by Katy Winter
His other decision took his haskars by surprise. He intended to send a small detachment of men south and when asked why, he gave a grim and chilling little smile when he said he believed the tribes of the south would welcome them when they read what the warlord wrote about their possible fate. The warlord's ferocious grin widened when he spoke, saying that if the desertmen didn't respond suitably and as expected, he still intended returning south, victorious, through the land of the Wildwind tribes. His warriors went silent and thoughtful.
A much larger group of men was sent west after which they'd turn north for slaves and supplies to supplement what was garnered in the west. Lodestok assured his haskars that information showed this land was ripe for plucking, was arable and very rich in gems and cultivation. The haskars were fully in support of this move, the attraction of wine not to be gainsaid. Though they still had plundered wine it wasn't as plentiful as it was cycles before, so the thought of land full of ripening grapes was inviting. They also agreed that such land was needed as a supply backstop for the army before it swept home south through the desert. The warlord meant to take it.
He hadn't forgotten the Shadowlands either. He would often be found staring northwards, his mind turning over plans for an assault there as well. He reasoned that, once the little folk of the west were taken, his men could turn north and march into the Shadowlands taking whatever was available, including replenishing the dwindling supply of slaves.
His men could then turn south, running their newfound wealth and slaves in front of them to join up with the southern army again. It wasn't a silly plan and, if successful, as there was no reason to suppose it wouldn't be, it would be devastating. The warlord would have conquered all of Ambros. He assumed that by the time the southern army was re-united the northern army would be decimated and the remaining men well and truly subjugated, while both the Kyaran kingdom and the Elban princedoms would likewise have fallen.
The plan he'd devised was a pleasing one for the warlord, because he'd hold the northern army in a nutcracker grip of destructibility. He dwelled on it as winter came and went. In the spring, Lodestok put his plan into action. A large portion of the army was put under Esok's control with directions to move back through the forest before turning directly westward towards Gnosti lands.
Watching as the troops moved out, Bethel realised, with a twist of his gut, that this was the first hint of real battle to come. He didn't believe, as Luth and Manas did, that the west and the Shadowlands would be easy conquests and he sensed that a wrong decision was made in attacking them. He felt slightly queasy as he watched warriors from his boyhood ride through the trees.
He remembered, though vaguely, something the scholar once said when he'd been asked about other races on Ambros. The scholar's reply had been amused, but now Bethel understood that the words weren't spoken in jest by a gentle man.
"There are peoples on Ambros of whom you know nothing, children, nothing at all. They are people of power whom you could never vanquish, not in thousands of cycles, little ones. Just learn all you can and remember that the Samar States are but a part of the whole, while where we are, here in Ortok, is even less important than the rest."
As Bethel remembered the words with vivid clarity and the laugh that went with it, he felt a pang of anguish unlike anything he'd felt for eight cycles. He summoned all his skill to banish the feeling but it left him shaken and sweating.
When the southern army prepared to move north, another small detachment of men peeled from it and went south to the desert of the Wildwind tribes, led by Menk. Again, for no reason, Bethel felt odd panic grip him as the men going south disappeared but he was intelligent enough to know there was nothing he could do. He shrugged off the surge of premonition and concentrated on the warlord's conversation.
The snow may have melted, but the cold storms of early spring battered the army day after day. Horses and men stumbled in the mire, men swearing at the mud that seemed to be entrenched in every part of their lives. It was still chillingly cold. The winds were bitter. Bethel shivered constantly despite warm clothing and trying to keep active. Nothing helped.
He was with the warlord when Lodestok sent out the curt command that all garrison commanders and warriors were to move north at speed to join the army, leaving only skeleton units to man the cities. This reinforced in Bethel's mind that an attack was only a matter of time. When he realised how close he was coming to his eldest brother he knew more queasy turns of his nervous stomach. He knew haskars sent back south to Cartok and Sushi cities would soon be back north.
