by Katy Winter
As usual, he woke early from the short nap he was permitted to enjoy these days and promptly clad himself in the clothes the black slave brought into his chamber. Since he'd worn gowns and loose pants for cycles, he found the sensation of close-fitting breeches and boots uncomfortable. Once dressed, he was pushed by the slave to a table where food was spread out. Obligingly he ate. He was conscious his next test for his master was to be beyond the Keep.
The door of his chamber opened and Blach stood in the entrance, coldly surveying his apprentice. Luton flung himself to his knees in obeisance, his head bent as he'd learned to do as a very young slave.
"I see you're dressed," came the emotionless voice in his head.
"Yes, Master."
"You'll remember what you've been instructed to do, won't you?"
"Yes."
"You'll ride Harth and you'll travel with Haskar Kher. He'll meet you. You'll mate and return to me. Is that clearly understood, slave?"
"I understand."
"Don't fail me, Luton. Remember I know how to make mutes like you scream for me."
"I won't fail you, Master." Luton's voice was devoid of emotion. Once he'd have sweated.
"You may even find life outside amusing," came the chuckle in his mind. Luton made no response. "You will soon return to me. Go, slave!"
Blach watched the tall youth walk past him, no trace of cowering in the straight shoulders and the young mouth set. Blach's lips curled with satisfaction.
~~~
Luton stood outside the gates of the Keep, looked disinterestedly around him, strode forward and raised his hands in the air as instructed by his master, the silence around him eerie to all but himself. Luton had known nothing but silence, and had lived in isolation for so long any contact with others would be a trial. Blach watched, from his tower, for the huge dragon to answer the boy's bidding and then he waited until he saw Luton sink into a pouch before both disappeared. Blach turned back to his experiment.
Luton sat in the pouch, his eyes taking in the landscape they flew over without really absorbing any of it. When Harth mindspoke him, he lifted his head.
"Do you remember me, boy?"
"No," came the cool reply in the dragon's mind. Harth's eyes swirled thoughtfully and he briefly swivelled his head to glance backwards.
"I brought you to the Keep."
"I'm a slave. I remember nothing other than being a slave at the Keep."
"Where are you going?"
"To mate."
"With whom?"
"I'll know." When he felt the full dragon presence in his mind, Luton gave a jerk and went limp. "What do you seek?" he sent.
"Your memory, boy."
"I have none."
"We all have memory, boy. Have a quick look at a fractional part of mine, Luton."
Incuriously, Luton found himself swept through a maze of memories. They whirled about him. It was a maelstrom of sensory impressions that were now so alien to him and completely unfamiliar, he couldn't comprehend what he experienced. His mind patterns broke until he felt the presence steady him and then withdraw.
"So where," persisted Harth, "is your memory, boy?" Luton gave the equivalent of a mental shrug.
"My mind's clearly open to you, Harth. Can you find any memory?"
Harth gently entered the young mind again. This time he let his awareness filter down into Luton's deepest awareness where he saw the sorcerer's block, but even deeper Harth saw the faint, barely discernible, continuous disturbance that clung tenaciously to the underside of the block. This disturbance couldn't supersede a mage's block - it didn't have either the strength or will.
A dragon's mind was overwhelmingly powerful and it would be a foolhardy mage who claimed to fully comprehend the strength and complexity of it. Harth knew, beyond doubt, that everything Luton was, and could be again, agitated gently beneath the mage block. He resurfaced thoughtfully to the present, knowing that the being that was Luton wasn't wholly destroyed, yet.
"No, boy," he agreed. "You've no memory other than of life at the Keep. Are you listening to me now?"
"I'm listening."
"You'll call for me, Luton, but you must do so by calling with one word you must never forget."
"Tell me the word."
"No one must know, not even your master."
"He'll know. He reads my mind and uses me as he sees fit. I'm his slave. I owe obedience to him."
"Let me enter your mind deeply again, boy. Open to me."
Harth plunged into the depths beyond where the mage set the block and even beyond where the twin sentience restlessly rippled. He left a name, then, as he withdrew, he erased all knowledge of his conversation with Luton. He made no effort to communicate with the youth again.
