Children of Ambros Read online

  Lodestok's doubling of guards worked for a while, but the tactics changed as soon as he did this; although the warlord could admire the skill of whoever organised these marauding men, it did nothing to improve his temper. Supplies for the southern army still came north regularly, but that, too, could lead to a vulnerability not acceptable to the warlord.

  He was angered by Lenten, but heartened by some small settlements they took and fired before they moved north to the northern border of what was once the Samar Confederation. These minor conquests brought some slaves and some supplies, but didn't satisfy rapacious men who muttered discontentedly.

  Eli's intelligence brought news of Churchik anger. This in turn brought a sparkle to Eli's eyes, as he gleefully told his brother that at last they began to make the warlord react. Ensore chuckled, but advised caution. His note to Sarehl that evening was short and to the point.

  ~~~

  "You'll be amused and gratified to know the warlord's mightily irritated by your tactics, my friend. Barren cities don't please him, nor does the faint, but unsubstantiated suspicion, that a force may form among the vanquished.

  He dislikes a poor supply of slaves and it appears his men become restless without conquest. Physical victory matters much to the warlord, doesn't it?

  I've told a delighted Eli that caution's advisable, but he asked me to tell you, immediately, that your plans are a source of satisfaction. It pleases me to see him feeling our cause isn't entirely hopeless."

  ~~~

  Seasons later, Ensore and his combined force reached the northwest of the Cartokian kingdom. They noticed, as they marched, that few of the Ustomi's people populated the cities or countryside. The Ustomi had insisted on a full strategic retreat and took with him a large army ready and willing to fight. It joined up with Ensore's advancing forces west of Mythos, where the Marshal's army, footsore and weary, rested comfortably for a long spell. They'd taken well over a cycle to cover the distance from the upper reaches of Blenharm Forest to the northern border between Cartok and her neighbour Sushi.

  Weeks passed by the time Ensore assisted in the absorption of the Cartokian army into the multi-ethnic force, by which time he had to get the army moving northwest again, to keep ahead of the warlord. Sarehl had left Cartokian land sometime before.

  The Marshal saw little of his brother, because Eli was deeply involved with the intricacies of his intelligence network and was often far-ranging with some of his men. Ongwin never rested and was always in demand; the Marshal depended heavily on him.

  Daxel was seventeen cycles. He already ran a courier squad of younger boys - excellent training, Ongwin told Ensore with a grin, for when the boy was allowed to join a cavalry troop. The Marshal continued to be delighted with Daxel's development. His regular reports to Sarehl highlighted how satisfied the Strategos would be with his younger brother and Ensore thought Sarehl would scarcely recognise Daxel, because he'd grown so much over the five cycles since the sack of Ortok.

