by Katy Winter
Also, the flood of slaves unaccountably dried up, which meant the sorcerer couldn't dispose of those he had with such ease. Nor were the riches of plunder as abundant, because whole states retreated and took all they could with them. So Blach was left to wonder who advised these people and shook with rage over his present impotence. Blach knew he couldn't yet leave the Keep and that fuelled his anger. His slaughter of the Mishtok cycles before seriously weakened him, even though he'd thought he had more resilience. His lack of it chafed him. He knew his strength returned, but it was too slow - because of this, he needed a reliable and able apprentice to act outside the Keep on his behalf. But Blach was no fool, and he was perfectly well aware Luton would struggle to be ready for what was going to be demanded of him.
Blach knew, too, that powers were aware of a sorcerer in the south and wondered whether Yarilo had yet come to the point of suspecting a mage may be resident there. He assumed not, because he'd managed to manipulate the movement of the aethyr above the Keep for a long time now. However, he accepted that attention was being paid to where he was. He cursed when he thought of the one short interval when his control briefly faltered, just after Luton returned from Chika, and a Watcher saw through very clearly indeed. Blach closed the split immediately, but it gave him continuing moments of unease that perhaps Yarilo did know where he was. He'd camouflaged himself well as Blach and the chain of events he'd set in motion couldn't be altered. He thought, somewhat amused, that it mattered less by the day that Lilium and Yarilo might know of his whereabouts. All he needed was time and he was sure he had it. In three cycles, Luton would be ready. He was determined about that.
Still, over this season, his limitations drove Blach to insane obsession with revenge - then he ranted and turned on Luton, the very instrument he needed. He refused to accept his apprentice could fail. If, however, Luton did disappoint his master for some inexplicable reason, then Blach would have Luton's child, Bene's greatchild, growing up at the Keep. Blach smiled at the thought that no one on Ambros would expect a child to mature under his tutelage and as his slave-apprentice at the Keep. His plans unfolded satisfactorily, but, to his mind, far too slowly. Still, he reflected mirthlessly, he'd ensured chaos would destroy Ambros and he rejoiced he'd set this world on a course of annihilation. He gave a mocking chuckle when he thought of that, but then frustration would wrack him again and fury grip him. Again, he'd turn on Luton.
A season later, Blach's malice and persecution of Luton suddenly lessened. The persistent criticism stopped and constructive comments took their place. Luton no longer struggled to rush his learning, the cruel punishments eased, Blach's temper tantrums subsided and Luton breathed more easily, but the damage to Luton was done. He continued to get steadily thinner and his cheeks were hollow. Nor did he have stamina. His gaunt frame, skeletal now, stooped when he walked and his body trembled with fatigue. He looked as if a puff of wind would knock him down. Deliberately inflicted injuries seeped and ulcerated, Luton too debilitated to be able to heal.
This morning Blach entered Luton's room. Luton didn't hear him. He was bent over his desk, hunched in the familiar way, his fingers tracing a symbol on a piece of parchment. When Blach's hand touched his shoulder Luton whirled round, on his feet in an instant, then, when he saw who it was, he sank instantly to his knees, his head on the mat.
"So nervous?" scoffed the voice in his head.
"It was unexpected."
"Rise, slave." Luton got to his feet. "You're extremely thin."
"Master."
"Physical frailty won't matter to you in the end, slave, but it could be critical for you at this point. When you become learned the body's irrelevant, but you won't die just yet because I have use for you."
"Master."
Blach stared across at the wraith that now stood, subserviently, with bent head and he pursed his lips thoughtfully at how emaciated Luton really was. Skin was drawn tight across the skeletal frame.
"I've driven you very hard," he said in a reflective tone. Luton stayed silent. "Look at me." Luton felt no dread when he lifted his head. Blach observed, with approval, that the eyes were submissive. He also belatedly remembered Luton was always unfailingly obedient. He frowned. "You'll spend some of each day exercising the stallions. They need exercise and fresh air, as much as you do." Luton blinked. This consideration was unexpected.
