The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (58 page)

Ehandar sat in the middle of the great balcony, his legs crossed, his wrists lightly resting on his knees, the long, white sheet wrapped around him. His hair waved slowly in the soft, warm breeze.

As always the eternal rumbling sound of the sea, interspersed with the cawing noises of the gulls, soothed his mind.

When his eyes got tired of staring in the distance, he just didn't resist when they closed of their own accord.

He had been thinking these last days. Thinking and despairing. Despairing and railing against hopelessness.

Then he had stopped fighting. Stopped thinking. Finally he had come through at the other side of despondency into an eternal calm, into the serenity of acceptance.

The puzzle was unsolvable, the damage unrepairable.

There was no doubt in his mind that his little brother, his stern master, loved him and he was equally sure of his love for him. And yet they couldn't talk. They were doomed to drag each other further down on a path that could only end in total misery.

It was all his fault. He knew that. He accepted that. He had shown Anaxantis love's ugliest face, and all the rest devolved from that brief, violent crime.

He couldn't repair the damage, but he could make the hurting stop.

He smiled briefly.

He had tried it before, but then it had been an impulse, at the spur of the moment. Unpremeditated.

This time he had thought it all through. He had turned in every direction and had seen no way out.

Redina Mo Sevrai.

It was so clear now. His brother had given him the dagger. The message was obvious. You can get out any time you want. I give you this so you can make the decision. I want you to decide for the both of us.

He would. He had.

One day soon he would hear voices on the inner court. Maybe they would say to close the gates, that the battle had been lost, that the lord governor would never return from the Plains.

It would be simple then. Just one thrust.

Or maybe they would welcome the victor. Then it would mean one thrust more. Then it would be just that

more difficult. But wouldn't it also be a blessing for him to die, unexpectedly, at the pinnacle of triumph?

Wasn't that the best time to leave this life?

He wouldn't be lonely in death. Ehandar would follow his love, Tarno his master.

It was only by morning, when most of the Mukthars had been blinded and sent on their way home, that Hemarchidas managed to coax his friend away from that terrible place.

Anaxantis started working immediately.

The cavalry units that had chased the fleeing Mukthar horsemen after the havoc Marak and his archers had wreaked, came back with mixed news. They had managed to get some of them, but almost certainly many more had escaped.

Anaxantis knew that if they didn't return home, which could very well be their choice if only to avoid dishonor, there would be marauding gangs of barbarians on the loose for years to come. Something he didn't look forward to as he planned on populating the Plains.

There was a lot to be organized. The dead needed to be buried. The wounded that were fit enough to be transported needed to be evacuated. Stock had to be taken of who had survived the battle. Regiments neede to bentsenod to be reorganized.

Most importantly, both the Queneq and the Urtdam-Dek Pass had to be occupied as soon as possible and strong supply lines and means of communication established.

Tomar had arrived at the head of a caravan with food supplies and reserve weapons, tents and other equipment. All would be useful for what amounted to a downright colonization of the Renuvian Plains.

The warlord worked until midday.

When Arranulf, Obyann, Rahendo and Ryhunzo arrived at the prince's tent, they found him still at work.

Upon seeing them, he sent his collaborators, except a few friends, away and asked for food to be brought.

He invited the pages to sit next to him at the table that stood in the front compartment. As both tent flaps were rolled up, they were practically eating outside.

“I'm so glad you could make it,” Anaxantis greeted them, and he smiled at Arranulf.

“A previous, rather binding engagement was unexpectedly called off, your highness.” Arranulf smiled back.

The prince laughed out loud.

“I must admit,” Arranulf said, “that I am a bit surprised. You were rather displeased with us, I gathered.”

“Displeased? I was furious,” Anaxantis replied. “Not only did you disobey me, you broke my word. My word. Have you any idea what my word means to me? Ah well... I dealt with some disobedient pages. Now I can enjoy the company of my friends. That is, if after all this I may call you my friend.”

Arranulf looked at him nonplussed.

“Your highness—”

“My friends call me Anaxantis, Arranulf.”

The young duke was at a loss for words for some time.

“You certainly know how to unbalance someone, eh, Anaxantis.”

“Have it from my mother, I'm told. Mainly by my mother.”

Obyann was sitting at the prince's left side.

“Typical,” he grumbled under his breath, “the high nobility hob-knobbing among themselves.”

He saw a hand land on his left shoulder.

“You too of course, your grace. I could use a friend who stands by his friends.”

Although he was secretly pleased, Obyann was not about to show it.

“I'm honored, I'm sure. Thing is: Landemere is a your-grace. I'll be a my-lord. Eventually.”

“There we go again,” Anaxantis laughed. “I already told you once that the House of Ramaldah is one of the oldest noble Houses of Ximerion. I thought it was high time your title reflected that. So I have decided to elevate the demesne of Ramaldah to a duchy. A duchy with two dukes: you and your father. The smallest duchy of the realm for the time being. We will have to see what we can do about that. And technically my father, the high king, will have to countersign the letters patent, but somehow I think that is not going to be a problem.”