It took them two seasons to be west of the capital seat of Kyaran, Krynn, and Bethel knew they were within a season's march of the northern army. It was getting very close. By the time the warlord commanded a permanent halt, autumn was well on them. Krynn was taken.
Kyaran was well wooded with large forests and there was plentiful game in woodlands that were set among open meadow lands. From the south of this very large country, the southern army had ridden or marched through groves of branching bolkah trees, copses of smaller feathery-leaved albans, spinneys of tall, rangy-looking bicut trees and woody thickets of spiked shrubs Bethel hadn't seen before. He learned to give them a wide berth after being savaged by one early on. The thorn went right through his thumb and the pain throbbed for days.
Sylvan settings merged into downs, then into pasturage, as the army swallowed one town after another, no defenders in sight and no provisions left either. The towns were stripped bare. Fields then gave way to more downs and heaths before they'd ride into greenwoods again. The country was very beautiful but Bethel knew that wasn't why it was spared. It was rich productive land for the army's needs.
The army was brought to a halt in part open land and part wooded coppices. The woodlands were flat, the open land undulating into the distance. Though where they were was mostly meadow it was liberally dotted with small brakes of trees, tall groups of shrubs and thickets that provided some shelter for when the weather fully turned.
Sitting astride his horse, Bethel thought the countryside some of the prettiest he'd ever seen with a profusion of birds and wild life. He had a hankering to sit by the streams they'd often pass but knew he wouldn't yearn for long. Leaves were golden. The chill of autumn touched them all as the army moved into position for winter. The fall of leaves had begun days before.
The army was well-established by the end of autumn. Bethel knew he'd made himself and his men as comfortable as he could, and, since he'd been issued with a larger unsel for himself he could walk in and out of it without having to bend almost double. After living on top of each other for so long, Mishak, Jane and Bethel now had plenty of room for themselves. It was thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed.
Lute had more room to scamper around in too. Jane informed Bethel, a wry smile twisting his lips, that now the dog could spread his chewing and mischief. When he saw Bethel smile and rest a hand on the shaggy canine head, Jane just grinned ruefully and said no more.
Bethel's warrior existence continued as before and he settled into his new routine for winter comfortably and resignedly, knowing that only at night would he have warmth. Jane thought the very thin, undernourished look Bethel always had diminished. The youth was going very fast. Bethel wasn't quite twenty cycles. He was a young man grown, though only time would fill out the thin frame and breadth of shoulder.
When winter settled broodingly on them Bethel was inured to days cooped up, his one outside amusement being Lute's ridiculous antics. Instead, most of the time he read, encouraged both by his master and Sarssen. If he couldn't sleep he read through the early hours of the morning though he was very careful to keep the lantern low. He knew what would happen to him if he disturbed the warlord. And life continued, Bethel a young warrior who was a part of a large southern army. His days stayed settled as they had for long seasons now, the last two cycles easier with a master who stayed gentler with him most of the time too.
~~~
It was a late winter even
ing that saw the warlord summon Sarssen to join him for a late supper, his orders to Bethel for preparation unusually curt. Bethel obeyed instantly, his eyes wary because it wasn't the usual routine and anything out of the ordinary made him apprehensive. He carried out his activity with his head well bent.
When Sarssen entered the pavilion, his eyes were full of caution as they flickered to Bethel in a brief warning. Crouched on his mat Bethel needed no second glance and stiffened, alarmed and wondering what he may have done wrong. As he thought about it, a cold voice chided him.
"You may be a beduar, flower, but you are also my slave. Do not keep us waiting."
Immediately instinct had Bethel on his feet to serve at table, his words a mumbled apology. He found it increasingly difficult to mix his submissive obedience to the warlord with the demands made of him as a warrior in command of, and responsible for, others. With a spurt of panic he realised he must never let the two personas merge.
After he served he sat on his mat, his eyes watchful so that as soon as he saw an empty goblet or platter he instantly rose to either fill or remove a container. Sarssen didn't bother to look at Bethel again and Lodestok ignored him, merely discoursing amiably with Sarssen as he usually did. Once the men finished the warlord clicked his fingers for Bethel to clear away while he and Sarssen moved to large comfortable chairs, goblets in hand and still in conversation.
