by Katy Winter
"No, my lord," he managed.
Sarssen looked down. The compassion in his eyes deepened when he took in the lean cheeks, the fear, and, above all, the utter trust and faith in the velvet eyes that stared back up at him. It shook the warrior as little else did. He ran his hand over the young head in an unconscious gesture of reassurance and saw an immediate glow of response in the eyes, because it was Sarehl's gesture from the time Bethel was a very small child.
"Boy, no one will move this winter and by spring we will be well westward. There are many opportunities for us to come to decisions before your brother joins us - that is not an insoluble problem. I do not expect Blach here ahead of his apprentice. He will have his reasons for coming just after Luton. No," he went on thoughtfully, "we must do something about Alleghy." He saw the look in the dark eyes and began to chuckle. "No, boy," he admonished quietly, "not poison." Bethel's head went down again. "Have you drunk all your wine?"
"Yes, my lord," murmured Bethel, suddenly very tired. Sarssen glanced down at him.
"Then get us some more, boy," he suggested, giving Bethel a gentle push so the younger man rocked back on his heels, then rose.
Bethel sighed as he got to his feet, walked back to his chair and stooped to pick the goblet from the ground. When both held full goblets and it was clear Bethel regained some composure, Sarssen said mildly, "I did not mean to frighten you so, Beth. Merely, I wished to warn you." Bethel looked up from absently swirling his wine.
"You have done both, my lord."
The two sat quietly, each preoccupied, as they drank steadily. They stayed that way until Bethel finally upended his goblet to down the last of the wine. Sarssen contemplated him.
"You go direct to the warlord from here, do you not, boy?"
"Yes, my lord," he assented, on a sudden yawn.
"Well and good, Beth. It is possibly time you went to your master." It was earlier than Bethel usually went so, though he was puzzled, he was obedient. "And you stay in the pavilion, boy."
"No one, my lord," murmured Bethel, rising and hugging his cloak close, "would want to do anything on a night like this." Sarssen was already on his feet and at the pavilion entrance, a lantern in his hand. He held it high. "Is it still snowing, my lord?" asked Bethel, carefully placing the goblets on Sarssen's table.
"Heavily, boy." Sarssen came back purposefully and stood staring at Bethel. "I will go with you to your master."
"What will you do about Lute, my lord?"
Speaking softly and ignoring the question, Sarssen said, "Look at me, Beth."
Involuntarily Bethel did, the contact held for seconds, before Bethel blinked and shivered and had forgotten his fears about either Alleghy or Luton. Without a word, Sarssen pushed him to the entrance, picking up the lantern again as he followed. Outside, the cold was cruelly raw and Bethel hauled his hood as close about his face as he could, surprised when he heard the warrior speak next to him.
"You do not leave your master's pavilion tonight, boy. Is that absolutely clear?"
"If you say so, my lord."
"I do, boy. Keep moving."
Bethel thought the snow looked lovely in the lantern light but the cold bit at him and he was more than willing to move. Sarssen left him after he deliberately pushed the youth into the warlord's pavilion. The warlord lounged on the bed reading when Bethel stumbled in, looked up surprised, closed the book and placed it on the table.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, boy. You do not usually come so early."
"It is snowing so heavily, my lord, I thought I should come now."
"How delightful," said the cold, silky voice. "Remove your cloak, boy."
Bethel obeyed. He watched, with resignation, as the warlord flung back the furs that covered him and hauled himself higher on the cushions. Bethel crossed the pavilion to the bed and took the hand held out to him, falling back onto the cushions. The warlord lounged indolently beside him.
"I was becoming bored, boy, so your arrival is timely, is it not?"
"Yes, my lord," whispered Bethel. He suppressed another deeper yawn, aware of a head bent to his.
~~~
Sarssen paused outside a pavilion not far from the warlord's. They were set out in strict order of precedence, so Alleghy's was close. The warrior requested permission to enter. Hearing no response, Sarssen stooped and entered.
