by Katy Winter
Then, barely conscious, he felt the powerful mind mentally fling him away with utter disdain, flicked aside like an insect, just as, at that instant, he sensed his twin engulf him, join fully with him, then submerge somewhere, Daxel taken with him. Luton completely faded from Daxel's mind. Daxel could no longer feel his twin. It was utterly alien and terrifying. It was as if someone amputated a vital part of what made Daxel sentient. That was too much. Daxel threw back his head and screamed.
"Lute!"
A healer hurried to his side and went down beside him. He lifted the limp head, saw the rolled back eyes, felt shudders rip through the thin frame and tried to force open clenched teeth.
"Help me," he said sharply.
Ongwin and Ensore had tried to hold Daxel as he flung himself about. Now they gripped him, Eli across to help. They immobilised the boy long enough for the healer to force the teeth apart and pour liquid steadily down a constricted throat. Daxel coughed, spluttered and choked. An inhaler up a nostril made his head rear back when the healer pushed the plunger hard and fast. It was repeated in the other nostril with the same effect.
Daxel very slowly uncurled, the wild eyes closed and the mouth opened. He moaned softly, gave a gasping sigh, then, without awareness, cried. Ensore just cradled him, talked gently and quietly, until Daxel simply fell back into the older man's arms and drifted into an uneasy doze. Eli and Ongwin, profoundly shaken, got to their feet and stood looking down. Others were shocked to silence. No one moved. The healer stayed kneeling by Daxel, a phial in one hand at the ready, the other holding the youngster's pulse. He watched Eli shepherd the men outside, Ongwin with them, before he turned to speak to Ensore.
"He'll quieten. I've given him a very heavy dose that'll last quite a while and keep him drowsy. I'd prefer, with your permission, to keep him sedated and I've placed a heavy block on his mind as well. All I can say, Marshal, is I suspect he was linked with his twin in some devastating mindmeld. It's nearly killed him."
~~~
Daxel couldn't see his elder brother, because the Strategos moved steadily northwards from the Cartokian kingdom to the Duchy of Sushi and further north again, while Daxel, with the northern army, was about to move towards Cartok with Ensore.
When Ensore saw Sarehl on his way, cycles before, the Chamah-Elect found he became so busy with trying to establish a military organisation, his time for anything else was gone. Ensore's correspondence to Sarehl mostly covered what he'd attempted to do from the time he left the Strategos in the forest. In early days, attempts to form an army under one control were frustrating and, finally, abortive. Group individuality was impossible to overcome. In the end, Ensore and Eli, ably seconded by Ongwin and the Chamah's surviving younger elite guard, organised all the Dakhilan men along the lines Sarehl suggested, so integrated units were formed with excellent communications. It took Ensore time to do this, because Dakhilans were spread throughout the huge forest and some were almost impossible to contact.
Once unified, however, the Dakhilans moved through the forest northwards with astonishing speed. It was noticed they consistently hurt the enemy flanks as they swept out in well organised raids as Sarehl suggested. Not only that, they garnered essential provisions as well. It made other groups in the forest thoughtful. They were the ones reluctant to consider a unified force; they straggled along behind. They lost men in small disorganised forays that the southerners dismissed with contempt.
These groups watched as Ensore's men harried Lodestok's flanks, mostly without casualties. Then, as they outpaced the southern army, these same Dakhilans manoeuvred themselves into superior positions while they waited for Lodestok's army to advance. The Dahkilan always had the element of surprise, their attacks catching the southerners unprepared every time.
After a season, group resistance in the forest dissolved. Leaders approached Ensore. He quietly accepted each band or group as it came and absorbed them into a growing army that emphasised discipline and unity. This army trained as rigorously as Lodestok's and, in time, would have the potential to be an equally formidable force. It was supported by men and women who had a reason to ensure this army succeeded, not one of those part of the northern army untouched by the actions of the warlord.