Luton didn't feel the distance Harth flew was far; the dragon wheeled and dived in no time at all. As Luton slithered from the pouch, then jumped to the ground, he unconsciously put out a hand to touch the dragon in a caress, and, as he met the dragon's eyes without flinching, he felt an odd unexpected oneness that was a new sensation for him. Harth's eyes absorbed him momentarily, then the dragon eyes blinked and closed. Luton stepped aside and began to walk away. Harth opened eyes that settled on the youth walking into the distance and he made no attempt to rise until Luton disappeared. As Luton moved away, any vestige of memory concerning Harth faded.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ensore brought his mind back to the present and to the letter he'd just started to write. It was with some difficulty that he did, because it was bitterly cold the further north they went and he was lounged in a chair, with one knee raised, on which he leaned his board. It was dark except for lantern light. Even the hot wine he drank barely made any impact on the chill that hung in the air and breathed down his neck.
He glanced up every so often, his eyes coming to rest on a youth sprawled on a pallet, on his stomach, chin in cupped hands. It was a typical Daxel pose. Under lantern light, the boy studiously laboured through work Ongwin had set him, though Ensore heard the sigh that came once in a while. He went back to his letter, writing,
~~~
"Sarehl, we're now out of the forest and, tomorrow, begin our march towards Sython, in Cartok, as you suggest. Our efforts to assemble coherent units at last bear fruit. The ethnic groups we established a few seasons ago now hold together well.
There seems to be better understanding of what I'm trying to do, people responding surprisingly well, though we confront bitterness and hatred of southerners with each group who comes. It's only natural folk wish to attack now to exact revenge, but the message of unity and patience gains universal acceptance. There's a realisation that the whole's more important than the individual.
Your idea of setting up groups to do specific tasks within the camps was acted on immediately. The response surprised me. I thought non-fighting men and women would resent being asked to carry out such functions, but there's been no resistance at all. Again, my friend, you're proved right.
By doing this, and allotting specific areas of responsibility, our moves are more fluid and considerably less stressful - we now have groups who assemble and disassemble camps very fast, and the preparation and serving of food can't be bettered. Not only that, Sarehl, these people are so appreciated! It shows in their faces - nothing we ask of them is too much or too difficult.
Eli's intelligence network is fully functioning. It's thrown up some surprises. He's established more senior men who go out as rangers and then report; he says he finds this works well. We know who the warlord sympathisers are - that would discomfit you, my friend. It can show how wrong you can be in your assessment of people. I've found it a disturbing eye-opener. Ongwin reacts very negatively to these people in a way quite unlike him and wants them executed as soon as there's conclusive proof of betrayal. I confess I agree with him. Eli, however, feels he can use these sympathisers and promises me his men have their eye on each and everyone, execution to follow if any do or say anything prejudicial to us. Eli feeds these people ju
st enough information that he wants the warlord to get - he plays a war of nerves that leaves me shivering. He'd make a bitter enemy, Sarehl, so I hope those tempted to play a double-game don't underestimate him! I certainly don't.
It remains bitterly cold, with little daylight in which to move an army forward. Progress is slow. The camp's changed now we have children with us. There aren't many left homeless, because orphans are willingly and quickly adopted and though home's a tent, rations and a harsh existence, at least most children have an adult to whom they can relate. I remember what you and Kalor said about little Brue.
I must admit, I was dubious about absorbing children, but it's served to bring people together in a way I couldn't have anticipated. Cross-fostering works very well. We have a lad, about six cycles, who's orphaned from Mahdia. He was brought north by Mellillans and now thrives as the child of a Norshami man and woman who lost their children to the warlord."
Ensore paused and glanced again at Daxel. The boy didn't move, so Ensore turned back to his letter. Before writing again he poured himself some more mulled wine from a steaming jug.
"I gather from your last letter, that Brue turns into an active handful. It sounds as if the lad's confidence reasserts itself quite rapidly, so that should please you. The time comes, though, my friend, when you'll be forced to confront that boy's future.
