Children of Ambros Page 8

  "It irks me," acknowledged Jaim, ruefully pulling at his whiskers. "I don't wish to fret, but I wish to move forward. Our mutual friend's laid deep plans, mage, and while this is comfortable, I'm not inwardly content. Where are his men, by the way?" A frown came to the mage's face at that.

  "Good question," he said, rubbing his nose. "I haven't sensed them until lately. I suspect they come close."

  "As you say, mage, possibly too close for comfort. We're well west rather than north and there's still much desert to cover. We should be thinking seriously of moving, mage."

  "Aye," concurred Autoc, his frown deepening.

  "The lad seems happy enough though, doesn't he?"

  "Oh aye," chuckled Autoc, his frown vanishing. "Even despite their escapade in the stables. I'm not sure I'm entirely forgiven for handing him over to Choja for the same medicine meted out to Jochoh." Jaim gave a crack of laughter at that.

  "He's enjoying the company of those his age. It's good for him, and I notice he's had a few fights and all," he chortled.

  "Let's hope he hasn't disgraced himself," remarked the mage, his eyes warm with amusement.

  After the boys' stable escapade, Choja looked over at Autoc, his eyebrows raised.

  "The boy's a mischief, Schol," he observed. "He's no longer so timid."

  "No," murmured Autoc. "He was once always with others, and rough and tumbled."

  "He's settled very well, Schol," Choja assured him. "He's relearned boundaries then, hasn't he?"

  "Aye." Autoc started to laugh. "It's good to see the child so alive again."

  "Tell me, Schol, what happened that he became so easily alarmed?" Choja noticed the laughter from Schol died instantly, the man's face grim.

  "Experiences in life aren't easy for some, Choja. I try to protect the boy as much as I can."

  "You won't trust me, will you, Schol?" When Choja spoke, he looked up at the mage and there was an odd twist to the tribesman's lips. Autoc turned, put out a hand and gripped the tribesman's shoulder.

  "I trust you implicitly, Choja, you must believe that," he said quietly.

  "The boy's in danger, isn't he?" When the tall man looked down into the deep green eyes, Choja thought Schol's eyes looked weary and melancholy.

  "Aye, Choja, all the time." Choja nodded.

  "The boy has profound talent, too, Schol. I know that." There was no response from Autoc. "Your son's safe with me, Schol. I'll see no harm comes to him." The hand on Choja's shoulder tightened and then was lifted.

