Warlord

by Katy Winter

He wasn't sure why, but he was present in the pavilion the day the warlord was told of an assault that worked seriously to Lodestok's disadvantage. The warlord stormed, bullied, cuffed Bethel hard and swore he'd pay a high price for the head of the man who seemed to be organising the refugee attacks. Bethel, crouched at the far side of the pavilion, only came reluctantly forward at the imperious hand gesture.

  "This Sarehl is one of yours, little blossom," snarled Lodestok. Bethel had trained himself to such an extent that he didn't flinch and managed creditable indifference. He moved over to a cabinet and removed a goblet and a wineskin.

  "My lord," he replied with a yawn. The warlord glared malevolently at him.

  "Do you know the Sarehl spoken of, boy?"

  "It's an Ortokian name, my lord, that much I know." Bethel pulled at one of his earrings as if considering the matter, before he poured wine and proffered it on bended knee.

  "Is he a military commander then?"

  "Not when I was there, my lord. We didn't have commanders. Perhaps he was an apprentice if he's young."

  "Not the man I seek. He is trained in technique and knows well what he is about," growled Lodestok, gulping at the wine. He looked over at Bethel who stood gracefully while he finished decanting the wine. Bethel finished what he was doing and gave a quaint little bow. The warlord gave a cool smile. "Trying to charm me, little bloom?" he asked silkily.

  "If it is my lord's wish," Bethel responded.

  He dutifully knelt beside the warlord, his head bent respectfully. Lodestok stared down at the boy for a long time, one large hand playfully pulling on one of Bethel's earrings and conscious this boy helped dissipate his anger and soothed him. He couldn't be bothered pursuing this disturbing thought.

  Bethel recalled that conversation as he stood now, staring out to the forest. He didn't often let himself think of his family because he assumed all his brothers were dead and he'd no idea what happened to Myme Chlo, though his fears of what her fate might have been caused him appalling distress. He hoped desperately that she, too, died early on. Thinking of them all made him feel choked with despair and affected his mental control.

  Without conscious thought, he sent gently into the space between himself and the forest, gradually extending his seeking to the forest itself. With his enhanced sensory perceptions, he saw light dapple the glades, heard the songs of birds and insects, and even caught the rustling of leaves beginning to fall to the forest floor and the faint sighing of a breeze in the undergrowth.

  He couldn't sense anything specific, but eventually became aware of the physical presence of a small group of people. Intuitively, he tried to read, though he knew he hadn't yet mastered the art of distance reading and did this more as an experiment from which he'd soon withdraw. On a superficial level, he sensed seven or eight persons who spoke of orphaned children further north. At this point he thought about a discreet retreat. Something urged him on, a mental spur he didn't stop to consider, then, when Bethel tried to concentrate on only one mind, he got a mental slap that made him abruptly withdraw.

  The shock made the images in his mind reel and whirl in distressed mayhem. His discipline shattered. Frantically, Bethel forced himself to retain control. It made him feel physically quite sick. Knowing how dangerous it was, he hadn't intended to use his newly acquired skills because an undisciplined mind could unravel into madness, something he'd been repeatedly warned about. He wondered at his stupidity.

  Then, with another wave of nausea, he thought perhaps someone had tried to use him. He was at a loss to know why. He sought back carefully, through his mind, for the unmistakable trace that was always left by a mind meld. He came back to when he'd been standing staring at the forest and there he traced the subtle disturbance in his mind pattern. It was infinitesimal, but it was there.

  Intently, Bethel focused on it as he'd been taught by Morjah, carefully sifting the patterns until he held the irregular disturbed one. He wasn't certain, but felt sure he knew the person who'd touched his mind and directed him. He was equally sure it was a reader. That made him shake with fright. He looked closely at the disturbance and struggled to extract the colour essence. As he watched, the pattern moved and a green tinge emerged.

  Bethel was a very patient boy. He waited for a long time for the green to pulse in the pattern again. It did, fractionally. It was enough for Bethel to hold it for barely a second. The pattern stilled, but Bethel held it before it shifted and he felt Jaden's touch, cold, skilled and venomous. Already Bethel had withdrawn, so Jaden didn't sense him as he quietly and quickly left the boy's mind.

