by Katy Winter
"Yes, he has put pressure on to settle here in such time."
"And Kel?" asked Bethel, with some anxiety. He saw Jane exchange a look with Sarssen. "Well?"
"He's hurt, Beth, and doesn't seem to heal. I've asked the healers to keep him so they can keep an eye on him but you'll doubtless see for yourself."
Sarssen stared thoughtfully at his tankard, watching the badran swirl lazily.
"Do you know what is planned, Jane?" Jane shook his head. Sarssen resumed eating. Bethel just pushed his platter away.
"Manas and Luth?" Bethel asked gruffly.
"They're alive, my lord, though the big haskar with the cruel eyes has gone," piped up Mishak. "He fought, but they got him!" he added gleefully. He looked abashed when the two warriors stared at him, puzzled by a description that fitted most of the haskars. "So they say," he mumbled.
"Gone where, boy?" demanded Jane.
"I say he's been taken prisoner." Mishak added, almost defiantly, "If he's still alive that is. I reckon not."
"Which haskar, boy?" asked Sarssen, clearly amused.
"The one Acedar Sven belonged to."
"Haskar Alleghy," breathed Sarssen. Only Jane noticed the oddity of the warrior's expression and the somewhat blank look in eyes that were usually acute. Sarssen pulled himself together, the irony of fate not escaping him.
When Jane and Mishak mentioned several other haskars killed, Sarssen reflected that indeed things were serious when elite warriors were touched in this way. He thought, too, that this was Lodestok's first real setback since his defeat at the hands of the Sinhalien. He realised, with a nasty jolt, that if this was repeated he'd have to shelter Bethel who'd be the first to experience the warlord's anger.
Sarssen acknowledged most of the worst injured would die within a matter of weeks, that winter would claim other injured and slaves would die as well through malnutrition and cold. In two seasons the casualty rate was already appalling.
"How many slaves have been lost to the northern army, Jane?" Jane's smile was tired.
"Tell him, Mishak lad." Mishak shuffled uneasily.
"Hundreds and hundreds, my lord," he whispered. "Since the first battle they've deserted whenever they could and when they come back to fight they're happy to die if they take a southerner with them!" There was a happy note to the boy's voice, then Mishak looked embarrassed, before downright scared.
"Gods!" murmured Bethel, grasping his tankard. Mishak stammered.
"Forgive me, my lord."
"Mishak," said Sarssen calmly. Apprehensively licking his lips, the slave boy looked across at the warrior before he was abjectly at Sarssen's feet. Sarssen bent down, his hand to the painfully thin shoulder. "Mishak," he repeated. "Stand, boy." Trembling, Mishak obeyed, his eyes refusing to meet the warrior's. "Mishak, it is quite understandable you rejoice when people who enslaved and hurt you die. Your joy at a slave's freedom is not surprising. No, boy, I have no intention of beating you." Mishak's tongue passed over his lips. His eyes went helplessly to Jane and then involuntarily to Bethel. "What I want to know, boy, is why you did not run away when you had the chance?"
Startled, Mishak had the courage to look up at the warrior, his grey eyes fully meeting and holding with Sarssen's.
"I was looking after Lute, my lord. I couldn't go and leave the dog." He was released but made no effort to move before adding as the three men stared speechlessly at him. "I'm well treated, my lord. I'm kept warm, fed and never beaten. In that way I don't feel like a slave." His face flushed, he began stammering again. "I - I care for my master and Jane."
"Aye, lad, it's mutual," said Jane throatily. He hurriedly lifted his tankard. Bethel sat unmoving, his eyes on the younger boy's face. Mishak spoke shyly and hesitantly.
"My family's dead, my lord. You're all I have."
When Bethel held out his arms, Mishak went to him.
~~~
Before Bethel went to the warlord he went in search of Kel. He found him in a huge unsel hurriedly erected for the sick and injured at each stop. Kel was propped up by straw bags on a pallet, his face white and drawn, his chest roughly bandaged and his breathing shallow. He looked a very sick man.
The cut on his head was deep while the wound on his thigh looked to Bethel to be badly infected. Bethel almost gagged at the smell that assailed him when he entered the unsel. He knew there were dozens of unsels like this around the camp.