Alleghy was stretched out on his bed, wrapped very soundly in layers of furs. He'd obviously been drinking, because his breathing was heavy and a limp wineskin lay on the table beside the bed. Sarssen looked down at his father for a long moment. The vision of his dying mother rose so vividly in his mind it nearly choked him and he could think of nothing else, then he was on the warlord's bed for the first time and the sharp agony of that caught and shook him. Ruthlessly, he forced his mind to clear. He lifted up the used goblet, shook powder into it, then upended the skin to empty the remaining contents into the goblet.
Then he moved swiftly back to the entrance. He knocked an unsel pole so that it rattled very loudly. There was a lantern at the unsel entrance that lighted him, so he stood well back from it. Alleghy came to with a start, swearing and bleary-eyed as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He spoke sharply.
"Who the devil is it out there? Show yourself, now!" Sarssen moved forward so the lantern highlighted him. The haskar half rose, his left hand on his knife belt. "What the hells are you doing, you cursed slave?"
"I am on my way to my pavilion, my lord, from seeing the warlord. I heard a noise outside your pavilion as I was passing. I did not mean to wake you, my lord. I apologise for disturbing you and will leave you to your rest." Alleghy hauled himself higher and yanked a fur about himself.
"Come and hand me my goblet and make yourself useful since you are here."
Sarssen entered the pavilion. He saw the haskar relax back onto an elbow and eye him sourly. He went to one knee, lifted the goblet and held it out, the posture that of the submissive slave. It was snatched from him without thanks. The haskar took a long draught from it.
"What do you think you gain from being a senior warrior?" he snarled, his fingers clenched round the goblet and an ugly look on his face.
"Nothing, my lord. I repeat that I heard a noise outside your pavilion. I was only passing." Sarssen backed to a respectful distance.
"You!" spat Alleghy. "When did you ever care what might happen to me, boy?" Sarssen stood still, watching while Alleghy upended the goblet and leaned across to the limp skin to shake it.
"I see you are well, my lord, and do not need further assistance. I beg to leave."
"You leave at my order, boy, and not before." Alleghy glared at him. "How do you find life with your master now, slave love-boy?" he jibed spitefully. "Especially since you are displaced by another?" A darkling look came into the pale eyes. "I wonder about that boy of the warlord's, I really do."
"He is a slave as I am, my lord. I am content to be a warrior."
"I do not have cause to remember you well, boy, do I?" Still Sarssen didn't move and he stayed quiet. "Do you recall Norsham, Sarssen?" Sarssen nodded.
"Yes, my lord. You sent me to the warlord with bad news. I, too, remember that."
"You needed to learn your place, slave. Correc has often said so. Do you think being a warrior makes you immune to us, boy?"
"No," responded Sarssen. "I shall remember my slave status until the day I die."
"You were a gift to the warlord to be used and despatched. You were not intended to survive. Bring me over the full wineskin from the far table." Sarssen obeyed and bowed as he knelt to give it to the now relaxed haskar. "Fill the goblet." Sarssen did so. He stayed impassive. "You may now leave. Your presence is an offence. It always has been."
Sarssen moved back a little way as the haskar drank deeply, several times, sighed, tried to get to his feet, then, unable to, sank back on the cushions, his eyes suddenly alert and suspicious. Sarssen was motionless.
"The wine, boy," Alleghy said, in a slurred voice. "G
ods, have you come to get your own back?"
"No, my lord. There is nothing in the wine that will harm you."
Sarssen still made no effort to move. He just watched. Paralysis crept inexorably over the haskar, even though he tried to protest. He found he couldn't speak. His lips barely moved. The only part of him that could still fully respond were pale blue eyes. Sarssen crossed and knelt beside him, the older warrior's head held between his hands. His darkening green eyes met the pale ones and, unwillingly, Alleghy had to succumb to the power of his son.
Sarssen was thorough. He erased all trace of who Luton was. He left the vague impression that a northman, under duress from his master, had taken Alleghy's unwilling daughter, Sarssen making quite sure the name Luton would evoke little in the haskar other than contempt. There'd be no recall of Luton's appearance and therefore no physical connection with the young Samar warrior in the haskar's troop. Sarssen just hoped no one of power, beyond a level two, would enter Alleghy's mind to witness the subtle tampering, done with finesse and a surprising degree of gentleness from a man who'd no cause to love the older warrior. Sarssen withdrew from his father's mind, carefully drawing a blank over the haskar's activities that night, including the presence of his eldest son. Alleghy would only recall going to rest in his pavilion. He left Alleghy snoring heavily in a deep slumber.
