He felt the warlord return to bed and sensed hands pull him quite roughly down under the furs. He wasn't aware he shivered again. As he drifted into an uneasy and troubled sleep he knew he was held close, but this didn't stop him often waking in the grip of cold sweats that only gave way to slumbers that were nightmares.
Bethel woke early to renewed grief that he'd lost a precious brother who meant everything to him. The tranquillity that hung about Bethel was gone. When he was dressed and free to go to the water his footsteps lacked the lightness of the day before, his face was troubled and his eyes, reflected in the water, showed him only deep despair and grief. When he went to play the pipes his fingers faltered on the stops, Bethel unable to make any music. He felt, as he sat there crouched on a rock, that a vital part of him had died. Helpless, he put the pipes back in his pocket. He stayed, miserably hunched, until a sense of warmth and hope touched him.
Eagerly he lifted his head but he couldn't see Sarssen, nor, with his extremely limited range of sending, could he get any response from the warrior. Confused, he wondered what brushed at his consciousness. Inexplicable and odd though the feeling was, it left Bethel with some comfort, enough to make him draw out the pipes. He studied them for a moment before lifting them to his lips, then, as the music swathed him he withdrew into it for consolation. The catlin quietly and pensively withdrew.
With the advance of spring, Bethel's sleep pattern worsened. He was tormented by shadows that danced around, mocking and teasing him, but mostly he heard Sarssen call his name before the deep voice broke into laughter. Bethel would wake with a cry, his forehead covered with sweat and heart racing uncomfortably, always only half-awake and still in the grip of the nightmare.
The warlord, looking down at the troubled face, showed surprising forbearance in making no comment, only recommending that Bethel turn over and try to sleep again. With a reluctant sigh Bethel would obey, aware of a hand gently rested on his head as he tried to doze again.
~~~
By the end of spring, Lodestok was ready to resume the offensive. It was Malekim who suggested the warlord may wish to wait.
"Why?" Lodestok asked curtly of the mage one evening. He wasn't especially pleased at this interruption, as his feelings made clear.
"My slave has a task to carry out before hostilities are met, Warlord. You wouldn't grudge me that, would you?"
"No," acquiesced the warlord ungraciously. "But you should be aware, mage, the offensive cannot long be delayed."
"Oh it won't be," assured the mage, with the ghost of a chilling smile. "My slave's role is necessary at this point. It's a testing time, isn't it, Warlord, in more ways than one?"
"I suppose," snapped Lodestok irritably.
"The slave may succeed. Time will tell, but I doubt it."
Malekim's eyes came to rest on the young man curled up at the warlord's feet, his estibe in his lap. Bethel had unconsciously hunched himself closer to Lodestok, flinching at the note of contempt and disdain for his brother uttered by the frigid voice.
"At least my slave has something constructive to offer, unlike the brother who merely has looks that give physical pleasure," said the mage sarcastically. "How long will your body remain seductive, boy?"
Bethel quivered under the lash of ridicule, taunted in a way that was cruel considering his status. A hand touched his shoulder and the warlord glared coldly up at the mage who'd risen preparatory to leaving. The frigid eyes conveyed a clear warning. The mage got the message that he be extremely cautious. With a glacial laugh that echoed unpleasantly in Bethel's brain, Malekim swept from the pavilion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The seasons had come and gone by the time Indariol, and the small band of travellers accompanying him, joined up with the bulk of the now armed Shadowlanders. The latter marched purposefully towards the south both from the west and the north, the Shadowfolk united in anger as they'd not had to be in hundreds of cycles.
It was to the sons of the patriarch Chloronderiel that they turned. So it was Istarial who led them. He was second in age to Indariol, a calm man unfazed by possible difficulties, his response being that potential problems may never arise and if they did they'd be dealt with at an appropriate time. It was still in the north the brothers met. It was then Indariol had to advise their people, and his surviving brothers and sisters, that Floronderiel was no more. There was a shocked silence that hung over the Shadowlands like a black shroud, the quiet screaming on suddenly raw nerves.
Soji didn't think she'd ever forget the grief that swept over so many people at one time, myriad voices unexpectedly raised in a chorus of mutual lamentation that spread from east to west. The sound echoed about the Shadowlands. As Soji shivered, so Leontok gently told her three of Indariol's immediate family had died. Distraught, she glanced at her mate, her lips bloodless.
