The Invisible Chains - Part 2: Bonds of Fear (37 page)

When he emerged again, leading it by the reins, he saw a group of

knights, clad in black, on the road, riding in southern direction.

“Damydas. So the king was right. This can’t be a coincidence. Black

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Shields riding in the direction of Troncton just when a caravan is being

formed there. I should be in the Northern Marches at least three day

before him. Finding out where the prince is can’t be too difficult. Time

to begin thinking of a good story of how I came by the information I

will be giving him.”

Ffindall Dram hadn’t yet received the news that ten Tribesmen

had fallen by the swords of the Black Shields. He was working his

way through a stack of reports. After glancing at them he put each of

them on one of three stacks.

One stack was to go directly to the archives. For Ffindall that was

the equivalent of throwing it away. Except he threw nothing away.

The other stack he would classify in a room adjacent to the one he

used, for later reference. The third, and by far smallest stack, he

would take action on as soon as possible.

He didn’t hesitate a moment when he read what must have been

one of the most concise reports that passed through his hands yet.

“Damydas’s grandchildren have resumed their fishing trips in the

company of two old servants.”

He put the little parchment on the smallest stack.

290

Andrew Ashling

Anaxantis was having the time of his life. Five days in the Renuvian

Plains had flown by as if they had been but mere hours.

That morning, when he came out of his tent, he took a deep

breath of the cool morning air, shivered and wrapped himself in his

mantle. He went over to a fire where Iftang was having breakfast

with a few of his officers.

“Morning, my lord,” Iftang greeted him formally, as there were

others present.

“Morning, general, gentlemen,” he responded amiably. “Do you

know were I could find Hemarchidas?”

The general pointed in the direction of some low hills.

“Ha. He wanted to be left alone?”

“Not exactly. We wanted him to leave us alone. His breakfast food

didn’t agree with us.” Iftang smiled.

“I think I understand.” Anaxantis smiled back. “I’ll go see him

anyway.”

“Your lordship is a braver man than I am.” The general laughed.

The hills lay downwards the wind, yet, when he came nearer

the unmistakable, distinct stench of patriph assaulted his nostrils.

Hemarchidas sat on a tree trunk, before a fire, stirring in a pot.

“I see they banned you from civilized company,” Anaxantis said,

his eyes twinkling.

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“Oh, it’s you,” Hemarchidas said. “You want some? There’s enough

for two.”

“About as much as I want my eyes put out with a blunt, rusty

knife. I thought you loathed the stuff.”

“Strange thing is, after some days without it, I seem to crave it.”

“So you brought some emergency stash?”

“Nope. Arranulf must have put it in my luggage.”

“Wasn’t that nice of him?” Anaxantis beamed.

Hemarchidas looked suspiciously at him.

“You’re not starting that again, are you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anaxantis said,

teasing him. “But, while we’re on the subject, how did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Come on, Hemarchidas, you were seen. In The Cranky Goat.”

“You and your damned spies,” Hemarchidas muttered. “You have

me followed as well now?”

“Not at all. My, eh, source was there for altogether different

reasons. He saw fit to mention it though.”

“For your information, you little busybody, nothing happened.

Just two people who spent an agreeable afternoon and evening

together.”

Anaxantis sat down beside him.

“That was all?” he asked softly.

“He’s a nice kid and all that. I just don’t see myself involved with

a duke... and he is...”

He didn’t finish the sentence but concentrated on the stirring

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again.

“And he is not you. He hasn’t that panache, that spirit, that verve.

He’s exactly the opposite. He is calm and seems always in control of

himself. You are a raging fire. He is like slowly burning charcoal.”

“Ah, I see,” Anaxantis said. Then looking up at the sky, he added “It

seems we’re going to have a beautiful day. Nothing but open skies.”

Hemarchidas took his pot from the fire, softly cursing as he

almost burned his fingers.

“That’s it? You’re letting it go? How very unusual. How suspicious,”

he growled.

“I suppose that you know what you’re doing.” Anaxantis shrugged.

“Just don’t rule anything out, will you?”

Anaxantis and two cartographers were surveying a terrain

where, at the far end, the river Mirax, and what they had dubbed, for

lack of a better name, the Westwood Forest met each other. They had

separated from the main group to take a closer look at this particular

corner.

“It would be ideal,”
Anaxantis thought,
“if they crossed the river

here. The forest acts as a solid wall upon an army. Left and right there

are heights which we could use for positioning archers and cavalry

units. Behind me the undulating terrain could hide a whole army and

protect it from projectiles. Their only way out would be back over the

Mirax.”

“I want a detailed map of this terrain,” he ordered the

cartographers. “Make sure you indicate the exact location of those

woodworks there on both sides.”

Both men nodded and set to work. Anaxantis rode to the banks

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293

of the Mirax. The river looked rather idyllic.

