take that, or your childhood, from you. How you were moulded, before you were enslaved, will always be the essential you. You must believe that. I believe it and it's sustained me for many cycles." Bethel wearily went back to the bed where he sank down, yawning deeply. He fell back on the cushions and flexed his feet. He was silent. "You'll adapt, young one, as you've always had to. This is really no different, you'll see that."

  "Did you know initiation would be so gruelling, Jane?" Jane smiled down at Bethel with considerable affection.

  "I had an idea it might be."

  "I didn't," mumbled Bethel, closing his eyes.

  "Do you now feel you've left boyhood for manhood, lad?" At the teasing note in Jane's voice, Bethel opened his eyes.

  "I am supposed to have done, am I not?" Bethel managed a tired grin.

  ~~~

  Bethel woke from a longer sleep than he'd enjoyed for days, felt refreshed and stretched, thinking idly that he should rise. He pushed himself up on his elbows and turned casually to the pavilion entrance because he saw a movement.

  To his astonishment, he saw it was Sasqua, the Churchik girl to whom he was unwillingly mated at initiation, and he blushed crimson as she came confidently to the bed. She was a tall slender girl. She looked and acted older than her fifteen cycles, Bethel well aware she was trained, as were all Churchik girls from the warrior class, to be a highly sensual creature. His blush deepened. He stared up at her startled and immediately swung one leg from the bed.

  As he did, he stared fascinated. She quickly disrobed. Her clothes fell to the floor, then, when Bethel tried to get to his feet, she came forward and leaned against him. She grasped his hands and held them to her breasts. As he was used to doing with his master, in all matters physical, he sat still. Sasqua pushed him back on the bed. He started to laugh when she climbed onto the bed, straddled him, and gave a deep, rich chuckle as she began to tickle him.

  "You had a rough initiation, did you not, young northman?" she teased. Bethel flushed from face to chest, couldn't speak and flinched when her hands wandered suggestively over him. She calmly pulled his shirt over his head in one swift movement and stroked his chest. "What are you afraid of?" she whispered, her mouth at an earlobe.

  Her tongue gently slid inside the ear. Bethel tensed, conscious of her sitting naked astride his stomach and massaging his shoulders, but again he just lay acquiescent in the way of the trained slave. Her tongue bothered him. He tried to move his head. The tongue probed deeper.

  "Nothing," he whispered. "Nothing you could do."

  "This is all new to you, northman, is it not?" As she spoke Sasqua buried her head in his mane of hair, her breasts brushing his chest. He gave a sigh. "I should not have laughed at you at the witnessing," she apologised, now nibbling interestedly at his other ear.

  "It does not matter," murmured Bethel.

  His hands cupped her breasts. He felt her tongue at his lips and opened
his mouth to speak, but she was too quick for him. Her tongue touched his palate. He felt Sasqua grip him firmly between her thighs and her hands ran over him in such a way he couldn't have pushed her away had he tried.

  "It cannot be easy for one who has been with a man for so long," she mumbled into his ear.

  Bethel struggled to get up. A warning flashed through his mind, but Sasqua's tongue in his mouth distracted him and he fell back, words unspoken. Sasqua's hands reached his groin and Bethel surrendered.

  "Let me show you, young northman," Sasqua whispered. "Just let me show you."

  ~~~

  Jane entered the pavilion, unnoticed by either Sasqua or Bethel, but came to an abrupt and unexpected halt because instead of seeing a still sleeping Bethel he saw the youth active in quite a different way. He turned thoughtfully away.

  After what he thought was a decent interval he returned, to find Bethel meditatively paring his nails, his face delicately flushed and a decided sparkle in his velvet eyes. When the stocky man entered, Bethel looked up, guiltily, Jane thought.

  "Did you -?" he began.

  "Yes, I did," interrupted Jane. "It won't do, Beth," he added, as he stooped to gather up the clothes.

  He glanced up. He saw the sparkle quenched and in its place was a challenging spark of anger Jane hadn't seen in those large, gentle eyes. It behoved him to tread warily.

  "You are thinking of my lord, are you not, Jane?" Bethel's voice was quiet and reflective.

  "Aye, I am," was the grim response. Bethel cast him a pleading look, the spark of anger gone.

  "Am I to have no life other than what he demands? Am I to be his toy to play with for the rest of my life?" Bethel asked in a tired voice.

  "Lad," said Jane softly, going down by the bed. "I'd do all I could for you, but I can't protect you from his wrath if he should find this out."

  Bethel remained quiet, then said calmly, "We must make sure he does not." Jane was aghast.

  "Don't see her again, I beg of you."

  "How can my master be jealous? You only feel that if you love someone. The warlord does not love me. He instructed us to mate." Jane took one of Bethel's hands in his.

  "For other than southerners, your life's unnatural. We all know that and sympathise, but you must understand your mating was for manhood and nothing else. Besides, it isn't that easy, Beth. The warlord will know."