Dase is here with me, wrestling with questions set him by Ongwin and making heavy weather of them by the look on his face. Dase's still growing, Sarehl, so won't be much shorter than you."
Ensore was distracted by a long sigh as Daxel rolled onto his back, hands behind his head. The Marshal grinned and went back to his letter.
"Dase finishes the tests for Dahkilan Metes. Ongwin has high hopes of him. If Dase passes it means he'll be free to join a courier squad."
A longer, deeper sigh from the prone figure brought up Ensore's head. He put his pen to one side and stretched down to his goblet.
"Is it too difficult for you, Dase?" he asked, a laugh in his voice.
"No," murmured Daxel, turning his head. "I can't concentrate."
"Why's that?" Ensore studied the long, resting figure, thinking as he did how tragic it was the boy's twin wasn't sprawled out beside him. "Are you dreaming, lad?" The dark, curly head was shaken and Ensore noticed the black eyes seemed to look far away. He waited quietly. After a long pause, Daxel spoke.
"I'm wondering about Bethel and Lute."
"Aye, lad," answered Ensore softly. "As do we all."
"As a slave, Bethel will feel the cold. He won't have warm clothing as I do, will he?"
"No, that's so. If he's growing to anything like your height and's as thin as you are, he won't be able to keep out the cold."
"I worry about him."
"Yes, Dase, I know you do."
"Lute's a savaged slave, too, isn't he?" Intense and sad eyes were upturned to Ensore who felt it was time the boy was told the truth. He put his letter to one side.
"Why do you ask that?" Daxel rolled onto his side and leaned on an elbow, his expression sober and thoughtful.
"I sense that he's more than slave to someone, Ens. Won't you tell me?"
"Yes, lad, I will," responded Ensore calmly. "Your twin was taken as a slave at Ortok and placed in a caravan sent south to Churchik lands. Kaleb sensed him, as he told you, but he couldn't reach Lute, because the boy's so badly hurt. You know he's harmed, lad, because you've picked up the surges of the boy's terror and pain, off and on for cycles. Gods alone know what was done to Lute, Dase. We can only guess what life must be for a slave and it seems your brother has suffered more than most. We can hope someone like Kaleb can reach out and help him." Daxel sat cross-legged, his face white. He looked haggard. His eyes met Ensore's.
"Why wasn't I told more about him?" he asked, in a breaking voice.
Ensore gestured to him and the boy rose in an instant response, crossing to the Marshal's chair and, sinking down beside it, took the proffered hand and gripped it. Ensore's other hand rested gently on his head.
"Lad, you had your own grief and pain to cope with, without being confronted with the anguish of your brother. You knew Lute was a slave and on a caravan. That was enough. You had the anxiety associated with Sarehl, too. We felt you needed time to come to terms with that first, Dase, and the feelings from Lute. A mind can only comprehend and learn to accept so much at a time. We know how devastated you are without Lute and simply wanted to help. Do you sense him still?"
"No," whispered Daxel. "There's now nothing. I feel as if he's been totally removed from me."
"Nothing can do that to you. Whatever's happened to Lute, he's still your twin with whom you're unbreakably bound. You don't sense or know he's died, do you?"
"No," came the forlorn answer. "Lute isn't dead in a physical sense, but he is in every other way. It's frightening, Ensore, because I have an emptiness inside that'll never go away or be filled. Whoever's done this to Lute, has also taken from me."
"I understand that, lad."
Ensore stared down at the dark head and knew that, again, Daxel silently cried, the pain of separation overwhelming at times. He stretched forward and down and pulled the youth in close to him, his arms encircling the thin figure. He was aware Daxel hadn't mentioned his brother for nearly a season and wondered why he should do so now. He waited until he knew the boy calmed, before he asked gently,
"What've you sensed just lately, lad, that's brought all this to mind so sharply?" Daxel coughed.
