The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (60 page)

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“Hoist him up,” the first thug said.

Laurich felt himself slowly being lifted into the air. Losing what little support he had, put an almost unbearable strain on his wrist. His thoughts were far from his humiliating nakedness. But not for long.

The man before him left his field of vision, and entered it again a few moments later, bearing a long stake on a large, solid wooden base. He put it beside Laurich who noticed worriedly that it ended in a sharp point that was glistening with grease. He felt himself being hoisted even higher until his hips were more or less level with the sharp end of the spike. The man behind him had obviously fastened the ropes, because now Laurich felt two coarse hands spreading his buttocks. He was too terrified to protest this unbearable treatment.

“Put the stake under him,” he heard the man holding his butt cheeks say.

When he was dangling above the sharp end, he felt the man tearing his buttocks even farther apart.

“Go lower him a bit,” he heard, utterly horrified. “I’ll keep his hole open.”

He closed his eyes when he felt the point enter him just a fraction of an inch. The overload of feelings at this abject and demeaning manhandling made him almost ignore the pain.

“That’s it,” the man behind him said.

He let go of Laurich’s buttocks. He now hung above the sharp stake that had just penetrated his anus, his legs dangling on either side. The weight of his body pushed uncomfortably on the point. The man who had positioned him like that came to the other side to admire his handiwork. For good measure he gave another slap on Laurich’s member. Then, with a loud laugh, he joined the other thug at the beam where the ropes were fastened.

Boynar came closer.

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“Let’s try this again, shall we? I want to know what advice Heemar

is going to give the men in charge in Lorsanthia.”

Laurich licked his lips. He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell anything. The possible consequences were too horrible to contemplate. Even compared to his present predicament.

“Please, please, I don’t know anything. The ambassador keeps his own counsel. I’m on his staff, yes, but I’m nothing more than a messenger boy,” he tried to convince the barbarian in a pleading voice “You underestimate your importance, I’m sure,” Boynar replied.

He made a sign.

Laurich panicked when he felt himself being lowered. He broke out in a sweat clinching his buttocks together, making a most undignified spectacle of himself, he was sure. But he just couldn’t care anymore, and he tried desperately to clench his sphincter. It was no use. The weight of his body dragged him farther down over the slippery stake.

He felt the splintery wood tear through the soft flesh inside him. He yelled out in agony when, helped by the grease, the broader part split his anus open.

“What will the ambassador tell his masters? Will he tell them the time is ripe to attack?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I really, really don’t know,” Laurich yammered, making grotesque movements to try to ease the pain.

“There’s blood running down the stake from between your legs, you know? Soon, very soon, the damage will be irreparable.”

He gave a curt sign.

Laurich sunk another inch deeper over the sharp, slippery wooden shaft. As if coming from deep in his stomach, his animal-like bellow rent the air.

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“It’s not too late, yet,” Boynar said in a calm voice. “Tell me what I

want to know and I’ll have you hoisted up.”

Laurich shook his head wildly as if to counteract the searing pain in his innards.

“Yes,” he shouted. “Yes. You’re right. The time is right for Lorsanthia to act. Get me off. Get me off. Get me off.”

“Why now?” Boynar asked, unperturbed.

Laurich looked at him with astonishment in his eyes.

“Either the king can’t pay his soldiers anymore, or he needs them in the north to punish his rebellious son.”

“You’re not sure exactly what is going on?” Boynar persisted, raising his hand as if to give another sign.

“Don’t, don’t,” Laurich shrieked. “No, no, we aren’t sure,” he continued in a high-pitched voice. “How can we be sure? We can’t use our own, dependable agents. They would stick out like a sore thumb. We have to use middlemen. Ximerionian middlemen. They can’t be trusted.”

“But you must have learned something nevertheless. You must have drawn some conclusions.”

“Yes, yes, we did. From what our intermediaries reported it seems the king has disbanded at least part of the troops he moved to Ormidon. We also learned that his son, the warlord, is raising the tribute he levies to defend the border of his dominions.”

Laurich gave him a beseeching, pitiful look.

“If I understand you correctly, you don’t know for sure whether the high king is disbanding all his troops?” Boynar asked, ignoring Laurich’s plight.

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“It doesn’t matter. Not for Lorsanthia. Don’t you see? Whether he’s

pressed for money and is letting them go or not, whether he needs them for operations in the north, it doesn’t matter. This may be the weakest your king will ever be,” he yelled. He gulped for air. “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” he whimpered, tears rolling off his cheeks now. “Get me off, get me off,” he whined in the insistently complaining voice of a four-year-old. He wriggled on the pole, forgetting all dignity, decorum and shame.

“You’re sure there is going to be war?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“When?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Months?”

“Weeks.”

“Why are you so certain?”

“Lorsanthia must strike now. Lorsanthia can’t run the risk of a re— conciliation between the king and his son. Lorsanthia can’t risk the warlord bringing his troops to the south.” By now Laurich sounded exhausted and dejected. He realized he had now deserved the Death Without End a thousand times over.

Boynar took his time to think, rubbing his chin.

“Weeks, eh? That means Lorsanthia has troops amassed not too far from our border. More troops than we knew about. That means Lorsanthia always meant to invade Ximerion.”

Laurich righted his back and glared down upon Boynar.

