The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (56 page)

Anaxantis turned to his friend, and took his head in both his hands, ignoring the jolt of pain that shot up trough his wounded left arm.

“No, Lethoras, it won't.”

“It's not too bad, young man,” the doctor said softly. “There will be leather straps and things, and those will be a bother, sure, but you'll walk again. Dermolhea has a few very good craftsmen. They'll make you a new lower leg. And not just a wooden peg, either. A quite lifelike leg. They're very ingenious, you know. They put these metal springs in the toe section. Put on some long pants and high boots, and nobody will be able to tell the difference. Will take a bit of practice though.”

Lethoras looked at him in horror, not believing what he heard. He was about to protest, when Anaxantis turned his head with both hands and forced him to look him in the eyes.

“Listen to me, Lethoras,” he said in a hard voice. “Listen to me. It has to come off or gangrene will set in.

The poison will get into your blood and you will die a long and painful death. I am—”

“No,” the Cheridonian whimpered.

“Yes,” the prince continued, not letting go of his head, “you're doing this. I am not going to lose you over a stupid leg. You're doing this, and you've got exactly one week to rest. Then you have one month to learn how to walk with your new leg I will have ordered made for you. Then it's back to work for you. There are a lot of things I need you to do.”

The doctor gave Lethoras four pills and a beaker of water. A few minutes later Anaxantis turned to the doctor.

“Why aren't the pills working?” he asked.

“The fiery gland. It pumps a substance in the blood. The one that makes you angry. Or able to fight. It counteracts the effect of the pills.”

They waited for a quarter of an hour. Murno gave the prince a thick wooden stick covered in a few layers of soft looking leather.

“Put this in his mouth please,” the doctor said.

The prince forced the stick between Lethoras's teeth. Tears rolled off the Cheridonian's cheeks. He knew what was inevitably coming. Hemarchidas was crying as well, standing by helplessly.

When Anaxantis heard the distinctive twang of a saw clanging on the table, he leaned over Lethoras, blocking his view of his legs.

“Look at me, Lethoras, look at me,” he said, taking the Cheridonian's head in his hands again.

Lethoras clawed both his hands in Anaxantis's arms. The prince ignored the excruciating pain in his lefs armsn hligt arm.

The Cheridonian pressed his eyes closed, the grip of his hand became so forceful his fingers turned white, and he hurled through the wooden obstruction as the saw grated through his living flesh. Anaxantis flinched and wanted sorely to shrink back as he heard the sickening sound of metal teeth gnawing through bone.

Something warm and wet hit the back of head.

Suddenly he felt the grip loosening.

Lethoras had, mercifully, passed out.

Anaxantis stood gasping for air beside his unconscious friend when he felt a hand being laid on his shoulder.

“Now, you,” Murno said softly. He rubbed a rag against the prince's hair at the back of his head. “Some blood spattered here,” he mumbled.

The wound was not very deep, but the ragged sword of the Mukthar enemy had made a nasty wound. The scar would heal, but it would be ugly. Anaxantis hissed when the doctor poured alcohol into the injury.

Minutes later, his arm dressed, he left the tent.

“You should rest,” Hemarchidas said.

“No,” Anaxantis said curtly, turned his back and went to his horse.

The warlord rode slowly over the battlefield.

From a distance it looked as if he let Myrmos just go where he wanted to. He sat upright, but his head hung down, his golden hair completely obscuring his face.

On the little hill from where the Wolf Mukthars had joined the battle, an enormous fire was burning. They were burning their dead.

The Mukthars who had surrendered, had been disarmed and were kept prisoner in the center of the field, in small groups.

Soldiers, in groups of three, four or five were everywhere, looking amidst the corpses for friends, maybe brothers or other relatives. Myrmos picked his steps gingerly between the bodies and the groaning wounded.

A young man kneeled down and thrust his dagger in a writhing Mukthar. His friends laughed.

They saw Anaxantis drive by.

“Warlord,” he whispered in greeting.

Then he drew his sword and held it high in the air.

“Muktharchtankhar,” he shouted.

Anaxantis didn't look up, nor in any way indicated that he had heard anything. Myrmos slowly carried him on.

“Muktharchtankhar,” the whole group shouted after him.

Other men turned their heads and took over the cry, from group to group to the units who were guarding the prisoners. Before long the whole battlefield resounded with the cry.

“Muktharchtankhar, Muktharchtankhar...”

Hemarchidas was waiting for him at the bottom of the slope.

“We've won,” the Cheridonian said. “Mostly thanks to you. You should be proud of yourself.”

“The price was high,” the warlord said, disheartened.

“They're cheering you, nevertheless,” Hemarchidas tried to comfort him.

“I know,” Anaxantis said, looking up, his eyes moist, “they're calling me Mukthar Slayer. Anaxantis the Mukthar Slayer.”

On the little hill the pyre was still smoldering.

Timishi came into the last of the tents were the wounded were lying, looking around. He sighed with relief when he saw Lorcko, sleeping. He sat down beside the wounded page.

More than an hour later, Lorcko woke up. He saw Timishi, and immediately his hand went to the bandages on his face.

“How are you feeling?” Timishi asked.

“It hurts like hell, but otherwise fine, I guess,” Lorcko said, trying to smile.

They remained silent for a while.

“Well, that's that, I suppose,” Lorcko said.

“What do you mean?”

