The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (47 page)

“You see, Ambrick, we don't need gold,” he said slowly.

Strictly speaking this was not true. Timishi knew what gold could buy for the màhai.

“What we need most now are shoringah,” he said.

Ambrick looked wildly around.

“What? What does that mean?”

“That means you'll become our first shorgah,” Rodomesh said calmly. “It means non-human,” he added.

“I don't understand,” Ambrick stammered.

“You will, soon enough,” Rodomesh replied smilingly.

Timishi stood up and lifted his right fist in the air.

“Shorgah vor,” he intoned in a clear, loud voice. “Take it away,” he added, before sitting down again.

The Mukthars dragged a dazed Ambrick between the trees.

“What now?” Shermy said pensively.

“Shave it of course,” Lushorm said.

He looked at one of his mates.

“I'll hold its head. You raze it.”

To his horror, Ambrick saw one of the Mukthars draw his dagger. Soon plucks of his hair were falling on the ground, mingled with blood. The man who was shaving his head was no barber. He yelled in outrage, pain and humiliation.

“Stupid barbarians, you'll all be hanged. Stop this. Now.”

The Mukth

Rodomesh joined the group.

“Oh,” he mocked, “this works so well for you.” He turned to Lushorm. “Timishi has said to clip its ears.”

“What? No. No. No,” Ambrick exclaimed horrified.

He saw, even before he felt it, his right auricle falling down on the ground. The searing pain came immediately after that. He screamed. He screamed again when his left ear was cut off.

“And the tip of its nose,” Rodomesh said.

Ambrick had both his hands where his ears had been. He only saw the flash of steel of the dagger flicker before his eyes and then his nose started hurting as well. He bellowed like a wounded bull.

Rodomesh walked away.

“Don't forget to cut out its tongue,” he said over his shoulder.

“We'd better tie its hands for that and the gelding,” Shermy said.

Ambrick knew what gelding was and when the little Mukthar reached out to his hands, still clasped to the bleeding wounds at his ears, he bit him.

Shermy pulled back.

“Damn,” he shouted, “it bit me.”

“We're new at this,” Lushorm said. “We should have knocked out its teeth first.”

With one blow he threw Ambrick on the ground. Immediately three other Mukthars immobilized him. He tried rolling his head, but the big Mukthar put two fingers in his nostrils from behind and pulled. This forced him to hold his head still and breath through his mouth.

“Pull its lips back,” Shermy said to one of his friends.

With a rock he had found nearby he started to knock out the unhappy page's teeth. The guttural sounds he made were incomprehensible.

“Don't moan,” Shermy said with a smirk. “They were crooked anyway.”

He took his dagger and with the pommel started to knock out the remaining little shards that stood still upright.

“Turn it around so it can spit out its teeth,” he said when he had finished the job to his satisfaction. “It's not perfect, but it'll have to do. We can always improve on it later. Meanwhile it won't bite anyone anymore.”

By now Ambrick hurt all over. He couldn't believe what had happened to him in so short a time.

“Please no... gold...” he tried to plead, but the mumbled whimpering that came out was incomprehensible. He himself could hear how ridiculous his toothless mewls sounded. Tears rolled out of his eyes.

The only thing he got for his trouble was that Lushorm pushed his head into the dirt.

Again two Mukthars forced his mouth open. Ambrick tried to keep his tongue away, by curling it up as deep in his mouth as he could, but Shermy's little hand got hold of it anyway. He pulled as much of it out as he could and cut a piece off.

By now a hoarse, high pitched groaning, muted by red froth, was the only sound the page could produce anymore.

“I think I saw some grosh growing there. If you crush the leaves it seems to be good for infection and u crustiogn=such. We could use it's shirt for bandage...” one of the Mukthars said.

“Good idea,” Shermy concurred. “You fetch the grosh and I'll cut its shirt in strips so we'll have something to put around its shlong after we have cut off its balls. Someone go heat a dagger to cauterize the wound.”

Ambrick was now beyond panic. Bleeding and hurting all over, mad with fear, he tried to wrestle free, but all air was pushed out of him when Lushorm sat down on his back, facing his legs, and two other Mukthars kneeled down on his arms. He could just move his legs around a bit. Lushorm slapped him on his bare butt.

“Keep still, you,” he growled.

The Mukthar who had gone to collect the herbs had come back.

“Lift its legs, Lushorm,” Shermy said. “Yeah... like that, but higher.”

Lying face downwards, with the heavy Mukthar on his back and his legs lifted upwards, Ambrick's dick now hung downward on his belly, the ball sack within easy reach of Shermy. The little Mukthar grabbed his balls, which made him howl out in pain once more. Another Mukthar pulled his cock downwards. When the dagger cut through the flesh of his ball sack and severed the tubes of his testicles, he mercifully lost consciousness.

He didn't feel it when the red hot blade was applied to the wound, making a hissing sound.

Shermy threw the bloody piece of flesh and the balls in the nearby bushes and wiped his hands on his pants.