This time even Obyann didn't know what to say.

“And now, Arranulf,” the prince continued, taking a crust of bread out of a platter and dipping it in a saucer with herbal olive oil, “you'd better telng it etttinl me how you came to save my foolish ass out of that terrible mess I had gotten it into. Man, that was such a daring charge. What a sight. The duke of Landemere at the head of his cavalry. Your ancestors would be so proud of you. I want to hear all about it. From both of you, of course.”

Rahendo, followed by Ryhunzo, was nervously looking through the tents where the wounded lay.

It was only in the last one that he found her.

“Londo, thank the Gods, you're alive,” he almost cried.

“Of course I'm alive, Ferret,” Londo said with a groaning sigh.

“But you're wounded.”

“You should see the other guy. He's showing his wounds in Murokthil as we speak. Oh, he was ugly, Ferret,”

she said with a painful grin. “And large as a mountain. Got him in the belly, I did. He managed to graze my leg, though.”

“Oh, Londo,” Rahendo whined, “will you be all right?”

“Yeah, yeah... That's why I'm here in this last tent. We were treated last, because there's nothing seriously the matter with us. The chief torturer has a system, one of the nurses told me. Those they can't help and are going to die, they give something for the pain. Then they help those they can put back together. I'm in the last group. I would have been OK, whether they treated me today or tomorrow. Have been sleeping most of the time.”

“What is father going to say?”

“Nothing, if you keep your little ferret snout closed. I'll limp for a while. I'll just tell the girls and Grindo that I fell out of a tree. No biggie.”

Rahendo almost started crying with relief.

“Don't you get mushy on me, Ferret. Tell me, the one to my right, the handsome one, you know him?”

Ryhunzo opened his mouth.

“No, no. No talking, you. My leg had bled enough. The Gods forbid my ears start bleeding as well,” Londo said.

“That's Lorcko of Iramid,” Rahendo answered.

The wounded page was sleeping quietly.

“You think he would mind if I crawled in his bed?” Londo asked innocently. “He has a nasty wound in his face. You can't see it from here, it is on the other side. Anyway, that was not the part I was meaning to use.”

“Oh, Londo, no,” Rahendo said hastily. “Rumor has it he and the king of our Mukthars have a thing.”

“Damn,” Londo cursed. “My luck again. I love it when they have a thing. Just not with each other.”

Most of the afternoon Anaxantis spent with his favorite pastime, his nose buried in maps and drawing rough outlines on them with a piece of charcoal.

“I'm dividing the whole of the Plains up in demesnes. Most of it can wait, but the new border along the Somertian Mountains has to be decided now,” he said enthusiastically to Hemarchidas.

“What have you written there,” the Cheridonian said, looking at one of the maps. “Ha, I see, the New Marches.”

“Yes, and they come complete with a whole bunch of new Marcher Lords. I'm carving up this whole strip into marquessates,” the warlord said. “Bortram, I'm making you marquess of Queneq. You'll said. . Yingbe guarding the pass. We'll build you a castle and—”

“Are you out of your mind, Anaxantis,” Bortram fumed. “Never heard such a ridiculous thing in my life. I'm a farmer's son, not some noble fob. I could never look my father in the eyes again.”

“Well, I don't care, my lord of Queneq,” Anaxantis raged back. “You want to farm? Well, farm away. As far as I am concerned you can plant your marquessate from north to south with carrots and from east to west with leeks. I don't give a shiny, worn out, copper sarth. You can herd swine in the inner court of your castle, for that matter, but you will be the marquess of Queneq and guard the pass. Do I make myself clear? Just look at your domain as a gigantic farm, for all I care, as long as you're prepared to defend it.”

“Oh, all right,” Bortram grumbled. “As long as you know I'm just doing this for you. Sometimes you make it very hard to be your friend, you know. Hm, I suppose I could ask Obyann for some tips about managing a domain.”

Anaxantis looked at Marak.

“Are you going to give me grief as well, my lord of Urtdam-Dek? I warn you, I'm not interested in your antiquated provincial revulsion against the nobility. You'd better learn to live with the fact that you are a noble yourself from this day on, marquess. And I couldn't care less about how you're going to explain yourself to your father.”

Marak just smiled.

The warlord turned to Hemarchidas.

“I'll find you, Lethoras and Tomar some duchies. Not that you will see much of them in the near future. I need you by my side. There's lots to do. We need to chase down the last Bear Mukthars and I want to rebuild Renuvia. We need a harbor.”

“
And there's father.”

Late in the afternoon, after having put Hemarchidas in charge, the warlord announced he was departing for Lorseth.

“You should rest, first,” the Cheridonian said worriedly. “You haven't slept since... I can't remember. And all these, eh, things. You must be exhausted.”

“Nonsense,” Anaxantis replied. “I'm a bit tired. But I must see the lord mayor of Dermolhea as soon as possible. I need him to convince the Provincial Council to keep up the recruitment. We've lost a lot of soldiers and the Plains are a big place. There are a few other matters I need to discuss as well.”

“Can't it wait? Just a day?”

“No.”

And that was that.