The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (61 page)

He grin-shrugged.

“Worst part is, I'll have to pay him back. Weaseling out of a contract, or denouncing it as usury is perfectly normal for Mukthars. But this is an honor debt.”

Lorcko laughed out loud.

“And Mukthar honor forbids you to renege on it, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“I wonder if his highness knew that.”

“Oh, I wouldn't put it past the wily little frishiu. He's a dangerous man.”

They had passed between two towers under construction. One day they would flank the main gates of Timishistructf Tgn='s capital city. Before them, as far as the eye could see, the Plains undulated in light brown and green tints. Lorcko squinted his nearsighted eyes.

“What's that there? Oh, that poor animal. Look, Timishi, it's chained to a short peg in the ground. It almost can't move around and it's head is forced to the ground. But, but... It has no fur. It is bald all over, and it seems almost human.”

“Don't mind it. It isn't human, it's just a shorgah.”

“Do you have to keep it like that, though?”

“Believe me, àjemisha, it deserves all it's getting.”

From the distance, on all fours, and although the very short chain forced his head to the soil, Ambrick, looking sideways, had recognized Lorcko.

He let out a long, loud bellow consisting of high pitched, drawn out vowels.

“Oh, Timi,” Lorcko pleaded, “hear how it's howling. It must be in pain.”

Timishi took him by the shoulder and turned him around.

“Come, let's go. Shorringah always howl. The Gods may know why.”

Ambrick couldn't make any sound anymore. He was too hoarse. He could just utter a soft moaning. He felt nothing like a Ximerionian noble anymore, tied down as he was, his face forced to the ground, on his knees and elbows, his naked ass in the air, having to relieve himself like that, with every random passerby looking on, smirking, and making lewd comments.

In fact, he didn't feel human anymore.

Only a little boy, about eleven, twelve he guessed, showed him some mercy. He regularly came by, bringing some decent morsels of food, instead of the usual half rotten, stinking gruel they gave him, and permitting him to slobber them up out of his open hand, with his toothless, tongueless mouth. The boy had also tended to his mutilated cock. He had crouched down behind his bare ass and with tender fingers felt over his member.

“Poor shorgah,” he had whispered, “I'm going to have to squeeze the puss out of your shlong. I don't mean to hurt you, but it's for your own good.”

It had hurt, and it had been degrading. He had felt like a cow being milked. Afterwards, the boy had patted him in a friendly way on his bare buttocks, in a gesture that was meant to be comforting.

Then there were the nights that someone came up from behind, without him being able to turn his tied down head to see who it was. It could be that it was always the same person. Maybe there were several. He could only hear the footsteps, the rustling of clothes and moments later feel his entrance being forced. Only the first few times he had shrieked out in pain and indignation. Lately he just submitted and prayed it would soon be over. It usually was.

He had wanted to die, so many, many times and had cursed life for being too tenacious to let him.

Why had Lorcko turned away, he thought in despair. He must have heard. He must have understood.

In his head it had all sounded so clear. Why hadn't he understood?

“
Help me, help me,”
he repeated silently, forlorn. “
You used to love me.”

“I suppose you'll have to head back to Iramid soon,” Timishi said, while they were walking by the river Mirax.

“Not really. We have a very competent steward. The place practically runs itself,” Lorcko said. “Once in a while I will have to go take a look at the books, but I can stay as long as you can stand my presence here.”

They met Lushorm. Timishi excused himself, taking his fellow tribesman apart to exchange some whispered words, while Lorcko looked out over the water.

“The shorgah,” he said, softly, so only Lushorm could hear him. “It tried to communicate.”

“It can't,” Lushorm shrugged. “It has no tongue.”

“It can write. Make letters in the sand. I don't want to take any risks. Go and break its fingers. All of them.”

The temple of Astonema glistened in the late afternoon sunlight in which Torantall, the capital city of Zyntrea, was bathing.

The soldier had mounted the monumental stairs and was now waiting to be escorted into the presence of the Most Holy and Venerable First Daughter, the Exalted Trysulda.

“
A fine specimen of a male,”
Martillia thought, mustering him shamelessly from head to toe, and in particular resting her gaze on his groin. “
Dirina will loathe him at first sight.”

With a curt movement of her chin she ordered the male to follow her, through the long corridors, up to the open air square before the temple proper.

Although the look of disdain on the face of the soldier declared that he was not going to let himself be impressed by hogwash, not even marble hogwash, Martillia could sense that he was overwhelmed by the immense, noble dimensions of the structure.

They walked through the vast columned hall with its soft, almost mysterious light, dominated by the enormous cult statue of Astonema.

Martillia guided her guest to a small, inconspicuous door beside the cella. A corridor of white marble led to a big room, with grand windows, covered with translucent, white drapes that fluttered softly in the breeze. On a majestic balcony a young girl leaned, in a bored, disinterested way, against the balustrade. She looked with open hostility at the male who was defiling the inner sanctum of the Temple with his offensive presence.

Dirina's instinctive enmity turned to instant hate, when she saw Martillia look with obvious delectation at the soldier.

“You bear a message from the warlord,” Trysulda stated rather than asked, sitting straight in her ornate seat, her hands in her lap.

