"No, my lord."
"Good," said Lodestok, in a satisfied voice. "Now, boy, I wish to be entertained. Can you think of a way to pass the time as we ride?"
~~~
Bethel's visits to Morsh continued in an erratic fashion as the army rode further north. Each session was more fraught than the last, but despite that, the boy's learning was so very rapid and accurate it surprised even Morsh. The healer hadn't come across such a pupil for many cycles, except, of course, the one who now rode with the army and had no need to physically visit his tutor these days - they communicated in other ways.
Bethel was painfully cautious in his visits, changing times and routes he took so that no suspicions would be aroused. He knew how perilous his situation was. He was conscious, too, of the suffering that could be inflicted on the kindly man who risked his life to teach him, so, into those brief times with Morsh Bethel desperately crammed as much as his mind could comprehend and he practised until he almost dropped.
This crisp morning, before the camp was fully astir, Bethel set off to see Morsh, as usual taking his customary precautions. He was completely unprepared for the shock that met him at the baggage train. He saw no elderly reader-seeker fettered to a wagon wheel. What he did see shook him to his very essence. Morsh's battered head adorned a pike that reared up from the back of the wagon and where those gentle, far-seeing eyes had been, were empty blackened sockets.
Bethel gagged violently. He turned to the grass verge as his body convulsed and heaved. As he vomited, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew, without looking up, who it was, because in the entire camp there was only one huge hand that could grip him with such remorseless strength.
Bethel was swung round like a puppet, lifted off his feet in one effortless movement and was roughly and callously flung into the wagon to be stood face to face with the ghastly death mask stuck on the pike. He saw the warlord grin at him wolfishly, his pale eyes blazing with that peculiar light of anticipation that was so indescribably terrifying. Bethel felt strangled and couldn't get his breath. He was the colour of parchment.
"Now, little flower," came the deep rumble. "Can you explain your presence here to me?"
Trying hard to get control of his speech, Bethel caught his lower lip between his teeth. He failed. Lodestok didn't wait for an answer. He swung the boy up into his arms as if Bethel was a limp doll, strode from the baggage train and stalked across the camp into his pavilion and across to the bed. Without a word, the warlord dropped Bethel onto the bed and sat himself so that he could lift the boy, bent backwards, across his knees.
Bethel stared up at his master. His nostrils flared with sheer fright and his pupils dilated. His long hair swept the ground. His hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched. The warlord no longer grinned.
"I could break your back and then your neck, little flower, could I not?" he purred softly. Bethel wet his lips. The look on the warlord's face was frightening.
Bethel managed to whisper faintly, "My lord."
Lodestok ran a finger from the scar on Bethel's face down to the boy's stomach. He chuckled when Bethel tensed.
"Could I not, boy?" he repeated. He exerted pressure on Bethel's spine, watching as the boy winced. He pressed harder. "So brave, petal," mocked the soft voice, "and so disobedient." The young spine ominously cracked. Bethel gasped. "Shall I continue to break you, little bud, do you think? Or can we find a more fitting and colourful punishment for you?" The pressure eased. "If," mused the silky voice, "I break your spine, you will be of no use to me at all." The warlord was reflective for a moment. Bethel was unable to move. "What do you have to say to your master, flower, for being disobedient?" Pressure went back on the spine.
"I beg understanding," came out so faintly, the warlord had to bend his head. The boy's spine cracked twice. This time Bethel yelped.
"What, petal, did you say?"
"I beg your understanding, my lord."
"Ah, now, begging. That is much better, little flower. You ask for understanding do you? How very quaint." Lodestok unexpectedly yanked the boy from the bed and onto his feet, before he pressured Bethel to his knees. His voice was dangerously quiet. "Perhaps you would like to explain why I should understand you, little bud?"
Bethel's head hung between powerful thighs. He looked very young and very fragile. Courageously he lifted his head, only to have it viciously forced back. The big eyes swam, but they looked directly into the fiercely uncompromising pale ones.
"Speak, boy, before you find you cannot." The warlord continued to stare down. "You did clearly understand my orders, boy?" Bethel swallowed. He licked his lips again.
"Clearly, my lord," he replied in a dry whisper. The wolfish grin reappeared on Lodestok's face.
