The Invisible Chains - Part 2: Bonds of Fear (44 page)

needn’t worry about exhausting his ride or having to take care of it.

He could simply change it for a rested and groomed one whenever

his horse began showing signs of fatigue. Late that same afternoon

he had begun his journey north.

Ondrov took his assignment seriously. Not only because he

was impressed by the queen, or because of his loyalty to the Tribe.

A certain gravity came natural to him. The few friends he had all

said he took life far too seriously, and they were not exactly of the

frivolous kind themselves. He didn’t agree with them. Life was about

honor and duty, and service. His father had taught him so. From time

immemorial his family had been in the service of the royal House of

Mekthona. It was the very reason of his existence.

Ondrov didn’t see this duty he was born to in a romantic light.

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His father had been less than happy when it became clear that his

only son was never going to be a strong, sword wielding champion

of the Mekthonas. He had tried to disguise his disappointment, but

Ondrov had noticed it. He didn’t understand at first, and when he

finally did, he took his father apart and explained to him that the

Tribe needed more than soldiers alone. He was smart, he had said,

neither boasting, nor underselling himself, and he was sure they

would find some suitable way for him to fulfill his duty. As indeed

they did when at fourteen years he was admitted as a member.

They had assigned him to stable duty at first. Stable duty? He

was smart. Surely they could find better ways to make use of what

he had to offer. He was about to complain to the Head of the Young

Tribesmen, and he had already carefully prepared his case when he

suddenly understood. No matter what his other capacities might be,

they first had to ascertain whether he could be counted on to do as

he was told. So he did. For more than two years. Without complaining

once.

Finally a real chance to prove his true worth had come. When

he was almost nineteen they had initiated him into Tribe itself.

He was no longer just a member, a servant of the organization, he

was a Tribesman now, albeit on the lowest tier. They had given him

permission to attend special classes. They had made it very clear

that it was strictly on a voluntary basis. If for one reason or another

he couldn’t attend, there would be no ill feelings or repercussions.

Nor would there be any advancement, he knew. He never missed a

class. After all, he was smart.

Many initiations followed. And more classes, about the true

nature and purpose of the Tribe. About its history and its hoped for

future.

Then it turned out that they sorely lacked living letters for

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the always growing and sprawling lines of communication of the

Tribe. Frankly, he had been a little disappointed. He had hoped to

have a shot at a more responsible position, something higher up

in the administration, or even on the decision making level. But

he knew that not everybody could be put in a position of power or

responsibility, and if people older and wiser than himself and who

the Gods had put above him, decided this was the best way he could

be of use, so be it. He had fully expected to excel and be the best of his

year. Well, he was at least one of the best.

Saying that he had been surprised when he learned that the

queen herself had asked for him, would be an understatement. He

had been right all these years. He had played by the rules, done

what was expected of him, and now he was entrusted with a very

important assignment. The last scion of the House, the one on whom

its future depended was in danger, and he, Ondrov Aikall, would be

instrumental in bringing him the information that would save his

life. Could there be any mission more important?

He realized his assignment was dangerous. The message had

been clear. The Black Shields, members of the most ruthless and

efficient armed unit the kingdom had ever known, were after the

prince. Much like the Tribe they had eyes and ears everywhere.

Yet he wasn’t particularly worried. Only the queen, her friend the

baroness of Burgotharr, and he knew of his undertaking. Even should

they intercept him, they wouldn’t find any incriminating evidence.

His all important message was safely tucked away in his head, and

there it would remain, only to be divulged to the rightful recipient.

He wouldn’t panic. He had been prepared by the Tribe for all kinds

of eventualities like this.

It was the last day of February and darkness began to fall although

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it was still early. He consulted the map that had come with the horse

and saw that a Guild Station was about ten miles away. He decided

to pass the night there, to take a light supper and go to bed straight

after so that he could be on his way again bright and early next day.

It was his duty. The House of Mekthona counted on him.

At first the man sitting quietly by himself at a table in the Guild

Station inn didn’t know what irked him about Ondrov. There was

nothing remarkable about the young man. Plain appearance. Simple,

cheap, but practical clothing. He could be the son of a small time

merchant. Or a student on his way back home. He had ordered an

inexpensive dish before retiring to his room. However, there was a

certain purposefulness about him. And something that didn’t add

up. Only later in the evening the man suddenly knew what had been

bugging him all this time. The horse. While crossing the inner court

he had seen the young man arrive. He had ridden a Guild horse. A

prime Guild horse.

Cheap clothes, a frugal meal and an expensive hired horse. No, it

didn’t add up.