"I had a surge of panic, two days ago, Ensore, when I had the urge to scream and howl as I knew Lute tried to do. I know he's mute and can't utter a sound, not even of pain. No one's told me - I just know. Then I seemed to turn inside out in agonising twinges that touched me everywhere. When it passed, I was left with the same blankness that hasn't gone away. I sensed such fury from someone."
"I see," mused Ensore reflectively, his gray eyes sombre. "And there's been nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Dase, you may not remember something that happened a few seasons ago. Let me tell you about it, because it's since then you've had this sense of nothingness about Lute. Settle back and I'll explain. You were about fifteen cycles if I remember, maybe a little more, but I don't think so." Daxel leaned back against his mentor. It gave him comfort knowing Ensore was there. "You were lounging on a pallet in the campaign tent, as I recall, doing work Ongwin set you -."
Ensore reached the end of his description of what happened to Daxel, stopped speaking and looked down at Daxel who stared up at him.
"Do you remember any of this, Dase?" Clear dark eyes searched his, some confusion in their depths. "The healer kept you sedated for quite a while, lad, weeks as I recall, and I believe he may have deliberately put some sort of block in your mind so it can't happen again."
"I think I've a hazy memory, Ensore, but it's only vague sensations." Daxel frowned, then shrugged. "No," he said finally.
"I'm glad," said Ensore gently. "I wouldn't want you to, lad." He paused, then went on, "Sarehl's right, Dase, you must have hope. You must believe you and Lute will be together again." Daxel just stayed still.
"Yes," he whispered. He added tentatively, "Do you believe that, Ensore?"
"Yes, I have hope. It's often all we have to cling to, so it's important you have faith and believe that good will come from bad." Ensore ruffled Daxel's curls in an affectionate caress before he leaned forward to pick up his goblet. He held it in front of Daxel. "Drink it, lad. It's only warm now, but it'll help take the chill from your insides." He watched the boy drink deeply. "Would you like to hear what I'm writing to Sarehl?" Daxel coughed and nodded.
"Aye."
"Well then," murmured the Marshal, stretching down to the ground for his board and sheaf of papers. "I'll read some of it out to you, but not the boring military bits. That's mostly questions for your brother, as usual." Ensore waited until Daxel had curled himself up comfortably next to him. Again, Ensore gently touched the young head. "I've mentione
d you've grown again, but not as fast." Daxel looked up with a half-smile and nodded. "I've also said you sit Metes." Ensore gently prodded Daxel with a booted foot and got a most rueful and sheepish grin in response. When Ensore reached the section that said Ongwin had high hopes of Daxel, the boy groaned. Ensore grinned at that and read quietly on until he was suddenly interrupted.
"Ens!" broke in Daxel, swinging himself round to face Ensore, cheeks flushed and his black eyes positively glowing.
"Dase!" teased Ensore.
"Ens!" implored Daxel. "Do you mean that about the squad, or are you hoaxing me?" Ensore held down the sheet so Daxel could read it.
"Well, what does it say?" Daxel's face broke into a delighted smile.
"Ens, I'll pass Metes. I've longed to be in a squad!"
"Yes, lad," replied Ensore, a hand resting on Daxel's shoulder. "But you've been much too young until now. Had you not had so much work to do, Dase, you'd have been placed in a squad half a season ago. I did promise Sarehl, you see, that you'd finish lost schooling. But now, youngster, a courier squad awaits you."
Gently, he removed the sheet from the long fingers and put it alongside him. He felt Daxel lean back into him and held the boy in his arms for a long time, until the lantern light flickered fitfully and darkness took its place. Daxel was now sixteen cycles.
~~~
Ensore's army continued the march north, the bulk of his men now well ahead of the southern army who still skirted the forest. Ensore only allowed small organised groups to linger behind to harass and damage Lodestok's army, and they were carefully rotated so no one group was over-exposed to danger.
By the time the warlord was northwest of the forest, he was well aware how coordinated the attacks were and had information there was the beginning of a combined force to oppose him. He certainly recognised an intelligence behind the current manoeuvres, quickly discovering that his army was consistently hit where most damage could be done. Crucial supplies went at an alarming rate.
