Jepaul

by Katy Winter

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was several miles away from Wrandal that the Doms, after discussion with the Companions and the leaders who’d emerged from groups accompanying them, made the decision that it was time for a semi-permanent halt. It was so that untrained people could be trained by elite Varen at least in basic self-defence. Later they could learn proper fighting skills that could back up the Varen, many of whom still kept appearing, singly and in groups, from all the city-states. Some even arrived from Baron/Kelt, the small but powerful, independent city of the Mythlin.

  Those from there spoke of a leader whose appearance was so altered he was unrecognisable. He was a dynamic man of stamina and energy whose sole objective in life now seemed to be the relentless pursuit and savage use of candemaran to the exclusion of everything else. He was alienated from his own, took no interest in the seedings and growth of young Varen, nor did he participate as he should in the harvesting rituals. There were young Varen, unselected, growing in an uncontrolled way. It made Knellen frown heavily. When he heard that young Varen weren’t even taking an oath and nor did the Mythlin seem to care, Knellen’s frown grew ferocious.

  It appeared the Mythlin’s sole preoccupation was with raiding small villages or nearby towns. He had younger Varen round up very young girls whom he first enslaved then broke most brutally to candemaran status. He enjoyed them with an unabated ferocity that disturbed even his senior Varen. None, the Doms and Knellen were told, survived the Mythlin’s insatiable lust. Knellen ground his pointed teeth. Cadran, when he heard whispers of the Mythlin’s activities, went quite white and was clearly revolted. He sought out Knellen.

  “Knellen,” he said in an agitated tone. “I hear such dreadful things about the Mythlin. Can they be true?”

  “So it seems, Cadran,” answered Knellen, his voice forbidding. “I have suspected for some time that our honoured Mythlin had altered from the Varen to whom I personally made an oath long ago. Something your mother told us made us suspect the Mythlin had been granted youth and virility, but what we now hear confirms that. He should be a most ancient man, Cadran, not what we hear described. He was frail.” Knellen paused, considering Cadran. “Boy, what was done to your mother was not done by the Mythlin I knew.”

  “How could he change so much, Knellen?”

  “Cadran, there are among us on Shalah, those who can offer others various gifts such as very long life and wealth, power over others, youth, virility – any number of things.”

  “So where does that leave the Mythlin?”

  “If one is tempted by these gifts, Cadran, there is always a price to pay. Nothing, young one, is free. It never is. Some on Shalah will barter all they are for something they prize above everything else, even what they inherently are.”

  “The Mythlin has done this?”

  “From what we suspected before you were born and what we know now, Cadran, there can be no doubt the Mythlin has sold himself for youth and virility, but even worse what he wished for and was granted now consumes him to the exclusion of anything else. That’s also the price you pay, young one, so be very careful what you wish for. You may get more than just the gift. You will also get the obsession that goes with it and which ultimately consumes you.”

  “What has he sold, Knellen?”

  Knellen looked thoughtfully at Cadran before his measured response came.

  “We all have the spirit that makes us unique, young one.”

  “He sold that?”

  Knellen saw shock and abhorrence in Cadran’s eyes.

  “It seems there can be no doubt, Cadran.”

  “How could he?” whispered Cadran distraught. “He betrays everything you’ve taught me a Varen is.”

  “Some people are more corruptible than others, boy, something you’d have learned sooner or later. It’s a lesson you should never forget.” Knellen eyed Cadran again, this time for longer. “You are now a mature young man, Cadran, with unusual strengths and abilities. You empathise with Jepaul as well as with the Doms and other Companions, and you are now a fully trained Varen as befits one half of your heritage. You are powerful enough now to confront the one who created you without fear. Do you believe so?”

  “Meet him face to face, you mean?”

  “Could you do this, young one? Do you feel the inner ability to do so? Answer me honestly, Cadran.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you need to think about this, because I believe the day draws close to when you will meet and you must be prepared and ready to face it without fear, anxiety or with any sense of obligation to him. You must be able to stand before him, his son, and not flinch nor feel emotion of any kind. That is the next step to full manhood for you, Cadran, and time does not wait on you.”

