by Katy Winter
Bethel closed his eyes. He began breath control he'd been taught by Morjah. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate. Jane watched. He knew better than to speak. After only a few minutes, Bethel opened his eyes, to blink wearily up at the stocky figure affectionately regarding him.
"Gods, Jane," he whispered huskily. "How much more is there?" Jane's regard was steady.
"Can you see yet, Beth?" he simply asked quietly.
"Aye, lad," said Bethel, mimicking Jane in the thread of a voice. He saw he made Jane grin and briefly smiled himself.
"Aye, that's my lad," agreed Jane, stooping with his hand out. "On your feet, Beth. It's time for you to be at your stand and ready."
Bethel knew he weakened. He bled from numerous cuts, had lost a fair amount of blood since the beginning of the trial and being stunned knocked him hard. His wrists ground down his efforts at pain resistance. When he faced up to his next opponent it was with this in mind that he attacked. Lasca had the same idea. He copied Bethel and vice versa. They were evenly matched and neither gave ground in a slipping and slashing round that neither knew who won. Not at any stage did Bethel feel Lasca meant him harm.
No one warned Bethel that his final adversary would be Manas. Thus it was that when Bethel turned to salute his last opponent, he found himself looking across at his friend. Bethel stood motionless. He was already very pale, but he whitened and there was blankness in his eyes.
"Oh gods," he whispered, trying to read Manas' expression.
Manas saluted him back. His face was grimly set and there was no recognition in his eyes. The order to attack was barked and Manas launched himself at Bethel with a snarl, rushing Bethel back and slashing him very hard across his fighting arm. While Bethel stood stupidly, Manas head butted him, knocked him to the ground and cut him with his second knife across the left buttock. While Bethel lay unmoving, Manas drew a third knife. He held Bethel pinned to the ground by his right hand and shoulder, and then, quite deliberately and with a gleam in his eyes, he twice cut Bethel across his wrist mark.
The warlord, who had backed to a seat, was on his feet in a fury that saw him draw his lips back in a snarl. He strode up and down. His warriors sensibly backed to give him room. Lodestok stalked purposefully towards the contestants.
Bethel lay sobbing for breath and stared up into the glinting eyes, the pain from his wrist acting like a catalyst in an unexpected way. The cycles rolled back and Bethel saw himself as an undefended boy, spat on, humiliated, and fighting a flaxen-haired boy who'd drawn a knife on him. Rage and pain shook Bethel.
He threw off Manas and stumbled to his feet, his first knife purposefully held. He'd no exact recollection of what he did. He just knew he launched himself at Manas, at one stage grasping him round the throat as they wove backwards and forwards in a furious struggle. He remembered hauling Manas down by the hair and marking the young Churchik's throat with his fourth knife, while with his fifth he cut across Manas' fighting wrist in the same way Manas cut him. He sprang clear when Manas got to his feet, fury in his eyes as great as the anger that drove Bethel. The warlord was almost beside them. He now stood still, intent.
This ceased to be a warrior trial. It was a personal struggle for Bethel and the settling of an old score from boyhood. A stubborn refusal to be beaten again gripped him. It wouldn't let him yield. Both fell back and closed repeatedly to the point where they were both so exhausted they leaned on each other as they fought, grappling and tugging. The final cuts happened simultaneously, but neither youth stopped. They were unceremoniously hauled apart and backwards, both getting a hard backhander across the face as a reminder they instantly respond to an order. Manas mumbled something as he rubbed his cheek.
"You were given an order, warriors. Obey it!" Bethel stumbled. The rage that sustained him drained on the instant the hand hit him.
"I did not hear," he muttered, through lips that felt cracked.
"Well for you," was the uncompromising comment as Bethel felt himself turned and shoved; he took a few steps then stood still, completely disoriented and deeply confused.
