by Katy Winter
Bethel watched the preparations from his pavilion, aware he'd perform for some hours if Gariok had his way and turned, with a faint sigh, to return into the pavilion where he crossed to the trunk lying close to the bed. Rummaging idly through it for the signs of his bard status he paused when his fingers touched the torcs he'd worn for cycles.
It took him back abruptly to the enslaved boy from Ortok, the days of being forced to a life of degradation in chains and to the constant terror felt by a child in alien surroundings who saw none other than his captors for day after day. Quickly Bethel rejected those thoughts, refusing to acknowledge them as he sought and found the headband and belt.
Without further thought he unplaited his mane, struggled with a brush to contain curls springing wildly all about him and finally gave up, his hand up to the multiple, rich ear-rings that he straightened. Unaware, he fingered the jewelled collar signifying his acceptance of the warlord as a father. Again, he forced uncomfortable thoughts to his subconscious.
Bethel sighed again and clasped the bard belt firmly about his waist. He removed the knife belt, carefully studied the knives before he placed them back in sheaths, then stood idly twisting any one of the many rings or bracelets he wore every day. Jewellery was so much a part of Bethel he was no longer aware he wore it. When he moved light flashed from a myriad of precious stones littering his person. At night while he performed in the firelight, the flashing of the gems added to a flawless performance and held the audience spellbound.
Tonight Bethel knew much of the burden of entertainment would fall on him because Gariok got drunk quickly and easily these days and many of his apprentices were already dead from the battles. Sometimes Bethel wondered at the ultimate irony, that perhaps he'd be one of the few surviving Churchik bards. It gave him scant comfort when every part of him was taut. The thought of what he'd confront, war, maybe in only hours made him feel quite sick. Resolutely, he left the pavilion to go to his master. Lodestok glanced up at Bethel's entrance.
"I see you are ready to entertain us, boy. I am glad you have come to me early so I may appreciate what you wear. You are a pleasurable sight, boy. Join me in a goblet of wine."
"My lord," murmured Bethel, dutifully filling goblets and taking one to the reclining warlord. He bowed as he handed over a goblet.
"At my feet, boy." Bethel immediately sank to his mat. "Talk to me, Sorien. I would hear you speak."
"My lord?" mumbled Bethel. "What would you wish me to say?"
"We battle in the morn, Sorien. What say you to that?" Bethel gave a shiver.
"Just that I knew it would be soon, my lord, after all the small attacks."
"And you, boy, how do you react?"
"As your son, my lord, I am a warrior taught to fight. I will battle until I die."
"Would you have fought, boy, had you not been enslaved to me?" Bethel flung his head back startled, his eyes meeting Lodestok's.
"My lord," he stammered. "I have no way of knowing where I would be or what I would be doing."
"You were training to be a musician, boy. You have never told me what that would have made you. Tell me now."
"I would be a journeyman, my lord," whispered Bethel huskily, aware of welling tears that he bit back savagely. "That is if I had passed each stage of my apprenticeship."
"And that meant what, boy?"
"I would have been sent out to any city-state or country that requested a composer musician, my lord, as part of my training towards being a master."
"How long would that take?"
"Cycles, my lord."
"Then as a master?"
"I would be taken back to my Academy, my lord, where I would be encouraged to compose and teach as a very junior master."
"Not so different from us then, is it?" Bethel was disinclined to argue or to point out that things would have been very different indeed.
He merely acquiesced with an obedient, "No, my lord."
"So, too, you may well have found yourself fighting or do they keep bards from the front line in the north?"
"I do not know, my lord. We never had to fight."
"Your life may not have been so changed, flower, after all. They may make all able-bodied men fight, irrespective of their talents."
"Yes, my lord," responded Bethel, wondering if indeed his master's assessment was correct. Would he, even now, be with his men in a northern camp willing and ready to fight? Somehow Bethel couldn't imagine it.
"How do you feel about fighting your own people, boy?"