  “I know. What must I do?”

  “I will work with you. I shall also ask Dral and the Doms to do likewise. Javen and Gabrel will also help guide you to the state you must be in to face your bane. The Mythlin is your bane, Cadran, and you owe it to your mother to deal with it properly and successfully. She was almost slaughtered, horribly, to give you life.”

  “I understand.”

 

  And increasingly those of city-states, people browbeaten and hopeless for innumerable syns, heard of a large group now settled in central Shalah, to which others like them were increasingly drawn. They began, pitifully few to begin with, to escape their cities and seek out the travellers as they were known. Some had to cross their provinces without supplies, so if they made it to the travellers they were in appalling condition, half-starved, ill-clad and well-nigh helpless with despair on arrival.

  Life was difficult. Clothes had to be rationed and shared like food that was garnered from rich land the travellers now occupied. There were no medicines. Some who arrived, dishevelled, reported the deaths of many who were rounded up by Varen and promptly executed on the spot.

  The travellers now no longer moved. A permanent camp was fully functioning. The Cynases heard about it. So did the Red Councils, hissing with anger as they commanded the Varen to ensure city gates remained closed and any trying to leave were executed. Or, if they worked in factories and ironworks, they were to be chained there to work until they died. They ordered floggings as examples. They supervised them in public squares. People become afraid of anyone. Trust was gone. People crept about their business, obsequiously obeying anyone and everyone. The Red Councils tightened their grips on their Varen and Cynases.

  Barok and Adon still held out against writhlings in their Varen, but in return for that they were forced to accede to sterner measures over their populaces. Their people writhed under the Red Council yokes of submission, subservience and forced labour. Both Barok and Adon had to accept the gradual reduction of their people from emtori status to total slavery. It was done with extraordinary brutality and swiftness by those of high rank who saw increased profits from work done by those who now required no pay and had no rights. Any emtori of whatever caste level were no longer free people and were owned by the powerful few who showed them no mercy whatsoever. Work was carried on day and night. Many died in their harnesses. Starvation was rife. And the foundries kept churning out weaponry and the factories goods only the wealthy could buy. Utter misery came to those cities.

  In other city-states, the situation was no better. In those the Red Councils had little trouble persuading their Cynases that slavery and beggary were acceptable for the benefit of the state. It was the Cynases who implemented the laws, not the Red Councils. They just sat back and watched with complacent delight as rulers of Shalah decimated their own people.

  Tales of the woes of those on Shalah came to the camp. The Doms had cold expressions. Jepaul, deeply distressed, showed no emotion whatsoever other than to the Doms. Lisle wondered if the man had emotions. Cadran, become more reserved and self-contained, no longer expressed his feelings. His self-control became increasingly obvious to those about him. He was a contented lover, a superbly trained Varen and a young man of depth, but he now gave nothin
g away. There was much of Jepaul about him.

 

  It was after another season that the Doms sensed the Cefors, Wraiths and the Maekwies were close. At the same time, Knellen told the Doms it was time for Cadran to meet his father. Quon looked hard at the Varen, his eyebrows arched.

  “Why, Knellen?”

  “Because I sense a reckoning, Quon. I can’t explain it, but I believe it’s time and to delay it would be foolish.”

  “A premonition?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. How do we arrange this, Knellen?”

  “We are close to Baron/Kelt, Doms.”

  “True,” concurred Dancer.

  “We know the Mythlin seeks beyond it for girl prey.”

  “Yes.” Ebon’s voice was deeply angry. “That needs to be dealt with.”

  “He must have raided close to the city for some time, so his prey will now be further afield.”

  “Catch him?” asked Jepaul, interestedly.

  “Certainly meet up with our honoured Mythlin,” said Knellen between his teeth.

  “He’ll be with heavily armed Varen,” warned Sapphire. “And you can be sure they’ll have writhlings.”

  “Some certainly,” agreed Knellen affably. “But so will we be heavily armed, Dom. And we need a city, so it seems Baron/Kelt would admirably suit our needs.”

  The Doms considered him with amused comprehension.

  “Very true. We need a base rather than camps. Will you take the Companions?”

