by Katy Winter
"Kalor?" Kalor's hands went to Brue's shoulders reassuringly.
"Yes, lad? What troubles you?" Kalor's glance settled on the copper head and he was suddenly very aware of tension in the young shoulders. "Look at me, lad," he said quietly.
When he saw the sombre eyes and the anxiety behind that, he took Brue by the hand again and led him across to the bed. He sat the boy firmly then joined him, an arm about him.
"Now, boy, open to me. You know that after Sar you can trust me, don't you?"
"I'm so afraid, Kalor," burst out Brue, before burying his head in Kalor's chest. "I don't want to be taken by a warrior or made a slave." He began to cry.
Kalor held him, considerably startled. If nothing else, Brue was a remarkably placid boy for one who'd been in alien surroundings since he was small. This behaviour was uncharacteristic and suggested a very disturbed state of mind, so he held the boy and made soothing noises until the tears stopped. Brue, as did Daxel, attracted people in unexpected ways. Kaleb and Ensore were as aware of it as Kalor. Sarehl had the same ability. Kalor wondered who or what had made Brue react in such a way and knew concern was justified, so, when the crying eased and the tears were wiped away, Kalor said casually,
"This is unlike you, lad. You haven't worried about being a slave before. What's brought this about?"
"Queeb," said Brue comprehensively, snuffling as he wiped a hand across his cheek. Kalor looked down at him pensively.
"Who, lad, is Queeb?"
"He's in Misen's infantry. He tells me he joined up nearly a cycle ago though I haven't known him that long. I think he's been here longer."
"So what's he said to disturb a lad like you then?" Brue looked up confidingly, but his voice had a quiver to it.
"You won't tell me I'm just a little boy imagining things, will you, Kalor?" Kalor's expression was serious and his voice grave.
"No, lad," he answered calmly. "I'd never be foolish enough to speak to you in that way. Why do you ask?"
"I don't trust Queeb, Kalor, even though he looks out for me and is kind in his way. He seems drawn to me, but there's something else. I didn't know what to do so I came to you."
"Good lad," murmured Kalor, his arm round Brue firming. "Why don't you trust this man? Can you explain why to me?"
"Can I start at the beginning, Kalor?"
Kalor ran his free hand through copper curls that feathered wildly all over the young head because now Brue's hair was longer, Samar-fashion, it often escaped the confines of the riband that tied it back. Brue looked up, twisting his head and his eyes searching. Kalor nodded encouragement.
"I think, lad, you should," he said very gently.
Brue settled comfortably and began to speak, slowly at first as he gathered his thoughts and then the words tumbled out quickly as if Brue was relieved to have them spoken. While he listened, Kalor's lips tightened because he sensed the degree of stress that had held the boy silent for many weeks. Kalor was slow to anger, but, as the boy spoke ever faster, so his anger mounted. He didn't say much other than a few murmurs that helped Brue speak easily and he let the words falter to a halt in Brue's own time. Pleading blue eyes met the Cyrenic's grey ones.
"Am I imagining everything, Kalor?" Brue begged, his face flushed. He got a strong hug.
"No, lad, I don't believe you're imagining anything. We may live to be very grateful to you, Brue, especially Sar. Now I want you to sit quietly while I think over what you've said." He watched the deep yawn that caught Brue and added, "Are you tired?"
"I am now, sudden-like," confessed Brue, on an even deeper yawn.
"You feel more at ease having spoken to me, lad, don't you?"
"Yes," whispered Brue.
Thankfully, his tension relieved, Brue relaxed back in Kalor's arms; then, without meaning to, he closed his eyes and drifted asleep. Kalor looked down at the youngster, a softened and gentle look replacing the forbidding frown. He carefully eased the boy down onto the bed, pulled a cushion under the curly head and lifted the long legs fully onto the mattress, before he yanked covers over and around the sleeping figure. Kalor stood studying the young face thoughtfully before he lightly touched Brue's cheek and strode from the tent.
When Brue woke he seemed nonplussed, as if he didn't know where he was. Then he noticed Dalmin and Sache lounged comfortably on rugs thrown on the ground, full goblets beside them and they threw dice. Both had coins stacked messily at an elbow. When Brue turned his head, Dalmin glanced across.
"Hello, brat," he greeted the boy carelessly. "Are you fully awake?" Indignantly Brue sat, then stretched and shook his head to dispel a lingering yawn.
