He went from his father's pavilion to Bensar's to be given his orders. Told curtly to enter he obeyed immediately, his head respectfully bent. Bensar studied the young acedar through narrowed eyes, his stare a measuring one. No fool, he recognised a sound but impulsive warrior, efficient in battle, callous towards others he confronted, calculating and quite ruthless. Here was a Churchik to his very bone marrow - Sven would laugh defiance at death and try to throttle it before it got to him. Bensar admired that trait in a warrior, but he knew it had to be tempered by commonsense. He thought he saw a berserker in the acedar in front of him. Bensar smiled frostily at him.
"Raise your head, Sven. You are welcome among us. Have you paid homage to your father?"
"Yes, my lord," responded Sven, his head lifting. "I have been with Haskar Alleghy for over an hour."
"And your brother?"
"Loki is still in Dahkilah, my lord. He took overlordship from me."
"And Dahkilah is still controlled?" A contemptuous smile curled Sven's upper lip.
"There is no doubt about that, my lord."
"I see." Bensar drummed his fingers on the table in front of him. "You know, do you not, that the warlord has two sons?" Sven inclined his head, though his eyes were hard. "One you know, Acedar. He is Tempkar Losaren. You would have known him as Acedar Sarssen." Sven nodded again. "The other is another slave who responds to the name of Sorien. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord," was the expressionless reply, though Sven's teeth were clenched.
"Like yourself, Sorien is a warrior."
"Another slave is so?" There was an edge to Sven's voice.
"That is what I say, Acedar. He is a beduar and it is his men I am giving you until his return."
"My lord?" Sven couldn't stop a raised eyebrow of surprise.
"Both sons have been sent south by the warlord. It is not for you to question." Bensar watched the blond head quickly bend. "Since they will be gone yet awhile you will take over Sorien's men and you will be part of my troop, entirely answerable to me."
"Yes, my lord," acquiesced Sven hastily, his eyes still lowered. He was summarily dismissed.
~~~
He entered Bethel's unsel without ceremony, strode to the centre, arrogance in his stride and stance. His frowning glance alighted on Mishak kneeling by a mattress smoothing down the furs, Bethel's boy taster drinking water from a beaker and Jane who cleaned weapons as he did fastidiously every day. All present froze, their eyes riveted to the warrior in startled alarm. Sven spoke curtly, his voice very deep.
"You are the Beduar's slaves?"
"Yes, my lord," answered Jane promptly, his mind whirling fast and his glance at the two boys a warning one. If he could Mishak would've crawled under the furs and, choking slightly, the taster cringed.
"Then in his absence you will serve me and work in with my slaves," growled Sven, flinging himself into a chair and staring belligerently at Jane.
"Certainly, my lord," agreed Jane, his mind working ever faster. "We are, though, touched by fel. You would wish to know that."
"Fel?" Sven rose instantly and spat, directly at Mishak's feet. The boy paled. "Where did you get that?"
"In Sushi lands, my lord. None of us are bad, my lord, but your other slaves -."
"The hells with my other slaves, you fool," growled Sven. "I would not have you about me. Have you got it, or are only the boys touched?" Jane bent his head.
"I'm affected too, my lord," he lied.
"And Beduar Sorien keeps you?" asked Sven incredulously. "I would have you staked out as useless, but you are another warrior's slaves. Is the man a weak fool then, or can a slave not stomach serving other slaves as they deserve?" Jane gave an eloquent shrug, his eyes not meeting either those of the two disbelieving boys or the acedar. "Are his men touched?"
"No, my lord."
"Then tell them to be ready for me in one hour. Is that clear?"
"Very, my lord," murmured Jane, unconsciously letting out a faint relieved sigh at the sight of the warrior's retreating back. Then he spat.
~~~
Sven was glad to be on the fighting line. He'd been chaffing to join the war effort and especially yearned to come to grips with northerners like Luton that he intended to despatch without mercy. Sven had a burning desire to destroy that young man and, though he knew the mage's apprentice hadn't yet come north, Sven recognised it was only a matter of time. He was prepared to wait.
So he was content to be where he was, his attitude to the men he'd command one of contempt. He showed in those first days with Bethel's men and when under Bensar's direct cavalry control, that he could be a brilliant fighter, his determination to vanquish the foe admired by beduars under him.