"Why did Blach feel he had to do this?" she whispered, shaking with revulsion.
"That I can't tell you, Soji. Have courage, loved one. The grief will pass."
"Jonqi and I brought this on them, Leon." Her pale eyes were terrified. "Gods, if he'll do this to a whole people, what'll he do to me?"
"No, that's not so," said a quiet voice beside them. Soji saw their companion was Setoni. "No," he repeated. "Child, Floronderiel was in spite of you. I believe the m-." He corrected himself smoothly, "sorcerer was coming north because that's where he sent his slave. He may believe Jonqi survived, but may well consider you're dead."
"Luton's here?"
"In the north, yes. He's been in the warlord's camp for over two seasons now."
"How is he?"
"As he always is, child. Why do you ask?"
"Because I still see images of him, but not in the camp. He's on a black horse, riding across the meadows."
"And his condition?"
"He's dying," whispered Soji, her mouth wide in anguish. "Gods, can no one help him?"
"Why haven't you mentioned this?"
"It's only just crystallised in the last two days, Setoni, I promise you."
"And always the same image?"
"Yes."
"And where exactly is he?"
"I don't know." Setoni put his hand on the blond head soothingly.
"Gently, child, gently. The rest will come when it's ready. Leon, Indariol wants us to move with the armed Shadowlanders. He says there's more safety in numbers and I agree. I don't wish us to be a small but conspicuous band. Soji child," Setoni turned back to Soji, "can you have anything that belongs to Jonqi ready within the next few days? Indariol's placing us under the care of his brother Istarial." Soji nodded and quietly withdrew, the lamentations still echoing about her making her blench. Leontok contemplated Setoni.
"Have you anything you wish to tell me, healer?"
"I wonder how long we can keep the knowledge from her that Blach's a mage." Leontok opened his mouth and shut it again. He persevered with a muted question.
"Why mustn't she know?"
"If she knows we speak of a mage, Leontok, it's only a short step for her to wonder who such a destructive mage could possibly be, isn't it?" Leontok nodded. "She may've been brought up by the Churchik as only a child bride, my young friend, but she'll have studied texts used as lessons for acceptable behaviour. Churchik texts use the figure of our mage freely in images designed to reinforce behaviour. He's considered to be terrifying for the young, his punishments for transgression translated into whippings of the intransigent."
"And Soji?"
"If she realises the terror she considered a myth, designed to frighten the young into obedience, is reality, Leon, I'll fear for her mind. Soji's finely balanced. She's endured much, and terror of the man who arranged her rape and claims her child, keeps her in an unacceptable state of continuous stress. What can you suggest?"
"Must she be isolated?" begged Leontok. "She was for so long, I don't wish her to withdraw again. Are there none among the Shadowlanders with whom we can travel, some who'll keep her in ignorance?"
; "I'll speak with Indariol," said Setoni gravely.
~~~
The lamentations lasted two days during which time Soji stayed with Setoni who seldom let her leave his side. If he did, he'd find her, heartsick, having tremblingly crept away, Carok held close to her with one hand and Jonqi gripped intensely with the other. If the children were with Leontok, Setoni found her crouched among the ferns and foliage, her head bent low and eyes desolate. Despondency and guilt gnawed at her so much Setoni prayed the mourning for the dead would quickly pass.
It was Istarial who came to the dell where she and Setoni sat, Soji rested with the healer who sorted herbs. Soji sat erect, her eyes widely apprehensive, but Setoni just smiled a welcome.
"Istarial," he greeted the Shadowlander.
"Adept," responded Istarial, his eyes searchingly meeting and holding Soji's. "Soji," he said calmly. She nodded. "Indariol's asked that you accompany my sisters Penthea and Ayesha when we move in the morning. They'll be part of the main group and give you additional companionship. Would you care for that? They wish you to accompany them." He saw the eyes brighten. "You've had little company of your own sex for a while, Soji."
"Yes," she whispered thankfully, then her eyes clouded and she added anxiously. "My mate and children?"
"With you of course," responded Istarial promptly. "And you'll be with them, Setoni."
