“Be quiet, you little whore.”
He took his member in his hand and urinated upon the frightened boy, soaking his mattress and his covers. He aimed at Anaxantis's head and let the stream slowly descend, first upon his face, over his belly, on his blond bush and then on his member.
“You're cleaned. Now shut up. If you make me come back, I'll bring my belt and, by the Gods, I will beat you so hard you won't be able to stand up for a week.”
He turned around, left and slammed the door shut.
Anaxantis sat on his soiled bed, shivering, miserable and defiled, with Ehandar's urine leaking off him and his semen still inside him. He wrapped a clean part of the covers around himself and moved to a dry part of the bed.
“I hate you, Ehandar,” he raged inside, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I hate you like I have never hated anyone or anything before. I hate you with a burning passion that will never quench until I have repaid you in full, no, until I have repaid you a hundredfold. For I swear, I will get you for this. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but if the Gods grant me life, the time will come that you will rue the day you ever laid a hand upon me. I will bring you down, Ehandar. By the Gods, I will bring you down. Lower than the lowest slave. I will take everything you hold dear away from you, piece by piece, and then I will rob you of what rests until nothing remains but your naked existence, your bare life. Then I will take that too, and I will not even allow your carcass a grave.
“I will obliterate you, blot you out, extinguish you. Drop by drop, Ehandar, drop by drop. This wound will never close.”
He didn't sleep that night, engrossed as he was in his laboriously intricate plans for vengeance.
But while he was plotting the terrible revenge he would inflict upon Ehandar, the tears stopped.
Chapter 4:
The Devil's Crown
Ehandar woke with a throbbing, heavy head. Almost immediately the events of the preceding evening flooded in his consciousness. When he had dressed himself he went to Anaxantis's room. The moment he opened the door a stale smell of urine made him retch. Anaxantis was awake and looked at him with contempt and disdain, mingled with an undertone of fear. Ehandar loosened the collar from the chain and carried him to the bathroom.
“Clean yourself up,” he said not unkindly, “and stay here till I come to get you. In the meantime I will let the servants clean your room and give you a new mattress and covers.”
He looked at the still naked boy, with dark patches under his blue-gray eyes, who now stared back at him with a vacuous look.
“I'll get you some clean clothes,” Ehandar said while leaving the bathroom. He turned around. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry. It... it shouldn't have happened.”
Anaxantis remained mute and his eyes seemed to look through him.
“What did I expect?” Ehandar thought irritated with himself. “He was hardly going to say that it was all right then, was he? I shouldn't drink that much wine. I'm not used to it. It makes people stupid, and it makes them do things they normally wouldn't do.”
But there was a second voice that very quietly kept asking “Are you sure it was only the wine?” The voice was so feeble that he easily pushed it away.
When the servants had finished cleaning the little room and had replaced the soaked sheets with crisp, fresh ones, Ehandar admonished them.
“You better be discreet about this. My brother is sick and he doesn't need you lot gossiping about some unfortunate accident that was out of his control. If I hear but a whisper about this, you will all pay dearly. Understood?”
The servants nodded, duly intimidated.
“Well, at least the out-of-his-control-part is true,” he thought bitterly. “Damn it, this should never have happened.”
When they had gone he went to fetch Anaxantis who meanwhile had washed and dressed himself. He locked him to the long chain beside the hearth.
“There on the table is food. Bread, butter, cold cuts and three kinds of cheese. Eat something. You'll feel better.”
The boy didn't seem to have heard him. Ehandar sighed and stood up. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he turned around and left.
“What is there to say?” he thought, disconcerted. “If he needs to be killed, I'll kill him, but I'll do it clean and quick.”
“I'll race you to that tree on the hill,” Gorth yelled and rode off full speed. Ehandar gave his own horse the spurs and darted after him like an arrow out of a bow.
By only a hair's breath Gorth won the race and, laughing, the two friends sat down beneath an old tree.
“Feeling better?” asked Gorth, suddenly serious. “You looked mighty troubled last evening.”
“That's because I realized that I'm in a hopeless situation,” Ehandar smiled wryly. “Later some more truths struck home. It seems my father, his Glorious Majesty the high king of Ximerion, has set me up to fail. He has given me totally inadequate means to hold the Northern Marches and, what's more, he knew perfectly well what he was doing. Draw your own conclusions.”
Gorth looked at his friend with a worried expression.
“Why don't you ask him for reinforcements?” he said. “Explain to him in what state you found the defenses of the northern border.”