"Master," he murmured, before coughing. Blach's pensive stare didn't falter.
"You've not been outside for some time. Go now. Come back when you're ready. Your work will await you."
~~~
The next seasons were bearable for Luton. He roamed outside the Keep, for hours on end, astride one or other of the horses. Blach noticed the youth rode bareback, something not even his guards could do. Luton's rapport with the stallions was unusual and when he rode, he and the horse seemed as one. Luton could also teach the stallions in a way not seen before either. They tolerated the guards, but they worked willingly for Luton. Even though Luton rode for many miles in each direction, he never came to an end of the black rock or the barren landscape. He didn't care, because he knew an odd sense of freedom merely being on horseback outside the Keep.
He soaked up the warmth, his cough disappeared, he had more colour in his cheeks and he ceased to stoop, walking tall with more of a spring in his step. His eyes were clear. The scarring from Blach's nastier physical punishments slowly healed, where before they seeped and wept as festering sores. However, he stayed painfully thin, as transparent as he was after the fever. The relief from constant pain did as much for him as anything and he returned to his work refreshed and ready to learn. But the season of appalling abuse left its mark.
He was conscious of the huge black slave's scrutiny when the huge man brought him food, the man crouched with his back to the door. He watched Luton take platters that were placed on the table beside him, and, if the youth became engrossed in his work and forgot to eat, the black slave would give a suggestive flick of his whip. It recalled Luton to the necessity of eating, but it also evoked an irritated frown to which the slave was impervious. Pic remained impassively crouched until all the food was consumed. Luton's shattered confidence improved and the pace of his learning increased. Blach, watching him, was satisfied.
~~~
Another season came and went. Blach awaited Jonqi with anticipation. When she didn't appear, Blach sent a message to Kher that sent the haskar at speed to find news. What Kher heard from Loki badly shook him and he made haste back to the desert in the hope he'd find the little girl had arrived at the Keep in his absence. The message he sent to Blach left the mage in unspeakable fury.
Luton was out riding when he received a summons, of such ferocity, he pulled on the stallion's mouth suddenly and sharply. He was nearly thrown. He knew if he was he'd be trampled by a raging animal. Desperately, he both calmed his reeling mind and the horse, before he set off back to the Keep at speed. He ran from the stables up to his master's rooms - when peremptorily told to enter he did, panting with exertion.
One look at Blach's face was enough for Luton - he went to his knees with his head bent.
"Master." Blach's expression was malevolent.
"Your daughter hasn't come." Luton raised his head.
"She will."
"Tell me when, slave." Luton looked up at his master, his eyes wide.
"She must do so. It's your bidding and will."
"Mine certainly, but not it seems, her mother's." Luton saw the curling fingers.
"Master, she conceived -."
"No one disputes that, fool," mocked Blach, cutting Luton short. "As you said, a daughter was born and she belongs to me, as much as you do."
"Where is she then?"
"A good question, slave - can you answer it?" The cold voice was derisory and Luton flinched at the ridicule.
"No."
"Then don't waste my time asking questions that lack answers," came the contemptuous voice in his mind. "The mother escaped an escort taking her to her u
ncle's. It was there she was to meet Kher, to give the child to him. She made for the eastern mountains. Now, I wonder -?" The thought hung in Luton's mind. "What's the girl's name?"
"Soji."
"You'll do a seeking, slave. Now. Ready yourself."
Luton sat cross-legged, with his head in his hands. He projected an image of Soji and sought to the east, his mind sweeping in all possible directions, until he found the very faintest trace. He received no mental image of her at all. When he opened his eyes and stared up into the empty, baleful ones of his master, he stammered.
"Nothing, Master, nothing. Only a very old trace at the base of the mountains, but that was some time since. There is no suggestion of her going beyond that into the mountains themselves."
"With luck she died in the alps, or preferably the Churchik caught up with her and despatched her. Either way she's probably dead. But the child -." Blach's thin lips drew back in a snarl.
