The Invisible Chains - Part 2: Bonds of Fear (53 page)

expected to meet in battle. And that was provided everything went

smoothly. But would it? Could he count on the Ximerionian Army

of the North? What would Commander Tarngord do, once he saw

his secret charter was worthless? The Amirathan Militia was still

recruiting. The Landemere Contingent was as good as complete and

well trained. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about them. The

rest... well, the rest didn’t matter that much, did it?

All things considered he had a good chance to defeat the tribe

that was coming against his borders. Only to be confronted some

months later by a flood of barbarians that would engulf his puny

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forces and annihilate them completely. The Mukthars would carry

their vengeance deep into Ximerion. Lorsanthia would seize this

golden opportunity to attack from the south. He would go down in the

chronicles as the fool hearted prince who lost a kingdom through his

own stupidity and stubbornness, while his brave father and brothers

were defending the southern border. He would not only have ruined

his dynasty, but also his country. And the price would be so much

higher than fifteen thousand lives. So very, very much higher.

Crouched against the tree, making himself as small as he could,

hugging his knees, he felt his thoughts and emotions run away with

him. Maybe, just maybe, he should welcome Damydas, wait calmly

for the autarch to arrive and bare his neck for the coup de grace.

Or was there still time? Time to go to Lorseth, pretending

everything was all right, collect him and haul off in the direction of the

eastern border, to the independent city states. Just leave the whole

damn mess to those who had made it. His father and his minions.

But it was not possible. He couldn’t just run out on his friends, his

soldiers who trusted him, and the people who believed this time it

would all be different. Well, it wouldn’t be different after all.

Suddenly he felt the golden pills he had sown himself into a false

seam, in the left sleeve of the shirt he was wearing under his tunic,

almost pulsate against his skin. He could get at them instantly, just

by tearing the stitches. One bite on the soft metal, and the liquid

would drip into his mouth. It would be over in an instant. What

would they think when they came looking for him and found him

there, lying dead against a tree. Would they believe that he had died

of natural causes? That he hadn’t been that healthy after all? That he

had exerted himself too much and that his heart had given out?

And why did that even matter to him? Or would they understand

what happened?

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Hemarchidas would understand. The first friend he ever made

would know that he had done all he could, and only taken this final

way out because the odds were overwhelming, insurmountable. He

would blame the cruel king who had sent his youngest sons into

a quagmire, without adequate means and without the necessary

intelligence. Yes, Hemarchidas would understand and he would

explain to the others. Their lives would change of course, but not all

that much and soon he would be only a memory, a vague recollection

of a hope that had once shimmered in the early dawn and then died

out.

His father had been right after all.

“So here it ends. In a nameless field, somewhere between Dermolhea

and Mirkadesh. Alone.”

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Chapter 12:

Race to Elmshill

Dusk was falling and still Anaxantis sat against the tree, his

forehead resting on his pulled up knees, his hands clawing in his

lush, golden hair.

He had never been so arrogant as to think victory was assured,

but he had believed he had a chance, a reasonably good chance even.

He had based all his plans on incomplete intelligence, it seemed. Now

the situation was beyond repair, and his father had obviously decided

what the price for failure was. At least he could decline paying that

price. By being quicker. By taking the burden out of his hands.

He sighed deeply.

He looked out over the fields. In that direction lay the border.

From there they would come in their tens of thousands, inexorable,

unstoppable, laying waste to whatever they found on their path.

They would reach Dermolhea and in their rage they would not only

plunder it, but tear it down, stone by stone, and murder every living

soul that had taken refuge in its ruins.

Eventually they would reach Lorseth. Maybe the castle could hold

out for a while, but sooner or later it would fall, and wave upon wave

of barbarians would burst through the gates. They would penetrate

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the tower, smashing every door on their way, mount the stairs to his

chambers, and they would find him. Helpless, naked, afraid. He would

be mad with fear by then. He would have heard the main gates come

crashing down. He would have heard the barbaric cries of triumph

as their hordes filled the inner court. He would have seen them

from the window. With only minutes to spare he would have started

frantically searching for a place to hide, a way out. But of course there

was none to be found. Not fully understanding what was happening,

he would be grabbed by strong, rough hands... Would he resist? Fight

back? No, chances were all fight would have already gone out of him,

leaving only mortal fear. He would cry out in anguish. Would he cry

out for his brother? It would make no difference. He would not be

there to answer.

