by Katy Winter
Kher saw Luton stare across at him and raised his tankard absently, seeing something akin to surprise in the dark eyes when the young man responded in like fashion. When he turned his head, the haskar saw Lban furtively studied the apprentice, but more especially the shade that hovered very close at the back of Luton's chair.
Kher wondered how much the loss of his twin affected Luton. Though twins were rare in the south, Kher's reading had taught him separated identical twins didn't easily survive, so the compassion Kher had felt for Luton from the early days deepened as he sat and observed the young man now. He felt pity and an even profounder grief for what his people had done to someone like Luton and his family. Suddenly the haskar no longer wanted to stay in Ortok. He spoke quietly to Lban.
"You have told me all I wish to know, Commander." Lban nodded.
"True, Haskar, but you have told me nothing."
"No, I have not," responded Kher.
He rose and strode across to join his men, aware, though, of the eyes that followed him. The expression on the commander's face was unpleasant. That evening when they retired, Kher spoke quietly to Han.
"You take first watch and organise the others." Han looked surprised but nodded, his eyes going back down the stairs they'd just climbed. Kher saw Luton look at him, a question in the big eyes. "You, boy," Kher said gently, "do not leave this room until we all rise. That is an order." Luton nodded.
"I wouldn't let him harm you, Kher," came the deep velvety voice. "He'd only reach you through me." Kher stood studying the tall figure for a long moment.
"I believe you," he said finally, pushing open a door.
~~~
In the morning, Kher took Luton on a ride about the wrecked city, the haskar thinking, again, what a very pretty city it must've been with its long avenues of mature trees, quite unlike the cities of the south that tended to be grand but more austere. He could see a boy growing up here, laughing, and young and as heedless as children were. There would've been freedom in a lovely natural environment that was most appealing.
He kept his eye on Luton while they rode, wondering if anything would trigger a response. As they progressed slowly from street to street, Kher could see a touch of curiosity in the dark eyes, Luton accepting what Kher told him of his birth here. No reaction showed in the young man, until they reached a narrower cobbled street.
Luton suddenly drew his horse to a halt, his eyes riveted to the burned out shell of a house. Kher stopped, too, his gaze at the young man intense. Luton sat very still for long minutes, then dismounted and ran round the back of the house. The grounds were overgrown but Kher arrived to see Luton on his knees, hands frantically pulling apart the very long undergrowth, and, when he crossed to Luton's side, he saw the young man's shaking hand trace the outline of what looked to the haskar like some sort of childish wooden maze. He watched, helpless to assist, as Luton put his head in his hands and crouched soundless for a very long time, before he turned, white-cheeked, and returned to the street. He mounted his horse and sat motionless again.
When Luton lifted his head and his eyes met Kher's, the warrior was startled to see black eyes alive with indescribable pain and anguish that seemed to come from the young man's very essence. Kher could do nothing, though his heart went out to Luton. The emotion passed as fast as it came. Luton quietly edged his horse forward.
"You lived here, boy, did you not?" Kher asked gently, when he caught up with Luton.
"I have no recollection," responded Luton, an odd uncertainty in his voice.
Kher felt unable to say more, but he didn't miss the lingering backward look Luton gave when they reached the corner and turned into a broader, leafier avenue. It was the first time the haskar saw feeling in Luton for long cycles. He didn't know whether to rejoice, or to be sad, because it deeply hurt the boy. His master would not have expected this reaction at all.
~~~
That evening Kher decided they'd move on the morrow and announced same to the commander. He thought he saw a flicker of relief in Lban's eyes but said nothing further. When they were eating, Luton, unusually for him, spoke out. Kher noticed how the commander flinched whenever Luton had anything to say.
"This is a place of shadows, Kher. When do we leave it?"
"What makes you say that, boy?" asked Emil, upending a bone and gnawing on it. Luton characteristically shrugged. "Does the city bother you?"
"No," came the monosyllabic reply.
"Do you remember anything of your birthplace, Lute?" asked Lban, too casually Kher thought.
