Warlord

by Katy Winter

  The forester guessed the man had dragged himself from the Churchik camp, but how he could have done it was beyond belief. Ensore took off his cloak to cover the man decently and rose to leave. He hesitated. He never knew why he felt as he did, but he believed this man deserved a decent burial. He carefully wrapped the frail figure in his cloak, draped him over the horse, and went back to camp in a very thoughtful and sombre frame of mind.

  When Ensore entered a small camp, four other foresters came forward to greet him. They were a small party that hadn't gone north, but were also from a much larger concentration of troops who stayed to pick up the stragglers still making it to the forest, many badly hurt. All were shocked and disoriented. The foresters kept these people together and guided them to camps where they could be cared for. As the weeks passed, there were fewer and fewer of them.

  The foresters looked at the body draped over the horse but said nothing, just helping Ensore lift down the man who was no burden, the body was so light. When Ensore opened the cloak, the men looked at the man lying on his back. Each drew in breath involuntarily.

  "Dear gods," murmured one of them. "Where did you find him?"

  Ensore knelt to draw the cloak back across the obscenely distorted limbs, but as he did, he looked more closely at the man.

  "Find me a glass," he said sharply. "This man's alive."

  He bent his head to the man's chest, but could neither feel nor hear anything. When he was handed a piece of glass, he held it to the man's open mouth. It fogged. Ensore pocketed the glass and gently lifted Sarehl, carrying him across to a small tent where he was carefully laid on a pallet. The other foresters followed with wine, honey and an extra cloak.

  Ensore sat on the pallet and lifted the man's head into his lap. The others sat close. No one spoke. They waited for over an hour. When Sarehl opened his eyes to the feel of a cool hand on his head he flinched back, terror in his eyes.

  "You're with friends," said a calm voice. Sarehl tried to speak. "I repeat, you're with friends. No one will hurt you," came the voice again. Sarehl made an effort to move, then lay still. "Try if you can to drink a little for me," the voice went on.

  Its calmness was reassuring, so Sarehl opened cracked lips to feel moisture on them. He swallowed twice, then closed his mouth. He felt a hand rub his lips, avoiding the sword slash. He licked them, to find them covered with something sticky and sweet, so licked more urgently, then lay quiet. He was covered with something that warmed him and was then left.

  He slept. His dreams were feverishly jumbled nightmares that made him scream. The calm voice was always there telling him he was safe and would be unharmed and he dozed through a continuous haze of pain and fever. When he felt himself sponged, he tried to say his thanks, drank minute amounts when told to and licked constantly at the honey on his lips. He'd no idea how many days passed, only aware of waking properly quite suddenly. He had a feeling he wasn't alone. He turned his head slowly to look at his companion.

  "Who?" he managed to croak. His voice was barely a whisper. When his companion looked up, surprised, then immediately came to his side to kneel on the ground next to him, Sarehl saw the man had a pleasant face with friendly, gentle gray eyes.

  "I'm Ensore. How do you feel?"

  "Weak," whispered Sarehl.

  "I'm not surprised," responded Ensore. "We didn't think you'd survive. You've been drifting in and out of consciousness for several days now."

  "Where?"

  "Blenharm forest. We're foresters. You're quite safe with us."

  "A boy -." Sarehl broke off.

  "There was no one with you," answered Ensore, gently. "Do you have a name?"

  "Sarehl, son of Alfar."

  "From Ortok?" Sarehl nodded. "The boy?" Ensore took one of Sarehl's hands firmly in his. "You've cried out for a Bethel - is he your son?" He saw unutterable anguish in the black eyes.

  "Young brother - slave pens." Sarehl's voice faltered.

  "No boy has come through recently, my friend. I'm deeply sorry." Sarehl turned his head away. "Tell me," went on Ensore. "How did you get from the Churchik camp?"

  "Crawled," came the faint answer. Sarehl's eyes closed.