After the first battle that lasted nearly three appalling days, Sven was encouraged to lead sustained assaults prior to the lead up to the second battle. It was met ten days after the end of the first, both commanders needing that time to dispose of the dead and to re-deploy their troops. That took some days. Sven didn't falter. He drove Bethel's men with curses and whips. They detested him. When two men refused to fight under him it was left to Kel to quell a violent insurrection after Sven took the two men, had them stripped and then flogged. Sven was told by Kel to watch his back as a result of this but the warrior's only answer to that was to cut at Kel with his whip, promising him, at the same time, a lingering death. Kel nursed venomous thoughts and a badly cut arm. Jane watched with growing alarm.
Bethel cared for the men. Sven didn't. He didn't consider whether they had a chance in an engagement and then act accordingly. He simply didn't care. In the first day of the second battle, north against south, Sven lost large numbers of Bethel's men through a refusal to show commonsense and withdraw so the men could re-group. Quite emotionless he left the men to be butchered. It was left to Kel, aided by Jane, to wait until Sven's attention was elsewhere before they countermanded the warrior's orders. Once when Kel was downed on the field it was only because of Jane that he survived, the older stocky man helping Kel from the ground. Sven didn't notice.
Nor did Sven accept that, during this second dreadful battle that left thousands dead and wounded, his father Alleghy was wounded and dragged from his horse as a captive. In his battle-crazed state he only wanted blood.
On the third and last morning of this battle Sven was in a cavalry troop that repeatedly charged at the northerners, swords clanging against swords and axe against axe, as they engaged then disengaged. He was happy, his blue eyes blazing in berserk fury, a rigid smile on his lips. He must have looked frightening to the enemy. In one skirmish among others on the fringes of the main battle fifty horsemen from either side clashed violently. A battle cry went up from Sven as he turned his warhorse to charge into the melee, his sword sweeping in a powerful arc as he met the opposing force and decapitated the nearest rider to him. Those he'd coerced to go with him sensibly fell back.
Then Sven turned his head. When he froze he only narrowly avoided an axe brought down very close to his thigh, barely whistling past. His horse whinnied and began to back, while Sven just stared at the young man riding at him in support of the northmen. He saw a gaunt-faced young man with black eyes, strands of his short black curly hair escaping from under a helmet and his lips drawn back in what looked to Sven like a snarl. All Sven saw mocking him was the face of the young apprentice who raped his sister and then taunted him in the desert. Unable to act rationally and even knowing Luton couldn't be here with northerners and wasn't yet north with the southern army, still, he was galvanised.
In fury, Sven wrenched his horse round and rode directly at Daxel. The young northman had to swerve to avoid crashing into a horse ridden by a Churchik who looked like a madman. The warrior hauled his warhorse in close to Daxel to attack his opponent with vicious intent, his teeth bared and his wrist sweeping a sword with flexibility, grace and speed. He was a dazzling, frightening fighter. He cut and slashed so venomously that Daxel, receiving several deep cuts, thought it prudent to cons
ider this crazed Churchik more cautiously. Soon there was no melee as far as the two men were concerned because to them they were alone, fighting a little war of their own, and it would be to the death. Daxel was now thoroughly on guard.
Sven encouraged himself by repeating his enemy's name. Daxel didn't hear with the din around them. He was far too busy turning his horse left and right to parry Sven's sometimes wild and unpredictable swipes to notice his opponent's moving lips. Finally, he unseated Sven and dismounted himself. The fight continued. It was only when Sven lunged at him in an uncontrolled way that Daxel managed to disable him, his foot on the lying Churchik's arm. His dark eyes were indeed now mocking as Daxel stooped to remove Sven's sword. Sven's eyes spat venom.
"You mongrel, you, accursed of a slave race," he snarled. "Let me fight you or are you not man enough, mage's apprentice that you are?"
Daxel stood still for a surprised fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as he stared down, his head a little to one side in query. The words were in the guttural tongue, but Daxel had heard enough rough northern to understand what the warrior said.
"Very well, I'll fight you," he said coldly, took his foot from the warrior's arm and as Sven struggled to his feet, threw him his sword.