“I suppose it will temporarily be very dangerous when the snow

starts melting in the mountains, but the rest of the year it will be easily

fordable. Just as it is now. We must measure how deep it is at this

point. Difficult to say, but it could very well be that a bridge isn’t even

necessary. It’s function as a defensive line may be doubtful, but after

the war it will be highly useful as a cheap way to transport goods and

people all the length of the Renuvian Plains”

In his mind’s eye he saw several vessels upon the river, some

transporting grain, others building materials, others still passengers.

On both sides, at regular intervals, he would have mooring facilities

erected. Soon inns, warehouses and shops of all kinds would follow of

their own accord. It wouldn’t take long or communities would spring

up out of what was now uninhabited wilderness. The Mirax would

become the highway, as well as the life artery of the new province.

In those five days they had seen nobody. No robber gangs, no

outcasts. He supposed the raiders operated more eastward, where

the usual route of the trade caravans was. A minor nuisance, but

after the war he would go after the gangs and make sure none were

left to endanger peaceful trade and safe voyaging.

Wrapped up in his in visions for the future, and while the

cartographers were still working, he turned Myrmos around to

make his way back to the main group. He was still out of sight when

he heard shouting and the unmistakable sound of clanging swords.

There was fighting, at least a skirmish, going on.

“Robbers?”
he wondered, while he gave his horse the spurs.

He climbed a minor hill, and as soon as he had reached the top

an arrow flew beside his head, only inches to the right. He heard the

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sickening whooshing sound as it passed and momentarily froze. He

took in the scene before him, down in the valley that lay between

several hills like the one upon which he stood. Hemarchidas and six

cavalry men were fighting a group of eight young warriors on foot.

Most of their clothing seemed to be trimmed with fur, and all wore

their hair long. Although the groups were almost evenly matched,

and Hemarchidas’s men had the advantage of being on horseback,

the Ximerionians had the greatest of difficulties to ward off their

opponents.

Anaxantis started to descend as quickly as he could, but before

he could reach the skirmish Iftang Busskal came riding around an

opposing hill with fifty of his cavalry men. By the time Anaxantis

had reached the foot of the hill, the battle was decided. Against

overwhelming odds the group of young warriors stood no chance,

and in a matter of minutes they were surrounded.

“Surrender and you might live,” Hemarchidas shouted.

The group stood in a circle, back to back, in their right hands

their swords, ready to strike, in their left hands a dagger. Around

them crowded almost sixty mounted soldiers.

“Make way and we might not kill you,” a young warrior, with long

auburn hair, yelled mockingly back.

“You are out-manned, more than one to six,” Hemarchidas tried

again. “You can’t possibly hope to get out of this unharmed. Do

yourselves a favor and save your lives. Surrender now.”

“Go to Murokthil. Put your sword where your mouth is.”

Hemarchidas was loosing patience fast.

“You’ll be killed to the last man, but if that is what you want—”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the warrior with the chestnut hair

sneered, “I’ll take ten weaklings like you any day.”

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Another warrior with a red ribbon worked in an intricate pattern

on the right side of his long dark brown hair took one step forward.

“Yield the way, and nobody has to get hurt,” he shouted in a

commanding tone.

“I’ve had about enough of your grandstanding, you impertinent

boys.”

“Keep your vile mouth shut, you miserable worm,” the red-head

spat furiously. “Don’t you see that he’s a—”

“Don’t, Rodomesh,” the warrior with the red ribbon said.

The one called Rodomesh nodded.

“You’ll address my prince with due respect or I’ll skin you alive,

mongrel,” he bit at Hemarchidas.

“Have it your way, stupid boy,” Hemarchidas exclaimed

exasperated and raised his sword to give the sign to attack.

Anaxantis was near enough to have gotten the gist of what was

happening. He rode in full gallop to the place of action.

“Stop, stop,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “don’t kill them.

Stop.”

Hemarchidas, Iftang, and both Ximerionian cavalry men and the

young warriors turned their heads.

“Let me through,” Anaxantis ordered out of breath when he had

arrived.

Once beside Hemarchidas, he dismounted and took a few steps

in the direction of the young warriors.

“Who are you?” Rodomesh sneered.

“He’s a prince. A real one. So keep your tongue in check,”

Hemarchidas barked.

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Without taking his eyes of Rodomesh and his companion with

the red ribbon, Anaxantis made a gesture to Hemarchidas to calm

down.

“Are you the leader?” he addressed the one Rodomesh had called

his prince.

“Yes,” was the curt answer.

“Could you tell me your name?”

“That would be ‘Your Highness’ to you,” Rodomesh sneered.

“Rodomesh, quiet,” the princeling said. “My name is Timishi,

prince of the Mukthars, second son of the third queen. You are?”

Immediately the Ximerionian ranks were abuzz with shocked,

half whispered exclamations of surprise. It was the first time they

had set eyes on the enemy.

“Anaxantis, prince of Ximerion, governor of the Northern

Marches.”

“Well, prince of the Ximerionians, what is your offer? Don’t be shy.

Contrary to what you may have heard, we Mukthars are merciful.”

“You are surrounded, my prince. One sign of me and you and

your friends are dead.”

“You might learn something then, watching how Mukthars die,”

Timishi said calmly. “Are you certain you can afford to lose at least a