"Bensar tells me Alleghy sent him a report about you, boy."
Lodestok's voice was soft and silky, his hand pushing strongly on Bethel's shoulder as he spoke. Under the pressure Bethel sank onto the cushions beside the warlord where the hand kept him quite still. He turned his head but made no effort to rise.
"It seems Alleghy is impressed with you, flower. He describes you as patient and humble, well aware of your position in the warrior hierarchy and with no presumption. You show deference and respect, are prepared to learn, accept correction and seldom repeat mistakes." The large hand played in the long curls. "Are you impressed so far, my pretty, pretty petal?" Bethel didn't move.
"If it pleases you, my lord," he murmured.
"Such submission," mocked the silky voice. "You apparently show goodwill to others, are acceptably sociable without moving from your slave status, show strong qualities of leadership and will not be bullied. It is all quite overwhelming, is it not, my very lovely young flower?" Bethel felt unable to answer and flung out a hand that was immediately held firmly. "I believe Bensar wishes to see you. You are back with him, yes?"
"Yes, my lord."
"I am pleased with your progress, petal. I told you I would have no soft warriors about me. Now, flower, it is not yet dawn and there is time to pass before you will rise and serve me." Bethel lifted his head a little to respond but one hand kept him prone. He relaxed back and closed his eyes.
~~~
When Bethel appeared in Bensar's pavilion he saw the same uncompromising face he looked into two cycles before, the expression as harsh and the eyes as calculating and bleakly cold. Bensar contemplatively studied the tall young warrior standing erect in front of him, the dark head correctly bent in deference. His voice was as unsympathetic as Bethel remembered it.
"When you first came to me to be trained, warrior, you were raw. You have learned much, have you not?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Bethel, carefully keeping his head down.
"I am told you handle your men in an unusual way, boy."
"My lord?" Bethel lifted his head only briefly, his eyes fleetingly meeting the haskar's.
"You do not use the whip, boy. Why is that?" Bensar saw the very faint but involuntary flinch Bethel gave and a smile touched hard eyes.
"It is not necessary, my lord."
"Maybe so, maybe not. It is early days yet, boy. However, your men are always disciplined and work well. That is all credit to you, warrior."
"My lord," murmured Bethel, his heart racing a little. Praise was unexpected and rarely offered.
"Haskar Alleghy thinks highly of you," the harsh voice went on. "Do you consider yourself worthy of him?"
"I try, my lord," replied Bethel honestly, lifting his head for a second time and looking directly at the haskar, a gesture Bensar noted with approval. "I am no better than those I train with." Respectfully, Bethel looked away.
"I agree, warrior, no better and no worse." There was a long pause, then Bensar said austerely, "I did not have hopes of you to begin with, warrior, because you are younger in all ways than those of our race at the same age. You were but a child when you passed the warrior trials, an achievement I found surprising at the time. I have since changed that opinion. You will assist at cavalry drill with a group of newly made warriors, as from today."
Bensar saw sheer disbelief in the large eyes that now stared at him. He allowed himself to consider the young man dispassionately. What he saw gave him pause. He observed an unusually tall young man still scarcely past youth, thin, extremely gentle, shyly modest and unassuming, and who drove himself very hard in a way that earned him the reluctant, grudging respect of many senior warriors. Bensar knew that somehow this boy could command the respect of some of the toughest foot soldiers in the southern army and he wondered at it now as he stared thoughtfully at Bethel. It was a deliberate ploy of Bensar's to give Bethel Kel's men as the quickest means of breaking the boy. It was done so the warlord wouldn't inflict a weakling slave foreigner on any other elite warrior. Looking at Bethel, Bensar acknowledged he'd seriously misread this young one.
The young man had extraordinary sensitivity that showed in so many ways - it was quite alien to the Churchik. There was an odd fragility and delicacy about him, too, he was obviously aesthetic and a deeply gifted musician, yet, considered Bensar with hitched eyebrows, this boy had hidden strengths belied by his singularly girlish beauty and unusual sensuality. Bensar's glance travelled from the finely-boned face, dark-bearded now, with the big alluring eyes that were so eloquent, to the very long queue that hung over Bethel's left shoulder. His look took in the long tapered fingers and the slender body with very broad shoulders that the haskar was aware never seemed to fill out. He nodded abruptly at Bethel.
