The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (59 page)

Anaxantis rode doggedly on, with his escort of ten Clansmen, only once in a while stopping by a roadside tavern to eat and sleep — nap really — for a short while, after which he took the road again. He wanted to get home as soon as possible. The news of the victory at the Zinchara had preceded him, and everywhere he came he was treated with all the deference due to a war hero. It pleased but didn't impress him very much. He knew the battle had been only the beginning. It was rapidly fading into the past as far as he was concerned and his restless mind was exploring all the possibilities and promises of the future.

The second day of June he arrived in Dermolhea.

Uppam Fraleck awaited him in the Council Room of the Town House, from wherawaitefro A young, cocksure prince had left, and now a battle hardened, tired warlord returned, he saw through the window.

He had ordered refreshments to be brought before the prince entered. When he saw him from nearby he startled. The young man who entered looked old. Dust had settled in deep wrinkles, and in his eyes a fire burned, a consuming fire. On his tunic were rusty brown stains. Dried up blood. And, frankly, he stank.

With an almost grandfatherly concern he bade the prince sit down and served him wine out of a glass carafe.

Anaxantis drank deep and for a few moments closed his eyes. Then he explained in measured tones what he expected of the lord mayor.

“Of course, prolonging your title of warlord will be no trouble at all, given the circumstances. We could even envisage to make it, eh, for life. Why not? It has never been done before, but then again there is a first time for everything. I'm sure the Provincial Council will be grateful, even grateful enough to make the title hereditary, if you grasp my meaning. Even if that meant standing up against—”

“Never mind all that,” Anaxantis said tiredly. “We can discuss that at a later date, but for the moment I have no such ambitions. Yet.”

He took a small piece of bread and an even smaller piece of hard cheese from a silver platter.

“I want the recruiting to go on,” he said, while munching sparsely. “I want the Council to vote me the necessary money.”

“Yes, well that... We can't argue self defense anymore, can we?”

“Of course we can. Think, man, think. Dermolhea, and by extension the whole province lies at the border, doesn't it? That's why it has always been vulnerable to attack and raids from the Mukthars. Give me the means to lay the border at the Somertian Mountains and all of a sudden you will lie in the center.”

“Ah... I see.”

“Dermolhea will lie in the center of a region that from the south gives you access to all kinds of goods and merchandise, that will be needed in the north. Now, weren't you merchants?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well then? Let me remind you that if I have to decommission my army that will mean a lot of unemployed people we plucked from the streets will return to them. Only now, they know how to use weapons. They know how to organize themselves in military, efficient units. Do you really want them back?”

“No, no.”

“Or would you rather they help me develop the Plains, with you selling everything from basic utensils, over sowing-seed to providing architects and masons?”

“Well, there seems no doubt—”

“I'll even go a step further. Ghiasht won't be allowed to bid for the contracts for building roads, bridges, castles and so on and so forth, until they have fully paid the penalty I will impose upon them for their arrears in the tribute. And I will make sure my people will count every rioghal, every moltar and every rusty sarth.

And then count it again. It will take time. Much time.”

Uppam Fraleck looked at the exhausted, dirty face before him.

“I am your highness's servant. Pdth="1ervhe lease don't worry about a thing. The Provincial Council will vote whatever you please to lay before it. Acting otherwise would be the pinnacle of ingratitude.”

Anaxantis looked at the Lord Mayor while frugally nibbling at a piece of hard cheese.

Ehandar heard the cries on the inner court.

“Muktharchtankhar, Muktharchtankhar.”

He had to grope deep in what little ancient Baltoc he had retained.

“
The Mukthar Slayer. They're calling him the Mukthar Slayer. We have won. He has won the battle.”

It was almost a shame what he had to do. But it was the best he could come up with. At least he would die on the height of his fame. Nobody or nothing would ever be able to diminish that. Nobody would ever be able to say they beat Anaxantis the Mukthar Slayer in battle.

He waited next to the door, standing straight as an arrow, the dagger in his fist. His fingers were firm around the hilt. The palm of his hand was dry. It would soon be over.

He heard the steps upon the stairs. They became slower, almost dragging, as they came nearer. Finally they stopped and the door creaked open.

Anaxantis fell into the room, letting go of his satchel. Ehandar dropped the dagger and was just in time to catch him. He paled as he saw the tired out, emaciated, feather light body of his little brother. He didn't even have the strength to keep his head upright. It just hung there.

Ehandar carried him to the big chair next to the hearth. He kneeled down and began to undo the laces of his brother's boots.

Anaxantis came half upright.

“Don't,” he whispered. “Don't... Just let me get my breath. I'll do it myself in a while... in the bathroom... I... I haven't been out of these boots for days.”

“I don't care,” Ehandar said, continuing.

He recoiled from the stench when he removed the first boot. When he had gotten them both he carried them to the balcony, holding them as far away as possible.

Then he went to the bathroom to get a basin and towels. The fire in the hearth was burning very low and the water in the kettle above it was tepid.

“Just as you like it,” he mumbled while guiding Anaxantis's feet in the water.

When he started to remove his tunic, his brother again came half upright.

