"Lad," murmured his friend, staring down at him. "You've the fever, haven't you?"
His teeth chattering, Luton nodded. Feeling the boy overheat and sweat uncontrollably, the man held the boy closer, his expression one of infinite compassion mixed with profound anger. Neither of them got much sleep and Luton endured a day of unspeakable misery as every step jarred him and his head ached. The man gave the boy most of his water but it didn't seem to help.
By nightfall, Luton was near collapse. When the order came to lie, he fell where he stood. His friend did all he could, held the boy within his arm but couldn't stop the shaking. He managed to keep the boy's face dry and tried to keep Luton warm, Luton too sick to see the deep sorrow in his friend's eyes when the man realised he could do no more to help the sickness break.
"Child," he murmured. "In time you'll understand why what comes has to be. It will be very, very hard. I so wish it could be otherwise. You can't stay. It's time, Lute. It's time."
The man's hold was gentle, firm and very caring. Luton didn't hear the soft, sad words.
By morning, Luton was so weak he could barely stand. The man gave him all his water but the boy couldn't keep himself upright, fell, and dragged the men behind and in front down with him. All along the line came oaths and mutterings. Luton's friend stood still, his eyes on the small, thin crumpled figure that could scarcely move. Pity shone in the very unusual green eyes.
The barkashads were quickly at work with curses and whips. One of them reached Luton and the boy was hauled to his feet, where he swayed trembling his eyes fixed on the whip poised above him.
"Did you bring the line down?" snarled the barkashad, jerking Luton so that the boy faced him.
"He can't speak, he's a mute," said Luton's companion quietly. "And no, he didn't bring down the line. I stumbled and brought the boy down."
"What do you know?" growled the barkashad, distracted from Luton.
He let go the boy and brought his whip down across the man's shoulder with enough force to make Luton's friend stagger. Luton flinched. The whip was flexed and brought whistling down a second time. The man grimaced, his green eyes no longer kindly, but cold and decidedly forbidding and unforgiving. He muttered.
"What did you say?" demanded the barkashad, kicking the man very hard.
"He's mute," answered Luton's friend.
"Know everything, do you?" sneered the barkashad, coiling his whip. "You bring the line down again and I'll flay you until your skin hangs in flaps." He turned from the man to Luton. "Can you speak, boy?" Luton shook his head. "If you're lying, boy, you'll very soon wish you were dead," came the threatening words.
The barkashad unlocked the boy's chains from both his friend and from the other slaves, gripped the boy by the chain at his neck and began to pull Luton away. Extending his hand, Luton turned in desperation to his friend.
His friend just smiled kindly at him and said gently, "Good luck, little fellow."
Luton blinked. He licked his lips. He was led, unresisting, from the line. He was shoved roughly into a tent and left, his chain wound round a peg set into the ground, where he crouched and didn't dare move. He never thought of trying to escape. He was too weak from hunger and fever to do more than shiver convulsively and sweat.
He heard a sound behind him. Barely able to move, he turned to look directly up into the cold eyes of a Churchik warrior, cringed in terror, and made no effort to save himself when he was picked up, shaken like a rat, then dropped. He fell on all fours, and, still shivering, staggered to his feet. He didn't look up. He sensed the warrior still stood in front of him and when a hand grasped a hank of his hair and his head was lifted, he was forced to stare up into eyes that terrified him. His teeth continued to chatter.
"So," remarked the warrior conversationally, in the broken Samar Luton understood. He also recognised many Churchik words. "You do not speak." Luton still stared into cold, implacably appraising eyes. "How much pain would it take to make you start talking, boy?"
Luton tried to shake his head, but was unable to move because the hand held his head rigid. His lips moved. As frantically as he tried to speak, no sound came from his mouth, a fact that made the warrior watch him consideringly.
"Have you ever spoken?" The warrior saw the answer clearly in the black eyes. "Why can you not do so now?" He let the boy's head drop. "You have the fever, have you not?" Luton nodded. "How long have you had it?" Luton counted two days on his fingers.