  There was no boyishness about Daxel. He was very tall, taller than anyone else in the northern army, his crop of raven curls, clustered about his head and neck, making him look quite distinctive. He was broad-shouldered, but hadn't yet filled out the frame that would make him a large and strong man. He was gaunt rather than thin, perhaps even lanky, though he was graceful and a most striking youth with his dark, flashing eyes and infectious grin. He was still reserved other than with those close to him, and the expression on the thoughtful face was often wistfully sombre. An unspoken and magnetic charm attracted people to him, he was an eloquent advocate for any cause he espoused and the young ones in his squad frankly worshipped him. It boded well for one who would one day lead men. Ongwin watched him with approval from afar.

  ~~~

  Ensore had to send his regular military bulletins and missives some distance, because Sarehl was always ahead of them. Consequently, it took time for Sarehl's letters to reach him as well, including one telling Daxel and Ensore that Bethel was to be a father in several seasons. This day, only hours earlier, it arrived. Ensore read it twice and chuckled deeply at the news, but Daxel, when he was told, was stunned. When the Marshal told him Bethel's mate was travelling to Sushi with Sarehl, Daxel protested.

  "How can Sar take her?" he demanded of Ensore. "She's a Churchik!"

  "True," replied Ensore lounging in a chair, his gaze on his boots. "But she's also mated to your brother, lad, and that makes her part of your family." Daxel was standing to one side of Ensore, but he flushed at that and turned abruptly away. "Dase," began Ensore gently.

  "I can't," uttered Daxel, in a choked voice. "They've destroyed..."

  "Lad," began the Marshal again. "Dase, come and sit beside me, or pull over a chair." Daxel hesitated, then came and lounged at Ensore's feet, his head coming to rest against the Marshal's knees. "You haven't read the letter. It's a sad business, Dase - the girl could die before Bethel's child comes to term. She's barely sixteen cycles, scarcely more than a child."

  "Gods," muttered Daxel, twining his hands restlessly.

  "She answers to Sasqua. Sarehl goes on to describe some Churchik ceremony Bethel had to endure when he was almost sixteen cycles. It's a maturation of some sort; I shan't go into unnecessary detail. Just understand that Bethel and Sasqua didn't stop after the ceremony as was usual and expected."

  "Bethel?" exclaimed Daxel incredulously. "Our dreamy little musician? I don't believe it!"

  "You should!" chuckled Ensore, perusing the sheets rapidly, but not saying much more. He merely commented, "Sasqua says - it seems the lad's known as Beth - that Bethel's a very gentle boy of enormous musical talent. That should hearten you, Dase, that the boy's encouraged in that way."

  "Aye," responded Daxel absently. He raised his head again, his dark eyes questioning and, Ensore thought, rather mournful. "Why didn't you tell me the warlord took Bethel?" Ensore stared into eyes, so like Sarehl's, they sometimes seemed too omniscient to be real.

  "How do you know about that?"

  "Camp talk," answered Daxel, his eyes not wavering from the Marshal's gray ones.

  "When, Dase?"

  "A cycle or so ago."

  "I see." Ensore sat pensively, conscious of the intense regard, then he spoke slowly. "Dase, you weren't thirteen cycles when Lodestok took your brother. I doubt you've understood the significance of it, would you?"

  "No," replied Daxel honestly.

  "We didn't tell your brother straight away either. When we did, Sarehl was devastated, Dase, so much so that Kaleb and I -." Ensore broke off, then resumed. "Sarehl felt unable to tell you. I thought you should be told something, so I told you Bethel was taken as a slave. It wasn't a lie."

  "I know what the warlord does with boys, Ensore."

  "Yes, lad," said Ensore softly. "Now you do, but then you didn't. By the time you were old enough to appreciate what happened to your brother, Sarehl and Kaleb had gone north and I became embroiled in the creation of an army. There was never any deliberate deception."

  "Has Lodestok had him all these cycles?" Ensore heard the break in the deep voice.

  "Aye, lad, he has."

  "Poor Bethel," whispered Daxel.

  "Up to this point, Dase, he's survived. That says a very great deal for that brother of yours. He's extraordinarily courageous."

  "What'll the warlord have done to Bethel for being with that girl? He wouldn't tolerate that, would he - not when he's broken our little brother?"

  "Dase, none of us know how Bethel now is. All we can hope is the edge of the warlord's anger was taken out on Sasqua. Certainly the boy will be thoroughly chastised, we know that, but we must hope Bethel's still alive. Remember what I told you about hope?"

  "Yes," murmured Daxel thickly.

  There was a prolonged silence while the two figures mulled over the contents of Sarehl's news, then, unexpectedly, Daxel swung round and looked up at the Marshal with a glint in his dark eyes.

  "The warlord won't know Bethel's to be a father, will he?" Ensore
raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  "No, lad, most likely not."

  "So he'll never know, will he?"

  "I think it highly doubtful he will. Why?"

  "He won't have that child to destroy. A part of Bethel will be with us."

  "That, lad," responded Ensore softly, "is very true. I hadn't thought of that."

  "It means that child will be doubly precious."

  "Indeed, Dase, it will."

  Daxel said very quietly, "We'll all care for the child until its father comes home."

  "Aye, Dase."

  ~~~

  It was a day like any other for young men being rigorously trained and taught military strategy by a mix of Dahkilan, Sushi and Cartokian officers and commanders. Daxel was under Ongwin's aegis, and, like others his age, obeyed crisp orders and accepted rigid discipline tossed at him without second thought. Churchik warriors and mercenaries trained hard. So did those who made up the northern army. The steppe people Lodestok met, cycles before, would've approved of the control shown by young cavalrymen drilled out on open fields, their horsemanship outstanding and the precision of their manoeuvres enough to make the warlord pensive had he seen them.