A second click of the fingers saw Bethel take some of the left over food before retiring with it to his mat, his eyes going from one big man to another as he ate quietly. He listened to their discussion about the advance strike that wasn't far distant, while he ate in solitary state as was his custom, only interrupting his meal to set up a card table when Lodestok gave him the order. When he finished eating Bethel removed his platter and sat pensively, his long fingers twining round the goblet he held. The warlord glanced down at him.
"Play for us, boy," he was coolly instructed. Bethel fetched the estibe. He began to play, which he did for some time, only stopping when a hand touched his head. He stared up to see the warlord stand over him. "Enough, boy," he said very quietly. "Attend to the lanterns. I would speak with you, flower."
Lodestok turned on the words and went back to his chair, throwing himself down in his usual negligent fashion, but his eyes settled on the youth carefully placing the estibe to one side and rising. As he crossed the pavilion Bethel glanced apprehensively at Sarssen, clearly reading the warning in the eyes meeting his. Bethel licked his lips as he attended to the lanterns, his hands unsteady. Uneasily, he turned and went back to his mat.
"At my feet, boy," came the soft voice.
Bethel nervously sank to the mat that was always placed in front of the warlord's chair, his tense shoulders unexpectedly held by very strong hands. He forced himself to relax. The cold voice spoke again, but not to Bethel. He listened as if in a dream.
"Sarssen, you have no father, have you?" In spite of himself, Bethel began breathing faster even as he heard Sarssen's calm response.
"No, my lord, I have not."
"You came to me over twenty cycles ago, is that not correct?"
"Yes, my lord." There was a pause before Lodestok spoke again.
"And you, flower. You have no father either, have you?" Bethel tried to stop trembling. He wanted to scream that Sarehl was his only father.
"No, my lord," he whispered helplessly, through lips that quivered.
"How old were you when your father died, petal?"
"Barely two seasons, my lord," managed Bethel in a strangled voice.
Again there was a long, agonising pause before the deep silky voice spoke.
"And I have had no sons," it said, so quietly Bethel almost didn't hear, "until now."
The silence that followed tore at Bethel's nerves. Anguished, he kept motionless. His stomach fluttered and he had to keep his head down to try to stop sudden tears welling. He felt dizzy. He was only recalled to his surroundings by the calm bass that responded to the warlord.
"If, my lord, you offer us this, I am deeply honoured." Bethel was suddenly aware Sarssen knelt beside him, his head bent almost to the floor.
"And you, little flower? Are you honoured?" Bethel swallowed desperately. He flung himself round on his knees, his hands clasped behind his back and his head as low as the warrior's beside him.
"I, too, am honoured, my lord," he whispered, the words wrung from him in despair. His voice was barely audible.
Shock partially numbed Bethel, as did the sense of disbelief that this could be happening. Bethel's whole being revolted against the suggestion that he call this man his father - the warlord was the one who'd mastered him, beaten and subjugated him and forcibly taken an unwilling boy as his sex slave. Bethel's mind was full of Sarehl. He felt his heart would break. His essence and mind utterly rejected Lodestok, even as his body bowed prostate in acceptance.
He felt helplessly vulnerable and trapped, aware he just had to follow Sarssen's lead if he was to survive and starkly conscious, yet again, that he had no choices. He swallowed hard again. It didn't help. Tears came as he thought of what acceptance of being a son could mean. When a gentle hand brushed his cheek Bethel knew it was Sarssen's and he responded both to that and to the light surge of comfort that briefly touched his mind then was gone. It was enough to help him regain his poise.
He remained where he was until he felt Lodestok's hand on his head.
"Sarssen, do you accept me as your father?" came the soft voice. Through a haze, Bethel heard the cool, measured response.
"I accept the honour you do me, my lord."
"Bethel, do you accept me as your father?" was repeated. As if he was part of a nightmare, Bethel heard his mechanical reply.