When Blach kicked him before he strode from the room, Luton remained where he was with his head bowed. Alone, he quietly rose and removed himself to his room where he sat, his mind struggling to come to terms with what Soji had done. He tried desperately to block out the screams that began to rise and fall in the tower above him, the awful, agonised sounds from mutes the mage made sensible and responsive.
Though Luton felt no specific emotions, the incessant shrill cries, that went on for hour after hour, set his teeth on edge. He tried to return to work but that distraction didn't help, so he finally ran for the stables, to curl up next to the horse he'd been riding. Here, the jarring babel was muffled, although Luton knew that, sooner or later, he'd be the recipient of his master's fury. Unaware that he trembled, he cuddled closer to the horse. It lipped him affectionately.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bethel stared over at the cluster of small unsels, one of which he now occupied for the foreseeable future. He sighed, thinking back to how he felt when he realised three would live together at extremely close quarters, the unsel unbearably cramped at times.
"Are all these unsels ours?" he'd asked Jane, days before, as he stared over a sea of small unsels all set close together. Jane shook his head and pointed to a small unsel towards the outer circle. "Mine?"
"Ours, Beth," was Jane's expressionless reply.
"Ours?"
When Bethel first stooped to enter the unsel he cracked his head and winced. Jane had merely chuckled and commented, "You must remember to duck when you come and go."
Bethel recalled how Jane merely shrugged when he saw Bethel barely stand upright and immediately notice three mattresses, almost one on top of the other. He thought Jane had managed, under the circumstances, to make the unsel usable, if cramped.
"Gods, Jane," he'd commented, with a rueful smile mirrored by Jane's amused one.
~~~
Today, Jane grinned at the younger man, pulled him down onto the nearest mattress and hunted for tankards. Bethel sat cross-legged, his face deeply thoughtful as he waited for Jane to hand him a drink.
"Who belongs to what mattress today?" he asked, gratefully taking a swig and wiping his mouth appreciatively. Jane's grin faded.
"Whoever is on it, I suppose." He glanced at Bethel. "The other warriors make their slave boys sleep outside."
"No," said Bethel quickly. "Tell Mishak he must stop doing that. He lives as we do."
"That's what I thought, lad," said Jane quietly, sipping his brew and his eyes now resting on the figure opposite. "The boy's willing to be out there, but I told him you'd want him under shelter. I'll make sure he comes in."
"I am as much a slave as he is," murmured Bethel, almost to himself. Then he looked up. "Jane, where are my weapons?" Jane pointed to an orderly pile down beside the third mattress.
"All there, lad, as you'd wish. Where's your estibe?"
"The warlord has it. It must stay in his pavilion." Jane nodded comprehension.
"Will you sleep here, Beth?"
"My routine will not alter that much, Jane," answered Bethel tiredly. "If there is ever a break for rest during the day, I shall come here."
"I've watched them out there, Beth. You've trained on and off over the last cycles, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"It's gruelling, lad. You'll need all your wits about you."
"That is what I meant when I said I am glad you are here with me, Jane." Bethel's voice was very quiet and equally weary, Jane thought. "I have had a few sessions with Bensar so far, but the warlord told me this morning that I begin full warrior training from tomorrow. That will be an effort, Jane."
~~~
Bethel began his life as the least ranked among warriors. He saddled and mounted his warhorse and rode out to the field, where Bensar waited to mercilessly drill his men, the young troop already falling into a formation. Bethel waited quietly on the periphery, his horse fidgeting and sidling. Bensar looked over at him, frowned and snapped out a sharp order.
"Join the back line, warrior. Watch, follow and learn."