Without a word the soldier laid a scroll with a large, red seal, with the picture of a clawing dragon and the motto ‘Venre Dal Terundar,’ before her on the table.

Trysulda looked the soldier in the eyes, then took the scroll, read the motto and arched her brows. She broke the seal and started reading.

She had long finished, but still kept her eyes on the parchment, to give herself time to think.

“The warlord is chasing us out of his dominions,” she said finally.

“What?” Martillia shouted.

“All chapters of the Order of the Great Goddess, all priestesses, acolytes, apprentices and servants are to leave the Northern Marches within six months and we are forbidden to enter the Renuvian Plains. We can take our movable possessio enterposortns, sell all lands and buildings we own, and take the proceeds with us as well. After the stipulated time all officials of the Order, found in the warlord's dominions, will be taken prisoner and executed. All remaining lands and buildings will revert to his treasury.”

Carefully she laid the scroll down. Dirina had entered the room, glaring at the soldier. Martillia's face was impassive.

“Martillia,” Trysulda said calmly, “bring the messenger of his highness to a guest room where he can rest while I prepare an answer.”

“That won't be necessary,” the soldier replied. “All that I needed to know was whether you had understood the contents of the warlord's orders. You obviously have.”

“He doesn't want an answer?” the First Daughter asked, mildly surprised.

The soldier was already halfway to the door.

“All the warlord requires of you is that you obey his orders,” Hemarchidas said without turning around.

“Whatever makes you think he is interested in what some old woman has to say?”

“
So, the little prince has declared war upon the Great Goddess. Very well. But if he thinks we will just be
leaving because he orders it, he has another thing coming. We'll go underground. A job for Martillia and
Dirina. And sooner or later, warlord, you'll have to come to Torantall. You're a prince of the House of
Mekthona after all. We'll be waiting patiently for you here, where our power base is, and where our
influence reaches through all strata of society.”

The mild sun shone caressingly over the expansive vineyards. It would be a good year. The grapes would be thick, close cropped and brimming with sugar. The wine would be more than excellent.

It was now almost a month after the battle at the Zinchara, and when Emelasuntha saw the soldier ride up to the palace-villa her heart missed a beat when she recognized the black dragon on his yellow tunic.

She righted her back and composed herself. She turned away from the high window-doors and waited patiently for a servant to announce the arrival of the messenger. Sobrathi looked up from the codex she had been leafing through.

Surely enough, the servant came some five minutes later, but not to introduce the soldier. He just carried a scroll.

Emelasuntha looked again through the man high windows and saw the messenger was already back on his way to the main gate of the domain.

She thanked the servant and waited until he had retired before breaking the seal. She went to stand next to the open window. As of late she found she needed the extra light.

Her eyes went over the words. When she had finished her arms dropped beside her body, and she let the scroll drop to the ground. Looking outside over the long rows of vines, she bit her lips and promised herself she wasn't going to weep like a little girl.

Sobrathi had seen her distress. She knew her friend well enough to read from the tout back that something was wrong. Had something happened to Anaxantis? Surely not. Their informers would have told them.

“What is it, dear,” she said softly, standing up. “It's from him, isn't it? What does he say?”

“He wants me to stay away,” Emelasuntha said with a deep, resigned sigh.

Sobrathi picked up the scroll and quickly read its="just redee content. She gasped involuntary. Then she took a deep breath.

“No, no dear,” she said. “You're reading it wrong. See? It even says that he has provided places to stay for us.

And he even has thought of a royal escort. He's just being a dutiful son. Yes, that's it. He just wants to take care of you. See to it that you're safe. That's all.”

Emelasuntha made an impatient, dismissive gesture.

“No, dear,” she said in a harsh voice. “We never deluded ourselves before. Let's not start now. Just read out loud what he writes.”

Sobrathi looked again at the parchment.

“Let's see... Ah. ‘The situation in my dominions is still insecure and too volatile to guarantee safe passage. So I must ask you and aunt Sobrathi to refrain from coming to Lorseth.’ That's clear enough, isn't it? He wants to make sure it is safe for us to travel throu—”

“No, dear, ‘Stay away from me,’ is what he says.”

“No, no.”

“Yes. Read on.”

“Here he says ‘Should you choose to disregard my request, I will of course abide by your decision, though it is not in your best interest or mine. I have given my border patrols the necessary orders to provide you with a suitable, armed escort and I have made arrangements for safe places for you to stay.‘ That's nice, isn't it? A guard, lodgings... He couldn't have made himself any clearer. Like the good son he is, he just wants to take care of his beloved moth—”

“No dear. No. You're right about one thing, and one thing only. He couldn't have made himself any clearer. If we disobey him, we will do so at our own risk. ‘If you dare cross my border, I will have you arrested and

confined,’ is what he says.”

“He doesn't mean it.”

“Oh, yes, he does. I should know. I raised him to follow through on his word.”

Sobrathi didn't know what to say immediately.

“He... He must have his reasons. Good reasons. He'll call for us. The moment he feels he's ready. I'm sure of it, dear.”

Tenaxos paced his spacious work room like a caged tiger. He had just finished reading the extensive report his son and lord governor of the Northern Marches had deigned send him, after more than a bleeding month of nothing but short, uninformative missives about details.