"Where's Kalor?" he demanded.
"Busy at the moment, pup. Come here and join us. Can you play thierza yet?" Brue slipped off the bed and crossed to the two men, crouching interestedly beside Dalmin who patted his shoulder indulgently. "Well, lad, can you?"
"Not quite," admitted Brue, admiring the way Sache flicked the five dice.
"Well then, lad," said Dalmin, carefully avoiding Sache's reproving eye, "it's time you learned." He watched Brue look around. "Kalor asks that you stay here, Brue." He got a hard look from very blue eyes.
"Why?" Brue shot out suspiciously. Dalmin shrugged.
"I've no idea," he replied. "Come and sit here so you can see what I'm doing."
~~
An hour later, after Brue had got mildly tipsy sipping from Dalmin's goblet and was learning to throw the dice quite competently, Maren appeared at the tent entrance, stooped and entered slowly. He surveyed the threesome, his eyes amused as he held down his hand to the boy.
"Come, Brue. I've come to take you home." Brue turned surprised, scrambling to his feet unsteadily. Maren's eyebrows went up. "Have you been drinking, lad?" Brue was already flushed with excitement but this made his blush deepen. He hung his head. "Dalmin?"
"He had a few sips, Captain," admitted Dalmin with a twinkle. Maren took a firm grip on Brue's hand.
"Really, Dalmin, drinking and gambling! He's not quite eleven cycles!"
"Well," murmured Dalmin apologetically, still avoiding the amused grin he was getting from Sache. "It kept the lad entertained. He'll have forgotten how to play by tomorrow and he did want to find Kalor."
"Ah!" said Maren, with complete understanding. "It was Kalor who sought me out." He put his arm about Brue, his voice quiet and authoritative. "You'll not be much use in the stables, lad. You're going to stay with me and Ceda until I give you leave not to be."
Brue hiccupped, swayed a little and grinned up at the Captain as he was led from the tent.
~~~
The Mishtok responded immediately to the teleth, his head jerking to the left and his eyes momentarily widening.
"Mage," he sent courteously. "I'm here."
"Aceke, I appreciate your difficulties at the moment, but there's some urgency."
"I'm listening."
"The second henchman sent to find Chlorien has found his way to the northern camp."
"I'm very close to the camp, mage."
"I know you are, that's why we need you now. The man's name is Queeb. He and I've met." The Mishtok sensed the ironic laugh echoing somewhat eerily in his mind. "Chlorien and I encountered him more than once when he persisted in his efforts to buy her."
"Buy her?" repeated the Mishtok.
"Quite so," sent the mage, with the ghost of another laugh. "He is, however, a serious danger to Sarehl, Daxel and their youngest brother, especially where he is. He's ensconced in the Sushi camp, acts as the warlord's ears and eyes and has instructions to take the Strategos to the warlord in the near future. It's imperative this not be allowed. I've only just discovered his presence. He's camouflaged himself surprisingly well."
"Your suggestion, mage?"
"Queeb's powerful, Aceke, and shouldn't be underestimated. Our mutual friend doesn't suffer fools about him."
"No," agreed the Mishtok, with a convulsive shiver.
"The Level Four who's worked so admirably – what's his name?"
"Kaleb."
"Yes, Kaleb. He can't block Queeb by himself. He'll need your help. Can you do this?"
"Leon's closer, mage."
"True," came the voice very softly in the Mishtok's mind. "And he's the most gifted healer on Ambros today, but he's not the Mishtok and you we need."
"I see."
"Kaleb must be buoyed at two stages. One's at the immediate moment of contact with Queeb and the other's when he strips the man's mind. It's not appropriate the healer should yet retain all he'll learn. The experience will be trial enough for him without that."
"Ah," sent the Mishtok with complete comprehension. "Indeed I must be there. I'll do as you wish with both of them."
"You understand our needs, Aceke?"
"It'll be done."
"I'll await your call when it's done."
"I'll teleth instantly all is completed, mage."
"We thank you."
~~~
The Mishtok didn't miss Kaleb's distress when the healer was confronted with Queeb's opened mind and he made his mental link quite unobtrusive, though he sensed that Kaleb, who was unusually talented, was aware of some sort of presence. The Mishtok was pleased the healer was too preoccupied to know exactly who melded with him. Now wasn't the time for Kaleb to acknowledge the closeness of the Mishtok.
