The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (22 page)

Ffindall Dram waited a few moments before answering.

“I don't like to jump to conclusions, but the general could sure use some extra sources of income. Preferably considerable sources, if he wants to save the estate, since his father is actually a bottomless pit. But, really, there's not enough evidence to come to any firm conclusion. There is something strange though.”

He seemed to need some time to collect his thoughts.

“Yes?” the queen urged him on gently.

“It may be nothing, but our agents had the distinct impression they were walking over ground that had been trodden on before. In other words, there were all kind of little signs and indications that the same questions were asked already of the same persons. And I can assure you, my lady, that my men were very, very circumspect.”

Emelasuntha raised her eyebrows. Sobrathi sat up straight.

“Any idea who might be stirring the same brew as we do, master Dram?”

Again the Master of the Ormidonian House hesitated.

“I'm going totally out on a limb here, but something tells me that we have seen the subtle hand of master Tomar Parmingh at work here.”

“Aha.”

“I wonder... Could it be master Parmingh is trying to divert attention from himself by building a case against the good general?”

Dtain ordered his men to stop and looked intently ahead. Before him, as far to the right and the left as he could see, the Somertian mountain range stretched out as the hem of a light brown, verdant patched, plain.

The trip had been uneventful. They had seen small groups in the distance, but they had disappeared before he had been able to make out who or what they were. It was a comforting thought. They were more afraid of him and his men, than he was weary of them.

Up until the river Mirax, both groups had traveled together. They had arrived at its banks one afternoon, and the crossing had proved easy. The thaw was already weeks behind them, and the Mirax had returned to it's usual state of slowly meandering laziness. Although the stream was shallow, they had gotten thoroughly wet, and once on the other side they had camped and made great fires to dry their clothes. Most of the men, including Dtain and Smorgann, had taken a nake men,keny hed swim.

When evening fell they had used the fire to roast meat, some of which they had brought with them from Lorseth, and some of which they had caught themselves on the way. The men, unlike Dtain mostly northerns, had sung songs, with strange, tearful melodies, about long voyages from which there was no return, of loved ones left behind in despair, and of eternally returning spring and death.

The next day their ways had parted. Smorgann's patrol headed west, roughly following the Mirax, while Dtain led his group further north. Very soon they had reached the border of what the prince had called the Middlewood Forest on his maps. Rather unimaginatively so, Dtain thought. There must have been a time the giant forest had a proper name, but that was lost in the mists of time.

He had chosen to follow its outskirts rather close. At some places it seemed dark and forbidding, at others the trees stood further apart and it looked almost invitingly. The men had asked him if they could halt half a day at such a spot, so they could hunt for some hares, or who knew, even a tender, young wild piglet. The prince had forbidden them to cook while on sentry, but Dtain had argued with himself that they were still a fair distance from their destination. So, he allowed it. It would spare the food stock they had brought. The men would have to survive on dried vegetables, fruits and meat, nuts, smoked fish, specially prepared compotes, hard cheese, and moldy toast for long enough, he reckoned.

Now they had neared the side of the forest that faced the mountains. He made his men dismount and progress on foot, inside the rim of the forest. A day later, he found an ideal spot, with tall trees towering high above the rest of the woods.

They made camp about half a mile deep into the trees. The first day they slept in improvised tents, made out of pieces of canvas held up by cut off branches. Then they built primitive, but serviceable huts. He ordered a platform to be constructed in one of the highest trees, accessible by a rope ladder. Venturing out of the forest, Dtain ascertained that it was completely invisible from a distance.

The wait — long or short, he couldn't tell — had begun.

From their vantage point on a small hill, Anaxantis, Hemarchidas, Lethoras and Iftang,seated on their horses, were watching the maneuvers of the third regiment of the Amirathan Militia.

The troops formed a dense line of twelve men deep. From their position the little group on the hill couldn't understand the orders the officers were barking, but they could see their effects. As one man the line slowly marched forward. Another indistinct command, and the troops halted. Then they started retreating, without breaking formation, in an even and seemingly confident way.

Now came the moment the prince had looked out for. Another command and the troops fanned out until the lines were only six man deep, but double the previous width. Then the center drew back slowly, while at both extremities the men kept their position. After a while a half circle was formed.

“That went unexpectedly well,” Lethoras said to Anaxantis. “You must be pleased.”

“Hm.” Iftang intervened, before the prince could answer. “All good and well, but there's no enemy to confront here. And can they do it with several regiments together.”

“The Staff of the Militia is confident they can,” Hemarchida of themaer.s said. “They have what they call Grand Maneuvers, with all the troops together, every fortnight.”

Anaxantis remained silent for a while.

“Hemarchidas,” he said after a while, “make very sure the Staff knows that not only they must be able to adopt this formation, but also that they must be able to move in any direction without breaking or bending it too much. But on the whole, I must admit that it looks as if they're making a good job of it. Iftang is right though. Will they be able to do it under enemy attack?”

Hemarchidas shrugged.

“There's only one way to find out,” he said. “And that occasion will be upon us soon enough.”

“Maybe too soon,” Anaxantis answered.

He turned Myrmos, and the others followed him to the tent the Militia had provided for him. Soon after they had entered it, several generals of the Militia and Marak came in as well.

Anaxantis praised the generals for the flawless maneuvers and Marak for the demonstration of expert shooting he had witnessed earlier. They drank wine and ate some snacks.

“Have you made arrangements for tonight?” Marak asked. “Father would be honored to have you as a guest.

I seem to have weaned him away a bit from his revulsion of nobles.”

Anaxantis laughed.

