Children of Ambros

BOOK TWO

CHILDREN OF AMBROS

by

KATY WINTER

Published by The Furhaven Press.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: Katy Winter 2013

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-0-473-25592-3

Some explanatory lists to aid the reader.

The Churchik warrior hierarchy:

Warlord - has overlordship of all ranks. Below him, in order of seniority are:

Elite Haskars (some were on the Warlord's Council)

Haskars

Tempkars

Acedars

Beduars

Warriors who are the lowest ranked.

The Unseen Ones and their chosen species:

Abus - Shadowlanders

Benth - Mages of Yarilo

Crue - Wildwind Desert tribesmen

Huma - Rox

Lais - Gnosti

Marl - Dragons on Ice Isle

Minac - Conclave of Reader/Seekers

Misa - Sinhalien of the southern steppes

Obli - Dryads and nymphs from the north of Ambros

Sympho - Rox

The Conclave of Reader/Seekers:

Headed by the Mishtok (Aceke)

Adepts - Setoni, Leon and Morsh (aka Morjar).

The Family of Melas and Alfar of Ortok:

Bethel (aka Beth)

Brue - son of Melas and Bruno

Myme Chlo (aka Chlorien) - daughter of Melas and Elbe

Sarehl the eldest son

Twins Daxel (aka Dase) and Luton (aka Lute)

The Dahkilan Family:

Ensore - Chamah (ruler) of the state of Dahkilah, Marshal of the United Forces of the North.

Eli - younger brother of Ensore (sets up the Intelligence network of the northern forces.)

Kasan - sister of Eli and Ensore.

Characters known by more than one name or title:

Autoc - aka Scholar/Schol - 'Father' to Chlorien, and Master Mage of Yarilo

Bene - aka Benhloriel/Burelkin - Archmage of Yarilo

Bethel - aka Beth

Blach - aka Sorcerer of the Keep

Choja - aka Sophysun

Chojoh - aka the Sophy

Daxel - answers to Dase

Ensore - aka the Marshal, also the Chamah, ruler of Dahkilah

Foresters - aka as Sache, Dalmin, Arth, Kalor, Ensore.

Indariol - aka Aelkin of the Shadowlands

Kalor - a Cyrenic aka as the Domon

Luton - answers to Lute

Malekim - aka Elbe - Master Mage of Yarilo

Myme Chlo - answers to Chlorien

Sarehl - aka Strategos

Also see the Glossary at the end of the book.

THIRD AGE: THE BEGINNING

A quotation from Ochleos Rox, Guardian on Lilium, to the Mages of Yarilo, and to the Conclave of Reader-Seekers on Ambros. Third Age 0207.

Through the struggles that have come and will come again, shall a balance be restored to Ambros. It must be understood. The Watchers and Guardians must be ever vigilant. Those to whom the balance is entrusted must fulfil their duty by ensuring it.

They must look for the child who's made a shadow and thus becomes a child of the dark. There'll be a child born of light and dark who'll of all kinds be made into one. The child will have power. Teach the child to use it wisely so that it doesn't become an instrument of chaos.

The paths of these children, and those touching them, will be very hard. They'll be torn between powers they can't comprehend. Watch for all the children who hold the balance of Ambros in their hands. In the binding, those of the dark and the light will unite to become one.

Only then will the balance be immutable and Ambros finally at peace. This wisdom is given to me to pass on to you. Take heed. Ignore it at your peril.

CHAPTER ONE

The children of Melas are scattered across Ambros, each child with an unknown gift they have to recognise to ensure their survival and that of the future of their world. They are apart and unable to help each other. While a sister entered a desert, one brother was in southern Ambros as a slave prisoner in a Keep. Another lived as a slave with a Warlord. Yet another travelled the north, to try to marshal help, from as yet untouched northern states, to confront this Warlord, and a fourth brother was now part of a formidable armed force that formed in the north of Ambros. The fifth brother, still only a small child, lived with the eldest brother and those who travelled with him.

~~~

Chlorien didn't like the onset of the desert. She constantly found sand in her food, the heat during the day was oppressive and the cold at night seeped into marrow bones. Already it was late autumn and no one needed to tell her a desert was an unfriendly environment in winter.

The storms that swept across the dunes made their lives hard and their trek extremely slow. Chlorien thought she spent a lot of time crouched in a small tent, mercilessly buffeted by winds, often for day after day. Sometimes the weather was so bad they wouldn't venture out unless it was essential. The two men had no desire to be lost and both privately wondered if their sense of direction, constantly needing to be reassessed as dunes changed daily, if not hourly, was to be trusted anymore.

On those days Chlorien knew she was expected to learn and was resigned to sitting, trapped by the wind and the sand, a tome open in her lap. When the weather cleared they moved again, but painfully slowly and not making the headway she'd become used to. Autoc wouldn't let her translate either, so she had to content herself with learning to use knives. Jaim taught her how to do this. Chlorien reflected that Jaim might be old, but he was wickedly accurate with throwing and catching knives. If he could do it, Chlorien told herself, then so could she.

Autoc knew they were pursued but there was little he could do about it, and he knew, too, that Chlorien was still faintly aware, because every so often she glanced behind her and a shiver caught her. Autoc knew the pursuers would experience the same difficulties so, as long as he and Chlorien kept reasonably in front, he wasn't especially worried. He also knew they'd meet members of the Wildwind desert tribesmen, sooner or later, because the real desert approached inexorably. He'd deal with that when it happened. So the days slowly passed.

~~~

Autoc wasn't sensing any presence this evening, but then, he wasn't either looking for or expecting any visitors. So it came as a mild surprise for him to find, as they sat eating, they were surrounded. Autoc sent a warning to Chlorien and sat very still. When she first glanced up, she gave a yelp of fright, but was now pale and quiet. Jaim showed no overt reaction; he merely lounged back more comfortably. Autoc noticed these men weren't their pursuers, wondered idly why he hadn't immediately registered their presence and thought, ruefully, his mind was preoccupied with other things.