~~~
Jane helped Bethel to the edge of the meadow where Mishak stood guard over weapons and Bethel's clothes. On Jane's order, Mishak knelt so Bethel's head and shoulders rested in the boy's lap. Bethel made no move other than to flinch as Jane tended to the most obvious of his injuries, a few deep gashes that would take a longer healing, but others superficial - there were many of these. Jane's main objective was to get Bethel back on his feet for the horse trials and displays, as well as the chariot race that he could see was being organised over by the warlord's pavilion.
Bethel closed his eyes and let himself slip away, barely aware he groaned when Jane tended to his wrists. When he let awareness return, he lay back with a sigh, too tired to converse, but allowed himself to be coaxed into clothes and watched as Mishak pulled on the long boots. Jane held a wineskin to Bethel's mouth. Bethel took it with a wan smile and drank thankfully, leaning back on one elbow, the lace edging to his shirt cuffs falling back to show strips Jane had bound over the brands. Bethel grimaced when Mishak began to lace the boots.
"Not too tight, that's a good boy," said Bethel, pulling himself upright.
Fully clad as a warrior, Bethel stood erect, his gaze on the gathering chariots and horses.
"Beth, your hair," reminded Jane gently. Bethel frowned down in obvious displeasure.
"Leave it, Jane."
"As a warrior riding his stallion, as well as being in his chariot, lad, your hair flows free. Grown men and warriors let their hair loose."
"None of them," grumbled Bethel, going painfully to his knees, "has grown a mane as long as mine."
"True," agreed Jane, his fingers at work unknotting and unplaiting the damp, dusty queue. "None can compete with you there, Beth!" The hair tumbled free and the curls sprang wildly about Bethel's chest and shoulders.
Bethel got to his feet, tiredness seeping through every part of him as he turned to look back across the meadow, his expression thoughtful.
"Let us hope to the gods I do not fall out of my chariot later," he said quietly. "They have half-broken colts there." When Jane grinned up at him, Bethel's face broke into a smile in response. "I am more than sore enough, Jane, without that!"
"Lad, you are a warrior, and warriors don't fall out of chariots."
In spite of his creeping exhaustion, Bethel laughed and his hand went out to grip Jane's shoulder affectionately. Then he settled his knife-belt comfortably and, in company with Jane, began to walk across the meadow to where he could see horses with riders being marshalled. Mishak followed at a respectful distance.
~~~
Set a distance back on a hill beyond the Churchik camp a trio of northerners, quietly vigilant, had carefully watched southern security sweeps for the last forty-eight hours, the riders, clearly warriors, alternating their routes and directions from one day to the next. The trio kept a respectful distance and were only in near view of the camp for one day and for a specific reason. Discretion was part of every man who made up Eli's network. Intelligence had told Eli that warrior aspirants among the Churchik would compete this day and there was considerable interest, among the northerners, as to whether one of their own would be among the contenders.
As they were some distance from the camp, so couldn't see specific elements of actual competition, they knew, from accurate reports, that the horse trials would be visible for brief, but significant, glimpses through the woods below them. They could see, in vague outline, obstacles set along a meandering course that wound, sometimes round very sharp corners, alongside a broad stream riders also had to ford further from view.
The northerners heard that riders had to perform solo on horseback, without saddles, doing intricate manoeuvres of equine obedience and rider control, across a specially prepared arena. This extremely intricate and delicate display of horsemanship was followed by a timed trial of jumping over specially constructed fences, one point six metres in height, these
disassembled and carried with the army. Getting over the fences required consummate riding skill, because each jump was deliberately placed to ensure horse and rider got the pace absolutely right for it. The turns were sharp. For this the horses carried saddles.
After gruelling trials of sheer endurance, that began early in the morning, the northerners would then see warriors race, against time, over a range of obstacles that was a test of both horse and rider. The finale, as far as the northerners could tell, would be a chariot race they wouldn't see. They could only marvel at what the contenders for warriorhood had to cope with, after a day of fasting and meditation, and then having their wrists branded immediately prior to competition. It engendered reluctant respect.
So now the northerners waited with anticipation, late in the day, because the time for the first of the riders to come into view drew close. The first rider they distantly heard, thundering hooves coming nearer, caused a rapid move to the crest of the hill where the men threw themselves down, up on elbows, all with field glasses at the ready and intently focused.
