by Katy Winter
~~~
Lodestok's first foray was an assault on the peaceful folk to the West. He almost committed genocide. Although the western folk knew he was coming, they seemed paralysed by inaction and a disbelief that this could happen at all. There were no natural defences between them and the invaders; indeed, it was low-lying country of rolling hillocks and shallow valleys. The soil was fertile, so, in the past, it had been the sensible thing to settle, to build and to till the soil.
These people had dug huge irrigation channels where the dry grasslands petered out to the fringes of creeping desert or scrubland. It was rich land and the people had thrived. Now their very existence was threatened and they were vulnerable in every way; even their prosperous cities had low walls because the people hadn't needed defences for long cycles. It was thought they might, aeons ago, have originated from northern and eastern Ambros.
The western folk did confront the advancing army but were over-run by sheer force of numbers. They were stunned by the viciousness and ferocity they encountered. No cities were spared. Women and children were slaughtered by the thousands, while men and older boys were branded and sent east as slaves in long caravans.
The truly fey folk of the Saad were taken in by their kin, the Yazd, and given protection, an act of kindness that tragically rebounded on them. Learning of this, Lodestok turned his full attention on these gentle people. When the Yazd refused to give up the pitifully few survivors, Lodestok ordered a wholesale extermination of the Yazd as a people. He felt he was justified in committing genocide.
It was an appalling atrocity of extraordinary brutality. Within a short time, the Yazd, as a society, ceased to exist. Cowed by this and decimated in numbers, the remaining people, other than those lucky enough to escape to the north, capitulated totally to the warlord. Lodestok took a small group of captured, especially fey folk, back to his city state of Valshika, where he could take his time to assess them for his own use, or organise them for transportation to the Keep.
Those who cycles earlier hinted Blach had the ability to control and manipulate minds, hadn't lied. The fey folk of the west, who were sent to him as a gift from Lodestok, learned this all too bitterly. Rumours that those sent in small caravans to the Keep never left it began to circulate. There were whispers that the sorcerer did unspeakable things there, the Keep guarded by huge red-eyed men who cared for horses mutated through magic. For fey people, such as the Yazd and the Saad, to be captured and sent there, was a fate far worse than death. It also became known that the sorcerer sought mutes as most suitable for his purposes. Those not naturally mute were made so. The name Blach became synonymous with dread. It was now common knowledge that Lodestok frequented the Keep as a welcome visitor.
~~~
Lodestok left the west subjugated, with the threat of renewed retribution should his terms for yearly tribute not be met promptly. Knowing of the torture that could be inflicted on the talented, the conquered peoples accepted all Lodestok's demands. It was a frightening situation for them, because the talented folk now only numbered hundreds in their homelands, where once thousands sprawled across the countryside. Their only joy was in knowing many hundreds more managed, by extraordinary means and undeniable courage, to get to safety through the mountains.
~~~
Lodestok sat at ease, temporarily sated, at Valshika, where he relaxed to follow scholarly and sporting pursuits. It was while he perused a document from the library at the Keep, lent to him by the sorcerer, that a voice spoke quietly in his mind.
"How is your war machine, my friend?" Lodestok raised his head.
"It will soon need more to sustain it."
"Would you consider looking east and north for workers?"
"Do you suggest any benefit from that?"
"I would ask you to come to the Keep shortly, Warlord, where we can have a fruitful discussion of mutual benefit."
~~~
Though Lodestok now had thousands of slaves to help with the war effort, as his power increased, so did his machinery of war. That machinery needed ever more workers. After discussion with the sorcerer, Lodestok suddenly looked northwest to the mountain peoples. The warlord had utter contempt for all races but his own and this contempt spurred his attack. This was no easy conquest. The mountain men fought like devils possessed, inflicting heavy losses on Lodestok's men.
Lodestok decided on strategy rather than brute force in the mountains. He was used to riding en masse and over-powering. He knew that wouldn't work here. He chose one mountain group at a time. He stationed his men along nomadic trails and isolated these men in a way that broke the regular communications between peoples and stopped the trade in weapons, medicine and food. The hill tribesmen held out for a very long time. So did Lodestok. His food wagons plied north regularly, barely hindered by any organised assaults or skirmishes.