Only two seasons later, after stragglers were absorbed from throughout the forest, Ensore was automatically accepted as head of the combined army and known to all simply as Marshal. No one thought any more about it. He began setting up an intelligence network, following the advice Sarehl sent him on doing this. It proved its worth almost immediately.
Only Dakhilan were permitted in intelligence because they were fanatically devoted to Ensore. It wasn't deliberately thought out this way. It just happened. These men were the reason Lodestok's army suffered as much as it did. Not only were Ensore's men advised in advance and readied, but they knew who to aim for, size of opposition, who to disable and what supplies they could purloin. Eli ran the intelligence unit. It suited his mercurial temperament and he soon built a thorough network that consistently damaged and angered the warlord. Lodestok hadn't expected the bands in the forest to organise and certainly had no idea Eli's men carried out surveillance, day after day.
Ensore's army swallowed up all the refugees eventually, so by the time the army reached Lenten, it was several tens of thousands in number and covered every ethnic group from central and southern Ambros, other than Churchik and steppe people. The army was also considerably ahead of the warlord. Lodestok's army still skirted the huge Blenharm forest, and was still harassed, too, by groups that swept down repeatedly on southern army flanks. They moved as quickly as they could.
The Alders of Lenten listened to Sarehl and the other foresters about what awaited them. They didn't linger. They withdrew precipitately from the city, in as organised a fashion as they could, long before Ensore and his army arrived, so the Marshal found only a skeleton garrison left waiting to assist him, while all other citizens had withdrawn to camps set up some miles north. The Lentens were more than happy to be absorbed into the swelling army. The Alders offered whatever assistance they could. Their relief and pleasure at the sight of Ensore's approaching army was pathetic.
While the army rested and reprovisioned in and around Lenten, Ensore put Sarehl's plan for couriers into practice. While he left Ongwin and Eli to arrange the absorption of the small Lenten militia into the army, he organised youths into squads of mounted messengers.
It wouldn't be too long before Daxel, now quickly growing up, would be attached to one of the squads that careered about the forest and beyond, as the army stretched out and began its northward move. Ensore knew these young couriers would, in time, prove vital in getting information from one troop to another, especially during combat. It was a rapid and efficient form of communication. Before then, there was none.
Ensore's letters constantly asked for advice. They were also instrumental in letting Sarehl know how much of his programme had been followed, and what remained to be implemented to make the army fully integrated and operational. By the time Lodestok's army swept on Lenten, they found little other than the physical structure of the town left intact. In fury, the warlord ordered it fired. The fields offered no sustenance for the southern army, because all that could be harvested was taken by Ensore's army, his train laden with huge bags of grain.
There was game in the adjacent eastern forest, but nowhere near enough to sustain Lodestok's huge army. The forest was only small and much of it was immediately cut down by the southerners who needed wood for warmth and cooking. Fish from the rivers was plentiful, but again there was only enough for the elite warriors; no one else enjoyed such fare. There were no slaves to be had and no spoils of war for the men.
It was two cycles since Ensore and Sarehl went their separate ways, that saw the Marshal finally leave Blenharm forest and the northern army begin the long haul north towards the Cartokian kingdom.
CHAPTER THREE
The Churchik youths aspiring to warriorhood were in front of Bensar, and
while they were rigidly still in the saddle, noise and movement from everywhere around them was loud. A very long obstacle course was set up by sweating slaves, a horse jumping and display area cleared by chivvied, tired slaves and areas for archery and other trial sites organised. In a day, competition for warriorhood would begin.
Bensar stared at each young man in turn. They could have been statues. His voice was like ice.
"You will assemble just after dawn. Before then be sure you are ready to compete. You will have no time to do this later, so be warned. Your weapons should be in order and your horse immaculately prepared. See that your slaves ensure it. You do not socialise until after the trials. Do you understand?"
Heads nodded. Bethel thought very few of those around him would be remotely interested in socialising with him. Some, he knew, hated what he represented and deeply resented his presence among them. To them he was merely a lowly slave from an inferior race who shouldn't be there and he was acutely conscious of personal hostility and enmity from those few.