Curiously, he looked up at the men who surrounded them and studied them, one by one. As far as he could see, in the fading light, they were quite tall and slim though well-muscled and sinewy, with long plaited queues that hung over their shoulders. Their hair looked light blonde, but their eyes were the harshest and deepest green Autoc had ever seen.

The men had tattoos at the hairline, ear-rings hung from pierced ears and they had gold studs in their nostrils; ornate necklaces and bracelets on throats and wrists matched the rings that were on every finger, even the thumbs. All were barefoot, every toe wore a ring and several anklets were on each foot. They wore talma, but instead of robes over them such as the travellers wore, these men wore loose tunics that hung almost to the knee. None of them looked either curious or friendly and each had a curved sword drawn and ready. Execution or retribution, Jaim thought intrigued, would be swift.

Autoc bent his head back to his food and ignored both the men and Chlorien, who'd completely lost her appetite, while Jaim ate in a thoughtful way, ponderously chewing his way through what was left on his plate. After several mouthfuls, Autoc raised his head, his very blue eyes staring intently into the eyes of each of the men who looked forbiddingly at him. As he did, there was an almost imperceptible shift of position and an inward hissing of breath from each man who caught his glance. One spoke, his voice harsh and the language he spoke nearly impossible to understand. It was southern guttural and not unlike Churchik, something that didn't escape either Autoc or Jaim. Autoc, however, seemed to have no difficulty with it.

Who are you? came the question. Autoc raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

I'm Schol, with my son, Chlorien. The other is Jaim, the lad's uncle.

Who are you? was repeated.

We're travellers.

From where do you come, and where do you go?

We're from the Samar States, some distance east of here. We're going to Ice Isle.

Why?

Autoc didn't answer. He was intrigued the man even knew of Ice Isle at all. That was highly unusual, because few Ambrosians knew of it. Autoc stored that knowledge for future recall. The voice became a menacing growl.

Answer me, if you value your lives. Still the mage didn't speak. He found a sword pushed under his chin and rested against his throat, the man's move carried out in fluid silence and with lethal rapidity. Jaim tensed. You think to cross our lands? Nobody passes through the tribe lands of the Wildwind without an explanation.

I can give you no further information. I don't wish to seem deliberately rude or disobliging. Autoc stayed still, his eyes meeting those of the man who held the sword at his throat.

Maybe the boy can speak and enlighten us.

The man straightened, his head jerking in Chlorien's direction. Even as the sword was withdrawn from Autoc, Chlorien found herself hauled ungently to her feet, only to be held immobile by one of the other men. Autoc caught her terrified look and glanced at the man holding her captive; she was so restrained all she could do was move her eyes.

Let go my son, Autoc said very quietly. You're frightening him. The first man ignored the mage and merely turned to Chlorien, his eyes coldly assessing her.

Why are you going to Ice Isle, boy? Chlorien couldn't understand what the man said.

Father? she whispered, eyes big in a white face.

He asks, child, why you're going to Ice Isle.

What's that? she asked, whimpering when the knife blade touched her throat.

Autoc rose. When he took a step forward, the circle of swords came very close to him. Chlorien's breath came in short gasps; the sword felt her every swallow. Autoc ignored all but Chlorien.

He doesn't know, nor does the old man, he said very softly. You'll have to find out from me and I'm not speaking.

The mage took four steps to reach Chlorien, and, once beside her, he calmly pushed the sword from her throat. His eyes met her captor's, so much menace in the mage's blue ones the tribesman faltered back a step. The arms encircling Chlorien dropped.

Autoc pulled Chlorien to him. He sat and held her protectively, his thoughts directed to her ones of reassurance. Chlorien shrank back into him, eyes wide with fright. The first speaker stood over Autoc and the boy.

We're threatened on all sides. We let no one through our lands.

We're all threatened, responded Autoc quietly. There are those behind who pursue us and would harm us if they could.

We could give you to them, could we?

Aye, you could, admitted Autoc, his hand stroking the dark curls. They want my boy.

Why?

They saw he's very pretty.

For a boy harem, no doubt? The tribesman made a gesture of disgust.

No doubt.

And you naturally wouldn't let that happen.

Of course I won't.

And you wish to cross our lands?

Yes.

Could you go no other way? The spokesman looked intently at the mage, watching as Autoc glanced briefly down at the boy before he looked up and shook his head. You'll come with us while we decide whether to grant you permission or no.

If that's your wish, we'll come. A desert such as you live in is no place to wander.

It's our wish. Autoc caressed Chlorien's cheek.

You won't harm my son?

The speaker looked first at the mage, and then at the boy, Chlorien's scared look up at him bringing the faintest of smiles to the green eyes.

We'll not harm the boy - or the old man.

Autoc caught Jaim's eye before he rose, pulling Chlorien to her feet and then assisting Jaim to his. They watched as the speaker, obviously the leader, turned and spoke to the other men. Six disappeared as if they'd never existed. The speaker stared hard at Autoc.

They'll find out who your pursuers are and deter them for a short while.

Thank you, said Autoc, with a crooked smile. Chlorien shrank back against him again when she saw herself being studied.

That's a nervous boy, was the flat comment.

Swords at his throat have that effect on him, agreed the mage drily. We'll dismantle our -.

No. A hand stopped Autoc from taking another step and the speaker pointed to the horses. My men will bring all you own. Mount and follow!

CHAPTER TWO

It was early autumn in Blenharm Forest. Mellow colours swept as far as the eye could see, leaves turning on trees, others fluttering randomly about tents that spread through the trees. Voices could be heard. Some were muted, others clearer, but all were busy because camp was soon to break and a steady march begin to take the northerners to the tip of the forest and beyond. There were sounds of children too. As Chlorien and the Scholar entered the desert, so Ensore, now known as the Marshal, was very close to the north-western reaches of the forest and a march that would take them into Cartokian land.