"I accept the honour you do me, my lord." Since he now trembled uncontrollably and his teeth chattered, Bethel hoped the warlord would see it as overwhelmed emotion.
"Then," the silky voice went on, "before the army advances the Vaksh/Churchik ceremonies will be performed and the rites undergone. You, flower, will be formally accepted as my warrior son after your first battle success."
All Bethel was conscious of, was a desire not to survive any battle as he staggered to his feet then sank, at a curt nod from his master, to the mat at the warlord's feet.
The rest of the evening passed with Bethel scarcely aware of it. He clung to the estibe because the music helped soothe his distress. Sarssen carried through the evening by distracting and entertaining the warlord and by making Bethel drink quantities of lowland wine, so much in fact that Bethel could barely pluck strings and had to give up. He was so drunk, he didn't remember much of what followed because he fell fast asleep the moment the warlord turned from him. His slumbers were dreamless.
When Bethel woke he felt as though someone beat a drum inside his head and he closed his eyes with a muted yelp. His eyeballs were sore and any light made his head throb. He whimpered. Miserably he curled up more tightly, hoping the pain would abate. When it didn't, Bethel knew he was in for a painful few hours and prayed the warlord wasn't in one of his playfully aggressive and sensual moods when he finally awoke.
On top of his pain flooded the awful realisation of what occurred the night before and that it wasn't some ghastly dream. With another whimper Bethel turned away from the huge, powerful figure lying close to him, his physical senses recoiling as they'd not done in cycles.
Bethel forced himself to quieten. Though it was an effort he did it and tried to consider his situation dispassionately, but the more he tried to rationalise the more hopeless and trapped he felt. Commonsense couldn't reassert itself either, because upwelling panic gripped him. Bethel moaned.
He turned back and stared down at the warlord. Profound bitterness gripped him. His wretchedness and desolation as a boy came in a wave and swamped him, to be succeeded by renewed grief for his family and their shattered home. Again he was caught by the suffering and torment he'd been forced to endure for nearly half his life. He re-lived it - the cruelty and brutality, t
he punishments, the shame and intimidation, the disconsolate despair, and the terror.
And Bethel knew, as he stared at the sleeping warlord, that despite all that was done to him in the name of conquest, he still had no choices. He doubted he ever would. In unutterable despair he let himself slide down on the cushions, his back to his master, and he wept as he'd done as an eleven cycle boy.
When Bethel arrived in Sarssen's pavilion, after he served his master early meal, the tempkar looked up, his expression calm but his eyes intent. Bethel stood just inside the entrance, still and silent. Sarssen walked across to him and rested his hands on the younger man's shoulders, saying gently,
"You are deeply shocked, boy, are you not?"
Bethel couldn't speak. He looked at Sarssen, tried to utter words, but instead all he did was wrench himself free and throw himself into a chair. He bent his head in his arms and wept bitterly again. Sarssen wasn't angered. He walked over to the chair, and, kneeling quietly beside it, put his hand to the waterfall of tumbled curls. He let Bethel weep unrestrainedly and only spoke when the torrent of sobs abated.
"Can you hear me, Beth?" he asked calmly. The dark head nodded. "I want you to understand that I knew nothing of what the warlord would offer us last night. I promise you that, Bethel. I knew from the summons that something unusual would occur, but I was as shaken as you. I wish I could have warned you." A slender hand brushed tears from very pale cheeks as Bethel tried to answer, his voice shaking and the words halting.
"My lord, I - I cannot do this. You know that." Sarssen took the damp hand in both of his and held it firmly.
"Bethel, dear boy, you must if you wish to survive." A sob almost choked Bethel.
"I do not want to survive as his son, my lord. Can you not understand that? I am his slave. He takes me as such." Sarssen held the hand even as Bethel tried to withdraw it.
"Tell me why it distresses you so much, boy," he invited, his eyes on the wet face and tragic droop to the mouth, "other than that the warlord took you as a sex slave and broke you to it as he did me."