With dry mouth and stomach jumping uneasily, Bethel kneed the horse forward, fell into line and tried to follow the complicated manoeuvres as best he could. He wasn't completely inexperienced, so managed without too much difficulty. It was tension he fought. He and Brun had to learn military obedience for cavalry movements required for battle, so they had to come to grips with figures, in a group, the formations changing at bewildering speed, walks then trots, controlled canters, then short sharp gallops, the horse's extension and elevation of legs precise. Every move was methodical. If one horse's legs didn't follow the required patterns, the whole troop looked ragged and the offending rider felt a whip. Bethel learned that the object was to show that horse and rider were in effortless partnership, harmony, balanced, responsive, and, above all, disciplined.
One exercise followed another without a break and with precision. They were on horseback, then off, Bensar's drilling remorseless as he put them through exercises that extended the horses or sorely tested the men. Individuals were hauled out and each drilled in turn, wary eyes on the haskar's whip that cracked with monotonous regularity. Bethel had thought Lodestok was harsh - he now learned Bensar was no less so, nor were any other haskars he'd confront as a warrior.
When a brief halt for food was called, Bethel pulled up his horse and sat sweating, aware he trembled. A voice behind him made him tense again.
"Straighten in the saddle, warrior. A halt is no excuse to slouch. Copy the others. Be in the near mess in ten minutes."
Bethel arrived at the mess within eight minutes, not very sure that he wanted to eat. Other warriors jostled and shoved, nor was it all good-natured. Among the young warriors it was obvious there was exhaustion and general lethargy. Bethel was used to standing back in deference to the warlord, to anyone in fact, so he did here, letting other warriors in ahead of him. A hand on his shoulder made him sharply turn. He saw Haskar Esok beside him, then felt himself firmly propelled forward in the line. He glanced at Esok with a shy and grateful smile.
"I thank you, my lord," he mumbled.
"Get food, warrior, then join us at the far bench."
Esok left him and went back to his seat, his lazy gaze on Bethel as the youngster helped himself and turned, his hands full with plate and tankard, his taster unobtrusively trailing him. Bethel wove his way carefully through the crowd and stood quietly, with bent head, at the bench Esok indicated. He waited to be acknowledged.
"Join us, warrior," came the bass voice.
Bethel sat and applied himself to his food. He made no attempt to initiate conversation, considering the less conspicuous he was the better, not that he could fade with his dark head among so many blonds. The bench held a range of warriors, from those at the bottom like Bethel, to the elite haskars. Bethel was over-awed by being near any of them. Nor did he recognise many of the men he'd now live with and knew he should learn quickly who they all were and to whom, after the warlord, they owed allegiance. His survival could depend on his knowledge. Ignorance
in this society of nuances and undercurrents was a sure recipe for death. Bethel felt vulnerable and uncertain. He finished his food in silence.
"You are the warlord's boy, are you not?"
Bethel lifted his head and turned to the warrior next to him. Silence fell on the bench and though Bethel didn't see it, Esok's eyes stayed riveted to the young face.
"Yes," Bethel answered. "I am."
"State your name and your age."
When Bethel looked directly into the face of the warrior addressing him, he could tell he spoke to one senior to himself. He immediately lowered his head in junior warrior submission.
"I answer to Bethel, my lord, and I am not quite seventeen cycles." The warrior nodded and resumed his eating.
"I answer to Acedar Almin. Are you with Haskar Bensar's troop for good, or are you just visiting?" This broke the tension a little and provoked a laugh. Bethel looked confused.
"I am not sure, my lord. My master did not tell me anything other than that I would train with the troop."
"So you are no different from the rest of the troop?" Almin looked curiously at Bethel, who was aware of rising tension again. He felt sweat moisten his upper lip and shook his head, his eyes alert.
"No, my lord."
There was a ripple along the bench of anticipation. Bethel caught it and tensed warily.
"Well, then," said Almin, in an amused tone. "We shall formally make him one of ours, shall we?"
There was a chorus of assent. Bethel was held by strong hands, until still others dragged him to the ground. He hadn't expected this so soon. Even though he was caught off guard, he fought as best he could, but there were too many warriors to drag him, struggling, from the mess. Esok shrugged as he watched the boy unwillingly hauled outside and given the traditional admission to a troop.