  Jaden, standing beyond the disassembled pavilion, had used the boy to see how much Bethel knew. That way he could respond to the demand from the warlord for a report on Bethel's progress. The reader was amused the boy unwittingly touched a reader mind in the forest and suffered for it. He'd have a bad headache for a while. Jaden accepted he'd pushed the boy too far, too soon, and had higher expectations than were justified. The boy's inability to control an impulsive reaction suggested to the healer that Bethel had reached a level of learning that was far enough for his ability and the boy would go no further. His fundamental skills were entirely unthreatening. Jaden was unworried. He felt he could assuage any anxiety the warlord might feel. The healer felt, erroneously, the boy was essentially very limited and wouldn't prove to be any serious threat, either now or later.

  The reader would have been deeply concerned had he followed Bethel obeying the rules for bringing back his control. Jaden would've been incredulous and angered as well as startled and highly displeased to know the boy had both the ability to mind backtrack, the sense to do exactly that and also had the skill to isolate the intruder in his mind. Jaden went into the boy's mind with a preconceived idea of what he'd find. Bethel's survival hinged on the reader's arrogance.

  Bethel concentrated on his breathing. He shook from head to toe and sweated. Icy fear played up and down his spine at the realisation of an enemy he hadn't known existed. He wondered if Jaden hoped to lose him in a mind meld, or during a seeking or reading, and asked himself why. He also began to wonder about his poisoning and who may have been behind it, alarming suspicions coming to his mind.

  Bethel knew Jaden was both clever and talented, with training beyond a boy's by cycles and levels. Bethel was simply no match for him and knew it. He could only be grateful that Jaden made a slip this time so he could be recognized, and the boy chastised himself for letting his mind wander so casually. He felt he'd been taught a valuable lesson just in time.

  Trying to decide what to do, Bethel turned resolutely from the forest and noticed the pavilion was down, the camp well on the way to being broken. As he hesitated, he saw the huge figure of the warlord cross the pavilion site and knew he'd been seen. Immediately, out of habit, he slipped into passive mode and waited. Lodestok strode up to him in his usual energetic way and spoke in a hectoring voice.

  "Look up, boy. Two goblets, wine, and a pleasant morning." Bethel felt a large hand at his torc and then a definite tug. "Come, boy. We have a little time to spare before we ride." The silky deep voice lowered as Bethel felt his chin gripped and his head tilted. "You do wish to keep me company, little flower, do you not?" the warlord asked persuasively.

  Bethel knew better than to touch the hand at his torc; it was always ready to twist and choke him.

  Bethel found the army ready to march when he emerged from the grove. Lodestok may have revelled but his army hadn't. The entire camp was dismantled, wagons were loaded, chariots had been assembled and were gathered, horses fretted between the traces and were held by cowed slaves. Horses were saddled and men armed, ready to obey the warlord the instant the order was given to move.

  There was always a strange quietness before the army moved, Bethel thought, as he limped towards one of the last fires still burning. Talk was muted among any men huddled about the embers but even so there was an air of intense anticipation. Bethel knelt stiffly. He didn't notice whether he was treated with disdain or c
ontempt by the men nearest him. From another slave, he took hunks of bread and cheese and a tankard of the heavy ale the men drank, then, without a word, he began to tear at the bread ravenously, washing it down with long draughts from the tankard. Grumbling, the men put hands out to catch the last of the heat and ignored the thin boy beside them.

  Bethel didn't hurry. He was already very tired, even at this early stage of the day and his experience with Jaden preyed on his mind. He knew he had a long day in the saddle, but to cope with Lodestok's demands Bethel had learned long ago to go for long periods without rest. Physical exhaustion he was accustomed to. It was his brain that felt clouded and weary.

  In the distance he saw the warlord come from the grove. He clambered to his feet and stood quite still, hoping he was inconspicuous enough to avoid being summoned again. Since Lodestok's footstep was light and the heavy frown he habitually wore was absent, Bethel hoped it was a sign the warlord wouldn't be unnecessarily brutal with his men this day, Lodestok's cruelty something Bethel had never got used to and he knew he never would.