Walking from the pavilion and blinded by the snow, Sarssen saw, in his mind's eye, Bethel's agonised face and his complete trust and faith in the warrior's ability to help him. He felt woefully inadequate. This strangely powerful emotion he felt for the Samar boy ran very deep and Sarssen realised, ruefully, it had crept up on him over the cycles, until he felt a real desire to shield Bethel from all harm. He was, therefore, profoundly disturbed by the news of Luton. Here was one who could only be described as an unknown quantity. He could unwittingly endanger his younger brother. Sarssen was even more alarmed about Blach.
When he finally stumbled into his own pavilion, stamped the snow from his boots and shook it from his hood, he sank to the mat in the centre of the pavilion. He quietly sent to the Mishtok. He wished to know exactly where Luton was and whether or not Blach had moved. Only then could he consider the options regarding Bethel. He waited, aware, with a sudden ironic grin, that Bethel hadn't named his beloved dog after an instrument at all - he was named for a brother.
~~~
Bethel saw little of Alleghy over the subsequent weeks because the snows didn't relent and there were no drills and no manoeuvres. Every day he was kept busy from sun up to sun down, mostly supervising slaves in the kitchens.
Slaves died by the dozen, day after day, their loss sorely felt by those left behind who had to replace them. The snow came in waves for hours at a time, then, in the breaks, anything that had to be done was carried out quickly and efficiently. The blizzards were appalling. Anyone caught out in one for any length of time, died. If the snow didn't fall, the skies were uniformly grey and dark because daylight was short. Bethel began to wonder if the thaw would ever come.
When the snow passed, to be succeeded by never-ending storms of icy winds and biting squally rain, Bethel was nineteen cycles. The snow turned to slush, and the slush to ankle deep mud. Bethel thought he'd seldom seen such misery as people huddled under whatever protection they could find. His heart went out to the slaves who'd survived the snow and were now confronted with this. Again, slaves died. Hundreds didn't survive the snow. Many more succumbed now.
He visited his men every day, and, since he'd developed a gallows humour that appealed to these men, he entertained them enormously. He always left them cheered. Kel grinned at him appreciatively. Lute was now a large, shaggy dog of indeterminate breed, fiercely loyal to Bethel and, though wary of the Churchik, he developed faith in Sarssen, so much so that whenever the warrior appeared Lute fell on his back. He waved his feet ludicrously in the air and invited Sarssen to scratch his tummy.
By the time the weather turned for the better and regular drills began again, Bethel became aware Alleghy didn't seem to notice him other than as a very young warrior. He asked Sarssen about it and got an eloquent shrug and a brief comment.
"Be thankful, boy. No one wants a haskar eye on him if he has any sense."
Bethel puzzled over it for a few days then forgot it, too busy to think of other than being the warlord's slave and concerned for his men. With the approach of spring, the army began to reorganise itself for another push to the west, where the northern army would move closer to the Chasa Mountains.
Sarssen noticed Bethel no longer worried about his brother or the sorcerer, never mentioning either of them. He made no attempt to remind him. The mind blocks stayed firmly in place. Sarssen just watched the young man from a distance, thinking how well-adjusted Bethel had become and hoped the relative tranquillity the boy now enjoyed would last for a while.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
When Kher, with his warriors and Luton, left Ortok, they decided to take the faster route of travel through the forest rather than skirt it. Kher doubted there'd be many refugees left in the forest and Lban assured them the sweeps they'd done showed no organised groups there, all able-bodied folk long gone to join the northern cause. The haskar just hoped that, if there were any survivors, they would recognise Luton.
Just at the verge of the forest, Luton drew his horse to a halt at a small copse of trees. He stopped, Kher noticed, at the second small grouping of trees, his dark eyes still bleak but also faintly curious.
"What is it, boy?" Luton's voice sounded flat.
"Nothing, I just..."