  "Let the lad be happy while he can," murmured Autoc. "It delights me to hear him laugh so." Choja gave the mage a long look before he turned away.

  ~~~

  The gathering took place ten days later. Desert lords who'd been absent in their own towns or who'd been out in the desert arrived steadily for five or six days. Chlorien was fascinated by the toing and froing, her big eyes ever watchful as one lord after another arrived at the Sophy's behest. Some lords had been some distance away dealing with traders and gathering supplies, so they arrived with retinues that stretched out along the avenues.

  On the day the gather was to begin at midsun, Chlorien and Jochoh were perched up in one of the huge trees that dominated the main courtyard. As usual she asked constant enlightenment of Jochoh as people scurried or moved leisurely about below them. Her friend responded, amused by her surprise and interest.

  From him Chlorien gleaned a great deal about the desert lords. Jochoh may only have been sixteen cycles but he had a quick mind and an early grasp of fluid, and at times dangerous, desert politics. Allegiances drifted like the dunes in a sandstorm and a Sophy had to be a clever manipulator. To survive as the Sophysun's son, Jochoh had to be very alert and astute at a young age.

  Chlorien learned names and status as desert lords passed beneath them, and she took particular note of one desert lord that Jochoh unwittingly let slip posed a threat to the incumbent Sophy. Chlorien listened, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Treachery in the desert stunned her. She thought she wouldn't forget the name Kosko.

  So she sat, perched high up on a bough, now pensively surveying the movement below. She saw several lords come and go, including Kosko who rode out, to return an hour later with two riders flanking him and with whom he appeared to be in complete amity.

  Chlorien's consternation turned to fright and the breath was stopped in her throat when she recognised the strangers who entered the gates.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a still day, though overnight drizzle had made the ground damp. There was an air of excitement and anticipation throughout the camp that affected even the horses who whickered and stamped restlessly. It was warrior challenge day. A week following that would be warrior commitment day for those who passed the trials. It was a celebration all but slaves looked forward to.

  There was one slave more nervous than the rest. After the fast, Bethel went into a deep sleep that later turned to restlessness, until he wasn't able to sleep away the remaining hours until sunrise. Lodestok was kept awake though Bethel was unaware of that, nor did he see amusement in the warlord's eyes when he sighed and tossed yet again.

  His earlier transgression with Sasqua, nearly a cycle before, was never referred to by the warlord, Lodestok punishing Bethel in such a way he was sure the youth would never either disregard his wishes or disobey him again. Since Bethel showed himself compliant and submissive as a result, Lodestok was content. Bethel was listless but acquiescent for a season after Sasqua, then his depression lifted and the life, such as it was in the warlord's presence, reasserted itself.

  Lodestok woke earlier than Bethel on this day, which was unusual, because Bethel was invariably dressed and ready to serve his master as soon as the warlord awoke, but the fast had left him profoundly drained. Lodestok looked down at the sleeping youth, an unexpected smile curling his lips. Being remarkably gentle for such a man, he ran his fingers through the tumbled black hair scattered across the cushions. Bethel mumbled, stretched and flung out an arm. The warlord ran a finger across the now barely discernible Vaksh face cut, down across the throat where the torc used to be, across the shoulder and down past the stomach to the tattoo. This time Bethel sighed.

  "My lord," he murmured, half-asleep. Lodestok's smile broadened.

  "Well, my youthful flower," he said very quietly. "Today you will be made a Churchik warrior. Your life continues to go as I wish."

  He looked at the lovely face in repose, the skin still soft and clear with not even the faintest hint of dark down on cheeks or chin, and the mouth still so full-lipped and invitingly sensual. The air of sweet gentleness hadn't left Bethel; it hung about him like a mantle. The sorcerer would've sneered at how enchanted by this youth the warlord still was and would've mocked him as a man bewitched by beauty.

  "I still have you, petal, as I believe I always shall. You belong to me, but will be more mine in only a matter of days, though you do not realise that yet, boy, do you? You do not fully understand the rituals or oaths you will make then, child that you still are."

  Lodestok ran his finger up Bethel's groin to the youth's throat, hearing another sigh before he rose and began to dress. He'd pulled on breeches and boots and was settling his shirt comfortably when he heard a movement behind him. Bethel stretched and yawned. When Lodestok turned, Bethel opened eyes to see the warlord watching him. The velvety purple eyes, still so big and expressive, lit apprehensively on the warlord partially clad and Bethel quickly hauled himself up on one arm, preparatory to getting from the bed. Lodestok forestalled him.

  "Not this morning, little flower. Make the most of your rest. You have an arduous day ahead of you." The voice became silkily caressing and, as always, Bethel shivered at the inherent threat. "You will succeed for me, petal, will you not?"

  "Of course, my lord. I would not fail you."

  "Indeed you would not, little flower. It might enrage me, might it not?"

  "I would not do that, my lord."

  "So, you have learned that no
w, have you, flower?" Bethel's face clouded and his eyes darkened.

  "I will never forget, my lord," he answered, another shiver shaking him.

  "You are not intended to, petal." Lodestok buckled his belt. "My lessons are always best attended to."

  "My lord."

  Bethel let himself fall back on the cushions from where he stared at the warlord who stooped to pick up a comb. He was, and always would be, Bethel reflected, over-awed and mesmerised by the energy and sheer power of this man. For an older man in his late sixty cycles the warlord was physically a man in his prime, with unbelievable stamina and frightening appetites. Just looking at him Bethel felt a mere boy. He knew he may be made a warrior, but that he was still the warlord's boy slave was undeniable. Nothing, he acknowledged, would ever change that.