Ensore tiredly twirled his hand in his beard and Ongwin, just entering the tent, heard a sigh.

What makes you sigh? he asked. He stood quietly surveying the younger man.

Sarehl. I miss him. So does Dase.

I know you do. We all do, my lord. But look how he's been able to engineer the structure of the army and without him I believe future resistance to the warlord would account for little. His ability to persuade others to join our cause more than justifies his going north, my lord. And the way he has gone about the organisation and functioning of the army, almost single-handedly, is quite remarkable too.

Aye.

Have you heard from him again?

No. I've just got a long letter from Kaleb. He says all's well and we'd be delighted with how Sarehl is these days. It would be nice to see for ourselves, wouldn't it? Ensore rubbed his chin. Ongwin heard the wistful note in the voice.

Not long before we begin the haul that brings us ever closer. He was reflective. We're nearer than ever, my lord. Ensore nodded, then smiled.

Do you need me?

I was looking for young Dase.

He's with Eli.

I'll find him, promised Ongwin with a chuckle as he left the tent.

Ensore absently filled a tankard, then wandered outside to settle under a tree where he could more thoroughly peruse Kaleb's long letter, but instead left it lying in his lap while he thought how far the northern army had come. The Chamah-Elect was so preoccupied with the army, he'd had scant time to spend with Daxel, their moments in the evenings restful, the bond deep. It was Ongwin who cared for Daxel.

Ensore enjoyed Kaleb's letter. It gave him a clear picture of what happened up north and he decided that evening he'd write again to both Sarehl and Kaleb. He thought back to an incident with Daxel no one had discussed with his elder brother, nor had anyone any desire to either. Ensore was just profoundly thankful there'd been no recurrence, for Daxel's sake.

Ensore thought back, the occasion as vivid now as the day it happened. At the time, Daxel leaned on one elbow on a pallet in the campaign tent, tussling with a mathematical problem Ongwin set him, a tankard beside him that he sipped from every so often. He was broad shouldered even at this age, but still thin and well over six feet, his growth in three cycles astonishing. He was no longer a boy. He was strongly built like his father and as Sarehl was before injuries left him with a frailty similar to Luton's.

Eli and Ongwin were with Ensore, in the company of senior Dahkilan officers and other ethnic representatives, all militarily-minded men, seated round a makeshift table discussing spread out plans from Sarehl. There was a lot of animated talk. Daxel looked across at them lazily, the tankard to his mouth. Then he dropped it with a gasp. He screamed. Ensore and Eli turned as one, Ensore quickly down on his knees beside Daxel as the boy screamed again, hands to his head as he curled up, then pressed palms to his temples. His eyes were filled with sheer terror and pain.

Get a healer! yelled Ensore to Eli, who was gone on the words.

Ongwin knelt beside Ensore. They watched how Daxel tried to bury his head in his arms, howling now as he muttered incoherent words torn from him without his being aware of them. He convulsed. His eyes rolled back. He screamed again. He writhed. His limbs contorted. He was in concert with his twin who lay on a bed, in the Keep, as his new master dissected his mind slowly and deliberately. Daxel tried to push back Luton's anguish as his twin's mind was probed, analysed, and torn to shreds. He fought, with Luton, as together they endured Luton's experiences since Ortok, his agonies on the slave caravan and his desperate attempt to keep sane. Daxel could scarcely breathe. He felt the amused indifference and contempt from the mind that so callously and minutely delved into his twin's. Like Luton, he convulsed again. He howled till he was hoarse.

Then, barely conscious, he felt the powerful mind mentally fling him away with utter disdain, flicked aside like an insect, just as, at that instant, he sensed his twin engulf him, join fully with him, then submerge somewhere, Daxel taken with him. Luton completely faded from Daxel's mind. Daxel could no longer feel his twin. It was utterly alien and terrifying. It was as if someone amputated a vital part of what made Daxel sentient. That was too much. Daxel threw back his head and screamed.

Lute!

A healer hurried to his side and went down beside him. He lifted the limp head, saw the rolled back eyes, felt shudders rip through the thin frame and tried to force open clenched teeth.

Help me, he said sharply.

Ongwin and Ensore had tried to hold Daxel as he flung himself about. Now they gripped him, Eli across to help. They immobilised the boy long enough for the healer to force the teeth apart and pour liquid steadily down a constricted throat. Daxel coughed, spluttered and choked. An inhaler up a nostril made his head rear back when the healer pushed the plunger hard and fast. It was repeated in the other nostril with the same effect.

Daxel very slowly uncurled, the wild eyes closed and the mouth opened. He moaned softly, gave a gasping sigh, then, without awareness, cried. Ensore just cradled him, talked gently and quietly, until Daxel simply fell back into the older man's arms and drifted into an uneasy doze. Eli and Ongwin, profoundly shaken, got to their feet and stood looking down. Others were shocked to silence. No one moved. The healer stayed kneeling by Daxel, a phial in one hand at the ready, the other holding the youngster's pulse. He watched Eli shepherd the men outside, Ongwin with them, before he turned to speak to Ensore.