The warrior stooped and unwound Luton's chain from the peg. He took the boy outside, and, with no emotion whatsoever, held Luton's head over a trough of water and pushed it down hard several times, each time longer than the first. Luton struggled weakly and gagged. When he came up for the fifth time, the warrior looked down at him.
"At least your face now has the semblance of being clean," he observed, pulling on Luton's chain. The boy was thrust into another tent, where an older Churchik with a full white beard sat quietly reading. The warrior looked up in surprise when the boy was shoved in front of him and coolly took in Luton's trembling limbs and the hanging head.
"What have we here?" he asked the younger warrior.
"He claims to be a mute. I have cleaned some of the filth from his face, so you can touch him, slave though he is, to see if he lies or not." The older man signalled Luton to approach, a rather sadly resigned expression on his face.
"He may or may not be a mute, but he will die of the fever soon enough," he said abruptly. "The child is well on with the illness. Is he from the caravan?" Giving Luton a shove, the younger warrior nodded.
The boy shuffled forward. He stood still as the older man reached out to him, but the quite violent flinch he gave when the warrior's hand touched him brought a frown to the older man's eyes. Autchek lifted the drooping head and put his hands to Luton's temples, removing them almost at the same instant.
"He is mute," he confirmed. "He spoke once, but is unlikely to do so again."
"Why not?" Autchek stared at the younger warrior in sudden irritation.
"He is deeply traumatised, Shek. Some violent emotional shock, and excessive fear, has led to the boy being this way." The younger warrior spat in disgust. "He was not raised as a warrior, Shek."
"You get money for a mute. A genuine mute is a rarity," mused Shek.
"Yes," agreed Autchek. "Blach will want him, but this one is far gone in fever."
"Can we save him?" The old warrior dispassionately considered Luton who'd gone to his knees, too weak to stand.
"He needs fluids, lots of them. He must be made to sweat it out, so give him orlos and kemp, keep him warm, and once the fever breaks, feed and clothe him. He has nothing to fight the fever with. I doubt you will save this one."
Shek roughly grasped Luton's wrist, hauled the boy to his feet and pushed him from the tent. He was returned to the first tent where he was made to lie on a hard, narrow mattress, his neck chain and ankle fetters were removed, and a lighter chain was first clipped round his wrist then locked to a metal hoop driven into the ground in the centre of the tent. The warrior briefly left the boy alone.
When he returned, he held a tankard almost brimming over with a steaming liquid. Shek yanked Luton upright and held the tankard to the boy's mouth.
"Drink!" he ordered. Since Luton shook too much to hold the tankard and his teeth were clenched with fever, Shek placed the tankard on the ground and turning, called out loudly. In response another warrior quickly entered the tent, a look of surprise on his face as he followed Shek's gesture to kneel beside the pallet.
"Who is this?" Shek glared at Luton.
"He is mute and so potentially of some value. Do you open the boy's jaws for me."
The treatment was effective but brutal. Luton choked on the continuous stream of hot liquid that scalded his throat. As the fever gripped him and made him shake and shiver uncontrollably, he bit a finger next to his teeth, an accident that provoked the second warrior to slap the boy very hard. Luton didn't notice. The fever made him
disoriented. His shoulders slumped, his eyes closed, he tried to moan, but unable to fight any longer he let his body succumb to the fever. He ceased to care where he was. His lips worked with the effort to express physical pain, but no sound came.
"Lie him down," snapped Shek, pulling a cushion under the limp head.
Luton was unaware of being forcibly pushed to the mattress. Burning over every part of his body consumed him; the pain in his limbs was excruciating. He didn't remember being wrapped in several layers of cloaks, but if he could have screamed he would. The liquid he'd been made to drink made him feel very sick. He lay burning and shivering all at the one time, and, tossing from side to side, he threw off the cloaks. His lips felt cracked and his throat parched. He crawled off the mattress as far as his chains let him go, then collapsed semi-conscious.