"Indeed," said Setoni, smiling warmly at the Shadowman with real appreciation for the adroit way the situation was handled. "You have the makings of an Adept, Istarial!"
"Perhaps!" laughed Istarial. "We move on the dawn star. I ask you to be in company by then."
On the words he turned and was gone. Setoni saw a smile touch Soji's young face for the first time in weeks. He noticed, too, that Indariol and a body of Shadowlanders broke from the main force headed southeast and wondered what this meant. He'd not heard from Leon in days, the Mishtok was quiet, Sarssen was muted and Setoni felt he was missing something important.
He watched the two Shadowlanders, identical to his eyes, as they spoke long and earnestly, Indariol finally shrugging and raising his hands in a helpless gesture before he grasped Istarial by the shoulders and they spoke quickly. They both nodded and smiled. They stood so for long moments before Istarial stood back. Indariol mounted, gave the signal for forward and immediately swung his horse directly south. His men followed.
Indariol rode thoughtfully, his mind fully occupied. Shadowlanders were no more garrulous than steppefolk so his train of thought wasn't interrupted. He kept harking back to the words of Burelkin and he shivered at their recall. Burelkin had given fair warning. Indariol was unsure why he headed south. It was a compulsion and the Aelkin didn't like that.
He mused over what he'd learned from Istarial and the other Shadowlanders, stunned the warlord was so arrogantly foolish as to attack the Gnosti, the knowledge of that leaving him wondering at the logic of such a move. Then he realised the warlord was further north and not victorious, when he'd planned to be further south and well supplied from Kyaran and Elba by now. He was grimly amused that Lodestok's conquests hadn't gone to plan.
He expected he'd hear from Jaim very soon, even though, if reports were true, the Gnosti were driven back very hard with casualties. Indariol knew the Gnosti would've been caught unawares, but an enraged Gnosti was someone the warlord could ill afford to ignore. They would march east even as Indariol thought of them. What was like a knife-thrust for Indariol was the knowledge that after driving back the Gnosti but enslaving none, the Churchik swung due north to invade the Shadowlands. They'd pushed up into both nomadic and settled areas, sending the fleeing inhabitants eastwards.
The Churchik had advanced at an alarming rate, only belatedly repelled by organised resistance that came into being very quickly. Within five days of the first Churchik assaults the settlers and nomads retaliated, vulnerable horse-trading nomads were gathered in and moved to safety, untouched settlements emptied and fired, and children and the elderly sent miles back, deep into the forest. All other Shadowlanders prepared themselves for war.
Shadowlander reprisals were savage and complete. They knew their land as part of themselves in the way of the Gnosti, and their defences, once established, were untouchable. Any who neared them died. They didn't need walls, entrenchments, fortifications or strongholds. They had their own methods of keeping the enemy at bay. They moved at incredible speed, like wraiths, descending on their enemy before they'd even been sighted, their arrows and knives deadly. They didn't indulge in open battles that they considered to be a waste of life. Since life was a sacred gift, Shadowlanders only shed it out of necessity or for survival. No species had been hunted to extinction in northern forests. They had no shields or armour, no helmets adorned their long chestnut locks; they ran, men and women alike, barefoot, barely visible, their oneness with their environment protecting them. Their opponents were, in comparison, clumsy and frequently inept. They may certainly have been vicious and fierce, but they were no match for the Shadowlanders.
The jarring clashes, never in the open glades or meadows, nor on the edges of lakes or rivers but always in the copses or the denser forest, were fast, angry, and left many southerners dead. The Churchik were slow to learn. Their mindset of open battles, where their technique of lining up in formations, led them into blunders that cost them dearly. They had to think back to the days of the forays they'd encountered, many cycles before, from Blenharm Forest.
They were constantly repulsed and were repeatedly worsted as they eventually sought to retreat, hampered by lightning attacks that came at them from all sides all the time. They were routed within weeks, their dead and dying left where they fell, including warriors. Leontok noticed the Shadowlanders, like his own people, didn't spare the injured. No southerner was taken prisoner. There were none. Indariol, still further east at this time and headed for Floronderiel, hadn't known of the attacks because Istarial felt the situation was now under control.