“As if he didn't know that already, Gorth,” Ehandar replied, shaking his head. “If I ask him for reinforcements, I as good as admit that I am incompetent. No, that's the last thing I want to do, go crying to daddy for help.”
“Can't you recruit extra troops locally? The cities must have militias. Commandeer them. You are the lord governor after all. Surely it is within your authority.”
“Maybe you're right,” mused Ehandar, “the Northern Marches consist of the province of Amiratha, the county of Mirkadesh and, in the south, the duchy of Landemere. I'll visit the most important cities of Amiratha, to begin with Dermolhea and Ghiasht. They are nearest the border and stand to lose the most. If I remember correctly there isn't a count of Mirkadesh anymore since four or five generations. The county is ruled by a council of elders, chosen from all villages. If I can organize them, they may be able to defend their stretch of the border. That's about twenty, thirty miles taken care of. The duchy of Landemere is another matter. They lie so far to the south that they feel not responsible for the defense of the frontier. The old duchess is stingy it seems, but I'll pressure the old broad to give me a contingent of soldiers.”
He smiled at Gorth.
“Yes, it could work.”
“And don't worry about Portonas or Tenaxos, we have everything under control, Ehandar. We'll keep you posted of their slightest move,” Gorth assured him with a broad, self-confident grin. “You'll see, the Devil's Crown will be yours eventually.”
“Is it that what I want?” Ehandar asked himself. “The Devil's Crown? Legend has it that the crown of Ximerion hails back to the first man who declared himself king. Zardok, the king of the devils, became so enraged at this impudence that he swore to exact vengeance. He forged a crown of pure gold and gave it to the first human king, who wore it proudly, thinking that the devil himself bowed to his majesty. But the longer he wore the crown, the more the poison that Zardok had imbued it with drove him mad. At first it made him overly confident in his own accomplishments, then haughty and arrogant with pride. Later it made him paranoid and suspicious of all those around him, still later mad with fear of losing it and at last ruthless and cruel in his efforts to keep it. At the same time it's magical beauty was such that everyone who saw it coveted it. And since that day no wearer of the crown has ever known a peaceful night. Is it really that what I want? But what else can I do? I am in a race that I must win or lose, because I am not allowed to quit. Unless I flee my homeland.”
The following day Gorth left to rejoin the Southern Army. Ehandar accompanied him a few miles. When he saw his friend disappear behind the hills, the feeling of abandonment returned, but this time he had a feasible plan and he was certain that he could drive his fears away by resolute ac
tion.
On the south-eastern side of Torantall, the capital of Zyntrea, there is a steep hill of solid rock, rising abruptly to a height of over three hundred feet. It is only accessible from one side. At the top, on a plateau of about four hundred by two hundred yards, stands the ancient temple of Astonema, the Goddess of Wisdom. Or so the common people believe. In reality it is the main temple of the Great Mother and the seat of her cult.
Three old women were slowly traversing the vast interior space. The oldest was known to the worshipers of Astonema as the High Priestess, but her true title was simply the First Daughter of the Great Mother.
“I still marvel how this imposing building manages to uplift your spirits,” the second Daughter said.
“That is,” replied the First Daughter, “because it was designed to make you feel part of its greatness and not, like the temples or houses of worship of the false gods, to make you feel small, fearful and humble.”
“Shouldn't we concentrate on the matter at hand?” the Third Daughter asked. “Our plans lie in ruins around us.”
“Maybe not exactly in ruins,” the First Daughter mused, “but they are certainly damaged. Let's just hope not beyond repair.”
They went through a door that led to a room with a vast balcony that looked out over the city of Torantall.
“I always feared something like this might happen,” the Third Daughter said. “We have depended too much on too few people. See what has happened. Emelasuntha has disappeared and so has her son. He was supposed to herald the new age of the Great Mother under her guidance.”
“He may not be dead yet,” the First Daughter replied. “And the Ormidonian branch of the Sisterhood is actively looking for his mother. We must consider giving them permission to use disciples of the seventh outer circle.”
“Don't forget,” the Third Daughter countered, “that even if Anaxantis is still alive his medicines will soon run out. What will happen then?”
“He will recover, I suppose,” the First Daughter shrugged. “We can always start the treatment over, or find other means to make him into the king we want. Maybe Emelasuntha has enough influence on him to rule him without any aid. Don't forget that he isn't prepared for the throne. He is more of a scholar, and he has no training in kingship, diplomacy or weaponry. Moreover, as far as we can tell he has no inclination to become a warrior.”
