~~~
Later that day, the army was transformed from what looked like a rabble into orderly groups of units, while outside the city's walls, to the south, there was a milling mass that at first glance looked highly disordered. It wasn't. Encouraged by the flats of swords and whips, groups were being assembled, these people emaciated, dirty and hopeless as they shambled into lines, some stumbling and some still trying to fight. As they were marshalled into caravans to begin the long march south as slave workers, they looked back to see the army spill out aggressively over the immediate plain. Thousands of men poured steadily through the gates in an orderly fashion. The slave caravans began to slowly move in the opposite direction, the clanking of chains audible for some time.
~~~
The army made the merchant city-state of Ortok with terrifying speed, Lodestok driving his men hard, day after day. Two small city-states fell before Ortok was reached, all brutally subjected and fired, the land around each torched to ensure none of those who escaped to flee north could return to use the land. The slave caravans swelled with a constant stream going south, though now more slaves stayed to service the army's growing needs in the north. The sequestered wealth from the city-states was swallowed by the growing monstrosity that headed for Ortok. The warriors were in high spirits. They rode, relaxed and confident, to the playing of pipers and to the beat of the drums. Their singing filled the warming late spring air.
~~~
The Ortokians knew of the approach of the army. It'd been common knowledge since Siar fell, with refugees flooding through the city from all over Samar and the south. Stories of the sack of Norsham and tales of the cruelty of fierce warriors were commonplace. These refugees fled north through the forest, where already there was a high concentration of those who'd earlier fled from the south. They spoke of slave caravans and of a man they described as a devil. His name was Lodestok. This ebb and flow had an unsettling effect on Ortok. Some folk felt insecure and wondered reluctantly if they should leave, still others were inclined to believe the reports were exaggerated and convinced the warlord would respond to reason. Many chose to leave.
News of horrors from the south kept the Ortokians tense and alert. The central and northern Samar states had never been warlike and they didn't know what they faced. They'd no organised adequate defence other than huge city walls that would be stoutly defended by excellent archers. Ortok sat, vulnerable and nervous. The hilly dales to the south offered no protection.
Lodestok's army looked like a host of insects swarming over and devouring land the Ortokians had come over cycles to consider theirs, especially since Ortok's benevolent hegemony had stretched many miles in all directions. Now they'd be under siege in a very short time. The natural shallow valleys southwards favoured the warlord by giving good cover to his men. The Ortokians couldn't adequately assess the numbers opposed to them, but it soon became irrelevant when they finally saw the host advancing on the city walls. Their archers were outnumbered by many hundreds.
Lodestok's army encamped far enough away from the walls so that any arrows from Ortok's excellent bowmen would fall harmlessly. The warlord didn't call for surrender and tribute. That both surprised and alarmed the already nervous citizens. When they sent out envoys, the Ortokians were shocked and frightened when they received back the grisly remains of the four men. That was the Churchik response. It was only then it truly dawned on Ortokians that what they faced was a monstrosity that would devour each and every one of them. The city was now surrounded. Escape was impossible. This had occurred with terrifying speed as still many were ready to flee but were now trapped.
And Lodestok waited. He was in no hurry. He also knew well that the tension in the beleaguered city would soon become feverish, and was often seen staring contemptuously up at the walls, before he'd turn and stride away. His men and their horses had plenty of fresh water and supply lines were no problem, the coldest days were behind them and the days were now warm and dry. Lodestok had no need of reconnaissance. Like a spider, he sat and waited.
~~~
After several days, the warlord summoned Lian. To his surprise, the young man answered his call almost immediately. Within an hour, there was a movement outside Lodestok's pavilion and Sarssen entered accompanied by a slight blond man. Nodding dismissal at Sarssen, the warlord looked the young man over appraisingly. He reflected that the youth was about nineteen cycles and fair in the southern way, though not exceptionally tall, and the eyes were blue and incurious. The youth had irregular features, but very beautiful long tapering fingers. He stood quietly, his eyes expressionless.
"You called for me, my lord," he said, in a flat voice.
"You know why you are wanted, do you not?"
"You wish me to bring Myme Chlo to you, my lord."