  Lodestok strode from the pavilion without a second glance. Bethel had pretended to lounge at ease, but as soon as he was alone he dressed and ran to his pavilion where Jane awaited him with outstretched hands.

  "Lad, you don't look rested," said Jane, clasping both Bethel's hands in his. Bethel looked down from his greater height and smiled.

  "I did not sleep well," he admitted ruefully, "though I out-slept the warlord. Gods," he shivered. "I thank those gods he was in a benevolent temper! He even fed me after the fast and let me sleep." He wrung his hands together absently. "Jane, you must see me properly fitted out. Should I fail my lord, I am in deep trouble." Jane patted his arm.

  "Stop fretting. Come and sit. You must be hungry."

  "I cannot eat," argued Bethel, allowing Jane to lead him to a table on the far side of the pavilion.

  "Sit, Beth. You can and must eat. You've fasted for a day in solitude even though you say the warlord fed you. You can't endure a day of trials on an empty stomach. Don't be a silly lad."

  Thrust down onto a chair, Bethel sighed and impatiently pushed his hair from his face and shoulders. When he began slowly to eat, Jane quietly went behind him and pulled back the locks to confine them with a riband.

  Through a mouthful of meat, Bethel murmured, "Could you go over the order of trials again for me?" Jane lifted a sheet and peered at it.

  "It begins with the javelin, where you must eliminate as many opponents as possible in the fastest time."

  "Not my main strength," muttered Bethel thickly, through another piece of meat Jane thoughtfully placed in front of him.

  "The wrestling," continued Jane on a chuckle. "You'll have a time there - the Churchik are hard to beat, especially young Manas."

  "Mmm," mumbled Bethel, plucking at an ear-ring.

  "Followed by archery - now there, Beth, you show mastery. None can touch you at that."

  "We hope," said Bethel fervently. "If I fail that, Sarssen will beat me!"

  "Then the axe, lad, followed by swords." Jane looked over at the youth who was downing ale. "I beg you take care, young one. Injury at this stage isn't uncommon."

  "I can take a scratch," was the surprised rejoinder. "I am not a girl."

  "True, lad," said Jane gently. "But the warlord won't want you hurt, will he?" This thought clearly jolted Bethel who looked pensive for a moment and nibbled on the end of a finger.

  "I had not thought of that," he admitted. He gnawed meditatively for a minute or two. "I shall have to go for quick disabling, will I not?" He smiled ingenuously at Jane.

  "Make sure you do," Jane growled. "And likewise with knives, Beth. The horse trials and chariot race at the end shouldn't concern you."

  "The branding ceremony is soon," reminded Bethel, cramming a large pastry into his mouth. Jane left him to it, his eyes twinkling as he pushed the platter close to Bethel's elbow. Bethel's hand hovered over the platter and one pastry followed another in quick succession.

  "I was hungry," Bethel said, ruefully glancing at Jane. "You were quite right." He settled back comfortably.

  "Course you were," grinned Jane, placing a bowl of fruit directly in front of Bethel. "Eat that. It'll give you energy."

  "Gods, you are as bad as Sarssen," grumbled Bethel obliging. Then he just grinned. He watched as Jane carefully laid out his weapons across the ground and didn't offer any further conversation. Absently, he began on another piece of fruit.

  Finally Jane looked up. He asked, in a puzzled voice, "Why branding? You're already branded as a slave, so why again?"

  Bethel sat with a long leg hooked over the edge of his chair and swung his foot, unconsciously imitating his master. He was clearly thinking, because he didn't answer immediately.

  "Do you know, Jane, I think I missed that bit. All I can remember is that it is a warrior brand that shows you can conquer fear as well as pain."

  "What bit did you miss?" Jane shook a second sword into its scabbard.

  "You know we were taught the significance of warriorhood?" Jane nodded. "Well," confessed Bethel a trifle guiltily, "I kept falling asleep. Manas had to wake me." Jane gave a shout of laughter and Bethel wore a sheepish grin. "The bit on branding is a little hazy." Jane was suddenly serious.

  "It bothers me when I see a boy, like you, struggling to compete with warriors who don't have the additional burden you do. It's not right." Bethel rested his hand on Jane's arm affectionately.

  "I have had nearly six cycles to adjust to this life the warlord forced on me, Jane. I think," he added pensively, "I have coped quite well considering. At least I am still alive." Jane got to his feet and looked Bethel straight in the eye.

  "More than well, and you know it," he growled. "Now what can you remember about this branding?"

  "It is on the inside of the wrists." Bethel frowned in an effort of memory so didn't see the wince Jane gave. "Every time you use your hands, or fight, you are reminded to whom you will be bound and that you are a Churchik warrior who never accepts defeat."

  "Maybe it is and maybe it isn't," muttered Jane. "Have you finished eating?" Bethel nodded and stretched before getting gracefully to his feet. "Then come and get ready."

  After he'd pulled on the long boots and belted then pulled his knife belt round onto his left hip, Bethel knelt somewhat uncomfortably so Jane could comb out his hair. It was so long it was halfway down his back and he winced when Jane removed the riband and caught a particularly nasty snarl.

  "I wish I could get it cut," Bethel grumbled, his eyes watering. "Why must he make me wear it so long?" Jane didn't answer, just rising and placing the comb on a chest.

  Bethel rose, took the plumed helm Jane held out to him, rammed it on his head and then turned back to the table to pick up his tankard. He drained it, saluting Jane as he drank. Jane thought the boy looked magnificent, but he made no comment, just watching as Bethel began to walk restlessly about, too full of nervous energy to relax. He looked up at the figure in the entrance of the pavilion and waited until Bethel turned.

  "Ah, young one, I see you are ready," observed Sarssen, striding forward. Bethel swung round, then stood still when Sarssen turned to Jane. "We thank you, Jane," he said quietly, before he looked back at Bethel. "You look a credit to your master, boy. Come along, your horse is outside. Go and mount him!" When Bethel left the pavilion, Sarssen lingered. "He will be back in an hour. And Jane, check his weapons most carefully."

  With that, the warrior was gone. It left Jane to stare uneasily at the displayed weapons; he promised himself that none other than he or Mishak would touch them.