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If there was one thing Gerrubald of Damydas hated it was being

ordered around by his nannies. The stupid girls obviously couldn’t

count. He didn’t need a midday nap anymore. He was eight, almost

nine. That was practically ten. Maybe Warri still needed a nap. After

all he was only seven, just seven. That was practically six. Being

small, he looked five. So, since Warri needed his midday sleep, they

forced him to have one as well. “You too, Gerri,” the stupid goat had

bleated. And that was another thing: when was she finally going to

remember to call him Gerrubald, and not Gerri. He was proud to

have the same name as his Gramps. They wouldn’t have gotten away

with it if he had been still at home. Gramps was fun. One day he had

stormed into their room and hollered them out of bed. To the nanny

who came running to see what all the noise was about he said, or

shouted rather: “We don’t need a nap, you silly girl. We’re Damydas

men. We’ll sleep when we’re dead. Now there are some stupid fish,

just waiting for us to catch them. Up, up, you lazy boys, or I will go

alone and keep all the fish for myself.” Warri had stuck his tongue

out at the nanny, like the little kid he was. Gerrubald didn’t since he

was too old for that kind of churlish behavior. He was sorely tempted

though.

Gerrubald didn’t care too much about the fishing itself. It was

more the whole experience of going outside with his grandfather.

Now that he was absent, Gerrubald tried to uphold the tradition of

the daily fishing trips. He didn’t even mind taking his cousin in tow,

although the age difference was of course huge. Besides, Warri was

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more of a kid brother, since they all lived together in the Damydas

castle. So he took him as often as he could to the fishing grounds

Gramps used to take them. Somehow it helped pass the time faster,

and who knew, maybe one day he would suddenly stand there. Not

that they would recognize him immediately, or even realize that it

was him. Gramps loved dressing up, and he was really, really good at

it. In fact he was so good at it that he had made little Warri cry when

one day he had disguised himself as an evil witch. Emelasomething,

the witch had called herself, and she was really ugly. “Don’t cry,

Warrubald,” Gramps had said, “it’s only me. See? The hooked nose

comes off.” And he had handed it over to Warri, and let him pluck

all the fake warts of his face until he was clearly nothing more than

Gramps in a dress. Then they had both laughed out loud and rolled

through the grass. Gerrubald had looked at them half smiling, half

unsure if he could condone, let alone join in such childish behavior.

But he knew Gramps only did it to make Warri forget about the witch.

Gramps was the nicest person in the world.

Two old servants accompanied them. The little pond where

they went to fish lay only about a mile or two away, almost in the

center of the castle grounds. Nobody seemed to think it necessary to

provide more protection. Who would dare enter the Damydas estate

uninvited? What could happen?

What happened was that, bored with watching his stubbornly

immobile sinker, Gerrubald turned around to ask one of the servants

to give him a pastry out of the basket they had brought with them,

and he saw them both lying, very bloody and very dead. He hadn’t

heard anything. Then a man came running out of the nearby bushes,

grabbed him and Warri by an arm and said, “Be quiet and follow me”.

Gerrubald might have been only eight, but he was well aware of

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his social standing. He yanked his arm free.

“What do you think you are doing, peasant? Let my cousin go or

I’ll have you whipped,” he said in his most stern voice.

The slap on his face was so resounding that he reeled and nearly

lost his balance. He almost cried out loud and tears came to his eyes.

Nobody had ever hit him. Nobody would have dared. Servants

got hit, now and again, when they misbehaved. Not Gerrubald

of Damydas. Not only did the blow hurt, it also shattered some

certainties.

“Another word and I’ll really hurt you, you snotty-nosed brat,”

the man said, grabbing his arm again and dragging him and Warri

between the trees.

Still disoriented from the blow there was not much Gerrubald

could do. Warri was crying by now.

“Is everything well? Where are the others?”

“Everything went as planned, Master Dram. The others are still

at the pond, on the look-out.”

Gerrubald counted eight men and fourteen horses. The man

called Dram came to him and offered him a beaker he had just filled

out of a flask.

“Drink,” he said.

“I’m not thirsty. It’s poison,” Gerrubald replied, finding some of

his courage back.

“No, it’s not. It’ll only make you sleep. It’s for you own good.

Drink.”

“I won’t.”

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The man looked at him with sad eyes.

“Then we’ll have to silence you in another way. A more permanent

way,” Ffindall Dram said softly. “We’ll begin with your little cousin.”

He put the beaker on the ground, drew a dagger and went over to

Warri, who looked terrified and started whimpering softly.

Gerrubald realized there was nothing he could do but give in.

“No, stop. Stop... We’ll drink it.” There was defeat in his voice.

He leaned over and took the beaker. He took a small sip that left a

taste of herbs in his mouth, then closed his eyes and drank half of the

contents. When he opened his eyes again he had difficulty focusing

them and he felt suddenly drained of energy and very tired.

“Maybe I need a nap, after all,”
was his last, ironic conscious

thought.