by Katy Winter
"I lost the right to life the day I was born a slave, Kher. Slaves have no rights."
Disturbed, the haskar watched the young head fall to the arms and he knew Luton had no further wish to converse. With a faint sigh, Kher went back to his book. Only minutes later, Luton rose noiselessly, and, with unusual agitation in his eyes, padded off for a long walk. When he went on a long trek he'd see the question in Kher's eyes when he returned, but he never answered it.
It was still only spring so winds were chilly and mornings and nights were cold. Luton was wrapped in a cloak, his head covered by the hood, but the thin body shook until temperatures rose during the day.
"Would an extra skin help?" asked Kher one morning. Luton looked across at him, his face very pale and his teeth slightly clenched.
"I'm not aware of being cold," he said disinterestedly.
"But your body is," commented Kher acidly. "Look at you, boy. Do you wish to become ill?" Luton shrugged, then a deep shiver shook him.
"The Keep's hot," he said coldly.
"Well, here, boy, it is not."
Kher raised a hand for a halt and the four warriors drew their mounts to a stop. Luton obeyed the unspoken command instantly. Kher dismounted, thrust his reins at Lus who'd ridden forward to assist, then delved deeply into a large bundle strapped to his stallion, drawing out a good-sized fur. He strode across to where Luton sat silently shivering, and held up the skin. Dark eyes looked into pale blue. Kher nodded sharply and Luton took the skin and wrapped it tightly round him.
"Thank you," Luton said very quietly. Kher nodded again, mounted his horse and gave a signal for the move forward.
~~~
It was late spring, the weather steadily warming when the travellers came in sight of Ortok, now, apart from being a small garrisoned outpost, essentially abandoned and without slaves who'd been sent north to the army. There'd been no attempt to bring land into cultivation, Kher noticed, as they made a leisurely approach, the area outside the breached walls of the city neglected and a wilderness. Beyond the city, he could see the outline of what seemed a huge, spreading forest that stretched far past sight.
Kher was very interested in Luton's birthplace. He even hoped he might find some clues as to Luton's identity. He looked at the city thoughtfully as they rode towards it from the southeast. Luton's expression was neutral. They rode through what were once the main gates of Ortok and down a very long, broad avenue of ancient and gnarled trees only now coming into leaf. Over the cycles, some effort had been made to clear debris, but the further into the city the travellers rode, the more clearly Kher could see it was very thoroughly sacked. He considered it was beyond repair.
He saw that houses were once multi-storied, terraced and decorated with verandahs and fine metal lacework. They'd had ornate windows and screens, the haskar realising this had once been a very pretty city. Torn shutters banged in the wind as they passed and the gaping holes and isolated doorways were testament to the violence and fire that gutted Ortok.
Civic buildings had once been impressive, thought Kher, as he guided his horse round some masonry recently fallen from above. He remembered what Alleghy told him and kept his eyes peeled for the centres of learning. When they passed them, he saw that, though the buildings were intact, the massive doors were all nailed shut. They passed through markets and city squares, not seeing a soul. The city was dead. It was haunted, with a feeling of desolation. It made Kher shiver, where no other sacked city affected him this way. To their right, he could see a huge common that was overgrown and, beyond that, canals that had obviously ceased to function. He looked at Luton and sighed. This was where the boy had been born and bred. It seemed anti-climactic somehow.
They stopped in a central square and sat their horses contemplatively, waiting to see if it was inhabited. There were unmistakable signs of activity here that had led to a whole row of buildings being made habitable. The sound of their horses alerted the garrison. A young warrior appeared almost immediately from across the cobbled street. He looked up at Kher and immediately bent his head.
"My lord," he murmured respectfully.
"Are there no slaves here?"
"No, my lord. The Commander sent them all north as requested."
"I see." Kher stroked his beard. "Take the horses, then take us to your commander."
He dismounted on the words, his men and Luton following his example; then they all stood patiently waiting, Kher idly tapping his whip on his thigh.