Kel's eyes were closed when Bethel quietly knelt beside him but they flew open as soon as he heard the gentle voice. The smile that was always in his eyes for Bethel was there still but so was pain. Bethel knew the tears were ones of relief.
"Beduar," whispered Kel. "I'd hoped to see you once more before I die."
"You will not die, Kel," said Bethel calmly. "I shall see you do not. Can you be shifted from here?"
"I guess so, Beduar, but what does it matter where one dies?"
"I will see that you are properly attended to," said Bethel curtly. "When were your dressings last changed?"
"Two days past, Beth. I think they know I am one that's lost."
"Nonsense," replied Bethel quietly. "I shall see that you are cared for, Kel." Kel looked up at the young face amused, the smile in his eyes deepening.
"Can you do that, young warrior?"
"A son of the warlord's can, Kel, yes." Kel winced on a surge of pain.
"Aye, lad," he whispered. "To hear you play will mean much to the men who are left." Bethel touched him gently and left.
~~~
Bethel entered Lodestok's pavilion in some trepidation because it seemed such a long time since he was in the warlord's company. He knew what to expect and his unruly stomach squalled uncomfortably. He firmly suppressed any agitation. He stood at the entrance, irresolute, his tall slender frame outlined by the lantern hanging above him. Lodestok lounged at his ease in his usual pose, a goblet in hand and Bethel could see the glint in the cold eyes from where he stood. He knew the warlord had been drinking for some time. He sensed the warlord sensuously looked him up and down.
"Enter, petal," came the cold, deep voice. Bethel advanced into the pavilion towards the hand he saw extended, then sank to his knees in filial submission as he took the large hand in both of his.
"My lord."
"It is good to have you back, younger son. I have felt sorely deprived of you, Sorien. A father does not like the absence of his sons."
"No, my lord." The hand was withdrawn and a foot nudged the kneeling figure.
"I suggest," came the frigid voice, "that you serve me as is your custom, flower. Get to your feet!"
Without hesitation Bethel responded promptly, automatically falling back into his routine - the slave boy was never far from the surface of his consciousness. The desert experience, such as he remembered it, faded already.
As he always did Bethel found himself cross-legged on his mat while Lodestok ate, eating hungrily after the curt nod granted permission and then sitting hunched at the warlord's feet with the estibe in his lap. When he played the first notes he heard a sigh of satisfaction above him. He sank back, lost briefly in the world of music.
He was stopped by a hand on his hair and tilted his head so he could see what the warlord wanted of him. He read the answer in cool blue eyes and in the gentleness of the hand running through his unplaited hair. It was a caress. The voice was unthreatening.
"Your playing is a joy, boy. I have missed it."
"My lord." Bethel's hands strayed to the strings again.
"Enough for the moment, boy," came the quiet command. "Just stay awhile where you are. I would enjoy your company."
~~~
Bethel didn't know why but he woke very early the next morning and had to think quickly where he was. He gave a soft sigh, his eyes going to Lodestok who was sound asleep. He stretched deeply and carefully before curling back into a ball, warm under the furs. He slept.
When he next woke he saw the warlord coolly surveying him and began to stammer. Quickly quietened he was ro
ughly pulled next to the warlord so his head rested on the massive chest and his head was tilted. Bethel's sleepy eyes stared up at an amused Lodestok.
"You are tired, boy." In spite of himself and the grip on his chin, Bethel yawned. He blinked owlishly.
"I did wake early, my lord," he mumbled. "But then I must have gone back to sleep."
"Wake up, boy!" Bethel struggled to keep his eyes open. "You will find some things changed, little petal, but you will adjust."
"Yes, my lord," came the acquiescent reply, Bethel suddenly conscious of eyes that seemed to look into the centre of his being. He lay quite still, acutely aware of his vulnerability back with a capricious master.
"We have a brother of yours here, flower, yes?" Bethel's stomach jumped.
"Yes, my lord."
"One Luton, no?" The warlord's voice was devoid of emotion. His eyes still held by the warlord's, Bethel licked his lips.
"Yes, my lord."
"Kher tells me you met."
"Yes, my lord."
"Your brother, I believe, has no memory."
