Warlord

by Katy Winter

  He was sat on a chest so Sarssen could attend to his face. This made Bethel squirm. No one had ever painted his cheeks and lips and he found the sensation unpleasant. Sarssen ignored him. The boy's cheeks were dusted. His lips were outlined in gold before painted deep red, his eyes lined with charcoal, the eyelids painted from blue at the lashes to deeper violet at the eyebrows and his eyelashes were combed.

  Bethel knew he was ready for whatever was to come because all the slaves left, leaving Sarssen to stand looking at him, frowning a little. The warrior moved over to the bed, lifted a long, gold-threaded robe that he brought across to the boy, pulled it over Bethel's head and indicated the boy was to put his arms through the sleeves. The robe just swept the ground. Sarssen produced a broad sash that he quietly placed about the boy's waist, knotted it and let the tasselled ends fall free. The warrior gave a tight smile when he gave the boy a last look, thinking as he did how different this beautiful boy would look in the morning; that was if the child was still alive.

  "You do not know how to serve a lord, boy, do you?"

  "No," replied Bethel, licking lips that felt strange.

  "I thought not," commented Sarssen. "Come over here and I shall show you."

  The boy tended to move gingerly at first, having momentarily lost his natural grace. He was aware of discomfort but that eased as he concentrated on what he was told to do. After a short while he moved more fluidly, obeyed every command he was given and repeated them until he knew exactly what was required of him for the night to come.

  "Sit!" ordered Sarssen finally. He stood back and surveyed the boy quietly. "You want to survive, boy, do you not?"

  "Yes," came a small voice.

  "Then listen well. The warlord takes what he wants, when he wants it. Let him. Give him what he wants and do not show pain. He is also my master. That is my advice to you. If you follow it, we may meet again. If not -." Sarssen broke off with a shrug. "You will find out for yourself soon enough. Come now."

  Bethel stared at the ground. His heart began to race. After they left the pavilion, Bethel found he provoked howls, hoots, whistles, much laughter, was relentlessly poked and prodded and had comments tossed at him as he passed. He found himself blushing hotly, but gritted his teeth and followed as closely as he could to Sarssen.

  The walk seemed slow, but that was because the boy couldn't take strides; his ankle chains only permitted him to take small steps. By the time they arrived at an ornate, very large, squared silk pavilion the jeering had stopped and Bethel realised, with a sinking heart, that his moment had come. He hung back, unwilling to enter. Sarssen seemed not to notice as he took one clammy hand in his and entered, the slender boy unwillingly pulled along beside him.

  ~~~

  The warlord looked up from a huge bed he lounged on and an appreciative smile split his grim countenance.

  "Sarssen boy, and on the hour." Sarssen stepped to one side and dropped the boy's hand.

  "My lord," he bowed.

  "Such a piece of perfection," sighed Lodestok, his eyes travelling up and down the boy. "I am pleased with your appearance, child. You do not offer immediate disappointment. That augurs well. And Sarssen," he added very gently, so gently that Bethel shivered, "I wish there to be no interruptions tonight." Sarssen smiled bleakly, gave Bethel a quick shove forward and left.

  Bethel swallowed a large lump in his throat, because the warlord got to his feet and the boy could now truly realise, for the first time, how physically powerful this giant was. Bethel trembled.

  "Well now, my little bud, we shall have to show you how to unfurl your petals, shall we not?"

  "My lord," managed Bethel nervously.

  Lodestok crossed to a cabinet and lifted out two large goblets and an even larger carafe of red wine. He held these out to Bethel.

  "You begin your life, as my slave, by pouring out the wine, boy." Bethel hastened to do so. "That way I have a chance to really look at you, with full appreciation, of course. Turn to face me - yes, that is better." Bethel filled the goblets, placed the carafe on a side table and hesitated, overawed by the warlord's sheer size. "Now, little bud, you bring the goblets over to me."

  Lodestok had sauntered back to the bed and now lounged on one elbow, watching the boy kneel as he'd been shown. He saw amused approval on the grim face. "Very good, little one. You will sit beside me and talk with me." Bethel did, looking as if he'd as lief sit next to a wild animal. "Drink your wine, boy," he was curtly instructed.

  The warlord downed his wine in three draughts. Bethel only sipped his and got a fright when Lodestok took his goblet, tilted his head and poured the wine down his throat. Bethel choked and coughed.

  "Now we shall have more wine," purred the warlord agreeably. "Go and get it."

  As the hours advanced, the talking became desultory, Bethel suddenly aware the warlord toyed with him. The wine got steadily lower in the carafe. Bethel, who'd seldom drunk wine, felt decidedly giddy, so much so that when he returned with full goblets for the seventh time he lurched in front of Lodestok who caught him and pulled him roughly on to the bed. The wine spilled, but the warlord didn't seem to notice.

  Bethel sat. He felt the pavilion go round and round. He felt sick as well as dizzy and was only vaguely aware of Lodestok making him turn his head so he had to look into the warlord's cold pale eyes. He dimly heard the deep, silky voice at his ear and shuddered, but he couldn't answer because he felt so peculiar. The pavilion began to rock and spin faster in Bethel's vision. He closed his eyes. He tried to stay upright and was conscious the goblet was removed from his suddenly slack hand. A very strong hand pushed him none too gently onto the cushions.