He knew Shek returned and cursed him. When he felt himself lifted he fought the hands that held him, grasping with clenched fingers to the mattress at the same time as he tried to toss his head when his jaws were prised open. More hot liquid was poured down his throat. He struggled against being wrapped in cloaks, sweat poured from him and once more he tried to throw off the cloaks. This time he found himself held flat by invisible ties. He panicked and tried to hurl himself about.
He heard voices. Very strong restraining hands held him still. Though his eyes stared wide open, Luton was blind. Breathlessly he fought to scream, then, unable to, he cried silently and bit his lips till they bled. His fingers clenched too, till they drew blood. And still he sweated under all the furs.
He remained in the same condition for two days, unaware that, barely conscious and racked by fever, he was carried throughout the day on a litter. Tortured as he was by an inability to express his pain, he did all he could in other ways. Physically, as if, in his subconscious, he was afraid of continued abuse, he fought against anything and everything including the orlos, the cloaks and being tied down. The warriors found he was easy to handle because though the boy struggled he was pitifully weak.
On the morning of the third day Luton opened his eyes mistrustfully. Now that the tent no longer reeled and the pain that wracked him for days had eased, he took a deep quavering breath of relief. He tried to lift a hand to his head. When he found he couldn't, he realised he was tied tightly in a bundle of cloaks and lay quite still, conscious his body was soaking wet. He shivered. When he tiredly turned his head, he saw the outline of Shek before the warrior entered the tent. Shek bent over Luton who looked directly up at him.
"So you are awake, are you? Methinks you are more trouble than you are worth, boy." Shek put a large hand on the boy's forehead and nodded. "The fever has broken, has it not?" Weakly, Luton nodded. "I suppose you are wet again too."
Luton waited quietly while Shek untied the cloaks, suddenly realising he was naked. His white face flushed. Shek didn't notice because he was too busy carrying a bowl of warm water that he placed next to the pallet, and, kneeling beside Luton, he began to sponge the emaciated figure. He dried him and wrapped him in another cloak, the boy so light the warrior lifted him against the cushions with one hand. Shek noticed the sudden surge of sweat that broke out on Luton's forehead.
"Fear or fever, boy?" he asked coolly. Luton nodded. "Both?" He nodded again. "Are you still in pain?" Luton shook his head. Shek stared down at him meditatively, aware of the extreme frailty of the boy who lay there, helpless and oddly vulnerable. "From today you will be called Karek, boy. It seems appropriate because it means `silent one'. You have to have something to respond to other than `boy'. I will get you something to eat."
When the warrior returned he held a bowl of what looked to Luton like broth. Luton was too weak to hold anything so Shek fed him, nor was he gentle about it but held the spoon to the boy's lips and expected him to open his mouth and swallow immediately.
"You are very weak, boy, are you not?" he asked, as he tipped more broth ruthlessly down Luton's throat. Luton nodded, his fascinated eyes watching the large hand that remorselessly made him swallow. He managed quarter of a bowl of broth before he gagged, saw irritation on Shek's face and pulled back.
"What is the matter with you?" growled Shek. "Are you not hungry?" Luton shook his head, brushing away another surge of sweat that beaded his upper lip.
"He has been feverish for days, Shek, and barely fed for weeks before that, so I imagine his stomach has shrunk to almost nothing. He will most likely bring up some of that broth." Luton looked beyond Shek to the older warrior who'd quietly entered. "Is that not so, boy?" Luton nodded shyly. Shek rose, still holding the bowl.
"Worst of the fever seems to be over," he commented, looking down at Luton with some amusement. "He turned out to be quite a fighter, Autchek, and should fetch a good price if we can get him through this. If a mute is not wanted, he may be an attractive child for the boy market as well, if we can get weight onto him. I have told him he is to answer to `Karek'. It suits him somehow."
The older warrior, seeing the depth of fear in the black eyes as Luton listened to Shek talk, went over and knelt beside Luton, his hand gently placed on the boy's head.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "Time will tell what the boy's future will be."
~~~
Luton healed quite quickly. The fever broke completely the next day. The rest had healed his feet to the state where he'd be able to walk without too much pain, and his body sores and burns healed as well.