Curtly dismissed, the youths rode from the training field. Bethel, already tired from a hectic day going from Sarssen to Gariok, not to mention being with his troop, knew he had little time before he was due to go to his master and sighed as he handed his stallion to his young slave, Mishak. He walked thoughtfully and slowly to his small pavilion, smiled at Jane absently as the older man left to organise weapons, and threw himself on the bed, eyes closing. He snoozed restlessly, tossed, then heard movement at the pavilion entrance and looked across to see Sarssen, wineskin in hand.
"Are you worn out, boy?"
"Yes, my lord," responded Bethel, immediately on his feet and trying to suppress a yawn. Sarssen came forward to look searchingly at the young face through fading light.
"You look exhausted, Bethel. Was it because of me, the troop, or Gariok?"
"Everyone, my lord," shrugged Bethel, crossing the pavilion to hunt for goblets.
"I have goblets ready in my pavilion," invited Sarssen. "I thought you may enjoy a quiet, relaxed drink before you go to your master. There is no rush. The warlord is in discussion with senior haskars, so I doubt he will be ready for you yet awhile."
Bethel looked up and across at the warrior and nodded tiredly, but also with a relieved grin as he followed Sarssen to his pavilion. He made no effort to speak. Sarssen held out the wineskin that Bethel used to fill goblets in readiness on the table, while the warrior crossed to a chair, sprawled his length in it and watched the younger man. Bethel took full goblets, handed one to Sarssen and sank onto the edge of the warrior's bed with an even deeper yawn.
"You feel ready for what comes, Bethel?"
"Mostly," responded Bethel in a flat voice.
"You will find tomorrow very hard."
"I know, my lord. You have prepared me. So has the warlord – thoroughly."
"At dawn, boy, come here to my pavilion. I will have something to sustain you through what comes."
"I thank you," murmured Bethel, taking a long drink.
"Have you checked your weapons and has Jane got them for safe-keeping?" Bethel nodded. "And who watches Brun?"
"Mishak, my lord. He is with Brun in his stall now."
"You refer to the boy slave?" Bethel nodded again. "Well and good, boy. I shall also keep a close watch on things."
"My lord," murmured Bethel gratefully.
"Drink, Beth, and relax back on the bed. If you drift off I will make sure you are with the warlord in good time."
~~~
Bethel woke before dawn as was his habit. He slipped like a wraith from the warlord's pavilion, the huge figure of Lodestok still sprawled out, deeply asleep. Bethel envied him. Pulling on only breeches and a shirt he went quickly to the warrior's pavilion where he found Sarssen, fully dressed, lying back on the bed rested against cushions, long fingers curled round a mug of hot mulled wine. Bethel thought, wistfully, that he looked comfortable and at ease. Sarssen's head turned when he heard movement at the entrance.
"You are allowed to eat and drink before early sun, Bethel, so -." Sarssen indicated a tray on a table at the far side of the pavilion. "Light the lanterns first so you can see more clearly. You are mostly in shadow." Automatically Bethel obeyed. Sarssen waited for the lanterns to brighten, then looked over at the still figure. "There is food there, boy, high in energy. I asked Banic to organise it. Eat your fill."
He watched Bethel take the tray, sink to the large piled rug in the centre of the pavilion, place the tray beside him and begin hungrily to eat.
"Would you like some of this, my lord?" Seeing Bethel about to rise, the warrior waved him back.
"No, boy, thank you. I shall eat again later. There is a jug of mulled wine to your left, with a mug for it. Help yourself."
Sarssen said and did nothing, even when Bethel, ever the slave, paused in his eating to rise and cross to the bed, with the jug of wine, to see if the warrior's mug was empty. Finally, replete, Bethel rose, padded across to a chair and stretched out, the mug at his mouth. The warrior was pleased to see that Bethel, after a long struggle against subservience, would now reluctantly occupy a chair, but only in Sarssen's pavilion where he knew it was expected and wouldn't bring instant retribution. Bethel drank slowly. The silence in the pavilion was restful.