Like a weirkit, Sven turned on him. He cut Daxel sharply across the wrist before Daxel had a chance to move back or lift his own sword. In a rage now as great as Sven's, Daxel closed with the warrior, his black eyes snapping dangerously. It made Sven drop his sword and shield, ignore his axe and grasp for a knife, wrenching it free.
Daxel only saw the wicked blade when Sven suddenly jabbed up with it and immediately he reacted by grabbing and twisting Sven's hand back and down. As they wrestled backwards and forwards, Sven struggled to force Daxel's grip from his wrist and kicked him hard and high, twice.
In response, Daxel deliberately twisted himself so he could use his left foot to trip Sven and bring the warrior under control. As he did Sven freed himself and arranged his knife so he could stab Daxel by bearing down with it from above his head. He didn't realise he'd been tripped. He fell. His arm crashed down, unable to stop.
Daxel leapt back and stumbled to his knees, his dark eyes flashing with anger as he managed to swing back out of reach of a knife that threatened to savage his neck. Instead of stabbing Daxel, Sven impaled himself in the upper stomach and rolled over. His hand stayed wrapped round the knife that still protruded and his blue eyes stared wildly at Daxel as he realised what had happened.
"You northern bastard, Luton," he gasped, his lips turning white then a bluish hue. "You should die for what you did to Soji."
Daxel's anger passed very quickly. He glanced about to take in the fighting situation, then realised he'd have to act promptly because they were too close to action, fighting come even closer. Any hesitation would be fatal. He stooped and lifted a staggering Sven, draped him carefully over the warrior's warhorse, then grasped the reins of that horse, retrieved his sword and grasped the reins of his own horse.
He led both horses from the field. Seeing Kaleb in the distance he called urgently, his shaking hands letting go both sets of reins. The warrior's horse stood quite still, its head hanging and foam flecking its mouth. Daxel absently patted it and it rolled its eyes.
Kaleb arrived just as Daxel lowered Sven to the ground. He took one look at the young warrior and shook his head as Daxel knelt beside Sven, signalling that the healer do likewise. Dazed blue eyes opened to fix on Daxel with hatred.
"What did you call me?" asked Daxel urgently, watching Kaleb hold a flask to Sven's mouth. Sven opened his mouth to a thin trickle of blood though he was eager to moisten his lips. He couldn't swallow.
"You are Luton," he hissed. "I would know you anywhere."
"I'm not Luton," responded Daxel, helplessly glancing at Kaleb. The latter stared intently into the dying man's eyes. Abruptly, Sven broke the eye contact and stared back up at Daxel, his mouth working. "My name, warrior, is Dase. I once had a twin brother called Luton." The blue eyes struggled to focus then wavered.
"You are Luton, mage's apprentice," he whispered, coughing and bringing up blood. Another spurt followed and trickled from the corner of his mouth. Kaleb quietly wiped it away. "You raped my sister and left your -." Sven choked.
"Stay quietly, warrior. You're dying. You say my twin raped your sister. When was that?"
"Four, five cycles ago."
"You say he's the mage's apprentice. What mage?"
"You know who he is. You are Luton come to mock me at death."
"What mage?"
"Blach may have saved you so far, Luton, but you will pay in the end." Sven choked again.
"How old's Luton?"
"Same as you. How could you be other than what you are?"
"Gods," whispered Daxel, his shocked and distressed eyes meeting Kaleb's. "Lute would no more rape than I would."
Unable to say more, Daxel gestured at the warrior and turned away. Sven's eyes dwelled broodingly on him, before glazing at the moment of death. Kaleb's hands were on the warrior's temples when the blond head fell to one side, the clenched hands, one on the knife and the other by his side, relaxed.
Kaleb rose. He turned his head to look across at Daxel who stood tense, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"Lad," said the healer gently. "Lad, will you listen to me?" Daxel lifted his head, his lips trembling and face distraught. "You've been fighting a man burning with hatred. No, lad, you must listen to me. The warrior thought you were Lute and says Lute raped his sister. No more than you do I believe, if this is so, that Luton willingly did this because he won't have a mind of his own. Lad, he may no longer have any mind at all after time with the mage. The rape he committed wasn't done by a sentient Lute. You must understand that, Dase, because if you ever see Lute whole again you mustn't hold what he may have been forced to do against him."