  Bethel knew he had a short respite from the warlord, while Lodestok ate and then addressed the army, so he slipped away like a shadow. No one saw him go. The boy sought Morjah, but he had to look hard for the little healer because the reader seekers were carefully dispersed among the ranks and along the baggage slave train. Bethel found him finally, at the end of one section of the baggage train, fettered to a wagon wheel and looking decidedly pale. He didn't notice the boy until Bethel was almost on top of him and then the healer smiled up at the tall boy, with such sweetness in his expression Bethel felt his heart stir with pity.

  "Boy," said the healer gently. "I wondered where you'd got to. No more formal teaching for some miles to come." Bethel looked at the healer's chains in disgust.

  "How can you walk carrying those heavy things?" he asked. Leaning against the wheel for support, Morsh shrugged.

  "You learn to accept your lot," he answered indifferently. "I could've been made armless, tongueless or legless by these people. Instead, all I have to bear are chains. And," continued Morsh, "your chains, though not as heavy, are still chains, lad."

  Looking down at the fine gold chain that linked his ankles one to the other, Bethel felt rebuked. He could walk reasonably comfortably but hadn't been able to run from the day the warlord enslaved him. Lodestok usually unlocked the chains when Bethel was with him, but locked them before the boy was permitted to leave his side. It was one thing the warlord would permit no one else to do, other than Sarssen or the night guard.

  "You might be tempted to try to run from me, my little bud," Lodestok said once, so gently that Bethel flinched at the inherent threat. "I shall remove any temptation you may feel." Bethel never saw where the warlord kept the keys.

  Now, as he looked down at Morsh, he sighed deeply.

  "That's true, Morjah," he answered, tiredly rubbing his eyes.

  "You've just come from being with the warlord, lad, haven't you?"

  "Does it show?" came the weary response.

  "Aye, lad, it does. With those chains, how on Ambros do you mount a horse?"

  "I'm unchained to get in the saddle and then chained to each stirrup. Should I be so stupid as to try anything like spurring my horse, I must remember there's also a chain from my torc to the warlord's wrist." Bethel spoke without bitterness. He'd accepted he was a slave captive from the very first. He added resignedly, "Doubtless my master would kill me without a second thought."

  "Doubtless he would," agreed Morsh, quietly observing him. "Why are your mind patterns so disordered, child?"

  Bethel leaned next to the healer against the wheel. Briefly, he outlined what'd occurred with Jaden and saw a frown gather on Morsh's face.

  "Morjah, I was foolish to be so forgetful. I won't again."

  "You're only a boy, Beth, and couldn't be expected to prepare for that kind of meld. Jaden's taken at fault for behaving in such a way. You're very lucky the mind you touched merely brushed you away." Morsh went silent, his eyes staring into the distance. Then he said determinedly, "You must be taught protection, lad. That's what we'll begin to teach you, before we move on to other things."

  "What shall I do, Morjah? I can't compete with Jaden."

  "No you can't, lad," agreed Morsh, his eyes still slightly unfocused. "We'll have to be very careful." Morsh rubbed at where the metal chaffed his wrists, then astonished Bethel by saying, "So we shall proceed."

  "How can we?" protested Bethel. "You're locked here and I'm locked to the warlord. I can't learn on a horse." Morsh chuckled.

  "Child, you can learn anywhere." He hushed Bethel's objections and bade him listen. "You can make an excuse to come to the baggage train - that's not unusual. How useful it is that I'm attached to it, because nearly everyone comes this way at some stage of the day. I'll teach you in short spells. That'll be sufficient for you to learn and to practise, which you must do diligently, lad. It's no longer a matter of choice. You must learn and quickly."

  "I promise you I will, Morjah," said Bethel, straightening and staring down at the little reader with affection. "One day I hope I may be able to repay you in some way for what you do for me."

  "Perhaps," came the reply, "but there's a long road ahead of you, lad, and you must learn very fast."

  When a guard came towards them, Morsh immediately abased himself. Bethel quickly lowered his head and hunched.