  "Then you're a remarkably brave man." There was a note of deep respect in Ensore's voice. "But now you must sleep." Sarehl already drifted.

  ~~~

  The following day, Ensore found Sarehl, though still very weak, more alert. He knelt beside Sarehl, lifted him against his shoulder, and, holding a cup to the badly cut mouth, the forester tilted the container. He repeated the gesture until the liquid was gone, then he eased Sarehl back on the cushions, saying quietly, "That'll do for now. Will you let me sponge your face?"

  Sarehl's brow was furrowed with pain. His cracked lips compressed and his hands clenched into fists. Ensore put down the cloth and lifted a small goblet that he held to Sarehl's lips.

  "Drink. It'll help ease your pain."

  When Sarehl's eyes opened, Ensore saw they'd again clouded with pain and the resurgence of fever. There was no clarity and no recognition. Ensore pushed firmly but gently with the goblet against Sarehl's teeth. Wine, dosed heavily with angwort, trickled down his throat.

  That evening, the foresters held a discussion while they sat around the fire, eating a late meal. Their conversation concerned Sarehl. If the man didn't receive treatment from an experienced healer he'd die and soon, or, as one argued, the trip north could kill him.

  While the other foresters curled up next to the dying fire to sleep Ensore attended to other injured, then stayed on guard, his mind too active to sleep. He checked that Sarehl rested. He tried, as the night progressed, to calm the ravings that woke everyone in the camp. Sometimes he could calm Sarehl when the man was in the grip of terror and pain, but more often he couldn't. Sarehl was beyond help. Ensore listened to the screaming for Bethel, hour after hour, and heard the mumbled pleas for Alicia, Saren and Myme Chlo, this followed by calls to Dase, Lute and Chlo. Ensore prowled up and down. By dawn, he'd made a decision.

  Sarehl was placed on a litter and lifted into a wagon with the other wounded who'd trickled into the forest over the last few weeks. Camp was broken, and by mid-morning the small cavalcade headed north. Normally Ensore rode, but this time he wanted to be next to Sarehl in the wagon. A less wounded refugee rode in his place.

  Ensore took over Sarehl's care. He kept the man heavily dosed with angwort, hoping it wouldn't have any serious side effects. It helped to keep Sarehl calm. It also noticeably deadened pain because he couldn't have borne the jolting of the wagon otherwise. When Sarehl moaned or raved, Ensore listened and talked quietly to him. It seemed to offer comfort.

  Sarehl's fever intensified. A large suppurating scab covered the wound. Ensore often held Sarehl in his arms and he'd just look down at him, knowing the man had very little time left. They travelled as fast as they dared. Ensore noticed Sarehl was quiet and biddable. He sensed the man had no more fight, and wondered, as he looked sadly down at the badly scarred face, if this was the end. If it was, he reflected, then at least it was peaceful. Ensore watched Sarehl close his eyes on a faint sigh. He refused to move if Sarehl was only asleep.

  The following morning Sarehl woke with clearer eyes, the fever briefly broken. Relieved by this positive sign Ensore eased Sarehl back onto the litter and clambered from the wagon, his limbs cramped. He looked about and realised, with a deep sense of relief, they neared a camp.

  An hour later he saw movement through the trees and in moments a group of youths came rushing up. Ensore looked carefully at them, wondering if one of them was called Bethel, one youth a likely boy, he thought, tall and thin with very long black curls that hung lank about his shoulders. There was a strong similarity to Sarehl, though it was hard to tell with Sarehl's face so badly cut. The boy in question asked a forester what they needed and didn't see Ensore's scrutiny.

  Ensore found the healer he sought, the man organising assorted bottles, phials and sachets into bundles for the imminent move north. Ensore stoo
d at the tent flap, speaking urgently.

  "Kaleb?"

  The healer turned. He was a small man of late middle age, with tawny hair and clear translucent eyes that were thoughtful and kindly. Seeing who called him, he put down the bundle in his hands and gestured to the forester to enter, a welcoming smile in his unusual eyes.

  "Ens, my dear friend," he murmured, his hands out. When Ensore didn't respond and remained standing at the entrance, Kaleb looked searchingly at him, saying quietly, "What's the matter?" Ensore took a step forward, his hand going out helplessly.

  "Come quickly."

  The healer fell to his knees at the tone of urgency and searched through bundles he had to untie. He spoke as he sought.

  "What's the most urgent need?" he asked curtly.