"I do not think about it, my lord," came the honest reply. "I just know that I have responsibility to my men and to you. That is all I will let myself think."
"One could not ask more from a slave made a warrior and a warrior's son, could one, Sorien?"
"No, my lord," whispered Bethel, his head bent.
He'd listened for the usual mockery of tone that came with such a comment, but tonight there was none. Instead, he felt extraordinarily gentle hands massage his shoulders before they played with the cascading curls.
"Play for me, boy," came the soft order. "There is little time before the feast and I would have this time with my younger son."
~~~
The feast lasted for some hours, the warriors unusually quick to get drunk, some bellicose, others belligerently ready with knives though all other weapons weren't allowed in areas of eating or feasting. Bethel felt decidedly unsafe without his knives but knew that to wear the belt would incur the warlord's gravest displeasure, something Bethel hadn't physically experienced for cycles.
Lodestok hadn't beaten him since he was fifteen cycles. Bethel clearly recalled the last thrashing he'd received and winced at the memory of the force with which it was administered. He'd been unable to sit comfortably for days and nights with his master were excruciating. Now he just watched the drunken antics with some misgivings. He kept his place. Already he'd entertained to approving catcalls and hoots, was tired and all he wanted was for the warlord to call a halt to proceedings so the warriors would go to sleep. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, realised it was Gariok behind him and turned to face the huge bard.
"A saga, boy. One that will send all happily to their beds. Get to it!"
Gariok's hand tightened on the cloth at Bethel's shoulder and the young man was hauled to his feet like a puppet, shaken, then pushed roughly forward. Stumbling, Bethel went forward to the command table where he fumbled for his pipes, well aware Gariok was behind him. He knew, without turning, that the bard had his hand on his whip as he always did when one of those he'd taught was performing. It was thoroughly unnerving however often it was done. Only once Gariok took to Bethel with his whip in front of an assembled gathering. That was something Bethel never forgot.
Instinctively, he straightened and launched into one of the favourite Churchik sagas that never failed to please. It was long and complex and left him drained. When he reached the end he saw the warlord stare at him, so he gave the quaint slave bow, saw a slight smile touch the cold eyes and then withdrew to beside Luth.
"Good man," whispered Luth drunkenly. He draped an arm about Bethel. "No one," he said confidingly, "can touch you for talent, Beth. You make music your own. We are blessed to have such a gift among us."
"Luth," mumbled Bethel. "It is Churchik like you who make my survival possible."
"I consider you my friend, Beth. It will always be so." Bethel shivered heavily.
"Luth," he whispered. "Luth."
It was just at that moment when Bethel had decided to get hopelessly drunk that the warlord signalled the feast as over. He caught Bethel's glance, nodded meaningfully at the entrance, rose abruptly and left the jollity. Luth gave Bethel a playful shove.
"Your master awaits you, Beth. Be away."
Bethel nodded, drained his tankard, got a curt nod from Gariok and followed the warlord. Lodestok lounged somewhat languorously and half-clad on the bed when Bethel walked into the pavilion. Bethel took in the limp wineskin and discarded goblet with
a resigned, muted sigh.
"Come to me, my pretty little blossom," the warlord invited silkily.
Bethel obeyed out of habit, to find himself pulled down beside the massive form. Clearly the warlord wasn't minded to sleep. Bethel knew he wouldn't either.
~~~
So when the attack came Bethel was in a profoundly exhausted sleep, his arms outflung and his face entirely covered by the thick curtain of hair. He was quite oblivious to anything about him and doubtless the attack wouldn't have woken him either. It took out all the sentries on the western camp perimeter. It was vicious and well organised. The northerners spared no one they came across they thought might be able to fight so by the time the southern army acted on the incursion the Kyaran advanced steadily towards the centre of the camp. Drunken warriors woke stumbling and cursing.
