The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood

Dark Tales of Randamor the Recluse

Andrew Ashling

Dark Tales of Randamor the Recluse — Book III

The Invisible Chains — Part 3: Bonds of Blood

Andrew Ashling

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Ebooks are not transferable and may not be sold, shared or given away, as this would be an infringement on the copyright of this work.

Ormidon Publishing

Cover design by Nanna Küsgen

Copyright © 2011 by Andrew Ashling

“
In every man's life, Friend of Wolves, there comes a moment when for the first time he is tested. When for
the first time the metal of his existence is thrown into the glowing embers of fate. The decisions he makes, the
actions he takes, for better or for worse, will determine his course forever. For Anaxantis that moment was
approaching fast.”

...

“
At first sight, yes. Up until now he had managed to stay on top and parry all blows. The self-confidence he
exuded, however, was partially artificial. He was all too aware just how precarious his position was. He had
his friends, and he knew he could rely upon them, but they couldn't make his decisions for him. In a certain
sense they were an added burden. He felt responsible for their safety as well.”

...

“
By keeping his eyes open and staring fate in the eye without blinking. It was against his nature, but he
resolved himself to take harsh measures if circumstances should require them.”

...

“
Yes. That meant in all situations and in all matters, whether of a public or of the most private nature. Some
of those decisions would have a tragic result, yet none of them were taken lightly.”

...

“
Before my tale is done, Mandigaill the Hunter, you will have had occasion to make up your own mind about
that. I trust your conclusions will be wrong as usual.”

It was halfway through the month of March and the weather was exceptionally clement. It improved everybody's mood, except Anaxantis's who was worried that an early spring could also mean an early attack by the Mukthars.

Ambrick of Keyld had gone for a ride. His semi-official courtship with Lorcko of Iramid had now been going on for about a month and he still didn't know what to make of it. The only thing he was certain of was that it made him restless.

Without planning to he found himself in the part of the wood near the spot Lorcko had brought him that day he confessed he had ‘a thing’ for Ambrick. Since then they had returned there a few times, but this was the first time he had come alone. He dismounted. It really was a beautiful part of the forest. The lazy murmur of the river soothed his nerves.

He was not thinking of anything in particular, just taking in the surrounding beauty, when he heard the neighing of a horse in the distance. Someone was coming. As quickly and at the same time as silently as he could he went looking for cover behind the trees, leading his horse by the reins. When he estimated he was far enough so it wouldn't be noticed, he tied up his steed, and cautiously made his way back.

There were evergreen shrubs everywhere which made it easy to approach the spot he had left minutes ago unnoticed. His instinct had been right. He didn't have to wait long for Lorcko to arrive. The young heir of Iramid dismounted with supple, fluent movements, secured the reins loosely to the branches of a bush, and went to the bank of the river.

Crouching down, he tested the water with one hand. Unhurriedly he went to fetch two large towels out of his saddle bag and lay them beneath a weeping willow, his favorite spot.

Ambrick started breathing through his mouth, remaining perfectly motionless, unable to take his eyes off the young god who had started to undress slowly.

“What's he doing? The water is still much too cold.”

Standing with his back to Ambrick's hiding place, Lorcko got out of his pants, removed several items of clothing, and finally dropped his underpants. Even from where he was hiding, Ambrick could see the goosebumps upon his arms and buttocks, and the almost translucent little hairs on his legs. Lorcko shivered when a sudden gust of tepid southern wind passed by. He stretched his body as if he had just awoken out of a long sleep and shook his long, thick hair backwards, a distant smile on his lips.

“It's not fair. It has been winter for all of us, except for Iramid. He looks bronzed, by the Gods. Nobody has the right to be that beautiful.”

Almost involuntary his right hand dropped to his crotch. He opened his breeches to make room for his swollen member that pressed uncomfortably against the fabric. With his right hand he softly stroked his shaft, trying to control the noise his panting made by breathing through his mouth.

“Turn around, turn around, I want to see your dick, damn it, turn around.”

As if obeying his silent command, Lorcko turned around, slowly walking to his horse. Ambrick got a stunning view of the curvatures of his chest, the delicate nipples caressed into little mounts by the wind, the flat belly, the inviting happy trail of little hairs showing the way from his bellybutton to his rich, full bush and his perfectly formed member.

