Warlord

by Katy Winter

  Time and again, Lodestok's army swept across the steppes to find deserted small settlements, or worse, to find them burning. Consequently, there was no looting and no rape, which made the warlord's men restless and irritable. They never found any cities. Demanding more prisoners, Lodestok worked himself into a fury of frustration. He became extremely unpleasant to be around. All his men avoided him whenever possible and the boys he found were brutalised. That his regular boy hadn't accompanied Lodestok on this campaign surprised the men, though no one spoke of it in the warlord's hearing.

  As the assault on the Sinhaliens intensified, so did Lodestok's conviction that he was in the middle of a no-win situation. Often his camps were surrounded and raided, the men slaughtered most efficiently - the steppemen seemed to appear from nowhere. His men may have outnumbered the Sinhalien, but it didn't stop the steppemen from regularly picking them off. In battle, the Sinhalien arrows were deadly - Lodestok had never seen one of their archers miss. Somehow, the Sinhalien were always one step ahead of him, and moved steadily towards their northern Sinhalien cousins in Tsinan. Lodestok knew his men were being deliberately drawn north, so by the time they reached the southern fringes of Lake Kanibadam, he immediately called a halt.

  The steppes still stretched solidly in front of them, but Lodestok was well aware that beyond the Kasspar Sea were the wildlands, where survival would become very uncertain. As bloody-minded and ruthless as he was, he knew he could not order men across the sea that fed the lake, nor could he order them into the wildlands. Instead, he set up a huge camp near Lake Kanibadam and waited.

  As a tactic, it should have worked. There seemed no reason why it shouldn't. It turned out otherwise and became Lodestok's first reverse in his wars of conquest in the south. Somehow, Lodestok's scouts missed the massed steppemen on the southeastern fringes of the lake: even worse, they had no idea of the combined force of Sinhalien, with their Tsinan kinsmen, who lurked in a huge encampment round the eastern arm of the lake.

  The resulting battle was bitter and savage. The steppemen attacked in the very early hours of the morning and swept through Lodestok's camp with ruthless efficiency. Unlike the warlord, they took no prisoners, only emancipating any slaves they came across, but they were few. Steppe losses were minimal - Lodestok's were enormous.

  As his army began desperately to retreat, it was harried in a brutal and effective fashion, finally encircled much further south near the base of the Sinhalien mountains. To escape back to Kerulen, the army had to negotiate mountain trails with which the Sinhalien were so cruelly familiar. The Churchik army wasn't.

  The remnant of Lodestok's army, and it was only a rump, managed to retreat to the mountains, Lodestok bullying them into taking as many Sinhalien horses as they could. The steppemen, unusually for them, followed the army up the trails, still engaging in skirmishes that continually hurt the Churchik. They also took back all their horses.

  Lodestok watched in impotent, seething rage. It was only as his men passed over the mountains and reached the sparse woodland skirting the flanks of the mountain slopes on the Churchik side, that the steppemen pulled back. It was a costly mistake by the warlord.

  ~~~

  Months later, when Lodestok went tentatively back over the Sinhalien mountains with just a few warriors, this time his boy with him, he saw no Sinhalien, but he did see an unwelcome sight. For miles as far as the eye could see, was nothing but barren scorched land - nothing at all had been left by the steppemen. Lodestok sat his horse for a long time, then he turned slowly away, a predatory and unpleasant smile curling his sensual mouth. The smile, his boy noticed with a convulsive shiver, missed the warlord's eyes.

  Lodestok looked down at the slight boy who stood respectfully still, several paces from the warhorse. That the child was a slave showed in the torc he wore and the blond head bent as befitted a slave.

  "Do you see the scorched land, boy?" The boy lifted his head, the big green eyes unfathomably deep for one so young.

  "Yes, my lord."

  "We will come back. Those who did this will find me an unforgiving man, even though they are admirable foes." Another deeper shiver shook the boy. "You will see more of this when we move north. I shall spare no one. It should remind you, should it not, that I take what I want?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "And that includes my slave."

  "Yes, my lord," repeated the boy in a whisper.

  "I am deeply angered, Sarssen." The boy kept still. "You will, if you are wise, ensure I do not remain that way. Do I make myself quite clear?"

  "My lord." There was passive resignation in the voice, as master's eyes met slave's.

  "Mount your horse."

  Lodestok missed the flare of bleakness that touched the fine eyes as the boy quickly obeyed. Sarssen waited while another slave clipped his ankle chains to the stirrups, then quietly urged the horse forward to follow his master.