"Speak then," he ordered, giving the shoulder he held a shake.
"I was deeply afraid, my lord." The warlord's upper lip curled in a sneer.
"You mean you are now afraid," he answered contemptuously. A rough hand grasped Bethel's hair.
"Both, my lord." Bethel tried to hang his head, but had it wrenched sharply back.
"Look at me, boy! Do not hang your damned head! Go on, speak!" The words were punctuated by a sharp yank on the curls.
"When Jaden entered my mind he made me see things I couldn't see." A sob came into Bethel's voice. He prostrated himself on the ground.
"What? When was this? How could he make you see what you could not see? What nonsense is this?" Lodestok kicked Bethel hard. "I told you to look at me, damn you! Do it!"
"If you're made to see, but can't, my lord, you can lose your mind." As he spoke, Bethel stumbled clumsily to his feet to stand next to the warlord. Lodestok gripped the boy's wrists painfully.
"How novel," was the uninterested response. Bethel looked up at the warlord.
"My lord, I felt I could lose mine."
"So?" Lodestok's grip on Bethel tightened to such an extent, a tear crawled down a young ashen cheek.
"I serve you, my lord. I didn't want anyone to use me in a way you might not wish." A scornful crack of laughter met this.
"Such infantile arrogance, little man. You, flower? A mere child against Jaden?" The warlord paused, before adding softly, "You could still serve me, mindless or not." A gleam came into the blue eyes as they continued to stare down. "Are you telling me, little petal, that it all came from wanting to serve me?" Miserably, Bethel let his eyes fall from contact with those menacing and measuring ones. Lodestok's grip lessened. "What a silly little fool you are!" came the added rider as the warlord let Bethel go.
He strode across the pavilion, stooped at a cabinet, then straightened. Bethel staggered, then saw the phial in Lodestok's hand and shrank back in alarm.
"Yes, little petal, this is exactly what you think it is." The warlord paused. His eyes ran up and down Bethel as he strode back across the pavilion.
"My lord, no! Don't make me drink soche!"
With each word Bethel spoke, the warlord drew the boy closer, encircled him with his free arm and pulled Bethel in hard against his chest as Bethel strained to pull clear. Then he simply yielded. He stood limply, waiting. Such compliance infuriated Lodestok - he roughly shook the boy and snarled at him to show spirit. Still Bethel stood there. Lodestok gave an angry growl.
Sarssen entered the pavilion with a hasty stride, just as the warlord unstoppered the phial. He came to a sudden halt, his eyes keen but cold as he stared across at warlord and boy. Lodestok turned. His feral grin returned, and, still holding Bethel firmly, he placed the phial on the ground beside him.
"Sarssen," he said, surveying the tall figure. "You are come at a good time. This child disobeyed me. It is only because he went to a lesser reader, in direct defiance of my order, that I shall spare his miserable life." Lodestok turned to stare at the dark head. "Had you gone to one higher than a Level Two, boy, you would hang on a cross by now."
Bethel's teeth chattered. His legs felt weak. He knew, then, how very close he'd come to being discovered. He felt nauseating
cramps in his stomach. Released, he reeled backwards and went into a crouch. He coughed. Lodestok faced Sarssen.
"What do I do to cubs who flagrantly disobey me?" he asked conversationally.
"Punish them so they never do so again," was the reply.
"Quite so," agreed the warlord. "And what would you suggest?"
"There are various ways, my lord. All would teach him." Lodestok turned on Bethel and crossing to him, kicked him very hard again.
"Stand tall, little petal!" Bethel glanced across to Sarssen and got a long cold, appraising look in return. "Soche seems appropriate for such defiance, do you not think so, Sarssen?"
"Too painless, my lord," came the cold response. "And it would affect his ability to make the music you so enjoy."
Bethel stared at the warrior again, fear making him giddy. He sought for any sign on Sarssen's face, but the warrior remained impassive. The warlord also stared at Sarssen for a long minute, before he laughed and went over to the warrior to clap him on the shoulder.
"Too painless, you think?" he chuckled. "And what would you say the boy merits, apart from a very thorough thrashing? Your alternative to soche, Sarssen?"
"He is heedless. He needs a lesson, my lord, a painful one. It may make him think before he disobeys you again. You taught me so once, you may recall, my lord. It reminds me every day."