  Eli had briefly returned to camp to report to Ensore, the daily skirmishes with the southern army now more aggressive. They'd attacked a forward patrol, killed two Churchik warriors and kept the third for interrogation. It was the first sight, at close quarters, any among the northerners had seen of a captive from a loathed race.

  Tired, and his brain a bit groggy from training, Daxel decided to cross the camp in search of the Marshal. It was then, as he slowly made his way between myriad tents and small fires, that Daxel saw a commotion and, curious, turned to see what caused it. He saw the Churchik warrior. He missed an older man who approached, hands out in delighted welcome, the words called to him lost in a sudden flashback to Ortok.

  He watched, again, huge, blonde-headed men attack Sarehl, try to rape Alicia and slaughter two little children. He saw baby Brue, felt Lute's agony and recognised Bethel's suffering. He felt, again, the heat, terror and sense of loss, Myme Chlo's image so real he felt he could touch her. He thought of his mother. Daxel's hand was at his knife belt. Pure hatred flashed in dark eyes as Daxel swung purposefully towards the restrained warrior marched past by impassive, burly Cartokian guards. He was brought to an abrupt halt, by a man he only dimly recognised through a haze of fury. Hands on his shoulders restrained him.

  "Dase, lad - Dase, don't you know me?" Daxel tugged at the hands on his shoulders.

  "Let me go!"

  "Dase! The man's a prisoner."

  "I don't care!" ground out Daxel. Strong hands shook him, very hard. He suddenly slumped.

  "Come and have a drink with me," suggested the man quietly, as he let Daxel go. Daxel blinked, then stared down at the older man, disbelief in eyes so recently alienated.

  "Cardon? Cardon!"

  Daxel was back in the forest, lost, hurting, lonely and bereft, and this older man looked after him and was kind to him. He remembered his desolation when Cardon left and he'd felt friendless and alone again. Too many memories flooded him. He couldn't speak.

  "Ah, Dase, lad."

  Cardon put an arm about Daxel and waited until the younger man could respond. Then he gently but firmly guided Daxel towards the nearest mess. He pushed Daxel to a bench and went to collect and fill tankards with the ale Sushi and Cartokians drank, a brutal brew for cast iron stomachs. He sat opposite Daxel and pushed a tankard across to him.

  "Drink that, lad," he suggested, a smile in his eyes. "That'll knock you sideways." Daxel gave a shaken laugh.

  "Cardon! I'm so pleased to see you again. How did you find me?"

  "Lucky I did just then, youngster," observed Cardon, calmly surveying him. "The warrior brought back ghastly memories, Dase."

  "Aye," mumbled Daxel, rubbing his eyes.