Finally, Lodestok swallowed up the mountain people, piece by piece. Now he was confronted with the Dakhilah. This highly structured society, which was the pivot of access between north and south Ambros, eventually fell with its leader, the Chamah, brutally executed. As the Chamah was the idol of his people, indeed a deity, the social order convulsed.
Lodestok enslaved thousands of the mountain folk, slaughtered many more and again exacted tribute, this time in precious metals and gems. He set up a terrifyingly efficient warrior overlord, in the Dahkilah main city of Elibera, to ensure the obedience of the populace, Alleghy's tactics so cruel and ruthlessly oppressive, opposition died early. Elibera as a city was spared, because Lodestok decided it would be his city in central Ambros. Lodestok deliberately decimated the Dakhilah in anger at the Chamah's children being taken to refuge in the north, with most of the Dakhilan armed and horsed men accompanying them.
The warlord nearly exterminated the Cyren, who only survived because they out-flanked Lodestok's men by making an agonisingly slow and arduous trek over the mountains to the Qara. The remnants of the Qara, and there were pitifully few of them, retreated northwest with the Cyren, into truly inhospitable mountainous terrain. They were led by a remarkable man named Kalor.
Lodestok let them go. He had a plentiful supply of slaves, and metals and gems flowed into the coffers at Valshika: he had access to the northern lands that greatly inspired him: he had talented minds that he could use to probe lands ahead of him: and lastly, he almost completely controlled the south of Ambros.
~~~
When Blach heard of the conquests, a smile twisted his mouth in pleasure.
~~~
Lodestok thought about a northwards push but he wasn't in a hurry. He needed particular horses to move his men at speed through the mountains. He had heavy horses for haulage and the southern destriers were magnificent steeds built to carry the weight of a Churchik warrior in battle, but the warlord had heard of, and wanted, the fleet-footed, lighter horse of the eastern steppemen. These beasts were renowned for stamina. Lodestok also wanted the plainsmen's skill with a bow: that was equally legendary.
This time Lodestok changed his tactics. He sent a messenger ahead, announcing that he came as a Churchik envoy and wished to speak with one of similar status from among the plainsmen. Escorted by a suitably threatening group of warriors, Lodestok set forth on what he intended would be a probing exercise. When Lodestok's men came down from the Sinhalien mountains, they saw a spreading, vast plain that swept for miles in every direction. Such space held the whole party momentarily speechless. No one did anything for a long spell, the warriors twisting round in the saddle to look back from where they'd come. Even the mountains towering behind them lost their awesome grandeur.
~~~
Blach's foremost warrior lord looked broodingly into the endless distance. He made no signal. He just sat astride his horse, watching. Lodestok's eyes held an implacable expression and he drove anyone connected with him with remorseless indifference; he rarely now gave quarter in times of war. Here was a man the Sinhaliens could learn to fear, as had others before them. Now, as he sat astride his huge capa
risoned warhorse, Lodestok stroked his whiskers, while his men restrained restive mounts that tossed heads and manes, and snorted or stamped.
After a long time not moving, Lodestok raised his hand and pointed to the horizon where a faint dust could be seen. As the dust cloud came closer, it looked like a tide of movement coming towards them. Lodestok stayed impassive, watching. The tide coalesced into a very large troop of horsemen headed towards the alps at speed, the warlord intrigued to witness horses that could cover the ground at such a pace. He immediately decided that his army would take them, one way or another.
Lodestok spurred his horse and the others followed, holding their warhorses on tight reins. The warlord's horse picked its way carefully down the steeply sloping moraine until it got onto firmer ground. The warlord rode only a few yards further. He reined in, and sat, waiting.
The racing steppemen suddenly swerved in unison and wrenched the horses back on their haunches in one fluid movement. Lodestok and his men could now see them clearly. There was no milling or disorder; these men were as disciplined as a troupe of dancers.