  “Yes, and Gabrel. He’s a good man in a crisis. So is Dral. He can bring some men and Lisle will lead with me and our men. Belika may choose to bring some of her own.”

  “And us?” queried Quon. “Are we invited?”

  “Assuredly,” bowed Knellen ironically, with the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice.

 

  The Mythlin, flushed with enthusiasm and anticipation, had organised a new hunt. His current supply of candemaran ran low so he wished to replenish it and could think of nothing more pleasurable to do for the morning. He arranged for a strong troop of Varen to accompany him, mostly younger ones from whom he’d not bothered to enforce allegiance. He’d noticed, with contempt and disgust, that many of his older or more senior Varen didn’t seem to have the same appetite as himself for candemaran pleasures, whereas the less trained and younger Varen most certainly did. And they showed their admiration for his ruthless pursuits in a way that was gratifying. The Mythlin had shunted his advisers and senior Varen to one side. He’d lost interest in them some time before, nor had he bothered with writhlings. He thought them beneath the Varen.

  He was in his chamber when he was informed the hunt was almost ready. He quickly took his satisfaction, boxed the girl’s ears as he snarled at her to quieten then dressed himself in a leisurely fashion. He then strolled back to the bed and glanced down.

  “You, my child, are new to me. This is your first time, so listen to my words. You have to learn to keep silent at all times. Candemaran do. Understand that. I shall return for you so for your sake I hope you have learned that lesson before I do or you will do so in a most painful way.”

  “Mythlin,” came a weak whisper.

  A hand went down to jerk up a very young and tearstained face with terrified eyes that stared up into the Mythlin’s.

  “You are a very pretty candemaran, little girl, but only one of many. Know your place and your duty. It is for my pleasure: it is to give me whatever I want: it is to understand your obedience. To me it is absolute. What, then, are candemaran worth?”

  “Nothing, Master.”

  “Remember that.”

  The Mythlin stooped low, kissed the trembling lips and laughing down at the cringing figure left the room.

 

  The Mythlin and his Varen cantered for some miles. Any seeing them coming ran frantically for cover but often it wasn’t fast enough, especially for the young. Already the troop had three young girls, their hands tied before they were flung up in front of the Varen who held them despite their struggles and cries for help. The hunt was barely begun because the Mythlin liked to find prey between the ages of seven and eleven syns, prey young enough to be sterilised but usable within a relatively short time.

  It was why his hunts were regular. It meant a constant supply of children who could be made candemaran and were always readily available. They could be used while newly-found prey underwent the cruel purging ritual to become candemaran. The Mythlin never returned to the city without at least ten prey specimens he chose himself. He was very selective and specific in his choices. Those caught then released gratefully slunk away.

  Another village came into sight. The Mythlin stood up in the saddle, uttered a hunting cry then spurred his horse forward only to draw up, confounded by the sight of a troop of assorted people unknown to him. He saw some were Varen so expected the usual Varen response. There was none. He and his Varen were nonplussed. The strangers had a small group of girls in their midst so the Mythlin assumed he could demand them as of right because his status was higher than theirs.

  “Make way there!” he commanded.

  “Go to the demons!” came a retort from among the strangers.

  “Who are you to speak so to the Mythlin?” demanded one of the Varen with the Mythlin.

  Ebon strolled forward to look up at the Mythlin. An unpleasant smile curled his lips as he jerked at the Mythlin’s reins in such a way the horse bridled.

  “Get down,” commanded Ebon, jerking the reins again. His hand went to the bridle. “Do you wish me to get the horse to throw you?” he enquired.

  The Mythlin shook with rage as he tried to remove powerful fingers. His city Varen, encountering long unsmiling stares from the Varen with the strangers, were thrown into unusual indecision. They were relatively untrained. The situation unnerved them. Ebon didn’t wait. Though the Mythlin was a large man, Ebon was larger, stronger and infinitely more powerful, so he easily hauled the infuriated Mythlin from the saddle and almost flung him on the ground. That galvanised the troop. As one they began to dismount. A voice gave them pause.

  “Stay on your mounts, Varen.”