Kher finally followed the young warrior into what was once a capacious and graceful room. It was battered, but liveable. At a large table warriors ate in company with one, Kher judged, was a northman, who sat at the head. The haskar eyed the commander coolly. He observed a thickset man, not tall in the usual Ortokian way, with eyes cold and calculating and a mouth that was, Kher reflected, as pitiless as the warlord's. The beard was ginger flecked with grey. The hair, hanging loose under the leather headband, was also very ginger. The steely eyes met Kher's.
"Yes?" the man asked, in uncompromising tones.
"I am Haskar Kher. Those of your rank are wont to stand for me." The commander stared at Kher, then rose and bent his head.
"We received your message, but I didn't realise you would be here so soon, my lord. I apologise if I've given offence."
"Though our stay is short, I expect quarters for my men." The stocky man bowed.
"It'll be done, my lord." Kher saw the hand gesture to a junior warrior who slipped from the table and left the room.
"And you are?" Kher stripped off his gauntlets and flung his cloak across a chair as he spoke.
"I answer to Lban, my lord," was the cool response. "And your men are?"
The warriors had all thrown their hoods back, but Luton hadn't. He stood behind the others. Kher carelessly introduced his men, then casually indicated Luton.
"Step forward, boy," he invited, watching as the young man obeyed, a hand up to an unusual yawn. Luton threw back his hood and his eyes stared passionlessly down at Lban. "This is Blach's apprentice," went on Kher conversationally, his eyes on Luton in a query to see if there was any recognition.
He saw Emil jerk his head in Lban's direction, turned to look at the city commander, saw the flinch back and wondered at it, his curiosity piqued. He saw a flicker of real fear touch the commander's eyes and discomfiture when he saw the shade hover protectively close to Luton. That, thought Kher, was most interesting; the shade had never come that close to Luton before. Did it anticipate a threat?
"Do you recognise our apprentice, Lban?" he asked calmly, gesturing that his men sit. Luton did too. Lban was obviously deeply shaken.
"He looks very like someone I knew once, yes."
"You are Ortokian, are you not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Born and bred here?"
"Yes."
"So you would have known many of the citizenry, would you not?"
"Yes," came the reluctant reply.
"Good," said Kher, with emphasis. "You will be able to tell me much about the city. Who does the apprentice resemble so closely that you got a shock?"
When Lban snapped his fingers, the remaining warriors rose with bowed heads and left the room. Lban offered refreshments before he answered.
"He's the image of a young man called Sarehl, my lord, son of Alfar."
"And who is Alfar?"
"He was a scholar at the Antiquities Centre, my lord, who died when his eldest son Sarehl was a boy."
"And did he have other sons?"
"Yes, my lord."
"This young man is a Samar from Ortok, Lban, but you know that, do you not?" Kher watched the commander's restless tongue pass over his lips again.
"Who is he? Is he Dase?"
"No, he is not Dase. Why do you ask?"
"He'd be the right age. How old is he?" Kher glanced at Luton.
"How old are you, boy?" Bored, Luton shrugged. "He is around nineteen or twenty cycles. Who is Dase?"
"Dase was a younger b
rother of Sarehl's. I never knew what happened to him." All eyes were fixed on Lban who couldn't keep his eyes from Luton's face. Luton wasn't conscious of anything and drank absently from his tankard. He ignored Lban completely.
"No," said Kher deliberately. "This one's name is not Dase - he answers to Luton." The effect of this on Lban was immediate and all Kher could have wanted. In that moment, he knew he'd have Luton's history before the night was through. Lban was white to the lips.
"It can't be," he said jerkily. "He can't be. He's dead." There was profound silence at that, only broken by Kher suggesting icily that it would be best if they dined.
The travellers were shown their quarters and once there, Luton threw himself on one of the beds, to look up into the haskar's smiling face.
"Your birthplace, boy." Luton nodded. "Do you remember?" Again came the eloquent shrug. "Lban now, boy. He knows you. Do you recognise him?"
"No," said Luton very quietly.
"Do you wish to know why he is so afraid of you?"
"Many people are," was the offhand response. "I'm hungry, Kher."
~~~
Only two warriors were present when they ate and they were there merely to serve at table. The meal passed pleasantly enough, with the usual exchange of information about how the war progressed, Lban able to give the warriors more information than they'd gleaned at Norsham. In turn he asked about the situation down south. It was all inconsequential and polite, but Kher knew it hid deep anxiety in the commander. He intended to strip the shroud from about Luton very soon. Luton scarcely noticed Lban and made no effort to speak with him.
