The Invisible Chains - Part 2: Bonds of Fear (49 page)

where he came and what his destination was. He told them his

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carefully prepared cover story. But, they said, if he was on his way to

his home in Dermolhea, how come he hadn’t a northern accent? Lost

it in Ormidon, he had answered. After only half a year? They made

him repeat his cover story and now he saw the holes in it himself.

Hoping against all evidence to the contrary that he still could pull the

wool over their eyes, he had plodded on. Ever less sure of himself,

often struggling to find his words.

He had been surprised when they mentioned that they knew

someone was coming because a rumor had been going around

the caravan. Who had leaked this information, he had wondered,

growing apprehensive and gradually loosing his confidence. What

was going on?

He had stuck to the general lines of his story however. He had

even asked them if they had found anything incriminating in his

luggage. The leader had smiled indulgently. No, they hadn’t. They

hadn’t expected to. All the same they had looked.

They had led him to a nearby tree, with a low hanging horizontal

branch to which they had tied his hands, far apart. He could stand

on the tip of his toes, but only just. They had tied his feet to a loose

branch, also far apart, to make him spread his legs. Then they had

tied a fine rope around his penis and fastened the other end to his

neck, so that his member was pulled up and his scrotum exposed.

Then the first whack had come, and all resolve, all training, all

oaths and all dignity had left him. They kept asking him questions,

and although he answered quickly, very quickly, and exhaustively,

and truthfully, the blows kept coming. Not on his testicles alone

anymore, but on his buttocks. The pain was unbearable. He knew

that he wouldn’t sit for months to come, even if they let him go. He

wouldn’t sit, he wouldn’t walk. He would just be able to lie on his

belly, on a cushion so as not to put pressure on his balls.

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When he had told all there was to tell, blood was running down

his legs. He let his head hang down and moaned softly. The man had

come up to him.

“We are going to ask you some questions, sir. You will tell us the

truth, won’t you, sir?”

Still so damned polite. He had looked up.

“You have asked your questions, over and over again,” he said,

tears running down his face. Pleading.

“I know. Just to make sure we’re going to ask them all one more

time. Normal procedure, sir.”

Another blow landed in the bloody pulp that had once been his

buttocks.

He had answered this round of questions, yelling, howling and

crying like a little child. Finally it seemed they had asked all they

wanted to know.

“Please, please,” he had yammered, exhausted and beaten down,

“no more, make it stop, make it stop.”

The man had looked at him and had come nearer.

“Of course, sir, of course I’ll make it stop,” he had said.

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Rullio and Lambert had barely started what was a very late

breakfast, or a very early lunch, when a large man entered the tavern,

loudly yelling, “He’s back and he’s not alone.”

Rullio had learned a lot that morning. He had gone to the markets

and mingled among the people. Whenever he heard a little group

discussing current affairs and the coming war he had introduced

himself, explained he had just come back from a long voyage, and

politely asked for more information. Most people were happy to

oblige and to let their light shine on the situation and how it should

be solved.

Deep in thought he had returned to The Weary Traveler. Little

Anaxantis had been busy, it seemed. It was almost unbelievable. The

sickly, fainting-prone boy he had known seemed to have the Marches

in an iron grip. How was this possible? Even more mysterious was

the sudden disappearance of Ehandar the king had told him about.

Nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened. Of course, the

whole story about the renunciation of his name and lineage must be

a fabrication. How — and why — had it originated?

Maybe the new arrival had some news about that too.

The patrons at the large table looked up and spontaneously

made room for the man to sit down. One of them filled a beaker with

weak beer out of a large pitcher and after the man had emptied it, he

leaned back and belched.

“Come on, Drogon, don’t make us beg you,” a middle aged, wiry

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man said.

“All right, all right,” Drogon said. “Well, I met these three young

fellows coming from Mirkadesh. On the run of course. Afraid to be

drafted in the Mirkadesh Guard. They almost ran into him and his

party. They could just in time hide between some bushes. They were

very surprised as it seems he wasn’t expected back for another two

weeks. But there he was with only about twenty soldiers and...”

He paused for dramatic effect. The others looked expectantly at

him.

“If anybody ever doubted the Warlord, they can stop now.”

“And are you going to tell us why?” a prematurely balding young

merchant asked.

“Of course, Sim, of course. But didn’t I hear you say the other day

that he was too young? That we would better move our businesses

and ourselves southward? Put a nice distance between ourselves

and the barbarians?”

Sim shrugged.

“It seemed common sense. It still does. What do you expect from

a pampered little princeling?”