  The voice was very deep and carrying. It was also one any Varen would instinctively respond to, trained or otherwise. The young city Varen sat back in their saddles looking sheepish and deeply confused, because the single Varen confronting them, others at his back, was one of the most forbidding and frightening they’d ever seen. While their Mythlin found himself hustled away, they stared, slightly mesmerised at the commanding Varen who faced them. Not one of them was able to gather his scattered wits and all were uncaring of three girls who’d been tumbled off their horses. They were barely aware they were taken away either.

  “State your city.”

  One Varen, getting his breath back, answered with a spurt of defiance.

  “Baron/Kelt. And your touching our Mythlin is sacrilege.”

  “Is it?” asked Knellen amused. “How very unfortunate.”

  “You will pay for it, you renegade.”

  “Probably. Your nomen?”

  “None of your business.”

  Knellen turned his head, his hand gesture barely discernible. Lisle brought his horse forward.

  “We have a youthful Varen unaware of protocol and clearly not taught, Lisle.” Knellen indicated the rider who’d spoken. “Teach him.”

  The young Varen backed his horse. He was no match for Lisle who backed the younger man and his horse closer and closer to the group in the centre of the village. There the Varen was hauled off his horse and in front of his horrified troop was treated to a disciplinary procedure carried out with ruthless and emotionless efficiency. Humiliated and hurting, he was taken back to Knellen who’d casually dismounted and handed his horse to Gratan.

  “Your nomen, young Varen.”

  The younger Varen looked at him and spat. Knellen sighed and beckoned Lisle.

  “Second level discipline, Lisle.”

  The young Varen struggl
ed. His troop, now deeply scared and keeping very still, watched as the young man was again disciplined. The procedure was more prolonged. When he was brought back to Knellen, he could scarcely stand.

  “You have little or no training, young Varen. You should handle the procedures much better than this. You are a disgrace as a Varen.”

  There was no reply, only rasping breathing.

  “So, as your senior, I ask again. What is your nomen? Respond or you will experience something that in your condition may well kill you. The choice is yours.”

  “Raanom.”

  “Was that so painful to say, Varen?” Again there was silence. “You must learn to answer your seniors, Varen.”

  “No.”

  “Stand erect as Varen should. I have questions I wish answered.” The luckless Varen instantly obeyed which Knellen saw as a positive sign. He again gestured to Lisle who was prompt in response. “Take him into the designated house, Lisle, but before you do I want these young city Varen off their horses and with your men. Any trouble with them you know how to deal with it. Be thorough and inflexible. They’re mere children. This one couldn’t do anything to help himself. As Varen they are pathetic.”

  The troop heard the bitter contempt and inwardly writhed. They obeyed Lisle with alacrity, none wanting the same as was meted out to one of their own. They allowed themselves to be shepherded away, their faces crestfallen and embarrassed.

 

  The Mythlin found himself hustled into an adjoining room where several men sat comfortably, some even lounging, one a most unusual looking man with large, darkly fringed amber eyes whose looks made something flicker at the back of the Mythlin’s mind. He found he was being surveyed with varying degrees of curiosity, contempt and amusement. He was roughly sat. He then found himself part of an inquisition he found probing, thorough and very disconcerting in a manner to which he was quite unaccustomed. He profoundly resented it. If he didn’t answer questions, he found them repeated until he obliged with a response. There was no pressure, just implacability allied with patient determination.

  He was then subjected to the most scathing description of himself that first held him speechless with fury then, unspeakably, left him stripped raw as a man and as a Varen. He was laid bare. He could hide nothing. His actions were dissected with cruel accuracy, the questioning and analysis very thorough until, almost cowering, he pleaded for relief. Worse was to come.

  He was forced to admit what he’d bartered for his virility. His manliness was mocked and his youth laughed at. He had to re-live what he did to girls. One image after another appeared before him, all brought into vicious focus by the young man with the amber eyes. He saw the cold alienation in those eyes and knew fear. Then it was over. He sank back, exhausted, sweating, his eyes partly glazing. He had no idea who he was with but he didn’t care as he felt very ill and his head swam. All he wanted was to return to his city to rest. He sensed something inside him was touched. He didn’t know what that was either.