"Is that the girl's name?" Lian nodded. "How old is the child now?"
"Ten cycles, my lord." Lodestok pointed to a chair and Lian obediently sat, while the warlord, in typical fashion, strode up and down.
"What else can you do for me, Lian?"
"I'll open the city gates for you, my lord, if that's still your wish," offered Lian, his eyes still strangely lifeless.
"I do wish that," Lodestok answered in his soft yet menacing deep voice, "but before you do, you must bring the girl to me. You will do so at dusk tomorrow. The city itself can wait for a little."
"Yes, my lord."
Lodestok looked curiously at Lian, asking, "Do you care for the child?"
"Yes," came the indifferent answer.
"And you anticipate no difficulty in bringing her to me?"
"None, my lord. She goes easily with me." Lodestok gestured for the young man to rise.
"Leave me," he ordered, turning his back on Lian. He ignored his departure.
~~~
A few hours after Lian left him, Lodestok sat staring nonchalantly at the two men who faced him. They were an unprepossessing pair, with body odour the warlord could smell from where he sat. He wrinkled his nose fastidiously. He vaguely recognised them, from a brief acquaintance at the Keep, but then they'd been cleaner or Blach had kept them so.
They were an odd pair, one tall and very scrawny, the other short and fat. The latter picked thoughtfully at his nose as he stood waiting, while the former's eyes roved restlessly, his countenance unsmiling and his eyes forbidding. In typical pose, Lodestok swung his booted foot negligently over the arm of his chair, his eyes cold and his expression as equally unfriendly as that of the taller man.
Lodestok was a singularly handsome man, as many Vaksh and Churchik were, this in spite of their scarring one another in the name of ownership or over-lordship. Beside these two men, he looked striking. The warlord wore southern garb of breeches tucked into long boots and worn with a long, high-collared tunic with cuffed sleeves. He was ornamented as all warrior lords were. His guests looked garish beside him.
Ohb, the short fat individual with the pudgy fingers and protruding belly, wore deep russet leggings that fitted him too well; he bulged from them and the leggings had split on one leg. His bright yellow boots struggled to hold together over spreading calves. A blue leather jerkin, worn over a green shirt that his belly burst through, completed his ensemble. Only a greasy kerchief knotted round a sweaty throat was constantly fingered. Queeb was similarly attired, except his boots were red and he wore a long black overcoat over yellow leggings and a bright orange jerkin. Lodestok, tastefully clad in green, found their apparel an offence. He closed his eyes briefly, before he began speaking again.
"So you will take the girl child back to the Keep, is that not so?"
"That's so, my lord." Queeb frowned. "When will she be brought to you?" Lodestok stared at his hands meditatively.
"You are Blach's men as I recall, are you not?" Ohb nodded. "I would ask that you be patient. Lian has been sent for and he assures me he will bring the girl soon, very soon. That should satisfy you. In the meantime, I would ask you to rest in quarters that will already have been set up for you. You
will not need to remain with us more than a day or two, unless -." Lodestok broke off contemplatively, looking up at the taller man.
"Yes, my lord?" came interrogatively.
"Unless you wish to watch the sack of Ortok?" Queeb gave a sharp shake of his head.
"We have our orders, my lord. The child's to be taken to the Keep immediately. We'll touch her mind to make her compliant and willing." Lodestok calmly observed the two men as they licked their lips in anticipation.
"She is ten cycles," he said quietly. Queeb's reply made the warlord tense.
"Ten cycles isn't too young for girls, my lord, any more than it is for boys as you well know." Queeb's insinuating leer at the warlord made Lodestok's eyes glitter, but the warlord made no retort. "A ten cycle girl isn't too young to learn the ways of men," Queeb went on, adding, "A ploughed furrow is easier to follow, my lord."
"No doubt," agreed Lodestok, his lip curling. "As I have no love of girls, I can not judge."
Queeb was briefly silent, then he said questioningly, "What's her name, my lord?"
"Lian called her Myme Chlo."
"Myme Chlo," murmured Ohb. "Such a pretty name."