After they finished eating, Kher said firmly but gently, "You men, and you, too, Luton, take your tankards to the other side of the room. The commander and I have things to discuss."
As there were comfortable lounging chairs where Kher pointed, the men were happy to comply. When Luton looked across at Kher, he got a dismissive nod and followed the others, before Kher turned back to Lban, his eyes penetrating and icily menacing.
"Lban, you know about that young man. You will speak of him, but first let me tell you how I come to accompany him. The boy was on a slave caravan. He was mute." Kher saw Lban move uneasily. "Blach found him. That is another story. I went to fetch the boy from the Dahkilan mountains for his new master. You will well know the sorcerer deals only in mutes. I took the boy south to the sorcerer and now accompany the apprentice north to join the southern army." He paused and his eyes scanned the younger man. "Now, you will tell me all about Luton, will you not?"
Lban, the quintessential bully, hadn't quailed for cycles, but as he looked now at the third most powerful warrior of the warlord's army, he knew fear, well aware the haskar wouldn't hesitate to gut him like a fish, but only after he'd extracted every ounce of wanted information. He managed a creditable shrug.
"What do you want to know, my lord?"
"Who is Dase?"
"Lute's twin brother. They were identical." Kher made a soft sound in his throat.
"So he has a twin and an older brother, has he?"
"If they're alive," corrected Lban coldly.
"And you know the reason why they might not be, do you not, Commander?"
"Perhaps, my lord."
"I have plenty of time, Lban. I notice you refer to Luton as Lute. Why?"
"That's what he answered to."
"Then tell me what you know. Clearly you knew the children of Alfar. The family interests me."
Shrugging, Lban spoke uninterrupted, but when he paused he was questioned rigorously and repeatedly. There was no interest in Lban's voice. He spoke automatically. After a long pause, Kher eyed the commander thoughtfully.
"Now," he said, even more gently, "what had you to do with any of Luton's family that day, especially that boy?"
He had the satisfaction of seeing Lban's lip tighten. Kher dragged the truth from a most unwilling speaker. It came out piece by piece, the haskar's eyes implacably hardening as he listened. Another longer pause followed, while Lban filled their tankards with a hand that wasn't entirely steady, pushing Kher's to him across the table and grasping his own.
"Tell me, Lban, exactly and in detail, what was done to the boy."
The haskar listened, with pursed lips, to Lban's explicit description of the atrocities Luton was forced to witness. He made the commander be exact in detail, and, as he listened, in his mind's eye he saw a struggling, helpless boy with black, imploring eyes scream in utter terror and distressed anguish. He drank hastily from the tankard.
"And then?" he prompted Lban. Lban eyed the haskar speculatively.
"I recall the boy tried to die in the fire, but I wouldn't let him." His gaze at Kher intensified. "I knew he could talk and tell us where his sister was. The warlord wanted her very badly. The warriors roughed him up." Lban paused again. Kher thought that description was an understatement. "I remember a warrior took the boy back to your camp to make him speak. He wasn't a mute."
"No," concurred the haskar. "Luton was presumably found to genuinely be unable to speak. I imagine that was not a pleasant experience either." Lban shrugged. "He was repeatedly raped by warriors for their entertainment."
"The sufferings of war, Haskar," replied Lban indifferently. "That doesn't concern me."
"Perhaps," demurred Kher. "And then?"
"I had him picked out and assigned to a slave caravan. Presumably he was branded and taken south. He wasn't meant to survive. I selected the harshest barkashad I could find."
"These were your instructions from the warlord, Commander?"
"The boy was to die, yes, my lord. I gather few boys reached the slave market unless they were very pretty."
"Was Luton not an attractive child?"
"Yes, my lord, but he wasn't intended to survive any more than the rest of his family, pretty or otherwise. Only the sister was to live. How exactly did you find him? Was he still on the caravan?"
Kher studied Lban and didn't like what he saw. There was no compassion in the man. He didn't bother to answer the questions.