He'll quieten. I've given him a very heavy dose that'll last quite a while and keep him drowsy. I'd prefer, with your permission, to keep him sedated and I've placed a heavy block on his mind as well. All I can say, Marshal, is I suspect he was linked with his twin in some devastating mindmeld. It's nearly killed him.

~~~

Daxel couldn't see his elder brother, because the Strategos moved steadily northwards from the Cartokian kingdom to the Duchy of Sushi and further north again, while Daxel, with the northern army, was about to move towards Cartok with Ensore.

When Ensore saw Sarehl on his way, cycles before, the Chamah-Elect found he became so busy with trying to establish a military organisation, his time for anything else was gone. Ensore's correspondence to Sarehl mostly covered what he'd attempted to do from the time he left the Strategos in the forest. In early days, attempts to form an army under one control were frustrating and, finally, abortive. Group individuality was impossible to overcome. In the end, Ensore and Eli, ably seconded by Ongwin and the Chamah's surviving younger elite guard, organised all the Dakhilan men along the lines Sarehl suggested, so integrated units were formed with excellent communications. It took Ensore time to do this, because Dakhilans were spread throughout the huge forest and some were almost impossible to contact.

Once unified, however, the Dakhilans moved through the forest northwards with astonishing speed. It was noticed they consistently hurt the enemy flanks as they swept out in well organised raids as Sarehl suggested. Not only that, they garnered essential provisions as well. It made other groups in the forest thoughtful. They were the ones reluctant to consider a unified force; they straggled along behind. They lost men in small disorganised forays that the southerners dismissed with contempt.

These groups watched as Ensore's men harried Lodestok's flanks, mostly without casualties. Then, as they outpaced the southern army, these same Dakhilans manoeuvred themselves into superior positions while they waited for Lodestok's army to advance. The Dahkilan always had the element of surprise, their attacks catching the southerners unprepared every time.

After a season, group resistance in the forest dissolved. Leaders approached Ensore. He quietly accepted each band or group as it came and absorbed them into a growing army that emphasised discipline and unity. This army trained as rigorously as Lodestok's and, in time, would have the potential to be an equally formidable force. It was supported by men and women who had a reason to ensure this army succeeded, not one of those part of the northern army untouched by the actions of the warlord.

Only two seasons later, after stragglers were absorbed from throughout the forest, Ensore was automatically accepted as head of the combined army and known to all simply as Marshal. No one thought any more about it. He began setting up an intelligence network, following the advice Sarehl sent him on doing this. It proved its worth almost immediately.

Only Dakhilan were permitted in intelligence because they were fanatically devoted to Ensore. It wasn't deliberately thought out this way. It just happened. These men were the reason Lodestok's army suffered as much as it did. Not only were Ensore's men advised in advance and readied, but they knew who to aim for, size of opposition, who to disable and what supplies they could purloin. Eli ran the intelligence unit. It suited his mercurial temperament and he soon built a thorough network that consistently damaged and angered the warlord. Lodestok hadn't expected the bands in the forest to organise and certainly had no idea Eli's men carried out surveillance, day after day.

Ensore's army swallowed up all the refugees eventually, so by the time the army reached Lenten, it was several tens of thousands in number and covered every ethnic group from central and southern Ambros, other than Churchik and steppe people. The army was also considerably ahead of the warlord. Lodestok's army still skirted the huge Blenharm forest, and was still harassed, too, by groups that swept down repeatedly on southern army flanks. They moved as quickly as they could.

The Alders of Lenten listened to Sarehl and the other foresters about what awaited them. They didn't linger. They withdrew precipitately from the city, in as organised a fashion as they could, long before Ensore and his army arrived, so the Marshal found only a skeleton garrison left waiting to assist him, while all other citizens had withdrawn to camps set up some miles north. The Lentens were more than happy to be absorbed into the swelling army. The Alders offered whatever assistance they could. Their relief and pleasure at the sight of Ensore's approaching army was pathetic.

While the army rested and reprovisioned in and around Lenten, Ensore put Sarehl's plan for couriers into practice. While he left Ongwin and Eli to arrange the absorption of the small Lenten militia into the army, he organised youths into squads of mounted messengers.

It wouldn't be too long before Daxel, now quickly growing up, would be attached to one of the squads that careered about the forest and beyond, as the army stretched out and began its northward move. Ensore knew these young couriers would, in time, prove vital in getting information from one troop to another, especially during combat. It was a rapid and efficient form of communication. Before then, there was none.

Ensore's letters constantly asked for advice. They were also instrumental in letting Sarehl know how much of his programme had been followed, and what remained to be implemented to make the army fully integrated and operational. By the time Lodestok's army swept on Lenten, they found little other than the physical structure of the town left intact. In fury, the warlord ordered it fired. The fields offered no sustenance for the southern army, because all that could be harvested was taken by Ensore's army, his train laden with huge bags of grain.

There was game in the adjacent eastern forest, but nowhere near enough to sustain Lodestok's huge army. The forest was only small and much of it was immediately cut down by the southerners who needed wood for warmth and cooking. Fish from the rivers was plentiful, but again there was only enough for the elite warriors; no one else enjoyed such fare. There were no slaves to be had and no spoils of war for the men.

It was two cycles since Ensore and Sarehl went their separate ways, that saw the Marshal finally leave Blenharm forest and the northern army begin the long haul north towards the Cartokian kingdom.

CHAPTER THREE

The Churchik youths aspiring to warriorhood were in front of Bensar, and while they were rigidly still in the saddle, noise and movement from everywhere around them was loud. A very long obstacle course was set up by sweating slaves, a horse jumping and display area cleared by chivvied, tired slaves and areas for archery and other trial sites organised. In a day, competition for warriorhood would begin.

Bensar stared at each young man in turn. They could have been statues. His voice was like ice.

You will assemble just after dawn. Before then be sure you are ready to compete. You will have no time to do this later, so be warned. Your weapons should be in order and your horse immaculately prepared. See that your slaves ensure it. You do not socialise until after the trials. Do you understand?

Heads nodded. Bethel thought very few of those around him would be remotely interested in socialising with him. Some, he knew, hated what he represented and deeply resented his presence among them. To them he was merely a lowly slave from an inferior race who shouldn't be there and he was acutely conscious of personal hostility and enmity from those few.

Curtly dismissed, the youths rode from the training field. Bethel, already tired from a hectic day going from Sarssen to Gariok, not to mention being with his troop, knew he had little time before he was due to go to his master and sighed as he handed his stallion to his young slave, Mishak. He walked thoughtfully and slowly to his small pavilion, smiled at Jane absently as the older man left to organise weapons, and threw himself on the bed, eyes closing. He snoozed restlessly, tossed, then heard movement at the pavilion entrance and looked across to see Sarssen, wineskin in hand.

Are you worn out, boy?

Yes, my lord, responded Bethel, immediately on his feet and trying to suppress a yawn. Sarssen came forward to look searchingly at the young face through fading light.

You look exhausted, Bethel. Was it because of me, the troop, or Gariok?

Everyone, my lord, shrugged Bethel, crossing the pavilion to hunt for goblets.

I have goblets ready in my pavilion, invited Sarssen. I thought you may enjoy a quiet, relaxed drink before you go to your master. There is no rush. The warlord is in discussion with senior haskars, so I doubt he will be ready for you yet awhile.

Bethel looked up and across at the warrior and nodded tiredly, but also with a relieved grin as he followed Sarssen to his pavilion. He made no effort to speak. Sarssen held out the wineskin that Bethel used to fill goblets in readiness on the table, while the warrior crossed to a chair, sprawled his length in it and watched the younger man. Bethel took full goblets, handed one to Sarssen and sank onto the edge of the warrior's bed with an even deeper yawn.

You feel ready for what comes, Bethel?

Mostly, responded Bethel in a flat voice.

You will find tomorrow very hard.

I know, my lord. You have prepared me. So has the warlord – thoroughly.

At dawn, boy, come here to my pavilion. I will have something to sustain you through what comes.

I thank you, murmured Bethel, taking a long drink.

Have you checked your weapons and has Jane got them for safe-keeping? Bethel nodded. And who watches Brun?

Mishak, my lord. He is with Brun in his stall now.

You refer to the boy slave? Bethel nodded again. Well and good, boy. I shall also keep a close watch on things.

My lord, murmured Bethel gratefully.

Drink, Beth, and relax back on the bed. If you drift off I will make sure you are with the warlord in good time.