What was revealed by Queeb was expected, but it was frightening, answered long-awaited questions, confirmed suspicions and was cause for great alarm. The Mishtok absorbed all he could before Malekim's servant became muddled by drugs and weakness. He stayed long enough to sustain the healer in his thoroughly unpleasant task, calmly withdrawing with most of the information he thought it necessary he have and allowing Kaleb to recall only so much. He sat in a highly contemplative frame of mind for a long while before he got stiffly to his feet and walked indoors. It was with a thoughtful furrow on his forehead that he strongly sent to Yarilo.
~~~
Queeb sat calmly in the sunshine, weak as it was and without much warmth, his sword held in hands that busily sharpened it, his finger crossing the edge every so often in a thoughtful gesture. When two senior Sushi officers approached, he raised his head and nodded in a friendly way, not aware they were coming towards him. When he saw them draw close, he rose, his head cocked interrogatively to one side. Asked to accompany them, he sheathed his sword before falling amiably into step between them because he'd been expecting further promotion and assumed this was about to happen.
He was busily discussing a military matter with the two men so didn't see Kaleb come up from behind a massed row of tents. He only swung round, unalarmed, when he felt a light touch on his wrist. Without conscious thought his eyes locked with those of the healer, though he flinched back violently at the surge of power that attempted to neutralise his mind. He wasn't aware of hands that grasped him firmly.
He fought back. His eyes broke contact with Kaleb's. His anger mounted. Kaleb was quite unaware of the mind that melded quickly with his and forced the mage's henchman to give a low agonised cry. The mind with Kaleb's went as fast as it came, the reinforcement it offered breaking Queeb's immediate control. His lips drawn back in a snarl of fury, Queeb crumpled to the ground, fading into unconsciousness.
When he regained his senses, Queeb was aware of several things. He wore chains and fetters that held him captive, he sat chained to a tree, was deeply thirsty and was heavily drugged. The latter made him grind his teeth because he couldn't focus his mind properly. His efforts to do so were in vain. He snarled again. His powers were reduced and he knew it.
When he lifted his head and stared up at the healer quietly observing him, he felt a new emotion - panic. He was conscious what a high level healer could do to one such as himself, now stripped of the mage's protection and under the influence of powerful drugs, and he was afraid the man watching him was no low level healer. Talent shone in those clear eyes. Queeb shivered, then began to struggle. He saw amusement on the healer's face.
"You can't escape me, Queeb, so you may as well accept that. We'll start from the beginning." Queeb shook his head. "But we will, Queeb," Kaleb assured him gently. "Will you speak without encouragement or do you need to be forced to cooperate?" When Queeb shook his head again he saw the healer shrug.
He watched Kaleb pick up a cloth, then had his mouth forced open so the cloth could be placed between his teeth and tied tightly at the back of his head. He writhed. Another broader cloth was drawn across his now closed mouth and tied tightly as well. Mute, Queeb physically and mentally struggled, his eyes burning with hatred when he felt the healer's searching probe touch his mind. He tried to scream.
Kalor stood partly obscured behind the tree Queeb was tied to, from where he watched the healer quietly break the mage's henchman. It was a slow process that took a significant toll of Kaleb. In all that time, Kalor didn't move a muscle. When Kaleb finally removed the cloth and gag he was white, but Queeb was the colour of over-ripe cheese and coughed hoarsely. Kaleb took a flask from his pocket and drank long from it.
"Now, Queeb, shall we try again?" asked the healer.
Queeb spat and shook his head. He tried to turn his head away when Kaleb held a cup to his mouth, almost choking when he had his head sharply wrenched back and was forced to swallow the liquid.
"Is it drugged?" he whispered.
"You'll be drugged while you're with us," responded Kaleb unemotionally. "I'm aware of your power and who gave it to you. You won't be permitted to use it." Queeb protested, then fell silent. "From the beginning," suggested Kaleb. "We will do this until you tell me all you know."
With pure hatred and venom in his voice Queeb had no option but to oblige. A howl was drawn from him if he paused and received a mental prod that clearly hurt. Then he spoke reluctantly again. Mostly he let the healer meld, but it was obvious he struggled against it.