“No, no, no. I can’t leave him there to fend for himself. Not after

having clipped his wings. Even if he were fully capable to defend

himself I would come running to him. I couldn’t leave him in whatever

circumstances. I can’t give up. I can’t. He needs me. He needs me to

protect him. To keep him safe. My friends need me as well. My army

needs me. The people need me... No, no, a thousand times no. I won’t

take the easy way out. If I have to go down it will be with my sword

in my hand, fighting till my last breath. Come what may, I will see

through what I started, and damn my father, damn the Mukthars,

damn Damydas, damn the consequences. I will not, I will not go quietly,

I will resist them all, every, every inch of the way. I’ll spit Fate in the

face. I’ll defend myself, what is mine, and those who stand with me.”

He stood up. His decision taken, all dark thoughts dismissed, his

feverish mind turned immediately to the practical problems at hand.

“A hundred thousand barbarians. How am I ever going to stop a

hundred thousand barbarians?”

Through squinted eyes, hands balled to fists, he looked out again

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over the fields, in his mind traveling over them from above, over the

border, over the Renuvian Plains, over the river Mirax, right up to...

“Of course. Of course. It is so simple. It is so simple I have seen it

from the first days we got here. How could I have forgotten?”

He smiled calmly, the despair of only moments ago a distant,

unreal memory.

“Of course, that’s it. Damn you, Brenx. I almost let myself drift

away by your dire predictions. I have let myself be taken in by my own

terrible visions. But I don’t have to change a thing. I just have to carry

out the plans I already made in their entirety. Win this first battle and

drive them back from where they came. Chase them over the Renuvian

Plains. Let them go and crawl to their brethren, crying for help, for all

the good it will do them.”

No. His father had most definitely not been right. Ximerion could

not keep evading a decisive confrontation with the barbarians.

Fighting a defensive war was a loosing game. Where had he read that?

Ah, yes. In the private records of Arranulf XII they had found when

they took over the administration of the duchy of Landemere. The

grandfather of the current duke had been a very perspicacious man

with a sharp analytical mind. He was right. A full year of preparations

to prevent what in fact amounted to a border raid. The constant

threat of new invasions, the ever present blackmail of this infamous

oath of Sherashty... It cost money. It drained their forces and nothing

was ever gained. All that expenditure, all those efforts for securing a

status quo. Arranulf XII was right. Tenaxos I was wrong. It was bad

long term strategy. Sarth for sarth it was downright bad business.

That was what Lorsanthia was doing in the south, he suddenly

realized. They had created a threat, just real enough for the high king

of Ximerion to gather an army and to embark on a hasty program of

repairs of the border fortifications. While Lorsanthia was sparing its

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forces, Ximerion was draining itself of its lifeblood.

At least in the north it was all going to stop. Instead of fortifying

a border that was far too long, far too exposed and waiting trembling

on what would come, he would take the initiative. Strike back and

strike back hard. If need be he would take the war into Mukthar

territory. See how
they
would like it, having their crops destroyed,

their homelands invaded, their cities burned down, their homes

violated...

His face contorted with anger for a moment, but he soon calmed

down.

No, that would be one step too far. There was a time for everything,

and this wasn’t it. Not yet. He didn’t have the means for a large scale

invasion of the unknown Mukthar territory. Not yet. But maybe

someday. No matter. He would do the next best thing. It would be

more than sufficient.

He looked once again in the direction of the border and smiled

confidently.

“I dare you, Sherashty, I dare you,” he said softly. “Come against me

with whatever forces you can muster. Do your worst. You will not get

through. You hear me? You will not get through. And that is the oath

of Anaxantis.”

Rullio was surprised when he saw the prince return, totally

relaxed and seemingly not all that impressed by the news he had

brought.

Anaxantis stopped some distance from the group and called out.

“My lord of Brenx, a word in your ear, please.”

Rullio went up to him.

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“The preparations for the war will continue unabated. You will

not utter one word of what you have said to me to another living soul,”

the prince hissed in his ear, “or for that matter, to a dead one. You will

not speak about these matters, you will not think about them, you

will not dream about them. Disobey me at your life’s peril. I will not

have you tortured, like my brother did. I will have you executed for

high treason. You have the word of Anaxantis.”

Rullio had become white as a sheet. Yet the young nobleman