  "Understandable, lad. It's probably the first warrior you've seen since Ortok." Daxel nodded. "Now, youngster, tell me about yourself since I left you with Ensore. You've grown into a very big fellow, haven't you? Then I'll tell you about myself."

  ~~~

  It was later that Daxel, fortified by another tankard of ale and a long talk with Cardon, parted from the older mentor and finally wandered into Ensore's command pavilion. At this time of day Ensore was usually alone. Today, he wasn't. Daxel walked in to see the Marshal in a small knot of commanders, and, beyond them, the Churchik warrior, his stance arrogant, the expression on his face contemptuous and the pale blue eyes chilling. Chained, he stood alone, a colossus and powerful. Daxel came to a halt. He stared across at his nightmares personified. The Churchik looked intently, and with interest, at the tall figure.

  "You!" came the deep, guttural growl. Daxel stood motionless. Ensore turned, saw Daxel and crossed to be beside him.

  "Dase, I wasn't expecting you. Do you want to go outside and wait for me?"

  "You! Boy!" came the imperious voice again. The Marshal turned to look across at the warrior. Though he spoke very softly, there was an implacable note to the voice.

  "What about the boy?"

  "He looks like the warlord's boy."

  Daxel struggled with the strange guttural accent but noticed Ensore had less trouble understanding it. The commanders now looked from Ensore, to Daxel and then across to the Churchik warrior.

  "So Bethel's still alive, is he?" asked Ensore, still very softly. It was a rhetorical question. "There's your answer, Dase. You wondered if he'd survive the warlord's anger over Sasqua."

  "What are you? Are you a brother of the warlord's love slave?"

  "What's he saying, Ensore? I can't understand him."

  "Yes, he is," answered Ensore for Daxel. The warrior's eyes swept appreciatively over Daxel, from his short black curls to his booted feet.

  "Very alike. The warlord would fancy him, too." Ensore's face was a mask. His voice was frigid.

  "Return him to Eli. Get him out of here, now!"

  "Just a minute!"

  Deliberately, Daxel walked up to the Churchik, almost chest to chest, and stood, face to face. To the warrior's surprise, he had to lift his head to meet black eyes, as heavily fringed as Bethel's, but these were hard as flint and held his, unblinkingly, in a stare that made the Churchik frown. This was no young slave like the warlord's boy, who bent his head in subservience. The warrior found the direct stare disconcerting. The silence was unnerving. It held, as did the look, until the Cartokian guards, in response to the Marshal's curt nod, ungently shoved the Churchik from the tent, the men followed by the commanders.

  Ensore looked at Daxel who didn't move, then, when he did and turned, the Marshal saw only bleakness overlaid by raw pain in eyes that met his.

  "He's Eli's to deal with, Dase." Daxel nodded. "Be sure he won't return to the southern camp. Eli has no love for the Churchik." Daxel nodded again. Ensore's voice softened as he moved across to the still, rigid figure. "Dase," he murmured.

  There was no response, so Ensore pushed Daxel into the closest chair, quickly found a goblet that he filled with wine and held it down to a mouth clamped shut, the teeth gritted.

  "Drink, lad." The mouth opened. Daxel obeyed. "Come back, Dase. Come back."

  Ambrosian Chronicles.

  Third Age.

  11209.

  We believe the Marshal, the Chamah-Elect of Dahkilah, has assembled a large army well into Cartokian territory, the army's intelligence network formidable and causing damage to the warlord. It won't be long before they enter Sushi land. We note, however, that the warlord's army continues to move at devastating speed and with ruthless, terrifying efficiency.

 

  All refugees from southern states and those states of the north appear to have been absorbed into the northern army, and this includes homeless and orphaned children.

 

  We're reliably informed it won't be long before the Strategos moves north beyond the Duchy of Sushi, accompanied by the Churchik girl mated with the ensla
ved Samar brother, Bethel. She is, we gather, badly hurt by the warlord, but the child she carries is unharmed. Bethel is, still, miraculously alive.

 

  The other brothers closest to the Strategos are carefully watched. The twin Daxel remains with the northern army for the time being, but the youngest half-brother, for his safety and security, will soon no longer travel with the army.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The desert men and their three guests travelled for days, Autoc unconcerned, though he noticed they moved steadily westward rather than towards the north. Jaim was utterly relaxed, but Chlorien was nervous, jumpy and prowled restlessly about the tent when they weren't riding. She still found it difficult to understand the language she heard constantly round her, but after a week she learned sounds and could isolate words.

  At every stop they were left to pitch their tents, but they were always ringed by the hide oublas of the tribesman. They were invited to join the desert folk for meals, Autoc politely acquiescing and Jaim resigned. Chlorien's appetite didn't return for days, her plate barely touched as she sat hunched next to Autoc, her eyes going from one tribesman to another.

  Jaim tolerated desert cooking for eight days, then made his wishes clear to the spokesman. The latter looked at Jaim curiously, then turned to Autoc.

  "Doesn't he enjoy our food?" Autoc gave a grin.

  "Aye, but he'd prefer to do the cooking." The spokesman had an answering smile in his eyes. He stared down at Chlorien who edged closer to the mage.

  "And does the boy like his food? He ate little for some days." Chlorien looked up apprehensively because she recognised the word `boy`.

  "Calm yourself, little one, he means you no harm," came the thought in her mind. Out loud, Autoc spoke quietly to her. "Do you like your food, lad?"

  "Yes, Father." Autoc nodded up at the spokesman.

  "He says he does."

  "How old is he?"

  "Fourteen cycles."

  "He's very pretty, isn't he, for a boy?"

  "Aye," responded Autoc carelessly. "He takes after his Mam."

  "Your mate must be a lovely woman, but the boy will have your height in cycles to come." Autoc smiled.

  "Aye," he agreed. "He will."

  "He's a timid lad for his cycles."

  "He travels with me to give him confidence."