Bethel backed away from the two men, a hand up to ward them off as he watched Lodestok take three long strides to bring him close. The warlord quickly took the upheld hand. He laughed now. His hot anger was dissipated and there was only anticipation in his eyes. In one movement he jerked Bethel against him, easily held the boy immobile and his pale eyes looked over Bethel's head to Sarssen.
"What was it I did to you, Sarssen boy, all those cycles ago?" Sarssen gave the flicker of a smile.
"And did I ever forget your lesson, my lord?" he asked quietly.
"No, boy, you did not. Well then -." Lodestok paused. Then he dragged the boy back across the pavilion and sat abruptly on the bed, Bethel roughly pulled sprawling across him. "Now, little flower of mine. We do not want to disfigure you, do we? So -."
The warlord looked across at Sarssen, his grin broadening as Bethel felt hands at his belt. Bethel watched as if he was a spectator and not a participant. He watched, paralysed by fright, as Sarssen approached the bed, offering his knife, hilt first, to the warlord. Lodestok took it. He flicked the wicked-looking blade with a careless finger, his conversation with Sarssen passing over Bethel's head. All the boy could see was the blade gleam so terrifyingly close. Bethel knew Sarssen took both his hands and firmly gripped them and the warlord had him in a hold he couldn't break. He was completely helpless. He felt the knife tickle his lower abdomen, then cut very deeply.
A moan was wrung from him, and, just as he was about to scream, he got a mental blast that shook him from his curls to his booted feet. The scream was stillborn. Bethel cringed back into the warlord's lap, staring up incredulously at the face above him. Panic returned when he felt a deeper stab of the knife, but before the boy could throw back his head to scream or howl, the icy fury in the voice in his head made him shiver with shock. He shut his mouth and listened.
"Pull yourself together, you young fool," the voice snarled. "Pain is subjective, so use your skills to block it. Do you wish to die?"
When Bethel allowed full awareness to return, he found he stood trembling by the bed and watched, in a detached way, as the warlord wiped the blood from Sarssen's blade before returning it. The boy noted the grin was still on the warlord's lips but it didn't touch the pale eyes. He shivered again. He felt wetness on his leg. The sense of dull pain was bearable. Sarssen stood next to Lodestok who looked distant and unforgiving, the warlord with an arm draped over the warrior's shoulders. As the warlord threw the boy his belt he addressed Bethel so softly the boy barely heard him.
"Remember what is carved into you, boy. If you forget again, little flower, your life is forfeit." The warlord turned deliberately away from Bethel. "Take him, Sarssen. Thrash him as you see fit, then return to me. We have had little time together of late." The warlord swung back to stare at the trembling boy, his look coldly assessing. "As for you, you disobedient pup, look at me when you are addressed!" Bethel quickly raised his head. "You will join the slave ranks and march with them, as one of them. Maybe then you will learn to appreciate your life with me." Lodestok gestured at Sarssen. "Tighten his chains to a slow walk and have him chained to the dead reader's wagon. Get him out of here, before I flay the boy myself."
Lodestok turned his back and flung himself into a chair, his eyes closing. Sarssen eyed the boy in something akin to exasperation before he strode across the pavilion and shoved Bethel to the entrance.
Sarssen didn't beat Bethel. He took one look at the young face and judged the punishment to come would be more than sufficient, any time spent among the unluckiest slaves a salutary and unwanted experience this slight boy could do without. His method of dealing with the boy was rough and effective as was his wont. When Bethel stood silent and apprehensive in front of him, the warrior sighed deeply.
"Get yourself out of those clothes, boy. You will need something more serviceable to wear on a slave train." Sarssen went over to a chest by his bed and stooping, began to haul out a pair of heavy breeches, hose, shirt, an embossed jerkin, a heavier jacket and long black serviceable boots. He glanced up at Bethel, adding, "You will just have to hope the boots fit. The ones you have on will not last you long."
The warrior watched the boy strip. Bethel dared a swift glance up at Sarssen, then stared down at the deeply cut tattoo on his abdomen, squinting with the effort.
"What does it say, my lord? Is it Churchik?" he asked nervously.