~~~

Bethel woke before dawn as was his habit. He slipped like a wraith from the warlord's pavilion, the huge figure of Lodestok still sprawled out, deeply asleep. Bethel envied him. Pulling on only breeches and a shirt he went quickly to the warrior's pavilion where he found Sarssen, fully dressed, lying back on the bed rested against cushions, long fingers curled round a mug of hot mulled wine. Bethel thought, wistfully, that he looked comfortable and at ease. Sarssen's head turned when he heard movement at the entrance.

You are allowed to eat and drink before early sun, Bethel, so -. Sarssen indicated a tray on a table at the far side of the pavilion. Light the lanterns first so you can see more clearly. You are mostly in shadow. Automatically Bethel obeyed. Sarssen waited for the lanterns to brighten, then looked over at the still figure. There is food there, boy, high in energy. I asked Banic to organise it. Eat your fill.

He watched Bethel take the tray, sink to the large piled rug in the centre of the pavilion, place the tray beside him and begin hungrily to eat.

Would you like some of this, my lord? Seeing Bethel about to rise, the warrior waved him back.

No, boy, thank you. I shall eat again later. There is a jug of mulled wine to your left, with a mug for it. Help yourself.

Sarssen said and did nothing, even when Bethel, ever the slave, paused in his eating to rise and cross to the bed, with the jug of wine, to see if the warrior's mug was empty. Finally, replete, Bethel rose, padded across to a chair and stretched out, the mug at his mouth. The warrior was pleased to see that Bethel, after a long struggle against subservience, would now reluctantly occupy a chair, but only in Sarssen's pavilion where he knew it was expected and wouldn't bring instant retribution. Bethel drank slowly. The silence in the pavilion was restful.

It was only with Sarssen rising that Bethel knew time passed and he gave an infinitesimal sigh as he, too, rose. Sarssen shuttered the lanterns and as he did, Bethel turned to the pavilion entrance, to see light began to streak the sky. It meant the warrior trial would now begin.

Sarssen accompanied Bethel to the assembly area where each young man was attended by a male relative. Bethel noticed it was the warrior who acted for him and felt real gratitude at the gesture. Like others, he was clad only in breeches and shirt, was barefoot, and stripped of all jewellery. He was walked quickly forward, to be abruptly halted at the edge of a newly and deeply dug hole at the fringe of the training field. Pushed firmly down into it by Sarssen who then stood silently beside it, watching, Bethel tried to get himself comfortable in a pit that only allowed him to crouch or kneel. At a pinch, Bethel would be able to curl himself up into a small, tight knot. He wasn't allowed to stand. The more solidly built Churchik would find it hard to move. The solitude, intended to centre the mind and spirit of the warrior, and the fast that went with it, began.

Bethel found his very long limbs unbearably cramped and felt deeply chilled pressed against hard, cold, damp earth. He began to ache. He was used to not having food, as he often ate at erratic hours depending on the warlord's whim other than at early sun, but the cramps were singularly painful, and, as the hours passed, he started to mildly hallucinate.

When he was pulled out at mid-eve, many hours later, he could scarcely move. He literally crawled into the pool of lantern light by the side of the pit, where he tried to marshal his wits and straighten shaking limbs. He'd no idea who pulled him out until he heard himself addressed.

Get to your feet, petal.

Instinctively, Bethel staggered uncertainly, blinking, and brushed a hand across his eyes to see through the dark to where he thought the warlord was.

My lord, he whispered.

Follow! came the curt instruction.

Bethel stumbled after the swinging lantern light and into the brightly lit pavilion where Lodestok immediately sank onto the bed and gestured Bethel close. He was pulled down to rest among the cushions, a strong arm holding him firmly so his head rested against the warlord's shoulder. He sensed Lodestok stretch across him, then felt a hand at his mouth.