  ~~~

  Bethel opened his eyes and lay motionless, licking at swollen lips. He was limp. He felt mauled and ached. A dull, relentless pain throbbed from his feet to his chest, his head pounded viciously and he was deeply nauseous. His dozing had been troubled, because he learned very quickly the warlord didn't encourage sleep in his boys and knew, too, his drunkenness was a blessing. His very hazy recollection of the night made him shake with dread and revulsion.

  He looked nervously to his right and studied the warlord who lay sprawled, an arm outflung, a grim smile about his lips, the cold eyes closed, and the barrel chest, covered by thick blond hair, rising and falling evenly. The mane of long blond curls was dishevelled and fell away from a cruel face the boy was too terrified to look at for any length of time. The boy noticed the beard was redder than he'd thought the night before and it was tangled. Bethel took in the rich multiple earrings, the rings adorning each finger, the bracelets that ringed even the upper arms and the opulent bejewelled collar and necklaces. The warlord looked powerful and formidable.

  Bethel knew deep fear as he stared briefly at the massive warrior immediately next to him. He felt vulnerable and trapped. At the same time, a small spark of defiant hatred and loathing for what the warlord had done to him burned in Bethel. He had a desperate hope Lodestok would tire of him soon and kill him, because it would be preferable to what he now suffered which the boy instinctively knew would be repeated for as long as the warlord kept him. Bethel was shaken by a deep shudder.

  As the boy thought this, the arctic eyes opened and lighted on him. Bethel lay still, breath catching in his throat as he flinched from the touch. However, all the warlord did was lazily unplait the mostly now loose but tousled dark hair and shake it free, then when the curls tumbled about Bethel's shoulders and back, Lodestok gave a satisfied sigh. His hand began to play with them.

  This was interrupted by Sarssen who entered the pavilion with a loaded tray in his hands. He unobtrusively set out the food and drinks on a table at the far side of the pavilion and waited for Lodestok to turn on to his side and gesture the younger man to approach.

  "Good morning, boy," he greeted him affably. Sarssen stood next to the bed, bowing deeply.

  "Good morning, my lord."

  The warlord rolled onto his back and looked down at Bethel who closed his eyes
and kept them shut. Lodestok looked back up at Sarssen with some amusement, a glint in his eyes.

  "I do not wish to be disturbed, boy. Do I make myself clear?"

  Sarssen nodded understanding, his eyes flickering to Bethel. He watched Lodestok run a finger from the boy's throat to his chest, Sarssen noticing how pale the boy's face was, and, when Bethel opened his eyes and looked directly up at him, how anguished the large eyes were. He drew his own conclusions, felt profound pity for the boy, but accepted he had to ignore the plea in the big expressive eyes. He'd been forced to become inured to this over cycles, though he felt in some way this child was different. He turned to leave but paused, noticing the near empty carafe and picking it up.

  "Do you wish for more wine, my lord?"

  "Bring it later," was the lazy response. "I do not need it."

  Sarssen agreed, but as he glanced briefly at the boy again, he thought Bethel was badly in need of it. However, Sarssen just shrugged and quietly left the pavilion, aware as he did that the boy's experience of life as the warlord's boy only began.