~~~
It was only a few evenings after Indariol moved south that he sat alone, the air warm and still, the silence companionable. It was still light enough to see clearly even as late as this. He was aware of a faint ripple to his left and sat forward tensely, nothing lethargic about his pose. He saw the harper hover a few feet above the ground then saw the form materialise. He was on his feet in seconds, knife drawn.
The man stretched and gave a sigh before dusting at his robe, then he turned and faced Indariol, an eyebrow quirked.
"Is it then so long, Indariol, that you don't recognise me?" asked a tranquil voice. "Do put that knife away. I'm not Malekim."
"Ortoriol," gasped Indariol, a delighted grin coming to his face. "Ah, but you're so welcome!"
"Arthwein ek elkin heth," said Ortoriol, his blue eyes twinkling with pleasure in response.
"Inkth arth elkin welc heth," responded Indariol, his hands out. The mage grasped them and searchingly studied the younger man's face.
"You're anxious about Burelkin," he said bluntly.
"Yes," murmured Indariol, sinking to the ground. Releasing the Shadowman, Autoc followed suit. "I saw him some time ago, Ortoriol, and what he told me gave me deep cause for concern. His stay was long and contented, though now I understand his distress and why he made us remove what we could to Shadoliokel."
"So he was here," said Autoc softly.
"He didn't wish to leave. You could sense his reluctance."
"No," agreed Autoc gently. "He wouldn't want to leave."
"He didn't even limp while he was with us."
"No," repeated the mage. "And?"
Indariol hesitated. At a nod from the mage he said with difficulty, "When he flew -." He broke off then continued. "When I watched the swandri disappear, I had the saddest feeling I saw the last of Burelkin."
"You possibly did," said Autoc deliberately. He saw the colour fade from Indariol's cheeks.
"What are you saying, Ortoriol?"
"I'm saying that the Archmage is very, very old. Malekim
may be old, but he doesn't touch Bene for venerability, does he?"
"No," whispered Indariol appalled.
"And the time draws close when the two will meet as it's destined they must. One has strength and overwhelming hatred, the other's frail and painfully vulnerable." Autoc paused. "I grieve for the scenario that could be, Indariol, believe me. As you know, the Archmage is a father to me. I care deeply for him. If it was within my power to alter what may come, gods, I'd do it!" It was unusual for the mage to show emotion, but Indariol heard it in those few vehemently uttered words.
"It's a sense of helplessness, mage, isn't it?"
"Oh yes," came the bitter response. "The alignments are all correct, things come together at the appointed time and we wait, frustrated, to see what way the balance is tipped."
"And Chlorien, Ortoriol?"
"Chlorien," mused Autoc, a note of sadness touching the whimsy. "She'll be there, too, Indariol, as she must be. There was so little time to teach her, to prepare her for what comes."
"She cares for you, mage, but she doesn't know who you are. Even your name Ortoriol took her by surprise."
"That's enough for her to know," came the cautionary voice. There was a long silence that the mage broke. "Indariol, I can't stay, but I wish to tell you how things stand on Ambros. Listen well because time passes quickly." Indariol nodded. "You'll probably know it was me who urged you to come south." Autoc saw sudden comprehension on Indariol's face.
Lounging back on his elbows, he studied the mage's face while Autoc spoke of the warring factions, of the colossal loss of life, where the two armies now were, where Jaim and the Gnosti were placed, and he learned, too, of the desertfolk of whom the mage spoke with affection. He was told Choja and his men would mass on the fringe of the desert now the desert wars were over.
He was told of Luton's and Malekim's arrival at the southern army camp. Any questions he asked were answered, though the mage reserved the right of silence on some things in a way that was gentle but commanded respect. And Indariol learned much of a man who answered to the name of Sarssen.
He knew the name, because Setoni had spoken sometimes of the unusual Churchik warrior, always in tones of the deepest admiration, and he realised that Sarssen was, for some reason, no longer able to respond as his talents should permit. Indariol smiled, thinking back to the conversation with the healer only weeks before. Now his smile broadened when he understood exactly why Sarssen was unable to respond. He thought Autoc had a decidedly mischievous look in his eyes when he spoke of what he'd done to the warriors seasons before.