"We know, my lord, that she's dark-haired and has violet eyes," said Queeb, an odd light in his eyes.
"Doubtless she is a pretty child," replied Lodestok, noticeably bored. He rose, towering over the two men in a way that made Ohb blink rapidly before he took a step back. "As you have decided her future and the sorcerer has his plans for her after she is delivered, there is little else to be said. I would, however, caution you in your treatment of the child. If Blach has not authorised you to use her in the way you obviously intend, you will find his treatment of you such as you would not wish to experience."
Lodestok turned and walked over to his table for wine, so he didn't see the suddenly thoughtful expressions on the two faces behind him. At that moment, Sarssen walked into the pavilion. His green eyes rested briefly on Blach's henchman, and, sensing power in each man, he was promptly on his guard. He advanced to the centre of the pavilion and stood waiting, head bent, while Queeb and Ohb studied him, their curious eyes making his skin crawl as he tried not to notice them. Lodestok turned back from the table, a full goblet in his hand, saw Sarssen and smiled frostily.
"Ah, boy. You will attend to the needs and comfort of these men. Their comforts in all ways, Sarssen. You understand me, do you not?"
"Yes, my lord." Sarssen bowed and stood back courteously, gesturing to the two men to precede him. Queeb hesitated, but Ohb moved forward immediately.
"We don't wish there to be any delay, my lord," Queeb said, a note of warning in his voice. Lodestok paused with the goblet at his lips.
"Your haste is understandable," he remarked contemptuously, his cold voice cutting. Queeb cast him a venomous glance before he walked over to the pavilion entrance where Sarssen waited quietly. Lodestok's deceptively dulcet voice called gently after Sarssen. "You will return immediately." Sarssen looked back.
"My lord," he replied tonelessly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The following early evening was a time of pleasant anticipation for the warlord as he waited for Lian to appear with the small girl. As one hour passed, succeeded by another, Lodestok became irritated.
He summoned Lian with a mental blast that would've given the young man a headache for days, but to the warlord's surprise and anger he received no response. He tried again, knowing he'd called and received only a day before. This second time there was the same empty blankness.
Furious, Lodestok stormed to his pavilion entrance, balefully ordering Bensar to find him Jaden immediately. As Bensar hastened to find the reader, Lodestok saw Sarssen take a slave to task over the making of a fire.
"Kill him," advised the warlord sharply. "There are plenty more like him." Turning on his heel, he gestured at the wall towering above them.
Inside his pavilion he threw himself into a chair, tapped his booted foot impatiently, then, unable to rest in one of his rages, he began to stride up and down. Just as he was about to burst into a fluent torrent of cursing, a reader appeared at the pavilion entrance. Lodestok reached the healer in two strides and grasped his arm roughly.
"Find that boy for me, now!" he growled.
His grip made the reader wince. Jaden looked up at the warlord gravely and though Lodestok's eyes flashed back at the reader he let the man go straight away.
Jaden looked pensive, asking quietly, "Could you give me his image as you last saw him, my lord?"
Lodestok sighed. He obligingly opened his mind to give Jaden a clear mental picture of Lian, then the warlord snapped his mind closed and went to the table by his bed. He absently lifted a goblet and a wineskin, poured himself a generous amount, and, pulling out a second chair he straddled it, carefully watching the reader. The latter was quite still. While Lodestok gulped rather than sipped his wine, the reader's eyes opened and Lodestok saw they held the oddest expression he'd ever seen in Jaden's eyes.
"Well, man?" he demanded, in a goaded voice. "Where is he?" Jaden looked uncomfortable.
"Not here, my lord."
"I can see that," scoffed Lodestok. "Damn you, where is he?" He rose from the chair threateningly, thrusting his goblet on the ground as he did so. Jaden was clearly confused.
"My lord, this is so strange."
"What is?" The warlord advanced threateningly on the much smaller man.
"A small dragon, my lord. It can't be." Lodestok stopped where he was, staring intently at the reader.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, in a more moderate tone. The reader shifted from one foot to another. There was genuine disbelief on his face.
"I sensed a tiny dragon presence that engulfed the image you gave me." Jaden shook his head.