“And I would be honored to be his guest. Merchants never bothered me.” He chuckled. “But I'll be leaving in half an hour. I have to be back in Lorseth as soon as possible.”

“
No, you don't,”
Hemarchidas thought. “
The damn place will survive without you for a few days. It's him.

You want to go back to him.”

With only six days left to the month of April, Anaxantis was back at Lorseth Castle. A stack of parchments was waiting for him. As always Tomar helped him make sense of it all. Even so, it took the better part of the afternoon to clear them.

He was just about to ask Tomar about some other project, as Hemarchidas came into the war room.

“The smith will be here in a few minutes for a first fitting of your armor,” he said to Anaxantis, acknowledging Tomar with a nod.

“Ask him to come tomorrow,” the prince answered annoyed. “I'm tired.”

“Everybody is tired. And no. The man has worked all night through to have the thing ready in time. You will try it on now and let him take notes for the adjustments.”

Anaxantis gave him a mock dark look.

“Oh, all right then or I'll never hear the end of it. The sooner I'm done with it, the better.”

“Well, I'm off,” Tomar said. “We'll discuss the other thing tomorrow, if it's all the same to you.”

When he had gone Anaxantis sat down.

“It's as if you're not all here,” Hemarchidas said after a while to break the silence.

His friend looked up as if he came out of a daydream. He smiled.

“Oh, you know, a thousand little things to worry about.”

“Hm. And one big one to—”

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Arranulf came in to ane was in/p>nounce that the smith had arrived. After a nod from Hemarchidas the page bade the man, who had been waiting in the hallway, enter. He did so, carrying a regally ornamented breastplate.

“It's the first part, your highness,” he said in an apologizing tone, “and the most tricky one. It's important it's the right fit or it'll be grating you everywhere.”

Anaxantis sighed and stood up.

“The leather straps are new and still a little bit stiff,” the smith said while fastening both parts of the cuirass.

“It's heavy,” Anaxantis muttered.

“It's supposed to be heavy,” Hemarchidas said. “You want it to be able to withstand an attack by a butter knife.”

“Yeah, well, it's too heavy,” Anaxantis said, walking around a few paces. “I can barely move in it.”

“We'll practice sword fighting while you are wearing it,” Hemarchidas replied coolly.

“No, we won't. Because I'm not wearing it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not. It makes me look fat.”

“At the end of the day it will make you look not dead, you little fool,” Hemarchidas exclaimed angrily.

“You're wearing it.”

“Am not.”

The smith had closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears as easily, and wrung his hands, hearing the interchange.

“And what are those gold plated frills? I look like the sign of a tavern.”

“That's a dragon. Remember? It's your escutcheon,” Hemarchidas retorted curtly.

“Eh... it's not gold
plated
,” the smith intervened.

“What,” Anaxantis exclaimed. “It's solid gold?”

“Eh... Yes, it is. Master Parmingh said—”

“I don't give a gold plated hoot about what master Parmingh said. You'll take it off.”

“Ah, yes, your highness.”

“Besides, the dragon is supposed to be black.”

“Yes, I see,” the unhappy smith said. “So, a black dragon on a gold cuirass.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Anaxantis exploded.

“Anaxantis, don't harass the poor man,” Hemarchidas said. “He worked hard to make you a fine piece of armor. You're being most ungrateful.”

“Am not. I just don't want it to be ostentatious. Is all. And less heavy.”

They fell silent. The smith scraped his throat.

“Ah, yes, I'll have the modifications ready by tomorrow. Can I bring it in to show you, together with your helmet?”

“Helmet?” Anaxantis said, exasperated, giving Hemarchidas a furious look.

“Yes, a helmet. Which you are also wearing. Together with your breastplate,” the Cheridonian said coolly, arching his eyebrows.

“I want the men to recognize me on the field. How can they if you're going to pack me in layers of steel?”

“We'll ask this good man to f1em" a magoiix a big, big, white plume on top of your helmet. OK? We'll spread the word.”

“You're just mocking me,” the prince grumbled.

“You think?” Hemarchidas asked innocently.

“If you'll excuse me, your highness, I'll go and start on it right away,” the unhappy smith tried to make his escape.

Anaxantis made a dismissive gesture in between fumbling at the leather straps.

“Get me out of this thing,” he said ungraciously.

After the smith had retrieved the cuirass he hastily scuttled out of the war room.

“We're all trying our best to keep you alive, and you don't even seem to appreciate it,” Hemarchidas said, sighing. There was no hint of reproach in his voice.

“Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I should have been nicer to the poor man.”

He sat down and absentmindedly rolled the stem of an empty cup between his fingers.

“Just looking at you, one would think your mind is not entirely upon the coming war. Can you explain why we had to leave the base camp so early, instead of letting the good citizens of Dermolhea pamper us a bit?”

Anaxantis looked up at his friend, in two minds whether he would confide in him. As it turned out, he didn't need to take that decision.

“It's him, isn't it? Still him. Always him.”

Anaxantis nodded unhappily.

“So, what is it now? Have you finally come to a decision about what to do with the miserable cur?”

His friend's reaction took Hemarchidas completely unaware. Anaxantis let his head fall down on his crossed arms on the table.

“I've made it worse.” Hemarchidas heard a muffled voice cry miserably. “I've made it worse, much worse.”

Anaxantis looked up, tears streaming down and a look of desperation in his eyes.

“Wait here, I'll be right back. Don't leave the room,” the Cheridonian said, running through the door.

He sped through the hallway and accosted a surprised Arranulf, sitting behind the little table at the entrance.