“The handsome face. It's gone. They told me it will heal fine, but the scar will be horrible to look at.” He sighed. “Well, it has brought me nothing but trouble. In a way, I'm glad.”

“No, you're not.” Timishi smiled. “You loved being handsome and driving guys crazy.”

Lorcko couldn't help grinning.

“Yes, I did actually... Ah, well.”

Then he bit his lips. It seemed he was on the verge of crying. Timishi took him in his arms. After a few minutes he let go and very, very gently lifted the bandages a bit to take a look.

“And?” Lorcko asked with fearful expectancy. “It's bad, isn't it?”

“Oh, very,” Timishi answered. He whistled. “It will leave a ragged, vicious red scar all over the left side of your face.”

Lorcko looked down, depressed.

“It's magnificent,” Timishi said cheerfully.

“Yes, mock me, why don't you?” Lorcko replied angrily.

“Who's mocking you? It's a beautiful scar.”

“How can it be beautiful? It's a scar.”

“How can it be not beautiful. It's a scar you got saving my life.”

Lorcko looked up and smiled reluctantly.

“Just as I was beginning to have a smidgen of doubt about your bedside manners. Nice save, barbarian.”

“I mean it. But even so, I don't understand you. Didn't you once say to me you would never be sure if they wanted you for who you are or for how you look?”

“I guess so...”

“Well, now you can be sure if someone were to say he's interested in you that it is for who you are.”

Timishi looked down to hide that his face was coloring red.

“Lorsho, I would be so proud,” he continued in a soft, halting tone, “so very, very proud to walk with you into any meeting of Mukthars and be able to say ‘This is my àjemisha, my other self.’ They would take one look at you and know.”

“Know what?”

“This man has looked Death in the eyes, grinned at him, and Death has shrunk back.”

Lorcko looked >

“Besides, you're still the most handsome guy I know,” the Mukthar whispered. “In fact, you spoiled me for everybody else.”

The page couldn't help smiling.

“Look at me.”

Timishi looked up.

“By the Gods, you're blushing,” Lorcko said.

“Nonsense. Mukthars don't blush.”

“But they kiss, I'm told. Kiss me, àjemisha. Gently.”

Anaxantis had finally given the pages permission to erect his tent. Although the boys were exhausted, a fight had almost broken out over who would be permitted to help in putting it up.

The victorious warlord had called a war council. There were a lot of decisions to make. Not in the least about what was to happen with the bodies of the fallen Mukthars and what to do with the prisoners.

“Let the bodies lie and rot where they have fallen,” Anaxantis said, answering general Adolmach. “The carrion birds and the wild animals can have them, as far as I am concerned.”

“Then we better move out as soon as we can,” Bortram said.

“Which will be a problem,” Hemarchidas intervened. “We have about seven thousand prisoners to guard. Not too difficult if we can keep them in one place. Not so easy if we're on the move, even if they are disarmed.”

“Knowing my former tribesmen,” Timishi said, “you'll need at least three thousand soldiers to guard seven thousand unarmed Bear Mukthars.”

The doctor who had been invited to attend because he was the chief of the medical unit, scraped his throat.

“No matter what you do, stay or move away, it will pose all kinds of problems.”

“I know,” Anaxantis said. “How are we going to feed them, for one? I don't know if Tomar has enough food set aside for that many people for any length of time.”

“And what's to happen with them in the long run?” Marak asked. “Are we sending an embassy to the Mukthars to negotiate their release?”

“An embassy?” Hemarchidas said. “Who will we send?”

“More importantly, how long will it take?” Anaxantis mused. “What conditions should we ask for? Will they even respect our ambassadors? They might kill them in anger. And all this time we would have to guard the prisoners.”

“And keep them healthy,” Murno added.

“Even if we manage to negotiate a peace,” Bortram said, “who knows for how long they will keep it. We could be fighting the selfsame Mukthars again within the decade.”

“And I can't spare the soldiers. The passes need to be occupied, supply lines guarded,” the warlord added.

“We would have to raise the tribute to feed them,” Hemarchidas said. “That doesn't seem fair.”

The doctor blinked.

“Have any of you thought about why almost always disease breaks out during a siege?”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Iftang asked.

“It's true, though,” A8pt" wughat naxantis said. “Mother says it's how the siege of Torantall ended. The Warring Barons had to break it up because of some virulent, contagious epidemic.”

“Hm, yes,” Murno said. “it's because you keep too many people too close together for too long in too small a space. It's what would happen if you wanted to keep, oh, seven thousand prisoners and let's say three thousand soldiers to guard them in one place for more than a few weeks.”

Everybody looked at him.

“Nobody here familiar with the facts of life? Any idea how much waste ten thousand men produce daily?

Weekly? That's a lot of manure we're talking.”

The doctor blinked.

“Unless you can evacuate that and maintain the strictest discipline,” he continued, “it seeps into the ground, into the water. Not to put too fine a point on it: within weeks everybody involved is drinking piss mixed with liquid shit. It's why almost all sieges have to be broken up if they don't succeed within a month or two.”

He took a long gulp of his wine beaker and smacked his lips. Everybody stared at him.

“What? It's wine. Wine, I tell you.”

Anaxantis let his head hang down.

“
Keeping them prisoner for any length of time is nearly impossible and it would put an enormous strain on
our resources. I don't have enough food. I need my men elsewhere. I can't let them go. We have paid too
heavy a price for this victory, just to have to fight them again someday. What should I do? Have them all
executed? All seven thousand of them?”