  ~~~

  Deciding to consolidate his conquests, Lodestok rested. He sent his warrior lords to different parts of his empire to enforce demands and slavish obedience to his will and set up a council of elite warrior lords who owed their allegiance strictly to him. He dispensed land and wealth in ways that bonded warriors ever closer to him.

  He retired to his city-state of Valshika for relaxation, taking those senior warriors, who were not enforcing his rule, with him. He began to enjoy the pleasures of his earlier successes. He also needed to consolidate before he moved out again. He often stood and looked north, his mind drifting beyond Dakhilah to the Samar states. He licked his lips with anticipation.

  To reduce the potential of his subjugated peoples to ever re-establish viable states at any time in the future, Lodestok early on ordered all male slaves be sterilised. The sorcerer showed the warlord, by way of demonstration with a slave, a way to cut that left the male slave entire, but permanently sterile. It was simple and easy for a slave overseer to do. It was cruel. It was also a practical and efficient method of control. Slaves were also branded as soon as they were captured. Girls and young women, not instantly slaughtered, were passed on to the men for their pleasure, whilst half-breeds, born of enslaved women, were despatched. Lodestok felt satisfied that he had most of the south under an iron and effective rule. He was contented at this moment and had his boy to both entertain and divert him.

  Lodestok hadn't forgotten his defeat at the hands of the Sinhalien. He merely put them to one side. Such was his confidence that he assumed their time would come when it suited him and he ignored the fierce and remote peoples east of the Kerzaz mountains completely.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At Valshika, Lodestok was flanked by his warriors and sat at the high table with members of his council. He was holding an annual celebration in honour of a group of young men, newly made warriors. They came to this at seventeen cycles. The great hall where he sat was huge, with a magnificently beamed ceiling and panelled walls inlaid with mosaics set in gold. Long marble tables and benches were cluttered with both new and experienced warriors who sat in strict order of rank. There seemed to be amity at the tables. No one vied for superiority. There was no petty spite evident as would be usual and expected in such a large gathering of aggressive and ambitious men. Conversation at the warlord's table was affable and there was a very relaxed atmosphere throughout the enormous hall, the tables heavily laden with rich fare. Lodestok's men lived well.

  All the warrior lords, who were called haskars, were clad in black. It had become their trademark, spelling fear and dread for most, because these were the most powerful men in Churchik society. Their tabards were embossed with a red dragon breathing fire, Blach's symbol, and was a delightful folly for the warlord to have his elite warriors wear it. Lodestok shrugged when Blach laughed at such a conceit. The haskars wore, or carried, long black sweeping cloaks lined with red silk, their boots as black as their breeches and shirts.

  Most of the senior elite warrior lords were Churchik. Only one other, like Lodestok, was Vaksh, and his nam
e was Correc. All were southern blond, huge men with long thick thatches of hair worn in a queue. All were bearded and wore long heavy filigree earrings, some with as many as four or five ornaments in each ear. Without exception, they had cold, pale blue eyes: Lodestok's were the palest of all.

  These men represented power and strength. Slaves who saw them coming shrank back, aware that the warrior lords wielded the power of life or death; they could make life a bearable existence or hopeless misery. These men took what they wanted, whenever they wanted it.

  ~~~

  Lodestok smiled sardonically as he listened to a haskar next to him and drank steadily from a goblet constantly refilled by a slave who hovered in a crouch nearby - a click of the warlord's fingers had him instantly on his feet. Everyone in the hall could sense the enormous power and charisma of the man, nor could they ignore the feeling of barely repressed violence always hovering near the surface. His anger was unpredictable and explosive, keeping all warriors in a constant state of tension. His eyes were challenging. His very powerful physique, topping every other warrior there, was intimidating. No one questioned this man as the chief of the warrior lords.