There was silence as they watched. They saw a few near misses, the young men hanging on with grim determination, their blonde hair, still short, loose and caked with dust. The men waited, not sure how many riders would pass. It was the eleventh rider who caught and held their attention. Even from where they were, the men could see a very tall figure, with an unruly, dust-coated mane of exceptionally long black hair flying out behind him, come at speed round a corner, the watchers catching their breath at the sight of him crouched forward on a magnificent chestnut. The stallion looked big and powerful with an unusually long mane and tail and he was at full gallop. The men watched the rider slow his mount and gather him in, before letting the horse surge forward into the jump and gallop again. There was no hesitation at that jump, nor the next, before the rider disappeared.
The men stayed to watch until no other riders appeared, then quietly melted away from the hilltop, riding back to their camp so a report could be made to the Marshal. The trio had thoughtful expressions. The young dark-haired rider was no Churchik. It indeed seemed the Strategos' younger brother was no ordinary survivor and was certainly a consummate horseman from what they could see. Eli would be intrigued by the stallion, the power of him clear as he jumped with ease, and the Marshal would be as stunned as everyone else that a non-Churchik may have achieved the unthinkable – warriorhood. And he had managed that, against all odds, among one of the most ruthless and martial people on Ambros. It was, truly, a remarkable feat never achieved before.
~~~
The chariot race was a grand finale intended more for the spectators than the participants. Two tracks were set up so a pair could race at once. Usually two horses were harnessed to a chariot, but today there was only one attached to a lighter chariot. None of the young warriors had been permitted to choose either chariot or horse - it was a test of handling skills and courage rather than an exercise in brute strength. Bethel had lived among the Churchik long enough to know that though they prized physical prowess above all else, the handling of horses came a close second.
Bethel wasn't one of the first called, so had time to lounge on the grass, lean back on his elbows and watch how the others handled themselves. Even though his wrists ached and throbbed, he felt somehow detached from the pain. There was a glow of satisfaction about the still figure that chewed meditatively on a grass stalk. Bethel knew he was still the warlord's possession and acknowledged he'd likely die as such, but he'd proved to himself, and to that same exacting warlord, that he could compete in this alien society and he could do so successfully. That gave Bethel a sense of deep pride.
He threw the rest of the grass stalk away and watched critically as two chariots bumped and swayed their way across very rough and uneven ground. Bethel had already guessed that the most treacherous piece of turf had been chosen. It was a weaving course, too, and so far no one had successfully negotiated it without at least one tumble or the chariot collapsing over sideways. It all caused much mirth among the onlookers, who cheered or jeered impartially.
Bethel felt slight queasiness when he realised how on display he would be again shortly. He recognised the warlord's huge form outlined against the pavilion and his heart pounded uncomfortably when he heard his name called and saw that form turn and look intently in his direction. He knew Lodestok was close at the solo equestrian display as Bethel made Brun go balletically through their routines without a mis-step, each transition fluid, graceful and faultless. He caught the warlord's approving smile and found he involuntarily responded to it. Lodestok was again very close as Bethel and Brun went over the jumps, theirs the third best round with only a small time penalty. Again, Bethel glanced to where he knew the warlord lounged on a post. He nodded at his slave as Bethel rode past.
Trying to quell a sudden and sickening fit of nerves, Bethel strode to where he was directed; a slave held a fretting horse that reared up between the shafts of the chariot, trying to kick the floor out of it. Immediately Bethel gently touched the horse, stroked it and murmured to it, his nerves calmed. The slave still held the animal as best he could, but the half-broken horse was much too strong for him as he strained and nearly got knocked sideways. Bethel swung himself up into the chariot and grasped the reins.
"Let him go!" he ordered sharply, as the horse plunged. The slave willingly obeyed the command, ducking from sight instantly. Bethel held the reins tightly, refused to let the colt control him and forced the animal to quieten. When the flag was raised, Bethel eased the tension and let the horse go, not too fast, but quickly enough to get rid of the horse's fretting impatience.