"No."
"But you wish to leave?"
"As soon as possible." Luton looked across to Kher. "This city -." He broke off, carefully seeking words. "You speak of feeling an emotion called grief, Kher. If I've understood you, then I think that's what this city represents."
"Yes, boy," concurred the haskar, with a wry smile. "You have understood me very well. It is so."
"We'll miss your company," said Lban politely.
"No, you won't, Lban," said Luton, his cold dispassionate gaze settling on the commander. Luton had never spoken Lban's name, nor directly to him, and Kher saw it brought a shiver to the stocky man. "I don't know who you are, but you know me, don't you?"
"Aye."
"And not from the Keep?"
"No." Luton turned to face the commander directly. His voice was chilling and it made Kher and his men react by glancing involuntarily at each other.
"You and I'll meet again, Commander. There's a reckoning of one to the other. I know that, though not why. Look for me, because I'll be looking for you."
Luton turned back to his plate, head bent, so he didn't see how white Lban went, or how his hands shook when he picked up a tankard. Lban struggled to keep alive a conversation that dramatically died.
"That can't be, Lute. You're going north. I'm here." Luton lifted his head and his eyes were bleak.
"So will you go north," he said with finality. Lban began to shake his head, then stopped, his expression blank at the next words. "All those of the south who fight with the warlord will join up with his forces in the north. All men, Commander, and that includes you. And it will be very soon."
Luton speared Lban with words spoken softly and deliberately. Kher saw the master in the apprentice and gave a deep shiver. The shade was very close to Luton tonight, too, he thought, glancing down at it. Hollow eyes looked back up at him, so Kher hastily looked away. Lban stared at a young man he'd so grievously wronged.
"Are you a sorcerer now, Lute?"
"Why do you call me Lute?"
"That was the name you answered to once. Are you a sorcerer?" Luton's eyes bored through the commander.
"I'm Blach's apprentice. I obey him absolutely because he's my master."
"Aye and he's a sorcerer. What exactly are you?"
"One becomes the other," murmured Luton almost to himself. "You'll know soon enough. You shouldn't be in a hurry to learn the answer, Commander."
Kher decided all he'd learned about Luton and his entire family was something he'd not openly discuss with anyone, and that included the warlord.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The only disturbance in Bethel's suddenly more tranquil life came with the presence of Alleghy, one of the last haskars to come north at the warlord's behest. Like the other young warriors, Bethel watched the elite arrive, day after day, his eyes wide with fascination. These men represented power and authority. They made Bethel feel awed and decidedly nervous, especially when he noticed Sarssen's deference in their presence. He felt his own insignificance all the more.
With the assembling of the elite, the warrior troops were broken up and formations altered and reorganised. Bethel gave an audible sigh of relief when he learned he was to be under new command, but this was immediately tempered when he was curtly told to report to Haskar Alleghy. To be under his authority could, Bethel mused, be worse than being under Bensar.
Bethel looked hard at the haskar while Alleghy lounged at his ease wit
h other haskars in the warlord's pavilion. The haskar didn't notice the very tall, slight youth, a slave who crept forward at the flick of the fingers to refill goblets, but Bethel was aware of him.
Alleghy was as large as any Churchik warrior and equally forbidding. What Bethel most noticed about him was the joylessness of his expression and the sullen turn of the thin-lipped, cruel mouth. The eyes weren't as cold as the warlord's. They were jaundiced and calculating and roved from one elite warrior to another. That he was a man of vile temper and caprice was obvious, that he was a singularly dangerous man to cross, Bethel was sure. Being under a volatile and unpredictable authority gave Bethel some nervous qualms.
He also lost Luth's company and that bothered Bethel more than he expected. Luth made disgusted comments when he realised he was to stay with Bensar's troop and was so disgruntled and complained so loudly, Bethel had to laugh. He wondered how the haskar, now in charge of part of his troop, would react to him.