The deep voice trailed away as Luton spurred his horse forward, almost reluctantly. Kher wondered what the young man sensed and was conscious the tall figure hunched itself.
The forest was huge and cool. Kher noticed Luton's shoulders untensed the further they rode into it. He also saw the eyes perceptibly lighten. This surprised the haskar because he could see nothing in the forest depths that would make Luton feel any different, while he was personally aware of a dank chill the deeper in they went and that in spite of it being late spring. Luton obviously felt different, so Kher decided to keep a judicious eye on him.
That evening they were well into the forest and, to begin with, headed in a north-westerly direction. They made reasonable progress but didn't push the horses hard, just letting them go at a relaxed walk. It was a mostly pleasant ride, the dappled track followed effortlessly, and Luton completely at ease as he sat his mount quite casually, cloak thrown back off his chest. Kher called an early halt to set camp.
"Do not cut trees," he warned. "There is plenty of wood lying around for fires."
Luton collected the reins from each warrior and quietly took the horses down to the stream to drink. He crouched at the edge, his boot gently scuffing at the moss on the stones, before he gathered up the reins again and took the horses back up the bank to tether them to trees near where camp was being set. He gave them feed, brushed them down, then came back with a light footstep and eyes that were very alert. Kher glanced quickly up at the young face before Luton threw himself on the ground.
"I'm hungry!" he announced.
"Food takes time to cook, boy," growled Abek.
"I know," responded Luton. He let himself fall back onto his elbows, gave a sigh and, with a word of thanks, quickly accepted a brimming tankard that Lus handed across to him. He lay in the cushion of ferns and sighed again. Kher turned his head.
"What is it, boy?"
"Forests," answered Luton promptly. "The mountain forests were nothing like this."
"We have no forests such as this in the south, Luton," remarked Kher, looking about him. "Cycles ago men cut them down. This one is ancient and very beautiful." Luton nodded and took a long draught of the badran.
"It's at peace," he murmured, putting the tankard down and rolling onto his stomach.
"And are you, my young friend?"
"As much as a slave who can't feel can be, yes, Kher, I am," was the quiet reply.
"That is very good," said Kher nodding, a smile touching his eyes as they dwelled on the sprawled out figure.
~~~
They were in a small clearing of less mature trees. Under foot were ferns, small shrubs, and grasses that sprang up after being trodden on. Between them were clumps of small yellow flowers. The trail they followed was old and worn, with gnarled roots that stood up against dense, packed earth. The open glade where they camped saw the last of the sun as twilight came swiftly. Attracted by the fire, insects that were clearly novel to Luton, darted in the air about them. Kher noticed that all the naked trees that made up a part of this huge forest were in leaf or in bud, the air breathless and surprisingly chill.
Even so, Kher was suddenly aware Luton wasn't habitually shivering. He also saw that the shade was quite some distance away; in fact it was over by Luton's horse. Kher hadn't ever seen it that far distant before. Again the haskar looked around him. He could see nothing that should affect Luton, because all he could see were trees and the men crouching round a fire. The haskar decided, stealing a long look at the youthful profile, that Luton had never been so calm either. The shoulders weren't defensively hunched and the long slender fingers quietly stripped leaves. Kher just watched, fascinated.
The next morning, Luton had the horses saddled and ready well before they were needed. His eyes were still bright and alert and there was unusual energy about him. Luton usually moved with weary and languid grace - this morning he bounded round like an energetic puppy. Kher smiled and shook his head when he saw the warriors eye Luton askance. Shrugging, his men took their horses and mounted.
When they left the glades for the filtered sunlight of the denser forest, Kher shivered with the feeling of damp cool in the air. However, when he looked across at Luton riding beside him, he saw the young man had thrown his cloak back so the light breeze caught at it as he rode. He didn't shiver and looked comfortable. The other warriors obviously felt the chill but nobody said anything, Lus merely muttering to himself and pulling his cloak around himself more firmly.
The forest canopy became denser. It made the trail gloomier and by later in the day they found little sunlight pierced through to touch them, what glints did get through not enough to relieve the chill. Kher became watchful, but Luton rode heedlessly.