The steppemen were tall and slender with white hair cropped short and worn under skullcaps. Their eyes were faintly slanted and uniformly gray. They had olive skins that looked oddly at variance with the white wisps of hair escaping the confines of the caps, had narrow, long hands and they all carried bows and quivers. As they sat, they were as immobile as Lodestok and even more unsmiling. Lodestok noticed they rode bareback, man and horse giving the impression of being inseparable. The warlord noticed, too, as he watched one rider nudge his mount forward, that these men wore very high riding boots that covered the knees.
Lodestok, too, moved forward, waving his men back. The steppeman stopped his horse when it was almost nose-to-nose with the warlord's, Lodestok drawing up barely in time to avoid a collision. Irritably, he glared across at the steppeman. He got nothing more in response than a blank stare.
"I am from the south," Lodestok began, his voice cold and clipped. "We seek contact."
"We know you're from the south," came the unexpectedly deep voice from the slender frame lounged at ease on a still horse. "But do you seek contact, or do you come to serve us as so many southern people have been served?"
Lodestok gave an unwise jerk of the reins and his mount plunged. Quick as a flash, the steppeman wrenched the reins from the warlord's hands, pulled hard down on them and immediately the horse responded to both hand and gentle crooned words. It stood still, quivering. The horseman patted it quietly.
"We do not answer for our actions to you," was Lodestok's stern reply. He didn't thank the steppeman for saving him from losing both his seat and his dignity. He took back the reins ungraciously.
"We're well aware of that," came a slightly mocking response. There was no smile in the steppeman's eyes. Lodestok growled softly through his teeth.
"Do you wish to deal with us, or do you want us to take what we desire?"
"You could try to take what you want," said the steppeman pensively, staring between his horse's flickering ears. "Or you leave us in peace."
"Accept your terms?" the warlord asked incredulously. "I would never accept that."
Lodestok was immediately struck by the humour and effrontery of the man and he began to laugh, his head thrown back. It wasn't an infectious laugh: it held overtones of menace. The steppeman remained indifferent.
"As you wish," he said coolly, turning his horse. Goaded, Lodestok called to him. The horseman reined in, his head turned enquiringly. "Is speaking fruitful?" he asked. Lodestok shrugged.
"We can only try."
The steppeman's eyes glinted, though his face remained graven.
"Then send your horse back to your men," he ordered, jumping lightly off his and patting it gently on the rump.
The horse trotted straight over to another steppeman who edged his horse forward from the ranks - the man caught the dangling reins and drew the animal back into the line with precision and without fuss. Lodestok gritted his teeth at the order. He stored it in his mind for when he next met this Sinhalien.
The Sinhalien waved nonchalantly in the direction of the windblown grass a few yards beyond where Lodestok dismounted, and quite casually sank down, cross-legged, when he found a lush patch. Then he sat immobile like a carving, his face expressionless. Lodestok was sorely tempted to teach this man a lesson, but experience advised against it. He knew, instinctively, that the mounted men only a short distance away were lethal bowmen and would kill him and his men without blinking.
Sitting uncomfortably, he squinted into the lowering sun. He decided to sit the Sinhalien out. As this seemed to have no effect on the steppeman, Lodestok gave up on that tactic and tried to speak in a more friendly manner. It didn't come easily.
"We merely wish to know you," he stated, almost gnashing his teeth with irritation. A deep, slow chuckle was the response to that.
"You have no desire to know us. You mustn't take us for fools," laughed the steppeman. The warlord didn't laugh.
"I am unlikely to do that," he agreed. "What do I call you?"
"Asok," came the monosyllabic reply.
"No title?" asked Lodestok interested.
"It'll suffice for you to know me only as Asok, Fleet of Foot, son of Atok, son of tribe Equii, Sinhalien."
"Impressive," nodded Lodestok, lounging back on one elbow and nibbling a piece of grass. "Are titles important to your people?"
"Not at all, stranger, not at all," smiled Asok. "And you are?"
"I answer to Lodestok, Churchik warrior, Vaksh-born."
"And may I enquire after your title?" asked Asok amiably.
"I am a warrior lord or Saratquan," was the terse response. "Some call me Warlord."