In the warlord's pavilion Bethel was woken by a violent shaking that startled and bewildered him. Lodestok was already clothed. It was only seconds before Bethel was out of bed, grasping for clothes and boots all in one movement. Sarssen entered the pavilion. He was clad and fully armed.
"They are well in, my lord," he said tersely. "There is a general call to arms." Bethel could hear the peals of bells and the drum rolls that beat out a continuous and monotonous boom. "Come, Sorien," went on Sarssen abruptly. "Go and get your weapons, boy, and get to your men. My lord, do you wish me to remain with you?"
"My sons fight," snarled Lodestok, slamming home a sword.
Sarssen nodded and left the pavilion. Bethel struggled with his boots, his hair falling about his chest and shoulders. It was a reluctant laugh that made him lift his head, surprised, to see the look of amusement he often saw these days in pale blue eyes.
"You look a sight for sore eyes, boy. Maybe you will stun the intruders with your beauty!"
Bethel's eyes lit up with a responsive smile as he gave a determined yank on his second boot.
"Perhaps, my lord," he answered, hands busily sweeping the curly mane back to be confined by a riband. He stood tall and straight, a model Churchik warrior. His eyes met the warlord's. "I must get to my men, my lord."
"I will see you later, son." Bethel bent his head and bowed.
"My lord."
He was gone on the words.
By the time the northerners were swept back their damage was considerable and had done nothing for the morale in the ranks. Bethel's men were spared the worst of the onslaught, but he had to bring in a large group to support Luth's men who were cut to pieces.
With the arrival of dawn Bethel and Luth stood together, their voices muted as they watched their men remove corpses and the wounded. Luth stood staring blankly, Bethel's arm draped across his shoulder. Finally, Luth spoke again.
"Beth, my friend, do you remember over a cycle ago I said I wished for a battle?"
"I remember, Luth," Bethel answered softly.
"I said anything would be preferable, did I not?" Bethel looked at his friend.
"Yes, you did."
"I was a fool, Beth. Nothing could be worse than what we face, could it?"
"Not much, Luth." Bethel squeezed his friend's shoulder. "We were only boys still, Luth, playing at being warriors and at being at war. This is the reality and you have seen much more of it than I have." Luth rubbed a hand across his eyes.
"The Churchik are bred for war. We are taught to revere it as a noble concept from the time we are rocked in our cradles. Beth, I do not believe this can be the only way to live."
"No, my friend," responded Bethel. "That is not the only way."
"Must one society continually have to fight and enslave others, Beth? If so, that society has to change."
"I guess in time it will, Luth."
"Am I proving myself a coward, Beth, my friend?"
"No!" said Bethel comfortingly. "No, Luth, you are an intelligent and thinking man. It is not cowardice to speak of alternatives."
"I hate the waste of life," muttered Luth, as another relay of the dead passed before him. He gritted his teeth. "Gods, I need a drink!"
"Me, too," concurred Bethel, his stomach lurching.
"Come then, Beth."
Bethel tried to guide his friend round the sights and sounds and found he couldn't close his mind either. The moans made his stomach clench. Pushing Luth ahead of him, he bit down hard on his lower lip, but he didn't throw up. They stayed together, talking quietly, their respect and affection one for the other mutual and deep.
~~~
By the morning after the incursion it was clear the northern army prepared for battle. Lodestok called in his haskars at dawn for a final briefing and discussion before he gave the order for the assembling of troops in full battle order. They were already settled in position, on the alert.
When Lodestok spoke Sarssen felt a shiver catch and shake him. He felt helpless and as though blackness hovered over him. He wanted to say they should stop now, negotiate and not fight, but he was unable to say anything. He heard the order given coldly and implacably as all Churchik orders were.
"Be readied. Take no prisoners."
Then he felt Lodestok's hand on his shoulder and dutifully turned.
"Blessing on you, elder son. May you be guided back to your father."
"Father," responded Sarssen, turning and almost stumbling as he went.