The snow came and set in. It made life increasingly unpleasant. Despite that, Bensar and other haskars still drilled the youngest warriors without mercy and they struggled to turn out every morning if the snow didn't make it impossible. Not to do so was foolhardy. Often the snow turned to slippery mush, or, as happened this particular morning, Bethel found it piled up overnight, putting pressure on the warlord's pavilion. It even snowed so heavily small piles of whiteness entered the pavilion itself. Bethel stood at the entrance staring out at the pristine, bleached landscape. It was beautiful but bitingly cold. He wondered how Jane fared, as he tried to make some headway through the drift in front of him.
It was apparent there'd be no manoeuvres this morning, so each elite warrior awaited his men impatiently so they could be ordered to help marshal and supervise slaves to shift very high snowdrifts that threatened the entire camp. Bethel finally reached Alleghy's pavilion, entered at the curt command and stood rigid in the way he was taught, hands clasped behind him and head bowed. He waited. The wait became almost unbearable, but he didn't dare lift his head.
"You!" said a deep, harsh voice. Bethel lifted his head.
"My lord?" he answered, with just the correct touch of deference. He noticed Alleghy wore a heavy scowl and the pale eyes scanned his figure in a hostile manner.
"Who in the name of the gods are you?"
"I am known as Warrior Beth, my lord."
"You are not a Churchik."
"No, my lord."
"Where are you from?"
"Further south, my lord." Bethel got the distinct impression he'd erred in some way and Alleghy could do him a mischief. Instinctively, he straightened himself.
"Who made a foreigner a warrior?"
"The warlord, my lord."
Alleghy drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, his eyes riveted to Bethel's face, some of the tension easing from him when he saw respect and a degree of apprehension in the purple eyes when they momentarily met his.
"Are you, too, a slave?"
Bethel was surprised by the question and even more by the deliberate stress on the word `too'. He couldn't think what prompted the enquiry, but answered quietly.
"Yes, my lord, I am a slave."
"To whom?"
"The warlord, my lord." Alleghy pursed his lips.
"You look very like a young man I should dearly like to meet again and kill, young warrior. He is from Ortok, I believe, and is the southern sorcerer's apprentice. Are you from the Samar States?"
Bethel didn't dare move a muscle. Everything in him screamed at him to deny his place of origin, even as he heard his obedient response of, "Yes, my lord."
"Are all you northmen so tall and dark then?"
"Some of us are, yes, my lord," came through extremely dry lips. Bethel licked them as of habit. Alleghy looked at him thoughtfully.
"Still, you are very like this Luton I speak of, certainly in colouring, but your eyes are not black. You have a quite different look about you now I study you." He paused, then added slowly. "So you are the warlord's boy, are you?" White with shock, Bethel scarcely dared to breathe.
"Yes, my lord," he said, taking a deep breath.
"How long have you been with him, warrior?"
"Eight cycles, my lord."
"How old were you when you became his slave, boy?"
"Not quite eleven cycles, my lord." Alleghy's eyebrows shot up.
"So he does fancy you then, does he not?" Bethel stayed still, while the haskar's eyes roved over him interestedly. "I can quite see why." There was amusement in the deep voice that made Bethel blush. Alleghy's appreciative look made him flinch. "You are a very, very pretty boy who has quite cut out Sarssen." Bethel sensibly kept quiet. "Do you always wear your hair so long, boy?"
"The warlord prefers that I do, my lord."
"I see. You are intelligent enough not to wear it loose as you do now, are you not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Do not let me see it unplaited from the proper warrior queue again."
"No, my lord."
"Join Efaron's group. Slaves are clearing back from the main pavilions. Make yourself useful!"
"Yes, my lord."
Alleghy waved him away and Bethel couldn't leave fast enough. His mind was in turmoil and he knew he badly needed to talk to Sarssen. The news that yet another brother was alive was tempered by the knowledge that a sorcerer now had Lute and probably hurt the brother he'd always loved. Only the disciplines drilled into him over cycles kept him digging methodically as he assisted the slaves, his face expressionless as he heaved shovel after shovel of snow away to help make access around the warrior mess in the centre of the camp.