"It is Vaksh, boy, and it means 'obey'." Bethel was thoughtful. "Get dressed!"
Bethel obeyed, shivering as he hauled on the breeches that were rather large. He put on the under tunics, yanked up the boots, pulled the shirt over a very tousled head and caught and buckled the belt the warrior threw to him. He pulled on the heavy jerkin, but found he fumbled with the thongs that he tried to tie because his hands trembled so badly. Sarssen went to one knee to clasp the chain he'd earlier removed from around Bethel's ankles, locking it securely. Bethel knew the chain had been shortened and accepted the beginning of his punishment with a forlorn sigh. Sarssen stood looking down at him for a moment, then pocketed the key and left the pavilion while Bethel, restless, eyed the jacket dubiously before he pulled it on. It swam on him.
Bethel wandered round the pavilion restlessly, trying to ignore the stinging sensation. He tried to see what he could learn of the warrior from his pavilion but felt no nearer to understanding the man by any possessions he might have. The boy sensed nothing of Sarssen. The warrior remained an enigma.
When Sarssen returned, he carried a tray with a full plate, two mugs and a jug of steaming liquid. He paused at the pavilion entrance, surveying Bethel who was standing still, side on to the warrior.
"You are a very pretty boy, are you not?" he asked quietly. Bethel turned to face him, a faint blush touching his cheeks. "You are much prettier than I ever was." Sarssen sat on the large carpet square that dominated the centre of the pavilion and set down the tray. He looked up at Bethel. "Sit if you can. You will be sore for a few days but you will get over it. Sit."
Bethel automatically took the food Sarssen actually put in his hand, though he felt too worn and drained to eat. He put the rest of the food untouched in front of him. Sarssen glanced at the curly head.
"Eat, boy," he ordered crisply. "You will get nothing much with the slaves, the barkashads will see to that. Eat as much as you can."
Remembering the word carved into him, Bethel did as he was told. He also took the mug held out. Though the drink was hot, he took a deep gulp. It tasted very sweet. Sarssen had added nectar to it, Bethel thought shrewdly, raising the mug again. Neither spoke. To an onlooker it would have made a curious picture, a large blonde warrior seated opposite a sl
ender dark boy who ate and drank as bidden.
When Sarssen felt the boy had eaten enough, he rose. He picked up a comb from his bed cushion and came back over to Bethel. He swept back all the curls, tied them tightly with a coarse riband at the nape of Bethel's neck, then attached a long heavy gold chain to the torc Bethel wore, before he flicked the chain end into the boy's jerkin pocket. He looked long and hard at Bethel, before he rose and turned to the entrance.
"Come, boy." Bethel winced as he got stiffly to his feet.
"My lord," he began hesitantly. Sarssen bent a hard look down at him.
"What is it?"
"Did you speak in my mind?" Sarssen frowned.
"Yes, boy."
"Can you - are you a reader?"
"Of sorts, boy, of sorts."
"Are you -?"
"I do not discuss myself with children," came the curt response, cutting Bethel short.
"I just wished to say thank you, my lord," whispered Bethel. Sarssen pursed his lips, then crossed purposefully to Bethel.
"Look at me, child," he said quietly. When Bethel obeyed, big solemn but nervous purple eyes meeting cool, tranquil green ones, the warrior touched him gently on the forehead. "You will forget any discussion we may have had until I give you leave to remember it. You heard nothing in your mind at all. Do you understand?" Sarssen stepped back and watched the boy rub his eyes tiredly. "Do you understand, boy?"
Without thinking or knowing why he was asked, Bethel simply murmured as of habit, "Yes, my lord."
~~~
He accompanied the warrior to the middle section of the slave baggage train and stood silent when several barkashads glanced up on their arrival. He heard the cold remoteness of Sarssen's voice. The barkashads were among the most hated and feared men in the camp.
"Grytch, this is the warlord's slave boy. He will be with you until further notice. He is to be treated no differently from any of the others you understand, and is to be chained to the wagon where the executed reader walked. You will chain him to the same pike of an evening. And Grytch, gods help any man who attempts to play with the warlord's boy: do I make myself clear?" Giving a knowing leer, Grytch came forward and grasped Bethel firmly by one arm.
"Very clear, my lord. Can he be broke to the wheel first?"