  ~~~

  Up until this time, Lodestok had occasionally offered quarter to the defeated, if they paid tribute and ceded sovereignty. He enslaved others, as southern warriors had always done, and like them he could be very cruel. Slavery had been in the south for a long time. He could be vicious and was known to have a ferocious and capricious temper. Rarely, he could even be reasoned with and would even accept and consider other points of view, though reluctantly, and it was a brave man who challenged him. He enjoyed scholarly pursuits. He was a keen sportsman with considerable prowess. He never destroyed knowledge from vanquished cities.

  Now he was changed. This was gradual, but it was noticed it came from continued contact with the sorcerer. He became rapaciously savage and set out to subjugate in the cruellest way, showing no mercy whatsoever: people either serviced his building army or they were slaughtered. His tempers became vile and unpredictably terrifying. His violent disposition, passions and appetites were more apparent in his dealings with others, including those closest to him. The one who felt the change most, and suffered from it, was his boy.

  ~~~

  At one of the benches, the young Sarssen kept his head down and his eyes on his plate. He was barely able to sit because he'd been forced to endure Lodestok in one of his more ferociously playful moods. This tall, blond youth had suffered a wretched day. He felt sick and dizzy. He didn't especially want to eat, but neither did he wish to draw attention to himself by not doing so. His survival was a fragile thing and he knew it.

  He was now sixteen cycles, nearly seventeen. He was trained to the point where, in another season, he was due to compete to prove his worth as a young dedicated warrior. With his development from boy to young man, he knew his appeal to Lodestok would wane with maturity, but, though this youth had no illusions he desperately hoped he'd made himself useful enough to the warlord to be allowed to live. Over the eight and a half cycles as the warlord's boy, Sarssen had seen boys, less fortunate than himself and who supplemented the warlord's now insatiable appetite, on rare occasions crucified or staked. That wasn't the worst he'd been compelled to silently witness either.

  Death in this way was one of Sarssen's worst recurring nightmares. He'd wake next to the warlord. He'd be wet with sweat and tears dripped down his cheeks. He'd hastily bury his head in the cushions until his breathing evened, praying the warlord wouldn't wake to see or hear him.

  Sarssen was finer-boned than most and already as tall as his master. He had a thick shock of silvery blond hair that Lodestok insisted he grow; as it was long when he came to the warlord, it now waved down his back. Sarssen hated it. He was still gangly in a charmingly awkward way. His eyes were an unusual green; not hazel and not flecked, they were like flawless gems. Lodestok often held the youth's very attractive face in his hands and stared deeply into the green depths, a frightening thing for Sarssen that Lodestok read minds efficiently these days. That, the youth knew, came as a gift from Blach.

  ~~~

  Sarssen let his mind drift back. He knew that as long as the warriors sat at benches, he was safe. He had no status. He cupped his hands round a tankard and sat still, staring into the liquid. It was all so clear. He seemed to look through mirror-smooth water at images, so transparent, they seemed real enough to touch. His mind went back in time.

  He saw, again, the huge blond Churchik man stride across a meadow, arrogance in his every step, and he saw the small slender woman with a mane of chestnut hair try to pull herself free from the grip of the man. She was half-running, half-dragged along. The warrior broke into deep-throated laughter, before he dropped to the ground and pulled the woman down under him. His heart beating fast, a small boy watched the reluctant, forced giving and the brutal taking, a thin hand to his mouth to suppress any scream.

  The image blurred. When it cleared, Sarssen could see the warrior retreating, while the boy crept close to look at the woman. She lay unmoving. The blond boy crept closer still, his stick-like figure trembling with shock and fright.

  "Mater," he whispered, "Mater!" And again he called, this time more urgently. "Mater, it's me Sarssen! Wake up, Mater!"

  Fumbling, the boy pulled a waterskin from the belt at his waist, took out the stone stopper and held the skin to the woman's mouth. Slowly, her eyes opened, but they looked milky and dazed. Even more urgently, the boy pushed the skin nearer her lips.

  "Mater, drink - they move us on soon. You'll die if you don't drink." The woman weakly pushed the waterskin away. She grasped the boy's wrist, her voice laboured.