"You are no longer a junior warrior, Beduar. You are ready for more responsibility - make sure you do not disappoint us." Bethel swallowed, his pulse racing so fast he felt dizzy.
"My lord," he managed to respond.
He remembered to bend his head but not before Bensar saw pleasure and pride light the big expressive eyes. Bethel bowed courteously and backed from the pavilion. He was pounced on by Luth who impatiently shook his arm and demanded to know what was said.
"Tell, Beth. Where do you go now?"
"Luth," began Bethel seriously, then he grinned widely. "Luth, I am a beduar!"
"Gods!" wheezed Luth, on a deep chuckle. "Whoever heard of a Samar being a beduar with the Churchik? Beth, I am so pleased for you, my friend." With Luth's arm draped about his shoulder, Beth allowed his friend to guide him to a mess for a drink.
Luth's shouts of delight brought up heads and made Manas, sprawled negligently across a table playing conet, turn his head, throw in his hand and come to join them. Bethel was thrust onto a bench while Luth got tankards with which they could celebrate.
"What pleases Luth so?" asked Manas, with a grin in Luth's direction. "He is beduar. So, Beth, am I. I wish you could be with us," he added, turning back to Bethel and studying him seriously.
"I am," was the quiet response. Manas stared at Bethel incredulously.
"Bensar has made you a beduar, Beth?" Bethel nodded and saw pleasure light the young Churchik's pale eyes.
"Ah, Beth, this delights me." He put out his hand and grasped one of Bethel's for a long moment. "Beth, this is so much more credit to you than it is to Luth and me. We are born to this. You are not. Does this not give you some pride to know you have gone beyond being a slave?"
"With you and Luth, yes," replied Bethel, taking a tankard with a nod at Luth. Manas let go the hand he held. "I will always be the warlord's boy slave, Manas. I accept that is how my life will run."
"You are not a slave to us, Beth. Is he, Luth?" Luth spoke without hesitation.
"No, he is not. You are Beth, warrior beduar, our friend."
Bethel leaned back relaxed, determined to enjoy himself and took the good-humoured ragging that ensued after the first few tankards were drained and replenished. He dreamily thought that here was where his life would be and that to fight being a Churchik was futile. It gave him a peace of mind that had continued to elude him. He was aware of a desire to be with his family so they could see how and what he was and so he could reassure himself about them - as philosophical as he'd become, he knew that was impossible.
~~~
Brue was scarcely ten cycles at the time Queeb joined the northern army. He was bright and vivacious. He mostly wandered freely about the main Sushi encampment when he wasn't at work in the stables or learning his lessons with a most fierce older retired Sushi scholar called Ospero.
Ospero was called upon to take the active youngster in hand, when it became clear to Ceda and Maren that their charge was more than a handful for the regular tutors who travelled with the Sushi army. It wasn't that Brue was deliberately disobedient, but he demanded constant attention purely through intelligence and an enquiring mind. He wouldn't sit and passively absorb as so many his age did.
So Ospero came to
Maren's quarters one evening, his white scrawny beard askew and his bald pate shiny in the lamplight as he sat and silently studied Brue who stared incredulously back at him. It seemed incredible to the boy that one so old could teach him anything but he sat silent under the scrutiny, only fidgeting when it went on for longer than expected. Then he was startled when the old man raised a finger at him, rose, smiled in amused tolerance at him and then left in company with Maren.
The next day, Maren took Brue firmly by the hand, mid-morning when his chores were done and escorted the rather bewildered boy to Ospero's quarters. There, he was sat down. Maren left. Brue began to learn as he'd never done before, his teacher unorthodox, demanding discipline and instant response every minute he was in the scholar's company. His brain weary, he staggered from the tent at mid-sun, only to be remorselessly returned there after eating until it was time for him to be back in the stables attending to returning horses.