  ~~~

  The hopeful warriors were in a line, seated rigidly still, only their mounts showing the fidgets. The smith waited with his slaves who were ready to pass him each branding iron as it was required. All were in waiting. Nobody moved when the warlord rode smartly in from the left, to rein his horse in directly behind the smith. His senior warriors fell in behind him.

  Lodestok kneed his stallion forward and to the left, each youth he passed dipping his head as a mark of respect. The warlord paused a moment longer in front of Bethel, his eyes narrowed to slits, but the dark head stayed bowed in obeisance. The warlord rode back behind the smith.

&nb
sp; "Begin!" he directed in a cold voice.

  The smith lifted two brands from a slave and walked to the first horseman on the left, where he waited courteously while the warrior dropped his reins and bent forward, his hands held out, wrists facing the smith. When the brand pressed into each wrist and was firmly held there, the youth didn't flinch - his cheeks became chalky, he breathed very fast and his eyes dilated, but he remained motionless waiting for the branding irons to be removed.

  Sarssen, watching as the smith moved slowly along the line, thought how different this was from the time Bethel was a terrified boy fighting like a wild animal when the smith neared him. Now the boy was immobile as the smith reached him, leaned forward and held out his wrists without any outward sign. Sarssen saw the boy straighten and noted with approval the young face was impassive - it was as if nothing had been done to him at all.

  After another inspection by the warlord, the warriors were dismissed. Sarssen saw Bethel turn his horse and ride away with a straight back and his carriage in the saddle graceful as always. He didn't, however, see Bethel tumble from the horse at his pavilion, toss his helm to the ground and walk rapidly inside. Jane thrust the reins at the young slave, Mishak, and followed Bethel. He saw the youth bent double. At the same time as Bethel spoke, he held out his hands and sank into a chair.

  "Gods, Jane, give me water for this!"

  Noticing how white the boy's lips were, Jane hurriedly filled a deep basin full of water that he carried across to the still figure. Bethel gratefully thrust his hands under water, barely aware Jane pulled the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows. When the water swirled over the brands, Bethel drew in a deep breath.

  "Gods!" he whispered, his face still ashen and his eyes enormous and black. Bethel bent his head over the basin and moved his arms very gently so that the water constantly washed over the marks. Jane crouched beside him. He didn't speak and waited for Bethel to regain his composure. After a few moments, Bethel lifted his head and looked directly at Jane.

  "That was the bit I forgot," he said, in a faint voice.

  "What was that, lad?" A smile touched Bethel's lips.

  "When I fell asleep," he explained. "I did not realise how close the veins are to the surface - the pain is excruciating." Jane rose and quietly crossed the pavilion to pick up a bottle of ointment. Bethel surprised him by shaking his head. "I forgot to have water close, Jane," he murmured, "but I do remember we may not touch these marks with any salve to ease the pain." Jane looked at him incredulously.