  "Severe fever and even worse infection." Ensore paused, then added, "Pain that's unrelenting."

  "Spare me a moment." Kaleb tossed two bundles aside and grasped a third one that he pulled open. He lifted a phial from a pouch and rose quickly. "Take me to whoever."

  Kaleb saw several litters and sighed, knowing that he'd have to unpack all his medicines to treat this new influx of injured. He noticed that one litter was set apart from the others. It was carefully placed under a tree for shade and so it was also sheltered from the wind that blew daily at this time of cycle in mid Ambros. It came as no surprise that Ensore should lead him to that litter.

  He stopped and looked down. Ensore didn't speak. Kaleb dropped quickly to his knees to take the sick man's slack hand in his, briefly lifted the man's eyelids, took a sachet and tipped its contents into a cup. Fluid from a phial followed. So did water from a flask Ensore held down.

  They managed to pour some of the liquid down Sarehl's throat, but not much. As he swallowed reluctantly, Sarehl's eyes opened. They met the healer's, to show Kaleb they were black and clouded, clearing only enough for the man to briefly focus on the one above him.

  "I'm a healer," Kaleb said quietly. "Ensore, lift him again." Ensore lifted the dark head a second time and Kaleb tipped more of the mixture through the closed lips. "Be a good lad," he coaxed. "This truly will help, you must believe me." Sarehl's eyes opened again and showed surprise. Kaleb smiled down at him. "You're not so very old, are you?"

  Kaleb stayed kneeling beside Sarehl for a long while, quietly watching him, one limp hand held in both of his and he only relaxed when he noticed, with a smile of satisfaction, that Sarehl's breathing eased and wasn't shallow. He let his hand slip to Sarehl's wrist, held it firmly for a moment, then looked across at Ensore as he laid the hand gently on the pallet.

  "That's much too close for comfort," he said austerely. Thoughtfully stroking his beard, Ensore stared at the still figure.

  "How bad is he?" he asked, already sure of the answer.

  "Bluntly, very. I'm surprised you got him here. Only indomitable spirit holds him." Kaleb rose and the frown was back in his eyes. "He should rest more comfortably than he's done for weeks by the look of him. He'll feel little pain when he wakes. What've you given him?"

  "Angwort," was the response. "He's been in severe pain for a very long time."

  "Won't you accompany me to my tent so you can tell me about this man?"

  Kaleb took Ensore's arm and led him directly back to the tent. Ensore lounged on Kaleb's pallet, leaned back on his elbows and after he'd watched the healer make an infusion, accepted the steaming mug gratefully, his tired eyes brightening. Kaleb knelt and rocked back on his heels so he could eye the forester meditatively.

  "You'd best tell me about this one," he suggested. Ensore sipped carefully.

  "There's not much to tell," he sighed, "but I'll tell you what I've gleaned."

  Kaleb watched his friend's face as Ensore spoke, the forester's gestures and expressions telling the healer more than words. When Ensore fell silent, the healer rose and began to walk about.

  "What did you say his name is?" he asked, rubbing his forehead absently.

  "Sarehl, eldest son of Alfar."

  Kaleb spun round. "What did you say?" Ensore stared at him, took a final drink from the mug before he hauled himself off the pallet and handed the mug to Kaleb.

  "His name's Sarehl," he repeated.

  "Yes, yes, I got that - but son of whom?"

  "Alfar. What's the matter with you, Kaleb?" Ensore stretched.

  "We have a son of Alfar in the camp. He was thought to be orphaned and is a sad boy."

  "Do you indeed?" Ensore looked eagerly at Kaleb. "Is his name Bethel, by any chance?" Kaleb saw the expression in the forester's gray eyes and reluctantly shook his head. Ensore heaved a very deep sigh. "Is this one a very tall, gangly boy, with long dark hair?" Kaleb had to grin again.

  "That's Dase. So you've met, have you?"

  "Very briefly." Ensore studied his boot pensively. "I suppose I'll have to seek him out. Can he see his brother?"

  "Leave Sarehl until later today," suggested Kaleb. "I don't want him awake or moved until I can get to work on him, but seeing his brother shouldn't hurt him." He stopped, then added with a cautionary note to his voice. "The boy's already very deeply hurt. It's likely he'll get a nasty shock when he sees the state his brother's in. You'd better be there."

  "I will be." Ensore continued to study his boot. "There's no Bethel here?"

  "Not that I know of," responded Kaleb, watching the forester curiously. "Why, is he important?"