After two weeks Brue adjusted to his eccentric teacher in a most positive way, Maren delighted with the boy's sudden lack of constant inquisitiveness and the quieter more reflective demeanour. Nor did the Captain have to touch his belt to encourage Brue to read and practise what he learned during the day, Brue picking up his books without any prompting, his copper head bent industriously every night. The Captain wrote to Sarehl and read, with amusement, the relief that came through Sarehl's reply. It was only barely a season before the Strategos was to join the army, bringing with him the first detachment of Kyaran troops and the promise of immediate support from the Elban princedoms.
Over those first months Queeb saw the boy frequently but had nothing to do with him and was still keeping a low profile, though he already rose in the ranks. Nor did he link the boy with the Strategos whom Queeb knew from camp gossip was due to join up with the northern army in a short time. Queeb had sent that information on to the warlord days before. Had Queeb connected Brue with Sarehl, Brue wouldn't have been safe for a moment. The boy would've been in the warlord's hands.
So the weeks passed, Sarehl arrived, but Queeb didn't notice how Brue was no longer around as much for a few days. If he thought about the boy's absence at all, he probably attributed it to a touch of the cold going through the camp and touching Queeb himself.
When he did see Brue about again he merely nodded pleasantly at him because he thought the boy looked more southern than northern. Eying the tall lad one morning, he thought the boy was a half-breed, possibly half-Churchik. As such he was more than prepared to be affable to the boy and began to encourage Brue to sit and talk. He made no attempt to enter the boy's mind - he had no reason to.
Brue neither especially liked nor disliked Queeb, though for some reason he couldn't fathom and that made him uncertain, he never felt entirely at ease in his presence. He strongly mistrusted him but was attracted to someone who had the time and inclination to talk. The boy was used to men like Sache and Kalor, whereas there was something furtive about Queeb. That began to fascinate Brue so, because he was intrigued, he came more often to where Queeb was. He never asked questions as other people were wont to do. He sat quietly and let Queeb talk of his travels and the people he'd met, and, since Queeb was a boastful man for whom a little power was intoxicating, he couldn't resist the temptation to show off to a deeply impressionable boy.
In this he underestimated Brue. The boy's upbringing was more than unusual because he'd been in the company of adult men since he was small, nor was he used to being talked down to. He didn't respond well to it. Having lived in a military environment, with constant discussion ebbing and flowing about him, Brue had picked up considerable knowledge and had developed a shrewd and quick mind in picking up nuances in speech. He was even sharper at picking up what wasn't said.
As he listened to Queeb, day after day, the boy began to be aware of inconsistencies in what the older man was saying though there was little for Brue to go on. Brue never queried it, but he began to shape his few questions or comments more particularly to see how Queeb would answer him.
Relaxed and confident Queeb never thought about the questions, ingenuously couched as they were. The more Brue listened, the more uncertain and suspicious he became. As the weeks passed, new references to the Strategos made him edgy and when he became tenser near Queeb the older man sensed it immediately.
"What ails you, young one?" he asked one day. "You seem nervy." Brue gave him a sideways glance, then shrugged boyishly.
"I hear them talking about war," he began confidingly, then he gave his endearing grin that as suddenly faded. "I get anxious about it."
"No need, boy," said Queeb smiling down at him, Brue aware again of rotten teeth and a stinking breath. "A boy your age need have no fears. Leave that to adult men, boy."
"I fear capture," admitted Brue. "They say Churchik warriors hurt boys in nasty ways and I don't wish to be a slave to any of them either." Queeb put a hand on Brue's shoulder.
"A lot of nonsense is spoken of enemies, boy. You shouldn't believe all you hear."
The advice was kindly given but there was an edge to the man's voice that Brue quickly caught. He demurred then changed the subject, talking instead about horses that had become a passion, his blue eyes alight as he prattled. Queeb indulged him, an odd smile off affection for this unusual boy touching his thin lips. Queeb's eyes never smiled.
As time passed, Queeb rose steadily in rank and he began to look forward to Brue's daily visits, never considering to ask who the boy was or to whom he was related. It surprised him that he'd come to care so for the boy. He listened to Brue chatter in response to something he said, his hand sometimes rested gently on the young copper head.