  "What are you doing here, boy?" demanded the guard, staring hard at Bethel. "You're the warlord's fancy boy, aren't you?" Bethel didn't reply. The guard snickered and in passing put a boot into Morsh's ribs. "Take yourself off, boy, before I use my cane to mark your pretty buttock."

  Bethel bit on his lower lip even though it was still sore and turned away.

  The army, like a huge black spider sprawled over the landscape, began a ponderous move within the hour. If nothing else, the move out was orderly, each warrior aware of his mortality if it wasn't. For the first few hours of riding nothing untoward happened, then the outriders began to report constant harassment as they were harried by one marauding group after another. The army had no option but to skirt the enormous forest that sheltered these small groups of highly organised refugees, because, to go north, the warlord had to follow the forest fringe for many miles. Such a monstrous army couldn't possibly work its way through such a dense forest. That being so, it had to endure its flanks being savaged almost without pause. Though the attacks didn't stop the army, they slowed progress considerably and the depredations on supplies became alarming.

  The assaults were short and very fierce and Bethel noticed they were very well planned, the marauders never striking the same place twice. The plunder was systematic, which made it very difficult for southern men to defend their flanks. Every so often Bethel looked across at the warlord, his heart sinking at the warlord's thunderous aspect. Lodestok's temper worsened steadily as the day progressed, his boy slave knowing things would go ill for everyone, especially himself, once a halt was called. Frequently Lodestok fidgeted with his sword; that in turn pulled sharply on Bethel's torc. It made for a thoroughly unpleasant ride.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The next thirty days stayed the same. Bethel was up at dawn, served Lodestok, rode all day, then served and amused his master again until the early hours. There was no respite. Bethel was so weary he found he dozed in the saddle off and on, then came to with a thudding heart and a squally gut. Fortunately, his horse just walked alongside the warlord's without any guidance from his rider.

  Bethel struggled against exhaustion to learn all Morsh taught him, his progress remarkable, and, though he managed to get to Morsh daily, the sessions were brief and fraught. He was shown what to do, then sent sharply away. He sat his horse, practising his disciplines until he physically sweated with the effort and his teeth were clenched. He was practising in such a way one morning when, unexpectedly, he felt the warlord's hand touch his knee. The boy's trained response was immediate. The look up at Lodestok m
ay have been strained but all the warlord saw were velvet eyes of compliance. Lodestok roughly pulled Bethel's horse close.

  "Ride close to me, flower. I would talk with you." Bethel obediently bent his head.

  "My lord."

  "Tell me, petal," began Lodestok, playfully tugging at one of Bethel's curls, "how you go with your reading and seeking." Bethel felt for one ghastly moment as if he'd died. He never knew how he managed it, but he laughed.

  "I'm only a novice, my lord," he responded, his strained face turned to face the warlord's. A huge hand stroked the boy's pale cheek.

  "Jaden tells me you have a limited degree of skill."

  "Does he, my lord? He's one who teaches me, but he's never suggested I'm out of the ordinary. He's very talented, isn't he?" Bethel forced himself to look directly into the cold eyes, though his heart quailed and he felt sick.

  "He is better than you will ever know, little blossom." The quiet menace in the warlord's voice was unmistakable. "You will confine what you learn to music, the military and history from today, little bud, is that clearly understood?" Even as he nodded, Bethel felt the cold eyes absorb him.

  He shivered at the threat, whispering, "Yes, my lord."

  When Lodestok quite deliberately put his fingers to Bethel's torc and sharply wrenched it, the boy choked down any cry. Bethel hadn't felt this degree of anxiety for nearly a season.

  "I should be loath to damage my pretty flower in any way," the quiet voice continued, "but if I have to, I will."

  The warlord released the torc, leaving Bethel with an uncomfortably pounding head. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He rode next to the warlord in silence, his eyes watering and his hands trembling as they fidgeted with the reins. Lodestok indicated that he wanted Bethel even closer. The boy automatically obeyed.

  "Well," purred the silky voice. "You will do as I say, flower, will you not?"

  "My lord," murmured Bethel, lifting his head with an effort.

  "And you do understand me, do you not, little petal?"

  "Yes, my lord, I do."

  "No more reading or seeking, little bud, other than with Jaden should he ask for you."