With the chariot bouncing about Bethel had considerable difficulty keeping himself steady on his feet. He was thrown from side to side, as the horse wound round spikes deliberately placed close together in a series of curves, Bethel too preoccupied with trying to guide and control his horse to notice what his opponent was doing. He closed his mind to the roar of sound around him as he struggled to concentrate.
He managed very well until nearly three-quarters the way through the race, when the chariot suddenly bounced off a singularly deep rut, Bethel was thrown forward over the front of the chariot and flung against the rear of the galloping horse. The colt panicked and began to bolt. Without thinking, Bethel abandoned the chariot, clung to the horse and clawed his way forward onto the animal's back. Once astride, he then spent his energy struggling to bring the terrified animal under control and, if he could, to a halt. He finally brought the careering horse and partly demolished chariot to a standstill.
The colt was in a lather and rolled its eyes when Bethel dismounted and went to its head. He stood beside the trembling animal, talking quietly and gently to it until it calmed and lipped him. Bethel knew his opponent streaked past moments before, but suddenly he simply didn't care because it no longer mattered who won, so, in his own time, and when he thought the horse was ready, Bethel kept the reins slack while he clambered into the remains of the chariot and finished the race very slowly. Across the finish line, he jumped from the chariot and went immediately to the horse, his hand to the animal's head.
"Well done, young one," he murmured into the colt's ear, his hand caressing the long nose.
"Well done indeed, young one," came a voice close to Bethel.
Bethel turned, pulled off his helm, shook his hair free then looked at who'd spoken to him. Surprised, he saw it was a haskar named Esok who stood quietly beside him. Esok rarely smiled and he didn't now, but he did put his hand on Bethel's shoulder and it wasn't an unkind gesture.
"You handled a raw, young horse with rare skill, boy," he said coolly, taking his hand away. Bethel blushed. "The colt is mine. That was well done, young warrior."
With that the haskar turned and walked away, but it left Bethel breathless because he realised, for the first time, that indeed he was now a warrior. The ceremony for full warriorhood was still to come, but Bethel knew that for him the cycles of training and beatings that we
nt with it, relentless and at times cruel, were over. He also knew, having watched full warriors drill and train, there would be more to come in full measure and whips would flail just as much as they ever did for the slightest mistake.
CHAPTER NINE
It was nearly three cycles since Luton was in company with anybody, his life at the Keep solitary. His world was a room where he learned everything he was set, because he knew it was his only chance of survival. Now, away from such rigid confinement, he walked easily. Distance didn't trouble him and he felt no discomfort on his scarred soles. Nor did he tire. After a time he thought he saw a horseman approach, so quickly adjusted the image in his mind more clearly so he could see who the rider was and whether he was alone. When the horseman came closer, Luton stopped and waited, until the rider dismounted and came over to him with a look of what Luton thought was welcome.
To Kher's astonishment, Luton placed his hands on the haskar's temples and Kher heard the youth speak for the first time. The voice was cool, deep and had a velvet quality. It badly jolted Kher.
"You must be Haskar Kher. Is that correct?"
Luton's dark eyes met the Churchik warrior's blue ones. He saw a spasm of uneasiness and distress cross the older man's features, because Kher was about to extend his hand out to Luton in a sign of friendship and recognition, but all the haskar saw were dark eyes that stared at him with Blach's coldness.
With a shiver, Kher replied in a neutral tone, "I am Kher. You must be Luton."
"Yes." The voice in Kher's mind was emotionless. "You think you know me, Kher. You don't. I've never met you."
"No," agreed Kher, a faint break in his voice. "I have made a mistake."
"I was born at the Keep and have never left there. I'm the sorcerer's mute slave. I belong to him."
"I see," said Kher, with an effort.
"We are to travel together?"
"Yes."
"Are you alone?"
"No, Luton, I have my men with me as I always do."
"Let's find them."
Luton began to walk again but when Kher touched his arm he whirled around, his eyes icy. He vehemently shook his head. Kher was shaken and stood back.