Open your mouth, flower. Bethel felt food against his lips. Lodestok very slowly fed him, piece by piece, then held a goblet to trembling lips. Drink, boy.

Bethel did, each time the goblet was tilted. Once empty it was refilled and he drank again. He began to feel creeping warmth, his snarling gut quietened and tiredness came inexorably over him. He knew he was pushed further down onto the cushions by a surprisingly gentle hand that protectively caressed him, nor did Bethel see the expression on the usually grimly, impassive face that looked down into his exhausted, drowsy one. Lodestok's arms about him firmed. Finally, Bethel let himself go, as sleep claimed him.

~~~

As Bethel began the trials to be a warrior, a very tall, dark youth stood with his back to the door, his intense gaze bent on the silent courtyard below. He wasn't conscious of anything in particular. Time had passed since Luton was wrenched from his boyhood in Ortok, and when the youth turned from the window he was noticeably different from the cringing, terrified boy who arrived at the Keep. His colouring was unchanged and his frame was still too frail to support his height, but he was no longer emaciated and his hair was longer because it was last cut by Kher.

It was the face that was changed. Where there was fear and pain there was cold indifference, the eyes remote and penetrating. Where Daxel had the softly carved features of his elder brother and Bethel had the moulded face, Luton's was finely chiselled with a delicacy that came from the ravages of fever. There was nothing ill-favoured about Luton. At first glance, he was merely lean, graceful and darkly handsome, but there was no boyishness in the face and there was something forbidding about the sculpted countenance. The eyes, blanketed for so long, were clear and steady but they were like flint, as black and emotionless as the stone Lachir was made of.

He walked to his desk and his hands ran over the volumes he knew by heart. Few punishments were meted out to the youth in these early days, because Luton devoured knowledge with a voracious appetite. Though he knew he was at the lowest level of apprenticeship and might well be executed before he learned all he would wish, still Luton passed every test his master set.

As usual, he woke early from the short nap he was permitted to enjoy these days and promptly clad himself in the clothes the black slave brought into his chamber. Since he'd worn gowns and loose pants for cycles, he found the sensation of close-fitting breeches and boots uncomfortable. Once dressed, he was pushed by the slave to a table where food was spread out. Obligingly he ate. He was conscious his next test for his master was to be beyond the Keep.

The door of his chamber opened and Blach stood in the entrance, coldly surveying his apprentice. Luton flung himself to his knees in obeisance, his head bent as he'd learned to do as a very young slave.

I see you're dressed, came the emotionless voice in his head.

Yes, Master.

You'll remember what you've been instructed to do, won't you?

Yes.

You'll ride Harth and you'll travel with Haskar Kher. He'll meet you. You'll mate and return to me. Is that clearly understood, slave?

I understand.

Don't fail me, Luton. Remember I know how to make mutes like you scream for me.

I won't fail you, Master. Luton's voice was devoid of emotion. Once he'd have sweated.

You may even find life outside amusing, came the chuckle in his mind. Luton made no response. You will soon return to me. Go, slave!

Blach watched the tall youth walk past him, no trace of cowering in the straight shoulders and the young mouth set. Blach's lips curled with satisfaction.

~~~

Luton stood outside the gates of the Keep, looked disinterestedly around him, strode forward and raised his hands in the air as instructed by his master, the silence around him eerie to all but himself. Luton had known nothing but silence, and had lived in isolation for so long any contact with others would be a trial. Blach watched, from his tower, for the huge dragon to answer the boy's bidding and then he waited until he saw Luton sink into a pouch before both disappeared. Blach turned back to his experiment.

Luton sat in the pouch, his eyes taking in the landscape they flew over without really absorbing any of it. When Harth mindspoke him, he lifted his head.

Do you remember me, boy?

No, came the cool reply in the dragon's mind. Harth's eyes swirled thoughtfully and he briefly swivelled his head to glance backwards.

I brought you to the Keep.

I'm a slave. I remember nothing other than being a slave at the Keep.

Where are you going?

To mate.

With whom?

I'll know. When he felt the full dragon presence in his mind, Luton gave a jerk and went limp. What do you seek? he sent.

Your memory, boy.

I have none.

We all have memory, boy. Have a quick look at a fractional part of mine, Luton.

Incuriously, Luton found himself swept through a maze of memories. They whirled about him. It was a maelstrom of sensory impressions that were now so alien to him and completely unfamiliar, he couldn't comprehend what he experienced. His mind patterns broke until he felt the presence steady him and then withdraw.

So where, persisted Harth, is your memory, boy? Luton gave the equivalent of a mental shrug.

My mind's clearly open to you, Harth. Can you find any memory?

Harth gently entered the young mind again. This time he let his awareness filter down into Luton's deepest awareness where he saw the sorcerer's block, but even deeper Harth saw the faint, barely discernible, continuous disturbance that clung tenaciously to the underside of the block. This disturbance couldn't supersede a mage's block - it didn't have either the strength or will.

A dragon's mind was overwhelmingly powerful and it would be a foolhardy mage who claimed to fully comprehend the strength and complexity of it. Harth knew, beyond doubt, that everything Luton was, and could be again, agitated gently beneath the mage block. He resurfaced thoughtfully to the present, knowing that the being that was Luton wasn't wholly destroyed, yet.

No, boy, he agreed. You've no memory other than of life at the Keep. Are you listening to me now?

I'm listening.

You'll call for me, Luton, but you must do so by calling with one word you must never forget.

Tell me the word.

No one must know, not even your master.

He'll know. He reads my mind and uses me as he sees fit. I'm his slave. I owe obedience to him.

Let me enter your mind deeply again, boy. Open to me.

Harth plunged into the depths beyond where the mage set the block and even beyond where the twin sentience restlessly rippled. He left a name, then, as he withdrew, he erased all knowledge of his conversation with Luton. He made no effort to communicate with the youth again.