"What mage?" asked Daxel dazedly. "What are you talking about? Who's got Lute? For the love of the gods!" Kaleb went cold. "Is it the southern mage talked of for cycles?"
"Lad, we have much to discuss," he said quickly. He called urgently to an approaching rider and gestured at the two warhorses.
The rider acknowledged the gesture, halting beside the quiet animals as Kaleb gently led Daxel from the field. He knew his words sank home because he saw sick despair on the young man's face. It took Kaleb time to bring Daxel to a full realisation of what happened to his twin, Daxel staring at the healer without response then as suddenly weeping with grief at his twin's fate. Since Kaleb couldn't unblock the young man's memories of Luton as they'd flooded his consciousness so many times during his younger days, it was hard for Daxel to comprehend how a mind could be so twisted while in thrall to a mage. He found it hard to believe that Luton's mind was no longer his own. He was incredulous about the power of mages, the concept that someone of such ability would wish to so warp his brother's mind one he struggled with for days.
It shocked him when Leon said quietly one evening,
"The boy could so easily have been you, Dase. Only an accident of fate decreed it was Lute. The mage would've taken your mind and either destroyed it or used it in the same way as he's treated your twin."
"I'd have fought," Daxel argued pleadingly, glancing up at the four men around him. He saw sadness in all the eyes.
"So would Lute," said Sarehl wistfully. "If I know your brother, Dase, and I do, Lute would've done more than fight even though the odds were against him. He'd have died before he gave in to what he knew was wrong. But mages, lad, can't be withstood by the likes of us. Believe me when I tell you that, Dase. Blach would break me down as I stand here and I'd be witless."
Daxel's eyes flickered uneasily from one man to another, finally settling on Ensore. When Ensore sighed and nodded corroboration Daxel stared at the ground, his eyes deeply troubled.
"Has Lute any mind?" he asked in a choked whisper, profoundly shaken.
"We don't know," answered Leon gravely.
"We suspect
what your brother was, is suppressed rather than destroyed, lad," added Kaleb. "The mage had no reason to destroy Lute's mind as he did Lian's because Lute has stayed with him under supervision, nor is he a tool to be activated in cycles to come at a distance. That's what may have saved Lute."
"Why would this mage want Lute to - to rape someone?"
No one volunteered an answer on that one, though all four men could have offered similar and valid suggestions. They felt Daxel needed to come to terms with what he'd learned, his distress enough for him to cope with. The young man was withdrawn and thought much over the next days, his eyes sombre again and Ahliah, finding it difficult to reach his friend, finally resorted to getting Daxel so drunk one evening that he opened to the prince. Ahliah listened and made comments, then he just stayed with his friend until Daxel fell asleep.
The following evening, Daxel sat cross-legged on a mattress sipping from a goblet, Ensore lounged next to him on heaped cushions and Sarehl sprawled in a chair. Ongwin stood at the entrance to the pavilion. Daxel spoke unexpectedly.
"I know Lute isn't the man he might've been. I shouldn't have judged him, should I?" he asked of Ensore, who was swallowing and promptly choked and spluttered.
The dark eyes stared enquiringly at him. Ensore coughed, struggled up on an elbow and put his goblet on the ground, his look at Daxel slightly brooding. Ongwin stepped forward.
"No, lad, you shouldn't. None of us should judge others until we know why they acted in a particular way. Are you comfortable now, my lord?" This was directed at Ensore who mopped his breeches.
"Lad," responded Ensore in a goaded voice. "Never throw a loaded question at a man when he has his mouth full of wine."
Daxel glanced at Ongwin, saw the amusement on the older man's face, saw Sarehl laughing at Ensore and grinned widely. Since he'd neither smiled nor laughed since the fight with Sven, this was thought to be a good sign.
~~~
It was a season after the first battles that Kher, his warriors and Luton, arrived at the southern army camp. They'd been resident now for over two weeks. Kher stood meditatively at the entrance to his pavilion, aware of the intensity of the summer heat, and his glance came to rest on the tall young man gazing out expressionlessly on a scene of activity.