“I smell like ass, literally this time, I'm afraid,” he smiled weakly. “Surprisingly, you don't get much opportunity to tend to your personal hygiene when you're on campaign.”

Ehandar pushed him gently back.

“Sit still, I need to wash you.”

After he had removed all his clothes he saw the bruises on his ribs, in dark shades of green and brown, and the wound on his left arm. He gingerly removed the by now dirty bandages and gasped when he saw the ugly, ragged wound.

Gently, gently he sponged his little brother down, taking care not to hurt him in the places that were still tender. Then he washed the dust and the dried up blood out of his hair.

He looked at the faheightat ed ce with the caked dust in the deep grooves on the forehead. He was seventeen.

He could as well have been thirty. Cautiously, tenderly he began to clean it with the moist tip of a towel. It took a while for the deeply ingrained dirt to loosen up.

It could have been his imagination. Or a trick of the light. It appeared to him as if he was not only cleaning up his brother's face, but actually wiping away the wrinkles. They seemed to soften, relax, and almost disappear.

Rummaging through the satchel Anaxantis had dropped by the door, he found a jar with some kind of salve.

He cut strips of his robe, applied a generous amount of the ointment to the frayed scar, and dressed the wound as good as he could.

When he was finished he carried him to the big bed and laid him softly in the middle of it, pulling the warm bed covering over him.

His little brother let out a long, contented sigh without opening his eyes.

He sat in the big chair and smiled, bitterly, mocking himself and his weakness.

He looked at the big bed. Nothing moved and from where he sat the breathing was inaudible.

Again. Again he hadn't been able to do it. He had been so sure. So prepared. And it had only taken that stumbling, fainting boy covered in the grime of days in the field to evaporate all his carefully gathered and nurtured resolve.

For more than an hour he sat there, while outside the dark fell, the low fire in the hearth casting a faint red shadow on his face.

Then he heard some groaning sounds coming from the bed.

He stood up and went over to look what was happening.

His little brother was writhing and turning in the sheets in the thralls of a bad dream. Sweat was running from his brows, his face contorted in anguish.

“
The battle must have been terrible,”
Ehandar thought. “
Who knows what frightful horrors he has seen?”

Between the moans and the groaning he thought he heard some words and he leaned over to listen.

“Please, Ehandar, no... What have I done? No, Ehandar, no, don't do this...”

He recoiled as if bitten by a snake, his breath halted and silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

“
Still. He dreams about it still. He. The Mukthar Slayer.”

He didn't know what to do. His first impulse was to take his little brother in his arms, and whisper softly to him that he was safe, that nothing bad was going to happen to him. That he was there to protect him. Protect him against...

“
But he might wake up,”
he thought in the depths of despair, “
and he will be confused. He might not realize
where he is, and the first thing he will see will be my face. And he will be so, so afraid. Afraid of my face.”

And that, finally, was the worst possible, cruel punishment for those few sordid minutes and their aftermath, months ago. His little brother, his love would be afraid of him. He would tremble in his feverish fright, just for seeing his face.

He buried his head in his almost claw like hands, as if ready to rip the flesh off.

What was there he himself, or anybody, could do to him anymore that was worse than knowing this, he thought, falli anymoht,fy"ng in the deepest pits of misery and desperation.

He walked slowly over to the door where the dagger still lay and picked it up.

For a while he stood there, turning it around and around.

But this way as well was closed to him, he realized. Anaxantis loved him. Unbelievable as it was, his little brother still loved him. And he would mourn him, and be sad. How could he add to his unhappiness?

He sank back into the chair and thought.

He wept. For his little brother and for himself. He would never be free. He would forever be a prisoner of the invisible chains that partly he had forged himself, partly his love had made, maybe just to feel safe.

Then he went into the bathroom. He took off the sheets that had served him as robes, threw them in a corner and took his shaving knife. Carefully he began to remove the stubbles that had grown beneath his bellybutton.

“
This, at least, I can give you. I can give you Tarno,”
he thought, weeping, as he shaved further down his belly, scraping Ehandar off.

Anaxantis awoke in the middle of the night. He still felt tired, but groaned contentedly upon finding himself between clean sheets. The last thing he remembered was climbing the stairs.

He spread his arms out, left and right. Nobody. He was alone in the big bed. His eyes adjusted slowly to the room, bathing in the faint moonlight.

Then he heard a soft breathing sound, coming from his right side, beyond the bed.

He crawled over and hung his head over the side, his long golden hair falling down on both sides of his face.

“Is that you?” he asked, surprised.

Tarno had woken up as well.

“Yes, Master, it's me.”

“What, in heaven's name, are you doing there? The stones are still cold. You'll get sick. You're not sleeping on the rug, are you?”

“Yes, Master, I am. I'm sorry. I would have gone to my room, but you were... not well. You might have needed something. I was afraid I wouldn't hear you. And you hadn't invited me into your bed.”

Anaxantis rolled back and with one arm held the covers open.

“Come,” was all he said.

Tarno crawled beside him.

“Oh, see? You're cold all over,” his master said, hugging him tightly. “I seem to have a touch of fever. You can have some of my warmth. Put your arms around me.”

“Yes, Master,” was all he could utter, almost suffocating with the lump in his throat.