Luton didn't feel the distance Harth flew was far; the dragon wheeled and dived in no time at all. As Luton slithered from the pouch, then jumped to the ground, he unconsciously put out a hand to touch the dragon in a caress, and, as he met the dragon's eyes without flinching, he felt an odd unexpected oneness that was a new sensation for him. Harth's eyes absorbed him momentarily, then the dragon eyes blinked and closed. Luton stepped aside and began to walk away. Harth opened eyes that settled on the youth walking into the distance and he made no attempt to rise until Luton disappeared. As Luton moved away, any vestige of memory concerning Harth faded.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ensore brought his mind back to the present and to the letter he'd just started to write. It was with some difficulty that he did, because it was bitterly cold the further north they went and he was lounged in a chair, with one knee raised, on which he leaned his board. It was dark except for lantern light. Even the hot wine he drank barely made any impact on the chill that hung in the air and breathed down his neck.

He glanced up every so often, his eyes coming to rest on a youth sprawled on a pallet, on his stomach, chin in cupped hands. It was a typical Daxel pose. Under lantern light, the boy studiously laboured through work Ongwin had set him, though Ensore heard the sigh that came once in a while. He went back to his letter, writing,

~~~

"Sarehl, we're now out of the forest and, tomorrow, begin our march towards Sython, in Cartok, as you suggest. Our efforts to assemble coherent units at last bear fruit. The ethnic groups we established a few seasons ago now hold together well.

There seems to be better understanding of what I'm trying to do, people responding surprisingly well, though we confront bitterness and hatred of southerners with each group who comes. It's only natural folk wish to attack now to exact revenge, but the message of unity and patience gains universal acceptance. There's a realisation that the whole's more important than the individual.

Your idea of setting up groups to do specific tasks within the camps was acted on immediately. The response surprised me. I thought non-fighting men and women would resent being asked to carry out such functions, but there's been no resistance at all. Again, my friend, you're proved right.

By doing this, and allotting specific areas of responsibility, our moves are more fluid and considerably less stressful - we now have groups who assemble and disassemble camps very fast, and the preparation and serving of food can't be bettered. Not only that, Sarehl, these people are so appreciated! It shows in their faces - nothing we ask of them is too much or too difficult.

Eli's intelligence network is fully functioning. It's thrown up some surprises. He's established more senior men who go out as rangers and then report; he says he finds this works well. We know who the warlord sympathisers are - that would discomfit you, my friend. It can show how wrong you can be in your assessment of people. I've found it a disturbing eye-opener. Ongwin reacts very negatively to these people in a way quite unlike him and wants them executed as soon as there's conclusive proof of betrayal. I confess I agree with him. Eli, however, feels he can use these sympathisers and promises me his men have their eye on each and everyone, execution to follow if any do or say anything prejudicial to us. Eli feeds these people just enough information that he wants the warlord to get - he plays a war of nerves that leaves me shivering. He'd make a bitter enemy, Sarehl, so I hope those tempted to play a double-game don't underestimate him! I certainly don't.

It remains bitterly cold, with little daylight in which to move an army forward. Progress is slow. The camp's changed now we have children with us. There aren't many left homeless, because orphans are willingly and quickly adopted and though home's a tent, rations and a harsh existence, at least most children have an adult to whom they can relate. I remember what you and Kalor said about little Brue.

I must admit, I was dubious about absorbing children, but it's served to bring people together in a way I couldn't have anticipated. Cross-fostering works very well. We have a lad, about six cycles, who's orphaned from Mahdia. He was brought north by Mellillans and now thrives as the child of a Norshami man and woman who lost their children to the warlord."

Ensore paused and glanced again at Daxel. The boy didn't move, so Ensore turned back to his letter. Before writing again he poured himself some more mulled wine from a steaming jug.

"I gather from your last letter, that Brue turns into an active handful. It sounds as if the lad's confidence reasserts itself quite rapidly, so that should please you. The time comes, though, my friend, when you'll be forced to confront that boy's future.

Dase is here with me, wrestling with questions set him by Ongwin and making heavy weather of them by the look on his face. Dase's still growing, Sarehl, so won't be much shorter than you."

Ensore was distracted by a long sigh as Daxel rolled onto his back, hands behind his head. The Marshal grinned and went back to his letter.

Dase finishes the tests for Dahkilan Metes. Ongwin has high hopes of him. If Dase passes it means he'll be free to join a courier squad.

A longer, deeper sigh from the prone figure brought up Ensore's head. He put his pen to one side and stretched down to his goblet.

Is it too difficult for you, Dase? he asked, a laugh in his voice.

No, murmured Daxel, turning his head. I can't concentrate.

Why's that? Ensore studied the long, resting figure, thinking as he did how tragic it was the boy's twin wasn't sprawled out beside him. Are you dreaming, lad? The dark, curly head was shaken and Ensore noticed the black eyes seemed to look far away. He waited quietly. After a long pause, Daxel spoke.

I'm wondering about Bethel and Lute.

Aye, lad, answered Ensore softly. As do we all.

As a slave, Bethel will feel the cold. He won't have warm clothing as I do, will he?

No, that's so. If he's growing to anything like your height and's as thin as you are, he won't be able to keep out the cold.

I worry about him.

Yes, Dase, I know you do.

Lute's a savaged slave, too, isn't he? Intense and sad eyes were upturned to Ensore who felt it was time the boy was told the truth. He put his letter to one side.

Why do you ask that? Daxel rolled onto his side and leaned on an elbow, his expression sober and thoughtful.

I sense that he's more than slave to someone, Ens. Won't you tell me?