Ambrick, enthralled, began stroking more vigorously. He felt moistness on his fingers. He looked down upon his own dull gray skin, his almost hollow belly, the sparse hairs on his long, spindly cock, the thin, white fingers clasped around it. He hated the sight. He hated himself.

Lorcko rummaged in his saddlebag until he found a drinking flask. As if to give Ambrick a full frontal view again, he turned around, put the flask to his lips and drank, long and thirstily, his head held backwards. An already noticeably warm sun shone on his body, filtered by the still bare branches.

Completely overcome by lust, Ambrick stroked harder and harder, until silently he came, unable to unglue his eyes from the vision before him.

Lorcko put his flask away, walked back to the bank of the river, and at first gingerly, then with brisk movements waded through the water until it was deep enough for him to let himself fall down in it and swim.

Spent and unhappy, Ambrick followed him with hungry eyes until only his head was visible above the water.

He felt a deep melancholy fall over him as a thick, heavy shroud. All that could be his, his for the asking. Not this piteous, short-lived and unfulfilling self-gratification, but the real thing. Those bronze arms asked nothing better than to welcome him, and the full lips wanted to meet his. All that opulent beauty, those voluptuous contours, the promising grace, all of that, all of it was his if only he permitted it. So why didn't he?

Closing his pants he went back to where he had tied up his horse, thoroughly demoralized. Why had he chosen this lonely, brutal release instead of the freely offered tenderness?

Because, he suddenly realized, it would never be enough. Even if it were real. Even if Lorcko had spoken the truth when he said that this time he was going for love, not for lust, even then it wouldn't be enough. It would never suffice just to be loved by Iramid. Or to have him. It wouldn't even do to possess him.

Ambrick realized that he wanted, longed, desperately needed to be him.

Right across the main tower of Lorseth Castle were the buildings where the gubernatorial administration was housed. To the right were the lodgings of the guard of the lord governor and the barracks of the garrison.

They were called barracks out of tradition, but in fact they differed in nothing from the rest of the stone buildings of the castle.

Under the guard house were the dungeons. Originally they had been under the tower as was the case in most castles, until in 1345 the then lord governor, prince Berimar, later king Berimar III the Fair, father of the unhappy Berimar IV, had ordered new dungeons built. Rumor had it that the wailing and cries of tortured rebels kept him out of his sleep.

To the left of the administration were two buildings that were used to lodge important guests. True to his word, Anaxantis had assigned one of them for the exclusive use of the Mukthar prince and his followers. He had agreed with Timishi that the Mukthars would not leave the vicinity of Lorseth. They were free to roam around as far as Lorseth Market, but both princes had agreed it would be advisable that they should do so in groups of no less than three.

The inhabitants of the little market town and the soldiers stationed around the castle were informed that they should treat the guests of the lord governor with politeness and a certain degree of indulgence, since thes and a cd ty couldn't be expected to know the local customs.

Anaxantis had, out of his personal purse, provided a stipend for his guests. He wanted them to be able to pay their own way, both out of a desire to not hurt their pride and the expectation that strangers who had money to spend would be accepted more readily.

Timishi had ordered his men to be calm and civil at all times and to not let themselves be provoked by Ximerionians who knew nothing of the world except their own backyard, and who would probably, like the primitives they were, make fun of anything they didn't understand.

Astonishingly enough, on the whole this seemed to work. There were minor incidents, but that was only to be expected.

To their surprise the Mukthars learned that hollow chickens were the rule, not the exception in Ximerion. The stall and shop keepers of Lorseth Market on the other hand appreciated the custom not to haggle but pay the asking price without further ado of what they called the prince's Mukthars.

Timishi and his men had a predilection for The Cranky Goat, and the landlord valued their custom as they always payed cash and beforehand. A few of his patrons could take them as an example, like a certain general of Cheridonian extraction he could name, he thought. He soon got used to the fact that four Mukthars made the noise of twenty of his regulars and that earthenware plates and tankards tended to end up in shards on the floor, next to the gnawed bones of his spicy chicken wings, a specialty of the house of which they seemed never to get enough. He soon learned to not bother putting vegetables on their dishes. The crockery he just added to the bill.

To his surprise they were polite, especially when the one with the red ribbon in his hair, sort of the boss— Mukthar, was there. Moreover, to his perfect delight, everybody wanted to see them, to the point that some of the girls began to complain about lack of attention.