"Ah," murmured the steppeman, "a warrior lord." He stared meditatively into the distance. "So your visit is of some import then?" Lodestok's mutter was noncommittal. "And it is?" Asok's eyebrows rose enquiringly in question. Lodestok looked hard at him.
"We want your horses, and we want your expertise with them and with the bow," he stated bluntly.
"Ah," came a sigh. "So that's it. And if we choose not to oblige?"
"We shall return in force and slay you. We shall then take what we want." It was a brutal but truthful response.
"But what use are we dead?" queried Asok calmly. Menace dripped from Lodestok's low, soft voice.
"Only women and children die, my friend."
"And the bowmen?"
"Slaves, of course," grinned Lodestok broadly. "They would be reasonably treated, naturally, as we need your skills to complement our own. But they would be slaves, none-the-less."
"And this you call getting to know a people?" Asok got abruptly to his feet and stared down into the cold and mocking face. The warlord's steely eyes met softer gray ones.
"You do understand me, do you not?" came the still soft voice. Asok's eyes flashed in warning. Nor did his gaze waver from Lodestok's.
"Oh, yes, I clearly understand. And if we agree, what then?"
"We would be obliged to leave you alone, would we not?"
"For how long?" demanded Asok, still standing unmoving.
"That is rather mistrustful of you, my friend," commented Lodestok, coming to his feet. Asok saw disturbing gleams of malicious amusement dance across the steely blue eyes.
"I asked, how long before you return to ask for more, and then more again?"
"I do not believe you are in the bargaining position, are you?" As he spoke, Lodestok reached over and grasped a slender wrist.
The Sinhalien didn't flinch; he merely looked at the warlord's hand holding his. Lodestok faintly heard a distant click and became aware, as he turned his head, that the front rank of horsemen had their bowstrings pulled back taut. With a curse, he thrust the Sinhalien away. Asok stared back at him, his expression unreadable, his brow creased and fingers clenched on a bow.
"No, no, my friend," laughed Lodestok. "Not now, not now! Later you can show me your prowess. For the mom
ent, I shall camp here and at sunrise you will personally deliver your answer to me." He paused and looked over at the now relaxed bowmen. "A token of your goodwill would be twenty of those bowmen, would it not?" There was another pause, during which Asok made no move. "And their horses, of course."
As he spoke, Lodestok turned on his heel and strode towards his still mounted men. He didn't bother to give a backward glance.
~~~
Asok watched him go, then sat down in the grass again. His men did nothing until he rose and with a flick of his wrist, signalled to them. Once Asok was mounted, the whole troop wheeled as one and rode away at a brisk canter.
Lodestok reached his men. At that point he did look back. He saw Asok rise and saw the steppemen leave. The smile of satisfaction was wiped from his face, however, when one of his men, more versed in Sinhalien ways, pointed out the significance of the gesture Asok made before he rose to his feet. Lodestok's face darkened when he learned a spit ground under foot was a deadly insult, rarely used among the Sinhalien.
~~~
Early the next morning, Lodestok kicked his men out from under their blankets, ordering camp to be broken as soon as Asok made his appearance. Early sun meal was a sketchy and tasteless affair that the warlord was barely conscious of eating. He stood on the edge of the steppe, a solitary but powerful figure, just waiting. And he continued to stand there for a long time. The sun rose, flushing the mountain tips and clouds with crimson - the whole world, thought Lodestok grimly, seemed bathed in blood. When sunrise paled to the soft golden glow of sunlight, Lodestok ordered his men to break camp and be mounted in short order. His men acknowledged the warlord was in the fiend's own temper and when he loudly cursed the Sinhalien with venom, even his own men shrank back. Swearing revenge, Lodestok swung himself into the saddle and applied his spurs viciously to his horse's flanks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lodestok took the Sinhalien's insult very personally. The resulting assault on the steppe people was unrelenting and mostly unsuccessful. Considering the warlord's objective was to totally crush the Sinhalien and reduce them to slavery, he failed utterly. To begin with, Sinhalien losses were serious, but they lessened very quickly, Lodestok unable to comprehend the commitment of the steppe folk never to be taken alive. Those taken prisoner, who were disarmed, quite simply died. There was never any sign of violence to explain the deaths.