"Nonsense," responded the warlord bluntly, though he looked very thoughtful as he turned away from Jaden. "There is no such thing as a dragon, although it is interesting you think you see such things. I will speak with Lokar about it. You may go."
Left alone, Lodestok bent to retrieve his goblet and lounged, as he invariably did, to the bed, lying quietly so he could let thoughts ebb and flow. He didn't believe Lian could call a dragon and he hadn't lied to Jaden when he'd doubted the existence of tiny dragons, though time at the Keep made him cautious about drawing any such definitive conclusion. Jaden, however, was a post-level three and didn't imagine things, so the warlord had much to ponder.
Next he thought of Lian and how lifeless the boy was. He realised his suspicions about Blach were confirmed; the sorcerer did remove the essence of a being, leaving only a useful shell behind to live out an existence. Lodestok put that to one side for future reference.
Lian was unsurprised by the warlord's summons. As the Churchik army closed around Ortok, he expected his time was come, the call accompanied, as it always was, by anguish that sent him to his knees. Ever since the reader-seekers took him from his father all those cycles ago, any summons or visiting left him agonised.
At that time, cycles before, Lian's encounter with Blach scarred him so deeply it was a blessing so much of his mind was rendered blank. Unable to move, he was made to stand in front of a horrifyingly sinister sorcerer who efficiently abused and then manipulated his mind. In unspeakable terror and pain, he was held captive. He was rendered unable to utter a sound or to fight what sadistically followed, as he was forced, helplessly, to watch as the sorcerer calmly and inexorably drained his essence. He had to watch how it was imprisoned and blinked weakly. However, in his cruelty, Blach left Lian able to experience both physical and mental pain.
When Lian felt able to move again, he found he was no longer with the sorcerer, but still lay pinioned to the bed where the readers tied him. He was soaked with sweat and bled profusely from where ropes, holding him, chaffed skin during his struggles. He couldn't speak. His throat ached and felt raw.
He was unaware of having been anywhere or of having had anything specific done to him. He just knew, as the seasons passe
d, that any summons induced such physical and mental torment it almost convulsed him. It didn't last long. As soon as he obeyed, the pangs became mere discomfort, then disappeared entirely. He couldn't have actively opposed his conditioning, even had he wanted to.
The Churchik warriors who hurt his father on their last and fatal visit to Ortok, inflicted considerably more pain on Lian. They left him bewildered, intimidated and despairing, nor could he understand why he was subjected to the obscenity of repeated violation when he promised he'd obey. While the warriors laughed, Lian pleaded, wept, and screamed at them to leave him alone. They left him lying in his inn room. He'd gone beyond tears.
Since the warriors' visit Lian's life was easy, pleasant and untormented. He was drawn to Myme Chlo, not just because of his conditioning, but because she was gentle and posed no threat. While her brothers wondered at his compliance and his lack of will to do anything, Myme Chlo accepted him for how he was, offering him her full trust. Lian, unaware how he'd betray that trust, encouraged her to rely on him, always there when she needed someone other than Bethel to turn to, and since he was by nature a gentle and caring boy, very like Bethel, it was no wonder the little girl felt comfortable around him.
They went on long rambling walks together, Myme Chlo holding his hand and chattering to him, something Lian encouraged, because he liked to listen to her talk and found her voice restful. He protected her from too much rough and tumble with her twin brothers, and, because he knew she was close to Bethel, Lian adopted him as well. He always encouraged the boy in his music. Lian seemed soothed whenever he heard Bethel play.
Over the cycles since Choice, Lian knew a peace he'd not experienced for a very long time. Had he known what happiness was, he'd have said he was happy in those days and would have contentedly passed the rest of his life in Ortok.
When Lodestok's summons came, there was only a sense of regret for the end of tranquillity. He shook with the surge of anguished pain that he'd almost forgotten. Though he'd never met Lodestok, he knew enough of him from the warriors who'd taunted and hurt him. He didn't know what to expect. He just felt paralysing fear. When his reception was coolly appraising and brief and he was allowed to return to Ortok unmolested, he just felt tired and resigned, aware he had a task to do.