"And his elder brother, Commander? How were you involved?" Lban raised an eyebrow and that made the haskar smile patiently. "Do not tell me you were not, Commander. I am not a fool." Lban's smile was grim, but it didn't touch his eyes.
"I organised the attack on Sarehl. He was to die."
"Why do you say that?"
"I had orders from the warlord that Sarehl was to die. I saw him later, when he was badly wounded and dying. I told the warriors to take him out to the camp perimeter and leave him, so I imagine his death came, sooner or later. I never bothered to check for a corpse." Kher drew in his breath and didn't speak for a moment.
"And the boy's twin?"
"Like Lute, he should've died too. There was less importance attached to them. I sought the twin but never found him. Escaped perhaps - I don't know. I guess he's most likely dead as well as Sarehl."
"And the sister the warlord wanted?" persisted Kher, now thoroughly intrigued and sure Luton was of some significance, though he'd no idea why. He felt he grasped at elusive straws. "What of her?"
"Her name was Myme Chlo." Lban seemed to try to recall something, paused and then continued. "She never came back out of the forest - it was very strange."
"Tell me about it."
Again Kher listened, asking questions or demanding explanations. His interest and confusion grew. When Lban fell quiet, Kher leaned back in his chair considering him. He didn't speak for a long time.
"Were there any other brothers or sisters?" Lban nodded.
"Another younger brother. The warlord probably took him at one stage, because he was exceptionally pretty. His name was Bethel. After he was of use to the warlord, if he even made it to him, he was also to die. I guess he did. There were half-brothers." Kher drank deeply.
"Then," he murmured silkily, "we can assume that particular pretty brother is enslaved somewhere, in a southern boy harem, or more likely dead."
"Aye," agreed Lban, raising his t
ankard. "We can that, my lord."
"So," murmured Kher again, glancing across to Luton. "He is Luton, twin second son of Alfar and Melas."
"Aye," repeated Lban, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"And we have you to thank, have we not, for our easy conquest of Ortok?" Lban's eyes glinted.
"Yes, Haskar, I opened the gates for the warlord."
"I see," mused Kher. "So, all the members of this one family, other than the girl, were to be executed and not to be given easy deaths. And this is what you were told to do?"
"Aye," agreed Lban. "Those were my orders."
"And the treatment meted out to Luton? And to the other brothers? Was the entire line to die?"
"I assume so. I did what was asked of me, my lord. It's war after all."
"But Ortok was not just part of a war, Commander. There was something else going on concerning this city. What you tell me is that one family was singled out over and above others, and I notice this city is utterly destroyed, in a way that suggests to me Ortok was selected for this attack for a specific reason." Lban shrugged.
"Maybe," he responded. "The warlord didn't tell me anything else."
"No." Kher paused contemplatively. "But you wanted them to suffer, did you not? You seem to have enjoyed your orders and have few feelings about what you did." Lban casually shrugged again and drank.
Kher's gaze descended on Lban again, but only for a moment. He transferred his stare to Luton who lounged back in a chair, his eyes remote, and a tankard held casually to the moulded lips. The young man would doubtless be unaffected by his history had he heard it. Kher accepted war was brutal and that the innocent were casualties, with atrocities committed by both warring factions.
That hadn't happened in Ortok. The city was betrayed and the citizens, undefended, slaughtered at will. He considered what was done to Luton and his family went beyond the normal atrocities associated with the sack of a city. These acts were barbarous, unpardonably vile and ferociously savage, as if the recipients were abominations. That they were meant to suffer was quite apparent. Kher was repelled and sickened by the scenes Lban so casually described, much of it abhorrent, even to the Churchik who were a fierce and cruel race. He wondered why one family was singled out for such pitiless destruction. It made him think very hard.
He continued to watch Luton. That the boy hadn't lost his mind was extraordinary. Now that Kher knew his background he wasn't surprised the boy became mute, the shock to him devastating and compounded by being torn from his other half, an identical twin. Kher thought Luton was an ironic tragedy. The boy's becoming mute, and trying to retain his sanity in a world become a horrific nightmare, actually led him irrevocably into the hands of the sorcerer who took mutes.