“And didn’t I tell you he wasn’t just some good-for-nothing royal

offshoot. Oh no, my good sir, he isn’t. It’s not just how he made the

nobles piss in their pants, or how he rallied the whole province, no

sir, for me it was how he wound old Fraleck around his little pinky

that removed all doubt. I know people who have done business with

the old fart and let me tell you—”

“Yeah, yeah, first tell us what those cowardly bums from

Mirkadesh saw.”

“Ah yes, I almost forgot... Well, as I said, he was accompanied by

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a small guard and it seems he was keeping a good pace. It seems he

needs to be some—”

“Drogon, damn you, tell us,” Sim growled.

Drogon looked triumphantly around the table.

“He has captured eight Mukthars.”

For a few moments everyone kept completely quiet, then they all

began shouting at the same time.

At that moment another man came running in the tavern.

“Have you heard?” he yelled breathlessly. “The prince-governor

is back, and he has captured a bunch of Mukthar youngsters and

they’re not even in chains. They’re just following him.”

The confusion was complete now.

“Youngsters? How young?” one man demanded to know.

“Not in chains? What if they escape? Imagine, barbarians could

be running around doing the Gods may know what,” another cried

out.

Drogon, miffed that the newcomer had stolen his thunder, let his

fist fall on the table.

“They wouldn’t dare run away,” he said. “The Warlord may be

young, but he is not someone to be trifled with and they know it.

Besides, it shows how confident he is.”

“Overconfident you mean,” Sim said. “Whom the Gods want to

destroy they—”

“Whom the Gods want to destroy they make say nonsense in

front of Drogon,” Drogon said, making a fist and shaking it at Sim,

before hammering it once again on the table. “How dare you? The

war hasn’t even started and already he has captured eight Mukthars.”

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“Youngsters? How young. Thirteen, fourteen? Do you know,

Derrim?” one of the other patrons asked.

“Actually they are young men, late teens, as far as I could tell.

But let there be no mistake. They looked fierce and wild enough. I

wouldn’t like to meet them in some alley at night, I tell you.”

“The show off. Why is he dragging them along? He should have

strung them up on the nearest tree. That’s what I would have done.”

“No, Sim,” Drogon barked, “what you would have done is run

away leaving a trail of watery shit the moment you laid eyes upon

your first Mukthar of age six or upwards.”

Everyone at the table burst out laughing at the hapless Sim.

“However you look at it,” a man, who had been silently following

the conversation, said calmly, “and however young those barbarians

may be, one thing is for sure. The Warlord has done more already

than anyone before him, as far as I can remember.”

“Yes, yes,” Drogon concurred enthusiastically, “and nobody can

deny that.”

He looked around threateningly if anybody was about to disagree

with him. Nobody was.

“Maybe he’s just letting them live long enough to torture them,”

he said. “To prise their secrets out of them, you know. Ever thought

of that possibility? He’s smart that way, the warlord is.”

He tapped his nose with his right index finger.

The men at the table became quiet, each digesting the news for

himself.

Rullio looked at Lambert with some regret in his eyes.

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“Well, Lambert,” he smiled sadly, “that’s my sign to take my leave

of you and your delicious chops.”

Lambert nodded. He knew there was little chance he would see

his lordship again.

Another thing to blame the Mukthars for.

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When Obyann entered the barrack he was just in time to see a

naked ass disappear into Rahendo’s room.

“Really,” he muttered under his breath, “somebody should tell

the guy that clothes haven’t gone out of fashion.”

“Well, since he’s here, I’d better get it over with,”
he thought entering

his room. A few moments later he emerged again, a parchment in his

hands. He went over to Rahendo’s room and was about to enter.

“Rahendo? It’s me. I’ve got the assignment you gave me yesterday.

Shall we go over it together?” he yelled, the door still between them.

He heard a chair fall over, but there came no other reaction or

sign of life.

“Rahendo, hey buddy, is everything OK in there? You didn’t hurt

yourself, did you? Are you all right?”

“Splendid,” a muffled voice, sounding a bit unsure, answered.

“Come out then. Let’s go over this thing and you can point out all

my silly mistakes, and cluck, and shake your head. Wag your finger at

me, even. You know how I hate that. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Splendid, just splendid,” the same voice replied. “Go away,” it

added, rather inconsistently.

Obyann was taken aback. This wasn’t the usual morose Rahendo.

This was a most unusual, outspoken Rahendo. He must be sick.

“If you prefer, I could shove the parchment under the door,” he

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tried again.

“Even more splendid.”

Just as Obyann was about to crouch down, Arranulf entered the

barrack, holding the door open for Rahendo, who was clutching a

letter.

“I know someone who is going to be beside himself with joy,”