  Bethel closed his eyes again so he didn't have to look into cold and gloating eyes. He turned onto his side, bitter tears wetting the cushions as he wept for the older brother who'd always been there for him and never let him be hurt. He felt the warlord's hand move again, the touch just one of casual ownership.

  ~~~

  Sarssen heard the child's wrenching cry as he left his own pavilion. He stopped. The cry went through him like a knife and took him back, yet again, to a small boy at the warlord's mercy for the first time. Sarssen shook his head and braced himself for another scream. None came. Puzzled, he waited, closer to the warlord's pavilion. No sound came. In his mind's eye, he kept seeing the haunted purple eyes that looked so directly up into his and had to give himself a mental shake as he went about his business, only to suddenly stop, his expression arrested. Fleetingly, pain and anguish touched his mind, on and off, highly erratic and uncontrolled. He was considerably startled and wondered if someone in the slave pens had unknown ability, even if it was clearly untrained. He frowned. The sensation was of someone quite young. Then it was gone.

  Sarssen waited for a recurrence. It came, then abruptly stopped. He decided if it came again, it would be wise to promptly arrest and contain it before those like Lokar and Jaden experienced the same sensation and tracked it to source. Again he waited. This time, as the sensation came, it was fainter though more anguished and though it made Sarssen's skin crawl, he managed to divert the startlingly powerful surge into a safer channel where it could be controlled. His frown was ferocious.

  At the first and only cry, Lokar, the warlord's senior reader/seeker, looked up from what he was reading with a faint smile as he realised the warlord amused himself with yet another boy. He shrugged and went back to his book.

  ~~~

  Shock and humiliation passed, pain an accepted part of the boy's existence. The spark of defiant hatred died. Bethel had no energy for any emotion, other than a wish to survive as he practised what Myme Chlo taught him and took small comfort from that as the hours with the warlord passed.

  He learned very quickly to do whatever was demanded of him, only once abhorrence and fear making the boy refuse. Lodestok's method of exacting compliance was instant and vicious. Choking on strangled sobs, Bethel, cowed and badly hurting, obeyed. Over this brief span of time Bethel was coerced to abject submission, the warlord's domination absolute, all that was done to the boy making his status painfully clear. Emotionally and physically, Bethel's subjection was complete. The boy was a mere possession, nothing more.

  Bethel's enforced submission was quite unlike that of other slaves who learned to instantly obey. Bethel, in some way, went beyond mere obedience. His surrender was absolute. His subconscious made him sublimate a whole part of himself as an instinctual survival mechanism and that, in combination with what Myme Chlo taught him, made the mechanism activate itself in a way that wasn't a conscious thing – Bethel had no awareness of it.

  On the second morning, Sarssen entered the warlord's pavilion to find Lodestok fully clad and striding up and down in his energetic way, a frown on his face. Upon Sarssen entering, the warlord looked up and crossed to him, took the tray and placed it on the table.

  "In a good hour, boy. Sit and eat with me."

  There was little conversation because Lodestok was never communicative in the early morning and Sarssen only gave the still figure on the bed a quick glance, as he wondered idly, and somewhat sadly, if perhaps this lovely boy had died after all. He sighed faintly, thinking it was rare for any boy to last as long as this.

  It was as he drained his tankard that he saw a slight movement on the bed and heard a sigh. Sarssen was surprised and gratified his first reading of the boy was correct; he'd thought the boy was not only different but had unusual resilience. He thought about the sensations he'd caught repeatedly the day before and wondered if they could possibly come from this child. A smile the warlord didn't see touched the warrior's green eyes. Lodestok also heard the sigh. A sardonic smile played about his mouth as he turned to look across the pavilion.

  "So you are awake now, are you, little bud?" The figure on the bed propped itself wearily on its elbows and looked blearily at the two men at the table.

  "Yes, my lord."

  Already Bethel could understand the basics of southern language, though he could speak barely any of it because it was so complex and usually sounded harshly guttural. What startled him was the warlord's grasp of Samar. It was a language he'd obviously taught himself to be fluent in, as was Sarssen, but was a language he preferred not to use. He only occasionally lapsed into it with Bethel because he realised the boy was confused and simply didn't understand.