All that was left of the once proud Ximerion noble was a naked animal-like being, lying on its belly in the dirt, with bloody scars on its head where not so long ago its hair had been, without testicles, tongue, teeth or ears, and a bleeding stump for a nose.

Ambrick had been right to call himself the count of Keyld, though he didn't know it. His father had died three days earlier.

Shermy had literally cut off the last hope of the House of Keyld having any more offspring. He had effectively put an end to it.

By evening, Timishi and his group reached the outskirts of the Pashira forest.

“It's them, it's them,” they heard a youthful voice call out.

A boy of about thirteen years old, with half long brown wavy hair, came running out of the woods.

“Rodo, Rodo, uncle Timi,” he piped.

The new arrivals had dismounted when he reached them and he jumped right into Rodomesh's arms, clamping his legs around his half-brother's hips.

“Ranni, Ranni,” Rodomesh said, hugging him, “have you been all right?”

“I missed you and uncle Timi, but yeah,” Rannimosh said.

“You shouldn't call the quedash by his self-name, Ranni.”

“Uncle Timi doesn't mind,” Ranni said with a smile full of certainty. “Do you?” he asked, somewhat less

sure, looking at Timishi from under his eyebrows.

“No, of course not, Ranni,” Timishi said, and he grinned.

A girl had also emerged from between the trees.

“Quedash,” she said in greeting, with a broad smile.

“Navrisha,” Timishi greeted her back. “The horses?”

“Got”ify them. I see you got your own. We should be good. And what's that lying over Lushorm's horse?

You caught a shorgah? Man, it's ugly.”

“It wasn't much to look at to begin with,” Timishi replied, shrug-grinning. “It will serve though. We've got more important things to attend to. I'm calling the shatangmàhai. We have a decision to make.”

“That serious, quedash? A Council of All the People?”

“Yay,” Rannimosh crowed, still in his half brothers arms.

“Not for you, Rannimosh,” Lushorm said. “You've got to be at least sixteen years old before you're allowed a say in the shatangmàhai.”

Rannimosh looked down disappointedly.

“He's old enough,” Timishi said. “He's over sixteen.”

“No, he isn't,” Lushorm said, not understanding.

“Yes, he is. You were there when he became sixteen. Don't you remember? It was the moment he joined us out of his own free will.”

Rannimosh looked up radiantly. Timishi smiled back at him.

“What's more,” he said, “he'll be the first to give his advice.”

It really didn't behoove a boy of sixteen, but looking over Rodomesh's shoulder, Rannimosh stuck out his tongue at Lushorm.

The servants had prepared fresh blankets and covers and Tarno had hauled them to the big room on top of the tower. He put them neatly away on the bottom of the massive wardrobe, absentmindedly clicking a loose plank in place.

Then he looked at the bed. Master hadn't slept in it of course, yet he decided, partly out of boredom, to change them. If he came home unexpectedly Master would find his resting place all crisp and clean, ready for him to use.

While taking the old sheets off, he saw the dagger, clamped between the mattress and the bed frame, on the right side, where he used to lie when and if Master invited him to share his bed. He didn't even know exactly why he kept it there. It had been lying in that place for weeks, months perhaps.

He paused for a few moments, turning the dagger around in his hands. He admired how beautiful it was. How sharp. It had been a present from Master, and that made it special. The light caught the engraving: Redina Mo Sevrai. Medicine for the Heart.

Suddenly alarmed, he almost dropped the knife. How careless. Without thinking about what he was doing, he had draped the old bedding over his shoulder. If Master were to come in the room this very moment, he would be very displeased. He laid the dagger on the mattress and started to pull the sheets off.

The rustling of the linen on his skin felt nice"justify"to , he noticed. And Master wasn't here. Nor was he likely to come home soon. Besides, he would have ample warning. For one thing, he would hear the clatter of the hooves on the inner court.

No, he was safe from detection. Safe enough.

Instead of taking the sheet off, he draped it around his body, tugging it in an almost robe-like shape. He took a few steps. It felt wrong, so wrong... and good at the same time. He would just wear it to go out on the windy balcony. In fact, he would go look at the sea right now. In his robes.

He passed the big chair. Master's big chair. Dare he? He looked around.

Nobody would know. Nobody could ever possibly know.

Very slowly he let himself sink into the great arm chair. It felt comfortable and familiar. Of course, it felt familiar. He had sat in it often enough before Master had shown him who he truly was.

He smiled. It was more a throne than a chair. His right arm was lying on one of the arm rests, the dagger held upright in his hand. It looked a bit like a scepter. He suddenly remembered seeing his father, in his stately attire, sitting on his throne just like that. His father, the high king.

That wasn't an illusion, was it? That hadn't been a dream, had it? No. The high king was his father. Didn't that mean he was a prince?

He startled and almost jumped out of the chair as if it suddenly had started burning. Panicking, he began to take off the sheet. Then stopped. He was totally confused.

He went outside on the spacious balcony, still wearing the blanket, his robes. The wind tousled his hair. The wind would chase away all confusion.