"He did not know me, my lord, no," agreed Bethel. The blue eyes pinned him. He felt unexpectedly trapped and panicky so closed his eyes for relief.
"No, no, my little petal," admonished the cold voice. "You do not close your eyes. I would look into those velvet, purple depths."
"My lord, I swear to you I know nothing of Lute." When a hand began fingering his curls Bethel wanted to scream his nerves felt so taut.
"I am sure of that, my pretty flower. I would have had any knowledge from you last night." A shiver shook Bethel. The voice continued. "He is a very handsome boy, Sorien, but he lacks your beauty, does he not?"
As he spoke the warlord placed his hand so Bethel could only gasp before he was pushed flat and hard against the cushions and felt a phial at his mouth. He tried to push it away. Lodestok was far too quick for him and he was forced to swallow. Helpless, his pupils became dilated, his mouth parted so he could pant and as Bethel succumbed to his master he slipped into semi-awareness. He lost all track of time. Now, lying still, Bethel looked drowsily up at the warlord who leaned on one elbow, the wolfish grin still on his face as he stared down, the huge form relaxed and satisfied.
"You told me the truth about your trek south, boy. I have been in your mind." Bethel put a hand to a head that throbbed with the beginning of a headache.
"My lord, I would not lie to you," he mumbled.
Bethel felt ghastly. What Lodestok forced him to drink always left him with creeping lassitude and he felt extremely worn. Lodestok didn't lack passion, energy or stamina.
"No, boy, of course not. But others might."
"My lord," he whispered.
"You will become reacquainted with your brother, petal, and you will keep me advised of your conversations with him, will you not?"
"If it is my lord's wish."
"It is, flower. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Perfectly, my lord." Bethel's eyes darkened.
"A Churchik warrior is always completely loyal to his warlord, Acedar, is he not?" Bethel's eyes widened in disbelief.
"My lord?" he asked in astonishment.
"Answer me, boy." Bethel felt swamped as he continued to stare up at the warlord. He forced himself to concentrate.
"He is always loyal, my lord, or he dies."
"And a son to his father?"
"Always, my lord. I have not forgotten the oaths."
"And Sorien? Who is he loyal to?"
"To his father and elder brother, my lord." The eye contact was broken. Bethel lay waiting, aware the warlord didn't pick him up on which elder brother was referred to.
"It is time you were rising, boy. It is at least mid-morn. Get food."
"Mid-morn?" Bethel stammered, throwing back the furs. He looked confused and disoriented.
"You have been occupied, boy," mocked Lodestok a mite maliciously, his eyes taking in the deep flush that swept across the young man. "Time passes quickly, does it not?"
The warlord watched the shivering young man scramble into clothes and then sit to haul on heavy, fleece-lined boots. He didn't speak as Bethel rummaged round for a comb that he began to ruthlessly drag through the long curls, wincing every time he caught on a snarl. Bethel missed the smile of genuine affection that Lodestok also reserved for Sarssen.
Lounging back on his cushions, the warlord spoke deliberately.
"I am pleased with what you have achieved, son. You have earned your status as acedar. Bensar will confirm it when you report to him. You will wish to know that Losaren is haskar."
A more delicate blush touched Bethel's cheeks. He turned to look across at the warlord, his hand adjusting his empty knife belt.
"You honour us, my lord. I shall not disappoint you." Lodestok's voice was unusually warm in tone.
"You never do, boy, in any way." He saw the blush deepen and his smile grew as he waved Bethel away. "Food, boy, get us food!"
A hand to his aching head, Bethel left the pavilion.
~~~
Bethel soon realised how savaged the southern army was when he found gaps among those with whom he'd grown and fought for warriorhood. There were gaps among senior warriors he'd both respected and deeply feared. Mostly he saw the attrition in the ranks, especially among his own. It shocked him.
Much was brought home to him the first morning when he reported promptly to Bensar. When he heard the bell ring the peal for acedars Bethel ignored it but only for a moment, then he gasped and ran, aware that indeed he was an acedar in the Churchik warrior hierarchy, something he'd never dreamed was possible. Bensar's greeting was curt.