  "He is to Sarehl. He's causing him as much agony of mind as anything else." Ensore looked grimly at the healer. "You'll hear for yourself when he begins to scream," he promised. "I don't think I've witnessed anything like this and I've dealt with seriously injured for seasons now. It's almost as if this Bethel is a vital part of what makes the man, and he is critical to Sarehl's sanity and wellbeing."

  "Why is he so different from the others?" asked Kaleb gently. Ensore gave a reluctant smile.

  "His courage is remarkable. His tenacity to live even more so, but..." The forester seemed to hunt for words and couldn't find them easily. He shrugged. "I think he's meant to live, as one who's survived impossible odds."

  "I'll do all I can," promised Kaleb, "but you know what that means - it'll be a rough few hours for him as well as us. I just hope we can pull him through."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Daxel hauled one of the large workhorses, rescued from Ortok, towards a cumbersome trailer that was used for the transportation of the injured. It was set at a distance from the boy and the horse was clearly unwilling to move. As the boy struggled over ruts with the recalcitrant animal and swore softly at its reluctance, he looked up to see a forester, whom he didn't know, watching him. He gave a shy and rueful grin in response to the forester's smile.

  "Are you Dase, son of Alfar?" the forester asked quietly. He saw a shadow cross the young face and the grin faded. Daxel stopped trying to pull the horse and stood still, his head tilted enquiringly.

  "Aye," he responded dully, "I am."

  The forester came over and stared down at him for a moment, then, without a word, he laid a hand next to Daxel's on the bridle and pulled hard. The horse snorted, but put one hairy hoof after the other to come close to the trailer.

  "You hold him, boy, while I attach him." Nothing further was said until the horse was properly harnessed to the trailer and then the forester stood back, surveying horse and boy. "How old are you, lad?" he asked, still in the quiet voice.

  "Nearly thirteen cycles." The forester continued to look speculatively at the boy.

  "What do you do other than hitch horses to carts?" Daxel patted the horse, then turned away.

  "My group works under Cardon. We're foragers, though I did fight in a few skirmishes early on, before we were sent north."

  "Did you indeed?" murmured the forester, his eyebrows raised. There was displeased surprise in his tone. "I wish to speak with you, boy." Courteously, Daxel turned back to face the forester who beckoned him closer. "I have a surprise for you, child. You'll come with me."

  Daxel looked startle
d, but he fell into step with the older man readily enough. This forester was quite unlike Cardon or Raemon. He wasn't as old as they were, only in his mid to late twenty cycles, was tall and slim, and had a smile in his eyes that encouraged Daxel to relax. Like those who were in authority over the boy, this man had a decided air of authority too, but his was tempered by an easy manner.

  Ensore companionably put his hand on the boy's thin shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The forester hadn't missed apprehension in the big, black eyes, or the tension in the stick-like figure. They didn't speak. After skirting it for a short way, they entered the camp close to where the group of recently arrived injured lay on litters and were coaxed to drink by the foresters and other camp folk. Dappled sunlight fell around the boy and the forester. The forester halted Daxel. He spoke in a restrained way.

  "I wish you not to get a shock, young man." Daxel stared at Ensore puzzled and alarmed, but obeyed the pressure on his back to keep walking. He was guided to a litter set apart and there he was silently halted, though one strong hand still gripped his shoulder.

  Daxel looked down. He gave a choked cry, fell to his knees and bent over the prostrate form. When he glanced up briefly, the forester was gone. Daxel knelt with bowed head for a very long time, unaware of anything other than the still figure beside him. He stared intently at the ravaged and scarred face of the tall man, pitifully thin, then gently, he traced a feather-light finger across the black-bearded jaw-line in a gesture of love. As he did, the injured man's eyes sleepily opened. They were black. Daxel saw suffering in their depths, but they met other tear-filled black eyes in a look of disbelief as great as Daxel's.

  "Dase? Lute?" came a whispered, husky voice. Daxel couldn't speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks and fell on to the hand he clasped in both of his.

  ~~~

  Early that evening, Ensore and Kaleb carried Sarehl, on his litter, into Kaleb's tent. Ensore wasn't looking forward to the next few hours, but he knew what had to be done and he'd do it, though it didn't mean he had to enjoy it. He accepted he felt squeamish. Smashed bones and joints had to be re-set.