  It was when he sensed someone enter the room that he lifted his head. His blurred vision cleared and he saw a very unusual Varen with the oddest eyes he’d ever seen, in company with another younger man who stared incuriously at him out of eyes that were vaguely familiar.

  “Mythlin,” came the bass voice. “Greet a half-Varen.”

  The Mythlin choked incredulously. He couldn’t speak. He was utterly bewildered and believed some awful spell was cast over him that had him living a nightmare. He couldn’t move. There was a very long silence while the Mythlin struggled to get his breath. His heart did odd flurries and he almost gagged with shock. Finally, he managed,

  “This is not possible.”

  “But it is, Mythlin.”

  “No candemaran ever has offspring. It is the law of the Varen. Should such an abomination occur -.”

  “The child is torn from the womb while the mother dies during the procedure,” came a lighter voice interrupting him. “Meet an abomination.”

  The Mythlin again lifted his head to stare at the younger man.

  “Who are you?” he asked weakly with a helpless hand gesture.

  “My mother was reduced to candemaran status, Mythlin, but not ritually purified and sterilised because there was a wish for her to be deflowered and then used before that was done. Virginity is lost with the ritual. A virgin above all else was wanted at that time.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “That’s a long story, Mythlin. But to repeatedly rape a girl, then after making her pregnant have her disposed of is an obscenity.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Marilion.”

  “Marilion,” repeated the Mythlin. He again looked hard at Cadran. He shook his head as he tried to recall an elusive thought. “Many were selected for me to choose from whilst on my travels from state to state. Are you from such an encounter with one of my senior escorts? Your hair and eye colour are not Varen, nor is your build.” The Mythlin stopped. He went on, slowly, “I didn’t know any candemaran carried a child.”

  “It was almost inevitable, I’d have thought.”

  “Who found out?”

  “Other Varen. She fled.”

  The Mythlin studied Cadran again.

  “You must be the only half-Varen on Shalah.”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes you rare.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your home is with me.”

  “I have no home.”

  “Are you Varen trained?”

  “Like those about you?” came the contemptuous question. “Yes, I am properly Varen trained.”

  “If you do not come with me my Varen will hunt for you, you realise, because as a Varen you become mine.”

  “I belong to no one,” came the haughty reply.

  “Why present yourself to me?”

  “Why not? I thought you may be interested.”

  With that Cadran turned on his heel, bowed to the company and left the room. The Mythlin struggled to his feet.

  “Let me go.”

  “What about your hunt?”

  “It can wait.”

  Knellen half bowed in an ironic gesture.

  “Then, Mythlin, I shall escort you to your horse.”

 

  The Mythlin’s troop, very subdued, awaited him, one very shaken young Varen leaning heavily in the saddle, his face white and strained. The young Varen wanted nothing more than to return to the city to nurse his hurts and try to forget his first encounter with Varen from other places. When told the Mythlin wished to stay as a guest for a few days, the young city Varen had no option but to gracefully retire.

  By the time they reached their city, all they could remember was there’d been some sort of meeting with other Varen with whom the Mythlin expressed a wish to remain for a short visit, something his elite Varen frowned over but accepted. The young Varen taught lessons simply assumed he’d been chastised by a senior in the city a day before. Memory would return soon.

  The Mythlin had a fierce headache and no appetite for anything. He found, when he went out to his horse, that his troop was absent. Still slightly disoriented he demanded to know where they were. Knellen came up behind him, his response courteous.

  “We advised them that you are our guest, Honoured Mythlin. So they’ve gone home.”

  “In effect, you have kidnapped me!” exclaimed the Mythlin, his choler mounting. “It is a most serious affront, Varen.”

  “Kindly mount, Mythlin,” suggested Knellen, still maddeningly polite.

  Casting him an angry look, the Mythlin obliged, then sat rigidly erect in the saddle as he watched others round him mount likewise before calmly encircling him. He had no option but to fall in with them as the cavalcade moved. He was obliged to ride at a very steady pace until, two hours later, he found himself at a large sprawling camp which seemed to him to be occupied by so many people it looked like the site of a small city. He blinked.