It was only with Sarssen rising that Bethel knew time passed and he gave an infinitesimal sigh as he, too, rose. Sarssen shuttered the lanterns and as he did, Bethel turned to the pavilion entrance, to see light began to streak the sky. It meant the warrior trial would now begin.
Sarssen accompanied Bethel to the assembly area where each young man was attended by a male relative. Bethel noticed it was the warrior who acted for him and felt real gratitude at the gesture. Like others, he was clad only in breeches and shirt, was barefoot, and stripped of all jewellery. He was walked quickly forward, to be abruptly halted at the edge of a newly and deeply dug hole at the fringe of the training field. Pushed firmly down into it by Sarssen who then stood silently beside it, watching, Bethel tried to get himself comfortable in a pit that only allowed him to crouch or kneel. At a pinch, Bethel would be able to curl himself up into a small, tight knot. He wasn't allowed to stand. The more solidly built Churchik would find it hard to move. The solitude, intended to centre the mind and spirit of the warrior, and the fast that went with it, began.
Bethel found his very long limbs unbearably cramped and felt deeply chilled pressed against hard, cold, damp earth. He began to ache. He was used to not having food, as he often ate at erratic hours depending on the warlord's whim other than at early sun, but the cramps were singularly painful, and, as the hours passed, he started to mildly hallucinate.
When he was pulled out at mid-eve, many hours later, he could scarcely move. He literally crawled into the pool of lantern light by the side of the pit, where he tried to marshal his wits and straighten shaking limbs. He'd no idea who pulled him out until he heard himself addressed.
"Get to your feet, petal."
Instinctively, Bethel staggered uncertainly, blinking, and brushed a hand across his eyes to see through the dark to where he thought the warlord was.
"My lord," he whispered.
"Follow!" came the curt instruction.
Bethel stumbled after the swinging lantern light and into the brightly lit pavilion where Lodestok immediately sank onto the bed and gestured Bethel close. He was pulled down to rest among the cushions, a strong arm holding him firmly so his head rested against the warlord's shoulder. He sensed Lodestok stretch across him, then felt a hand at his mouth.
"Open your mouth, flower." Bethel felt food against his lips. Lodestok very slowly fed him, piece by piece, then held a goblet to trembling lips. "Drink, boy."
Bethel did, each time the goblet was tilted. Once empty it was refilled and he drank again. He began to feel creeping warmth, his snarling gut quietened and tiredness came inexorably over him. He knew he was pushed further down onto the cushions by a surprisingly gentle hand that protectively caressed him,
nor did Bethel see the expression on the usually grimly, impassive face that looked down into his exhausted, drowsy one. Lodestok's arms about him firmed. Finally, Bethel let himself go, as sleep claimed him.
~~~
As Bethel began the trials to be a warrior, a very tall, dark youth stood with his back to the door, his intense gaze bent on the silent courtyard below. He wasn't conscious of anything in particular. Time had passed since Luton was wrenched from his boyhood in Ortok, and when the youth turned from the window he was noticeably different from the cringing, terrified boy who arrived at the Keep. His colouring was unchanged and his frame was still too frail to support his height, but he was no longer emaciated and his hair was longer because it was last cut by Kher.
It was the face that was changed. Where there was fear and pain there was cold indifference, the eyes remote and penetrating. Where Daxel had the softly carved features of his elder brother and Bethel had the moulded face, Luton's was finely chiselled with a delicacy that came from the ravages of fever. There was nothing ill-favoured about Luton. At first glance, he was merely lean, graceful and darkly handsome, but there was no boyishness in the face and there was something forbidding about the sculpted countenance. The eyes, blanketed for so long, were clear and steady but they were like flint, as black and emotionless as the stone Lachir was made of.
He walked to his desk and his hands ran over the volumes he knew by heart. Few punishments were meted out to the youth in these early days, because Luton devoured knowledge with a voracious appetite. Though he knew he was at the lowest level of apprenticeship and might well be executed before he learned all he would wish, still Luton passed every test his master set.