"I was advised of your return, Acedar. You will have Hab's men assigned to you and a mishmash of men from other troops. Shape them. I hold you entirely responsible for having them in a fighting unit preparatory to the next assault. Do not dream away the hours, Acedar. Battle is closer than you think."
The nod was one of dismissal and Bethel needed no second bidding. He stared rather blindly at Bensar before backing precipitately from the pavilion, an odd expression on his face. He didn't see the thoughtful smile that followed him.
Bethel realised, with shocked incredulity, that he was to have men from Alleghy's ranks along with others from senior warriors who'd died. His skirmishes with the enemy in the early days faded into insignificance with what Bethel now faced. Not only did he have at least a hundred men assigned to him that he had to organise, but he was also senior to a large number of junior warriors and beduars who'd look to him for orders and die at those orders.
The irony of his situation wasn't lost on Bethel. It made him flinch. He was now a senior warrior directly responsible to Bensar. Bethel felt as if he was part of some nightmare that he had to wake from, sooner or later. He stood outside Bensar's pavilion. His mind desperately tried to come to grips with reality. As Bensar was speaking Bethel assessed the army had lost forty thousand foot soldiers, probably more, thousands of slaves had deserted and now swelled the ranks of the northern army and many warriors of all ranks had perished. Bethel faintly thought of the logistical problems the slaves made for Sarehl, then, with a sad little smile his mind moved on.
He assumed these numbers didn't include those wounded who'd doubtless join the lists of the dead in the coming winter season. As all warriors did, Bethel knew the warlord's army had swelled to well-nigh a quarter of a million fighting men prior to the first battles. He found it difficult to believe such a huge chunk of that force no longer existed. Such cavalier attitude to the loss of life appalled him.
Bethel stood still, unaware of the cold that made his face ache. A deeper cold gripped him. He had a sense of foreboding that made him break out in a sweat as he considered the implications of the southern army's possible predicament. The warlord had planned his entire campaign in typical southern fashion, rapid assault and overpowering followed by victorious possession and despoliation. Such would drive the northern army south into an inhospitable environment where t
heir supplies would dry up and the desert people would attack and decimate them. There, with the unrelenting climate and no supplies, the northern army would be rendered helpless come spring. Lodestok would then slaughter the rump of their army. This hadn't happened, nor, Bethel realised, was it going to happen.
The northerners may not have been victorious but they were certainly more comfortably circumstanced than the southern army because they had adequate supplies and were well-equipped for the winter months. Bethel had heard already from Jane that these northeners had sophisticated sleds and long flat pieces of wood they wore attached to their boots that they got round on. It gave them manoeuvrability and speed. Not only that, many of the opposing army were northerners so they knew how to cope with the unbearable months of cold that made the southerners so desperate and ill.
Bethel suspected the northerners played something of a waiting game, and, though he could admire their tactics in wearing down morale Bethel felt a shiver of premonition crawl icily up and down his spine. Then he thought of Sarehl and Daxel. Unaware of it, a tear crept down his cheek to instantly freeze. When he thought of Luton, who was a wild card, Bethel was caught by another shiver. With a spurt of alarm he wondered when his brother's master would appear and what that would mean both for the southern army and for Luton.
Bethel had another unpleasant revelation. He knew he was no longer safe anywhere. He belonged nowhere. He could die on the battlefield as another Churchik warrior, reviled and spat upon; he could be a trophy of war as the warlord's son brought from the field for summary execution in front of brothers he loved; he could be betrayed as a traitor by a slave who'd managed to escape - he could be seen as one who chose to be with the southern army. Other scenarios flitted through his troubled and turbulent mind, the sensation of being utterly alone leaving him desolate. He had to hastily swallow a lump that came to his throat.
He moved from outside Bensar's pavilion stiffly, his legs unwilling to oblige. His leg, sore from the desert that he wondered about but couldn't remember, had stiffened in the chilly air so he walked with a slight halting limp. Had the northern army seen him coming, they'd have thought the cloaked and hooded figure was the Strategos.
Ambrosian Chronicles,
Third Age,
12216
Events begin to move quickly on Ambros. Autoc was surprised to learn Bethel and the warrior Adept were attacked so violently as they were sent as envoys of the Churchik to the Sophy of the Wildwind tribes. He has now left Yarilo.