The warlord sought out Bethel from the acedars astride fidgety mounts, warrior faces pale but determined as they listened to the final curt commands of their senior. Lodestok listened to Bensar's harsh voice and sharp dismissal before the acedars turned warhorses to leave and assemble.
Bethel saw the familiar, huge figure to his left, turned his horse about again and immediately dismounted to slither to his knees, helm swept off. He bent his head. A hand instantly touched his curls.
"Blessings, Sorien, younger son. Let a father have pride in his child." Bethel looked directly up at the warlord.
"He will have, my lord," he said quietly. Lodestok nodded.
"A father waits for his son's return," he called softly to a young man now hauling himself up into the saddle.
He saw Bethel's strained smile, before the young warrior rode off to war.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The armies gathered in fighting formations was a frightening sight. Shields, shield bosses, weaponry and helmets glinted in the early morning sun, men moved about in restless waves, horses whickered and neighed and there was a sense of awful anticipation in the air. It was still. Not a breath of wind ruffled the standards being hauled aloft by bearers.
From where Bethel was mounted he could see the northern army's movement and disposition of troops was what he expected, spearmen and javeliners at the front, followed by archers both mounted and on foot, then the pikemen with the ordinary ranks further back. It was all orderly and very fast. The ground was dry, though in places very uneven with sloping terrain and copses of trees.
Bethel guessed the ordinary ranks were armed with whatever they could find, including knives, axes, spears and staves. He knew the Kyaran had a troop of axe-men, but was unable to discern specific groups other than the cavalry which was set much in the same way as their own, mostly out on the wings and close to trees.
Bethel knew what to expect. He was a warrior trained for this moment, but he knew, too, he shouldn't be where he was. He thought of Daxel who was doubtless astride a warhorse and stared across at the massing southern army, the young man wondering about two brothers he knew were slaves. Bethel wished himself anywhere but here. He glanced around to see if he could sight Sarssen and saw the warrior quietly ride among his mounted archers, stop briefly to talk, point at something or nod then shake his head. The haskar's calmness transmitted itself to Bethel.
"My lord," he sent. He saw Sarssen's head immediately turn to spy him out. He saw Sarssen squint then sight him.
"Little brother," came the placid voice that warmed Bethel. "I see you, boy. Are you ready, Beth, for what comes?"
"I do not believe one is ever fully prepared for war or d
eath, big brother."
"No, that is so. You are afraid, Beth."
"Yes."
"Let it be a spur to ensure your survival, boy."
"Are you afraid, my lord?"
"Of course, Beth. I know some warriors are not, but I value life. Only a fool throws away the gift of existence."
"That comforts me."
"Beth, whatever happens today, you are my younger brother. I will be with you. May the gods guide you safely."
"And you, Sarssen."
Bethel sensed the surge of affection then knew Sarssen was gone. He felt choked. His eyes swivelled to the clearly defined formations. The milling was now orderly. He tensed. Battle came very close.
Bethel rehearsed what would come. The battle array would move slowly forward, shields presenting an unbroken line on both sides. He could see the north had deployed men, lengthening the line in what would be an attempt to outflank the southern army's shield wall, while on the southern side Lodestok had increased the number of ranks at specific strategic points. This was done so later he could attempt to break through the northern defence by sheer weight of numbers. Bethel understood the reasoning behind each move.
He knew the men in formations would close ranks to give a higher density to withstand the weight of a cavalry attack such as he'd be in. He knew, too, that he'd confront massed shields intended to withstand missile attacks coming from the archers and javeliners, not to mention the light spears that the warriors had been warned about. They were expertly used by the Elbans.
Though both north and south allowed time and space for their archers, spearmen and javeliners to clear a path, or preferably a swathe, among defenders, there was seldom long before the battle lines collided. When they did Bethel accepted fighting would begin in earnest, shields on shields, war cries rending the quiet air over the first casualties from missiles. He would be part of a determined mounted charge intended to break the enemy line and create confusion. The latter, he thought, would be easy.