Yes, lad, I will, responded Ensore calmly. Your twin was taken as a slave at Ortok and placed in a caravan sent south to Churchik lands. Kaleb sensed him, as he told you, but he couldn't reach Lute, because the boy's so badly hurt. You know he's harmed, lad, because you've picked up the surges of the boy's terror and pain, off and on for cycles. Gods alone know what was done to Lute, Dase. We can only guess what life must be for a slave and it seems your brother has suffered more than most. We can hope someone like Kaleb can reach out and help him. Daxel sat cross-legged, his face white. He looked haggard. His eyes met Ensore's.

Why wasn't I told more about him? he asked, in a breaking voice.

Ensore gestured to him and the boy rose in an instant response, crossing to the Marshal's chair and, sinking down beside it, took the proffered hand and gripped it. Ensore's other hand rested gently on his head.

Lad, you had your own grief and pain to cope with, without being confronted with the anguish of your brother. You knew Lute was a slave and on a caravan. That was enough. You had the anxiety associated with Sarehl, too. We felt you needed time to come to terms with that first, Dase, and the feelings from Lute. A mind can only comprehend and learn to accept so much at a time. We know how devastated you are without Lute and simply wanted to help. Do you sense him still?

No, whispered Daxel. There's now nothing. I feel as if he's been totally removed from me.

Nothing can do that to you. Whatever's happened to Lute, he's still your twin with whom you're unbreakably bound. You don't sense or know he's died, do you?

No, came the forlorn answer. Lute isn't dead in a physical sense, but he is in every other way. It's frightening, Ensore, because I have an emptiness inside that'll never go away or be filled. Whoever's done this to Lute, has also taken from me.

I understand that, lad.

Ensore stared down at the dark head and knew that, again, Daxel silently cried, the pain of separation overwhelming at times. He stretched forward and down and pulled the youth in close to him, his arms encircling the thin figure. He was aware Daxel hadn't mentioned his brother for nearly a season and wondered why he should do so now. He waited until he knew the boy calmed, before he asked gently,

What've you sensed just lately, lad, that's brought all this to mind so sharply? Daxel coughed.

I had a surge of panic, two days ago, Ensore, when I had the urge to scream and howl as I knew Lute tried to do. I know he's mute and can't utter a sound, not even of pain. No one's told me - I just know. Then I seemed to turn inside out in agonising twinges that touched me everywhere. When it passed, I was left with the same blankness that hasn't gone away. I sensed such fury from someone.

I see, mused Ensore reflectively, his gray eyes sombre. And there's been nothing else?

Nothing.

Dase, you may not remember something that happened a few seasons ago. Let me tell you about it, because it's since then you've had this sense of nothingness about Lute. Settle back and I'll explain. You were about fifteen cycles if I remember, maybe a little more, but I don't think so. Daxel leaned back against his mentor. It gave him comfort knowing Ensore was there. You were lounging on a pallet in the campaign tent, as I recall, doing work Ongwin set you -.

Ensore reached the end of his description of what happened to Daxel, stopped speaking and looked down at Daxel who stared up at him.

Do you remember any of this, Dase? Clear dark eyes searched his, some confusion in their depths. The healer kept you sedated for quite a while, lad, weeks as I recall, and I believe he may have deliberately put some sort of block in your mind so it can't happen again.

I think I've a hazy memory, Ensore, but it's only vague sensations. Daxel frowned, then shrugged. No, he said finally.

I'm glad, said Ensore gently. I wouldn't want you to, lad. He paused, then went on, Sarehl's right, Dase, you must have hope. You must believe you and Lute will be together again. Daxel just stayed still.

Yes, he whispered. He added tentatively, Do you believe that, Ensore?

Yes, I have hope. It's often all we have to cling to, so it's important you have faith and believe that good will come from bad. Ensore ruffled Daxel's curls in an affectionate caress before he leaned forward to pick up his goblet. He held it in front of Daxel. Drink it, lad. It's only warm now, but it'll help take the chill from your insides. He watched the boy drink deeply. Would you like to hear what I'm writing to Sarehl? Daxel coughed and nodded.

Aye.

Well then, murmured the Marshal, stretching down to the ground for his board and sheaf of papers. I'll read some of it out to you, but not the boring military bits. That's mostly questions for your brother, as usual. Ensore waited until Daxel had curled himself up comfortably next to him. Again, Ensore gently touched the young head. I've mentioned you've grown again, but not as fast. Daxel looked up with a half-smile and nodded. I've also said you sit Metes. Ensore gently prodded Daxel with a booted foot and got a most rueful and sheepish grin in response. When Ensore reached the section that said Ongwin had high hopes of Daxel, the boy groaned. Ensore grinned at that and read quietly on until he was suddenly interrupted.

Ens! broke in Daxel, swinging himself round to face Ensore, cheeks flushed and his black eyes positively glowing.

Dase! teased Ensore.

Ens! implored Daxel. Do you mean that about the squad, or are you hoaxing me? Ensore held down the sheet so Daxel could read it.

Well, what does it say? Daxel's face broke into a delighted smile.

Ens, I'll pass Metes. I've longed to be in a squad!

Yes, lad, replied Ensore, a hand resting on Daxel's shoulder. But you've been much too young until now. Had you not had so much work to do, Dase, you'd have been placed in a squad half a season ago. I did promise Sarehl, you see, that you'd finish lost schooling. But now, youngster, a courier squad awaits you.

Gently, he removed the sheet from the long fingers and put it alongside him. He felt Daxel lean back into him and held the boy in his arms for a long time, until the lantern light flickered fitfully and darkness took its place. Daxel was now sixteen cycles.

~~~

Ensore's army continued the march north, the bulk of his men now well ahead of the southern army who still skirted the forest. Ensore only allowed small organised groups to linger behind to harass and damage Lodestok's army, and they were carefully rotated so no one group was over-exposed to danger.

By the time the warlord was northwest of the forest, he was well aware how coordinated the attacks were and had information there was the beginning of a combined force to oppose him. He certainly recognised an intelligence behind the current manoeuvres, quickly discovering that his army was consistently hit where most damage could be done. Crucial supplies went at an alarming rate.

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