“Of course it did. Of course Lorsanthia was always going to conquer Ximerion,” he spat, not even trying to disguise his contempt despite the tortuous pain he was in. “The only way there will ever be a

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lasting peace is these regions is under the benign guidance of us, your

superiors, you despicable, cretinous swine.”

“Like the everlasting peace you brought to Trachia? The only Trachians at peace are the ones who are dead.” For the first time Boynar raised his voice. “The living are exploited. By you.”

“That is how you should be treated,” Laurich retorted, contempt in every word. “You’re no better than wild animals, you are savages. You need masters. Stern masters.”

“I thought you would think so,” Boynar said. “Even with a stake in your asshole.”

He looked at the two men holding Laurich’s ropes.

“Lower the stern master,” Boynar ordered. “All the way down.”

Laurich’s dark black eyes bulged out of their sockets as he slowly slid over the stake, deeper and deeper.

“Lorsanthia was always going to attack us,” Nromar said, putting two blond beers on the table. “They just were waiting for favorable conditions.”

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“According to the boy-diplomat, yes,” Boynar replied, toying with

his tankard before taking a swig.

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Boynar frowned.

“It was the most strange thing, Nromar. The guy was in a lot of pain and he was afraid.”

Nromar shrugged.

“So would I be if I thought someone was going to impale me.”

Boynar smiled.

“Agreed. But he seemed to be even more afraid of someone, or something else. Up until a certain point. Then something took over. It superseded the pain, the almost certainty of death. It also blotted out whatever else he was afraid of. I think it was Lorsanthian arrogance.

He just couldn’t help himself.”

Nromar nodded.

“That only happens if they truly believe, deep in their heart, what they are saying.”

Boynar stared at him in surprise.

“Exactly. Yes. That was it,” he cried out, putting his tankard down, spilling some beer on the table though he had already half emptied it.

“You’re right. The guy believed what he was saying at that point. What he told me must have been the truth.” He drank of his beer. “I know for a fact that the king is trying to give the impression that he is disbanding part of the army.”

“Isn’t he?”

“I wonder. I saw some of them in Camp Prista, near Ormidon, and it occurred to me how easy it would be to have them convene again somewhere else.”

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“To attack Anaxantis?”

There were deep furrows on Boynar’s brow.

“That’s the first thing that springs to mind,” he drawled. “The Lorsanthians think this may be the case, even more so since Anaxantis is reinforcing the borders of the Highlands.”

“Is he?”

Boynar nodded.

“Not when I left the Highlands, but he is now, according to their agents, though the young man couldn’t tell me how reliable they are.”

He was clearly thinking out loud. “Damn it,” he exploded, “what does it all mean? I feel there is something I’m not seeing. A piece of the puzzle is missing, and I don’t know what it is.”

Nromar’s face remained impassive.

“So either the high king’s treasury is nearly empty and he is economizing, or it is a ruse and he just wants everybody to think he’s strapped for cash,” Nromar said after a while.

“Yes, we already established that,” Boynar replied, irritated.

“If it is a ruse, the king is not disbanding part of the army,” Nromar continued, unperturbed.

“Yes, and rain is not dry,” Boynar scoffed.

“If the king is not disbanding part of the army, he means to use it.”

“Yes. We know. So does Anaxantis and that’s why he is manning the border,” Boynar said, losing his patience.

Nromar reached over the table and grabbed Boynar’s wrist.

“And what if Anaxantis is, knowingly or unknowingly, part of the ruse?”

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He bored his eyes in Boynar’s, whose mouth fell open with sudden

comprehension.

“The high king wants Lorsanthia to think he’s attacking the Northern Marches,” Boynar said, slowly putting the puzzle together. “This would be both a threat and an opportunity for them. A threat, because if the king manages somehow to turn the situation to his advantage, he could probably count on Anaxantis — or, at least, Anaxantis’s army — to come to his aid. An opportunity, because meanwhile the king will have weakened Ximerion’s southern border. If on the other hand Lorsanthia were to think that he needs to let part of his army go because of financial troubles, that would provide them with the same opportunity…” Boynar faltered, groping for the next piece of the puzzle.

“That is exactly what that Lorsanthian worm said.” He stopped to think. “Argh,” he continued, frustrated, “we’re going in circles.”

“He would appear weak to them,” Nromar helped him.

“Which is exactly how they see him,” Boynar mused. “Which means…”

“The king actually wants Lorsanthia to attack,” Nromar completed his unfinished sentence. “And that in its turn means—”

“He must have a plan. Of course. He is reassembling the army, but not in the north. One by one, in little groups, they’re falling back to the south. Not by the main roads. Not through the more populated regions. To where?”

“Ah, that remains to be found out. But Prista is not that far away from the Morradennes.”

Boynar was thinking hard now. Nromar stood up and returned with a pitcher and a cloth. He wiped up the spilled beer and refilled both their tankards.

“You need inside information. That won’t be easy,” he volunteered.

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Boynar stared at him.

“You say you’re not smart, but—”

“It’s true,” Nromar said. “I’m not.”

“No, it isn’t true. Anaxantis sent both of us here. You first, then he sent me to do the dangerous stuff.”

A captain, Boynar had decided. He needed to speak to a captain.

They were the spine of the army. The higher officers didn’t want to be involved with the nitty-gritty of practical organizing, so they delegated most of that to their captains. They were the hinges between the army and its commanders. It meant their superiors had to give their captains information they should keep to themselves, but so what? Even generals needed to unburden once in a while, and the captains usually felt honored by the confidence put in them.