  He had no time to consider where he was. The
female rider among those escorting him approached him, peremptorily took his reins and led him away from the others and through the encampment almost to the far side of it. There he was struck dumb by the sight of masses of very large women with long manes of hair, who strode about unconcernedly and bare-breasted. They ignored the approaching twosome. The rider with the Mythlin dismounted and disinterestedly signalled to him to do likewise. He did, gaping. The woman took him by the hand and led him into a communal tent. There he was casually surveyed by a number of women who looked him over like so much merchandise, from his feet to his head, their expressions ranging from incurious to disdainful. He felt like meat in a market. He didn’t like it. These women were unlike any others he’d ever seen. They were intimidating.

  “Well, well, Belika, what have we here?” asked a woman older than several there.

  “You recall the discussion about the Mythlin, Saneel?”

  “Clearly.”

  “This is he.”

  “Is it?” responded Saneel, rising to her feet. She wandered over towards the Mythlin and then stood quietly surveying him. “Is our discussion to now become the desired action?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  She walked forward. She grasped the Mythlin by the hand. With strength that made him gasp she dragged him from the tent and out beyond it to a smaller pavilion, where he was rudely thrust down on a mattress. While he tried to gather his wits and pull himself up on cushions, about to vociferously protest his undignified treatment, he saw the woman return with a small needle. He struck out at her hand then felt the needle go home. He fell back.

  The Mythlin had no idea where he was. He just knew that he was with one large warrior woman after another, his only respites being for food and ablutions. If he pleaded for relief or flagged he was fed fal. He found he was merely an object with a basic function. He was bewildered by his treatment but the gatril kept him compliant and muddled. He became exhausted. His insatiable appetite began to fail him as he met with indifference and disdain by those he was made to be with. He was casually and carelessly tossed from one person to another.

  After a few days of this treatment he became afraid. He mostly obeyed the women, but began to dread their appearances one after another. If he failed to respond he was force fed fal until, unwillingly, he did. Fal removed any control he might have over himself. He bitterly resented it. He physically fought the women. After a week, resentment was gone. The Mythlin struggled from one hour to the next, his body and mind nearly always, now, afloat with fal and gatril. To keep him alert the women arrived with jul. He knew what it was and tried to fight the increasingly frequent doses when his head was raised and his mouth forced open. He lost. Though his stamina was constantly reinforced with jul and increased doses of fal, the Mythlin very slowly, reluctantly yielded. The youthful vitality he’d been gifted became dulled with enforced relentless activity and lack of rest.

  The Mythlin lost track of time. Day and night rolled into each other for that nightmare of a week as he lived from one woman to the next, rarely the same one. He lost the energy to physically fight. One morning he found himself briefly alone. He was too weak to bother moving but he was still a deeply angry and resentful man. He simply ate the food on the tray beside the mattress, then fell back with a sigh. He waited. The older woman he first met entered the tent and eyed him coolly.

  “We’ve become bored with you, Mythlin.”

  Again the Mythlin went to remonstrate, his eyes flashing with anger until he saw the steely look in the woman’s eyes and remained silent. An imperative hand down to him made him rise unsteadily. He staggered a little then felt himself jerked forward. He sensed no emotion from any of the women he was with, just cold indifference even as he obliged; nor was he spoken to other than when he had curt orders flung at him that he had no option but to obey. He was taken further through the camp until he arrived at grounds where creatures he’d never sighted before, hundreds of them, were gathered and watched their approach. The Mythlin felt sudden, paralysing fear. He was halted.

  “What do you bring us, Saneel?”

  “I bring the mimoses, especially the females, a toy.”

  A lead mimose stallion cantered up to the Mythlin, his shaggy head bent to survey the Varen.

  “He’s a Varen.”

  “A special one, Ogi.”

  “What can we do with him?”

  “Whatever you wish,” responded Saneel, with a laugh.

  “Give him to me.”

  The Mythlin drew back with an inarticulate cry. The stallion stooped and clasped him. He galloped back to converging mimoses, the females uttering high cries of sheer delight as they swooped and began to tug at the stallion’s prize.