He worked steadily all morning, both shovelling and sorting slaves into shifts, so he could rest one group after another in a way alien to the Churchik. The slaves gratefully acknowledged his efforts. He was only granted a reprieve at midsun. While he sat and ate, he glanced around surreptitiously for Sarssen, but couldn't see him. Instead, Luth flopped down beside him. He swore at the cold, and, draping an affectionate arm over Bethel's shoulder, enquired after Alleghy, then muttered imprecations about the weather and elite commanders in general. While Luth drank and rambled, Bethel ate, interpolating comments wherever it seemed appropriate, his mind preoccupied and anxious.
As he drained his tankard, Bethel heard voices at the entrance and his head jerked round. He saw a large group of elite warriors, with tempkars, stride purposefully in, Sarssen among them. The latter was in discussion with a haskar, so Bethel's heart sank. He heard Luth say he had to go and followed his friend's example, thrust down his tankard and scrambled to his feet. As he did, he heard the swish of long black cloaks and stood absolutely still, head well down. When he neared Bethel, Sarssen spoke very softly but distinctly.
"Come to me when you are freed from duty, boy."
Bethel didn't speak; he waited until he was alone, then hastily left.
His afternoon was as tiring as the morning. Heavy snow started to fall again, making Bethel wonder if it would ever stop. No sooner had he sorted slaves to clear one channel, than they were ordered to return to work on one they dug earlier. The slaves struggled, one after another succumbing to the dreadful conditions, even those Bethel helped so much earlier in the day. He watched, helplessly, as first one slave, followed by another, sank to the ground and lay still. He was relieved, in an odd way, that for those slaves a life of hellish misery came quietly to almost a gentle end. He'd noticed how emaciated and half-starved they were, but no food he could secrete to them could save them. He said a mumbled Samar farewell to each slave that fell.
His movements got slower. The cold crept into Bethel's bones and numbed him. He found it difficult to concentrate on what he was doing and his movements become ever more drawn out. He stopped giving instructions to those near him. He came to a standstill. He was unaware of inactivity while he leaned helplessly on the shovel, his lips blue and no feeling in his hands. Snow floated about his stooped form.
He didn't hear someone
yell at him. He couldn't see through the buffeting gusts of snow that shook him, his hands falling from the shovel when he hunched, only dimly aware he tried to crouch to be small. He fell to his knees. He sensed rough hands pull and push him and knew he was gripped and shaken very hard.
He found himself thrust on a mattress and was conscious a hand held a mug to his mouth. He sipped at the orlos, grasping the mug for warmth. His eyes dazedly opened. When sharply ordered to drink again, he obeyed. When furs were wrapped round him he thought how unnecessary they were, because the orlos made him sweat profusely. He tried to shrug off the skins but was told curtly to leave them alone. Again, his eyes closed. The mug was taken from slack hands. His head was tilted. Hot liquid scalded his tongue, but he gasped and swallowed because the liquid kept coming. Warmth returned. As it crept through him, Bethel became conscious of his surroundings and looked up to see Alleghy stand not far from him, watching him with a frown.
"What did you think you were doing, warrior?" he demanded. Bethel dripped with sweat, yet shivered so badly his teeth chattered.
"My lord," he began. "I was clearing snow, then I..." His voice trailed away. Alleghy continued to watch him.
"You are very thin to work in such conditions. You are also inadequately clad and should know better. In future you work under shelter."
"Yes, my lord," murmured Bethel through clenched teeth, his eyes closing in spite of himself.
"Much longer crouched out there and you would have died. Take it as a warning, warrior. You always keep active in extreme conditions and you dress for them as well."
With an effort, Bethel opened his eyes. He knew he was dismissed. He dragged himself to his feet and the furs fell from him as he wearily stumbled outside into blinding snow. How he found Jane he never knew. He just stood outside the partially obscured unsel, the cold sinking into him where he'd earlier sweated. He moaned at the pain of the cold.