  "Listen to me, child, listen. Do as I tell you." There was a long pause while the woman lay quiet. "I'll no longer be with you, son." As the boy went to protest, she put a gentle hand on his mouth. "Look at me and you'll understand. Time ebbs fast." She gave a sigh. "I've taught you many skills to help you when you're alone." The boy just knelt there numbly, the waterskin dangling from his fingers.

  "What must I do for you, Mater?" he asked, pleadingly. "Tell me." A hand caressed his head and then his cheek.

  "There's something you must know, though the gods forgive me for telling you this. That warrior, my son, is your father." The boy gritted his teeth and felt tears blind him. He shook his head in disbelief. The woman took one of the trembling hands. "I know that comes as a shock, Sarssen, but it's so. Do you understand that he doesn't know who you are, nor must he ever know?" The boy wept silently, his bent head touching his mother's hand. "I'm Yazd, son, as are you. Like me, you're talented, whatever you wish to call the gift." She gently caressed his face with her free hand and bade him look at her.

  Trying roughly to stem the tears, Sarssen nodded, whispering, "I know what they do to half-breeds like me, Mater."

  "Yes, young as you are, you've seen more than enough. No one must know you're Yazd with the gift. Remember to hide it always, as we all taught you. Promise me this, my beloved son."

  "I promise, Mater," came the faint whisper. The woman gave the wisp of a sigh. Her voice faded.

  "You must survive, my son. I believe it's your destiny you do." She quivered. "You're so very dear to me, Sarssen," she whispered.

  Her son sat helplessly watching, his hands clasped firmly in hers. He saw the haemorrhaging. In terror and despair, a small boy lifted his mother's head into his lap and held her there in a last gesture of love.

  ~~~

  The image shifted again. This time, the small, blond boy was in a camp with hundreds of tents and people, crouched in front of a fire, a bowl in thin hands and an empty expression in wide-opened fine, green eyes. It was dusk. The boy couldn't bear to look back to the flower-dotted meadow behind them, where carrion birds now wheeled and dived. It made the boy feel deeply nauseous. He vaguely heard murmuring voices all around him, but nothing seemed to make much sense. A rough hand on his shoulder brought him abruptly to the immediate present.

&nb
sp; "Drink your soup, boy. You're too skinny not to eat."

  It wasn't an unkind voice. Mumbling apologetically, Sarssen obeyed. Draining the bowl made him gag, but, by swallowing hard, he refused to vomit. As soon as he finished, he clambered stiffly to his feet and was about to move when a huge shadow fell across the campfire. Looking up, the boy saw his father.

  "You are the boy who found the dead slave woman, Elbah, are you not?" The warrior's voice was very deep and cold. Sarssen nodded and got a swift, hard kick. "You answer `my lord', you young cur," he was told curtly. The boy bowed his head.

  "Yes, my lord."

  "You do not look like a Yazd to me; are you one?"

  "No, my lord, I'm not."

  "Why are you part of a caravan? If you're not Yazd, what are you then?"

  "A Churchik, my lord, one whose father fought the Yazd but died back-aways of the fever." A puzzled look crossed the warrior's face. He stepped closer to study the boy, gave a deep laugh, pulled the boy to him and looked him over in an offhand way.

  "And your mother, boy? Clearly not the dead slave woman you found."

  Thinking quickly, Sarssen said glibly, "No, my lord. My mother was one of your kind, but she died birthing me."

  "An orphan," mused the warrior, before adding, "So you came on campaign with your father. That makes sense." The warrior turned the boy's head to the firelight. "Who takes care of you?" Sarssen lowered his head once it was released.

  "Anyone, my lord."

  "Quite a pretty boy really," commented the warrior idly. "Skinny, but pretty. I could do reasonably well with you in Chika since you are orphan. A Churchik boy, being so unexpected, could make the scales weigh heavily and thus gain a fair price indeed." Again came the deep rumble of mirth. "You could possibly fetch an even better price in the boy market. How old are you?" The boy gave a shiver that shook him from head to toe. He curled his bare feet in the dirt.