  It was also apparent the warlord expected his slaves to very quickly learn to comprehend him, either through visual signs or through a smattering of Churchik. It was a lesson already learned by Bethel. What made things easier for him was that neither the warlord, nor Sarssen, had the guttural intonation he heard all round him, but indeed spoke clearly and without a trace of southern accent.

  "I have no need of you today. You will go with Sarssen." Lodestok spoke in Samar.

  "Yes, my lord," was the repeated assent, followed by a prodigious yawn.

  "And, petal -." Lodestok paused, studying his tankard before he glanced amused at Sarssen. "Such a charming name for him, do you not think so? A bud unfurling petals?" He turned from Sarssen before the younger man had to make a response and directed his voice back across the pavilion to Bethel. "You will obey Sarssen as you would myself - or else..." The voice was silky and full of threat.

  "I will, my lord."

  "I am sure you will be wise enough to do so, petal." Lodestok turned back to Sarssen, his hand extended. He now spoke in Churchik. "This is his key. He wears his chains at all times - unless he is with me. Do you understand?" Sarssen took the key.

  "Entirely, my lord. What do you wish me to do with him?" Lodestok shrugged indifferently.

  "He needs a bath, so you can start with that." The warlord drained his tankard, got to his feet and strode over to the bed. He looked down. His words were to Sarssen. "I shall keep him. He is, I have discovered, as yet unmarked, a fact I find surprising. You will immediately both mark and brand him so that, should the child be foolish enough to attempt to escape, he can be returned to me for instant retribution. The mark will not be such as to disfigure this most charming of countenances, Sarssen." Lodestok stared down at Bethel with a steely gaze and the boy quivered, though he'd not entirely understood what was said. The tone implied enough. "Just make sure he is with me early this evening. I expect him to be watched."

  On those words, the warlord turned on his heel and left the pavilion.

  Bethel hauled himself up the huge bed, shivering uncontrollably even though outside it was already warm and would get steadily hotter until nightfall. He sat there with a fur pulled round him for warmth, and looked nervously and beseechingly across at Sarsse
n who lounged in a chair studying him.

  "Well, little boy, you have so far survived." He spoke in fluent Samar. Bethel's teeth chattered.

  "Yes." He thought an affirmative was safe enough.

  "You seem to have taken our lord's fancy, do you not?"

  Bethel didn't answer. The shivering made his very deep aches and pains worse. Nausea gripped him. Sarssen rose in a leisurely way, crossed to the bed and put out a hand imperatively. Unwillingly, Bethel took it. The skin fell away and he was tumbled to the ground. Sarssen looked hard at the boy for a moment. He realised the boy was too battered and sore to help himself, plucked the skin from the bed, stooped to wrap it round the shaking figure, and lifted the very slight boy into his arms. He was conscious of the dark head that fell back onto his chest.

  Bethel relaxed in the tub, the warmth that seeped through him making him forget the pain. His first bath was hurried. This was a pleasure even if the water made cuts from the warlord's more ferocious moments sting. Lying there in a reverie he let his thoughts drift and even briefly forgot what the warlord had done to him and instead thought only of his home and his family. As one day passed he lived for the next. He felt a certain pride in that, against all odds, he was still alive. He let his head fall back and without being aware of it, fell asleep.

  When Sarssen returned, he stared down at the sleeping boy in some amusement. He stooped and shook him.

  "Time you were out, boy. Get yourself dried and put on these clothes."

  Sarssen nodded across at the armful he'd laid on his bed. Warily, Bethel clambered from the tub. Sarssen ignored him. He went over to a table, sat at it, drew a long curved knife from the sheath on the belt he wore at his hips, and picked up a whetstone that he methodically used to sharpen the knife. As Bethel pulled on the breeches, he looked across uneasily at the warrior because he remembered what he'd thought were the warlord's last words. His unease increased when Sarssen put the whetstone down and ran his finger over the edge of the knife. Bethel's mouth felt drier than ever. His fingers shook as he pulled the shirt over his head and utterly refused to do up the buttons on his jerkin, so he stopped trying. He pulled on boots that were too tight but simply laced them. He sat still.