~~~
It was dark before Kaleb let him rest. Queeb hesitatingly drank again before he was allowed peace of a sort. His brain felt soggy. He was barely fully conscious. Kaleb rose wearily, his hands shaking and his legs unaccountably weak. Kalor stepped forward with a proffered arm. Kaleb felt profoundly drained and sick.
"Have you been there all the while?"
"Aye," responded Kalor dully. "Take my arm, my friend. You look ill."
"I feel sick," said Kaleb, almost tearfully. "Such things as I've read and we've both heard."
"Aye," repeated Kalor bleakly. "Do we tell Sarehl?"
"I don't know. I'll need to think."
"There's no hurry." Kalor let Kaleb lean heavily.
"I need rest," mumbled Kaleb. Kalor's concern for the healer increased when he saw the pallor of Kaleb's cheeks. It looked even ghastlier when they passed under a lantern.
"Hold to me, Kaleb," he advised. "Gods, to have one such as that about us is too much."
"I think," whispered Kaleb suddenly, "that much was taken from me." Kalor stared down perplexed.
"By whom? Not Queeb?"
"By a stronger power than me," murmured the healer incoherently.
"Not," suggested Kalor with foreboding, "by the southern mage?"
"No," answered Kaleb coming to a stop, his legs trembling still. "No, this was a benevolent power that tried to help. Where are we?"
"Almost at your tent, my friend. Can you walk any further?" Kaleb nodded. "Have you, and the other of whom you speak, taken all you can from Queeb?"
"Yes."
"There's nothing more to be got from him?"
"No."
"And was the boy correct in his fears?" Kaleb took a deep breath.
"He was in more danger than I care to contemplate. So was Sarehl."
"I see."
Kalor's face was remarkably grim. Brue wouldn't have recognised him. He assisted Kaleb to his pallet and gently eased the healer back, pulled covers round him and waited to see the clear but exhausted eyes close.
~~~
Early next morning, Dalmin and Kalor roused Queeb who opened feverish and reddened e
yes to glare balefully at them. Fighting rather weakly, he was led well away from the camp and finally drawn to a halt in a field heavy with dew. Queeb sensed his mortality and shivered.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, in the southern guttural voice.
"You were sent as a spy for the warlord and were to take the Strategos to him at the appointed time. That time was coming very close, wasn't it?" Kalor's voice was cold and quiet. Queeb stared at him, then coughed.
"All's fair in love and war," he sighed.
"Not your kind of war," said Dalmin, an edge to his usually placid voice.
"The Strategos was marked for death cycles ago. He was long overdue to meet the gods."
"And his brothers and sister? Were they, too, overdue for death?"
"What's it to you?"
"You'd have killed them all."
"No. The sister I found was to go to my master, another brother is the warlord's love-boy. Rightly so. He's a very lovely youth." Queeb licked his lips. "He and his sister are very alike. All the brothers, including the beautiful boy, were to die in the end, one way or another, but preferably early."
"And Brue?" asked Kalor casually. "Was he, too, to be a slave of the warlord's or likewise disposed of?" Queeb tried to swing round but Dalmin's grip was too strong. He fell back.
"Brue?" he asked surprised. "What's he to do with this?"
"Who sent us to you, Queeb?" asked Dalmin gently. Queeb stared at Dalmin in disbelief.
"The half-Churchik lad with the red hair?"
"Brue," agreed Kalor.
"He sent you to me? How could he know? He's only a child. Why would he wish to betray me?"
"Because you threatened his eldest brother and Brue guessed as much." Kalor saw incredulity mix with the chagrin and anger in the fish-like eyes. "You misread the boy badly, Queeb. That's an unusual youngster who's lived about adult men all his life. Brue, my unpleasant man, is the Strategos' youngest brother. He's not half-Churchik, nor is the boy a fool. He listened to you and he asked questions that you didn't even suspect and the more he heard, the more suspicious he became."
"I liked that boy," growled Queeb, struggling against chains and Dalmin.
"So do we all, Queeb. Brue's precious to us, as is Sarehl, so any threat to either of them will bring retribution."
"I never hurt the boy. Why would he betray me?" repeated Queeb dazedly.
"You'll never know, will you?' commented Kalor almost lazily, his hand drawing a wicked knife in a way that made Queeb swallow hurriedly. "Lie him, Dalmin. Yours, Queeb, will be the ritual death for a traitor. You'll die as my Cyrenic people carry out a death sentence for such and we don't hurry over it."