On the fifth day, Shek threw breeches and a tunic on to the mattress next to Luton with the sharp order to the boy to get dressed. A pair of sandals was dropped on the ground next to the pallet. It took Luton a painfully long time to dress and it left him panting and shaking, nor could he tie up the sandals. In trepidation he sat waiting for Shek to return. When he did, the warrior stared at the sandals.
"Can you not tie them?" he demanded. When Luton shook his head, Shek went down on one knee to put them on for him. "Can you walk?" Luton shrugged. Shek put his hand down and Luton very uncertainly got to his feet. "I am not nurse-maiding you anymore, Karek."
The implied threat made Luton take a quick step forward. He lost his balance and would have fallen, had Shek not put out an arm to hold him. The warrior eyed the boy broodingly, then hoisted him over his shoulder to carry him outside where he was put roughly on a seat in the sun and left.
When Shek returned, he had an armful of boots that he dumped at Luton's feet, saying curtly, "Make yourself useful and clean them. There are more where they come from."
Luton gritted his teeth against weakness and did them.
Within another four days, Luton was up and about. Like Daxel, he was very tall for thirteen cycles, but he was so thin his tunic hung over prominent bones. His face was white and his big eyes troubled and deeply sad. He looked frail and skeletal.
Shek bullied him to eat and he obliged, knowing as he did that it put up his price. He'd ceased to care. After fighting his illness so hard he was listless, but Shek wasn't too concerned. He'd got the merchandise, so now all he had to worry about was keeping it in saleable condition. He noticed the boy's apathy, but felt it wasn't significant. If he thought it would affect the price he got for Luton, Shek had ways of making boys responsive, but he was inclined to think the boy's docility would probably be an even better draw-card as few slave owners wanted a boy who protested or fought against his state. This slave certainly didn't. The journey still had a long way to go and Shek was quite happy to have a personal slave for its duration.
Luton's life developed a predictable routine. He was expected to be up by dawn to serve an early rising Shek. As instructed, with a cuff, he did all the cleaning, washing and cooking, learned to keep Shek's weapons in order and cared for the warrior's destrier. He learned about the horse the hard way when he got a kick that nearly broke his arm.
As his strength improved, he was expected to walk without any breaks and was told to help with the distribution of water to the caravan. It was a time of sheer endurance because Luton's strength was a fragile thing. He'd colla
pse at night with exhaustion, his face grey with fatigue. Compared, however, with what life had been on the caravan Luton found this existence bearable. The lack of chains that weighed him down for weeks made a marked difference.
He often saw the man who saved him, and, whenever he could, he took him extra food and water. Sometimes he saved some of his own food and sneaked that back as well. His friend never spoke to Luton, but his green eyes always smiled with warmth and affection when the boy came near and Luton felt the gentle understanding and sympathy that was a part of the stranger. He felt secure, knowing his friend was close by.
It took them until the end of autumn to reach Norsham. From a distance, the gutted city was forlorn and it made Luton's guts churn because Shek told him it was heavily garrisoned by the Churchik. He didn't know what to expect, so was surprised when the caravan entered it to find the bulk of the city completely empty.
Luton was terrified of being with a group of Churchik, his first experience of warriors surging back into his mind when he saw a large group of them hail Shek. Fortunately, as the caravan was settled down, none of the warriors took the slightest notice of Luton. He was known to be Shek's slave, so it was assumed Shek had prior claims to the boy. When Shek, from the beginning, showed no physical interest in him, Luton breathed more easily and adjusted to life as the warrior's slave without difficulty.
But now, among warriors, he knew deep fear, acutely aware that if Shek was asked he might hand over his slave to whoever desired his boy for some amusement while they were in the city. Luton tried to keep as low a profile as he could but unfortunately he was tall and stood out, not only because of his height but also because of his colouring, and though he began to stoop to disguise his height he could do nothing about his hair. When Luton was ill Shek cut most of the hair to the scalp which meant the boy now had an unruly mop of black curls that contrasted sharply with the Churchik blond. He was still very thin and frail looking, but his colour had improved to the point where a warrior would look at him twice.