Another season went by before Brue sought Kalor. The boy had known Queeb nearly two seasons but had the odd sense the older man had been around for much longer. It was a fancy that puzzled Brue on and off for long weeks. Now he'd become very nervous and anxious about his brother and found it hard to disguise his feelings in Queeb's company, something he instinctively felt was dangerous both to himself and possibly to others. He kept his worry to himself, until today when Queeb said something that disturbed Brue profoundly. Also Queeb asked, casually, where the Strategos received his food. Brue was instantly alert.
~~~
The block of ice that was Lian fell abruptly to the floor of the cavern where it bounced once then came to rest. It sat there for some time. Then it began to crack, slowly at first, a hairline splinter across the top of the block that spread lower and lower, before a sudden and rapid thawing melted the ice. The outline of a man's shape began to emerge, though it could be seen he wasn't wet. The form didn't struggle. It seemed incapable of any action on its own behalf.
Blue eyes blinked in the face of a man turned twenty-eight cycles. The straight hair was very long and blond but deeply flecked with white and silver, odd looking in one so youthful. It contrasted with the young face. The man was taller than the Dahkilan but lacked the greater Samar height and he was certainly nothing like the build of the Churchik. He was slight and fine-boned. He seemed bewildered, lifting first one elegant slender hand then another to his head. While he stood motionless, his eyes flickered about the cavern. He still blinked without pause.
There was nervous apprehension about the man. He took a tentative step back, then another, his hands going up either to ward off the unknown or as a placatory gesture. He stopped when he couldn't go any further. Had anyone been close to him they'd have seen fear in deep blue eyes that kept looking searchingly from one point of the cavern to another.
It took the man time to sum up the courage to go outside. He almost crept out, his eyes half-closed against light he was unaccustomed to and that blinded him. He stumbled across the ground until he reached a tree where he stayed, clinging rather desperately to the trunk, then, as the hours passed he slipped to the base of the tree where he stayed, crouched.
A late northern patrol found him. He stared up at them, his mouth open, but no sound emerged. He was badly afraid. It was a Kyaran patrol. Th
ey dealt extremely roughly with anyone they suspected of being from the enemy camp so the man was hauled roughly to his feet and a whip was suspended over him. As his eyes followed the whip, Lian gave a half-strangled sob, his voice husky with fright and lack of use.
"Not you, too!" he implored in a whisper, his head bending to his hands.
An older man stepped forward, his eyes suddenly curious. He held out his hand but Lian, too crushed and confused, ignored it. The man realised the slight figure wasn't a Churchik.
"Are you a slave from the Churchik camp?" he asked calmly. When Lian lifted his head the older Kyaran saw such disorientation mixed with terror in the man's eyes that he actually flinched.
"Gods, are they here?" whispered Lian shuddering. The Kyaran watched as Lian sank abjectly to his knees, his hands out.
"You're not from the camp, are you?" asked the Kyaran, startled by the submissive posture of the man his men had let sink to the ground. Lian made no move.
"No," he managed helplessly, his voice a rasping croak.
"Where then?"
"Ortok, in the forest bounding the city in Samar." Lian stared up at the Kyaran, such a lost and desolate expression on his face the older man stooped and grasped Lian's shoulder. He felt terrified tension. "Don't let the warriors near. I'll do whatever I'm told."
Lian was lifted gently to his feet, the hand holding him not unkind. The Kyaran stroked bushy whiskers.
"There's something strange about this," he murmured, turning to the other men. "This man reacts more than most to the Churchik. Isn't Ortok where the Strategos comes from?" Mumbling assent greeted that and nodding heads from men studying Lian with interest. He wasn't aware of it, his head back in his hands. "We'll take him to the Strategos then."
Lian hung limply in the Kyarans' grip, submission in every part of him. He obeyed them implicitly though he understood only half of what they said to him. He found himself in a huge camp where there was activity all about, the noise and movement distressing for him and his eyes registering a marked degree of disorientation and discomfort. Nor could he walk easily. He stumbled, missing his footing more often than not.
He made no effort to protect himself from men who marched through endless small camps and then between myriad small tents set up in a forest for as far as he could see. He was eventually pushed through the entrance of a large pavilion where the grip on him loosened. He stood shakily, his eyes downcast. His knees were unruly.