“So were does all this leave us?” the Second Daughter intervened.
“We carry on with those parts of the plan that are not affected. It can't be difficult. The House of Tanahkos is already divided against itself. It will just require a nudge here and there, a little push now and again... and then the Devil's Crown will fall of its own accord into the lap of he who will become the weak king.”
“May the Great Mother help us,” the Second Daughter sighed.
Ehandar's first attempt to get more troops for the defense of the border began with a visit to Mirkadesh. The county consisted of six villages of about equal size, lying closely together. The main activity there was agriculture. The villages all looked about the same, with simple, well maintained houses and farms. The people seemed, if not happy, well contented. He was received with all honors by the Assembly of Elders. He explained that due to several circumstances the county would be expected to defend it's own stretch of the border from now on.
“We have no weapons,” one of the elders said hesitatingly, “and if we had, we wouldn't know how to use them.”
“You can buy weapons and I will provide experienced soldiers to train your men,” Ehandar replied.
“The problem is, your lordship,” the elder said, “that we have no gold or money to buy weapons with. That is probably why the Mukthars have not attacked us for more than seventy years. We produce what we need ourselves and have little to do with people from outside Mirkadesh. What little money our modest trade brings in is just about enough to pay the taxes.”
“You mean you have no treasury, no reserves?” Ehandar inquired. “Whatever do you do when a harvest yields too little to feed yourselves?”
“That is in the hands of the Gods,” the elder replied meekly.
“Maybe I can provide weapons. How many men between twenty and forty five years old can you free for military duties?”
“That is another problem, your lordship. You see, we need everybody to work the fields and herd the flocks or we can't produce enough to sustain ourselves. Your lordship will agree with us that it wouldn't help if famine broke out in Mirkadesh.”
“So, if I understand you correctly,” Ehandar said exasperated, “you have no money, no weapons and no men. In case the Mukthars should attack, in spite of your optimistic predictions, what are you planning to do?”
“Flee to the nearby mountains if time permits it. If not, it is in the hands of the Gods,” the elder shrugged.
Ehandar felt suddenly depressed.
“In other words, you are not going to lift a finger to defend yourself,” he said dejected, “but you count on the Ximerionian army to safeguard you.”
“Forgive me, your lordship, I don't mean to be impudent, but isn't that why we pay taxes?” the elder asked.
Ehandar didn't know what to say anymore. It was like hitting a sponge. It didn't resist, gave in and regained it's original form as soon as the fist was lifted. He couldn't even be angry. Mirkadesh wasn't going to be a factor in the defense of the northern border.
Mirkadesh, it seemed, was content to be in the hands of the Gods.
Martillia was looking at the gigantic statue of Astonema, the Goddess of Wisdom, that stood in the Great Temple, when out of a small door the Second Daughter appeared.
“They say it was fashioned after an ancient original, you know,” she said to Martillia. “Astonema used to be the Goddess of War and Hunting, but after the Darkening she was supplanted by a male god. She didn't disappear however. She became the Goddess of Wisdom, yet retained all attributes of her former role. Wasn't that clever of her? See how she still wears a helmet and a breastplate and carries a shield and a spear?”
“What is that little winged creature she is carrying upon her extended hand,” Martillia asked.
“Ha, nobody is very certain, but some think that it is the Goddess of Victory. The lesson she gives us here is that ultimately victory is the gift of wisdom,” the Second daughter smiled.
“And the result of wearing sturdy protection and carrying sharp weapons,” Martillia thought dryly.
“The First Daughter permits you to use disciples of the seventh outer circle in the search for Emelasuntha,” the Second Daughter resumed. “We will send no additional reinforcements, but we will take it directly upon us to look after Anaxantis. That will free up about ten of the sisters of the Ormidonian Chapter.”
“Very well, convey our thanks to her Holiness. I will depart immediately for Ormidon.”
“May the Great Mother guard your path, daughter.”
Martillia descended the broad path that led from the Temple into the city of Torantall. Before undertaking the journey home, she had to take care of just one thing. She was horny. Better to get that irritating feeling out of the way. She was not planning on losing time to find a suitable willing partner. She would simply pay for one. Luckily she knew that the best place to find whores in almost every city was near major temples or houses of worship.
While she made her way through the narrow little streets she looked out for a male prostitute that wouldn't disgust her too much. When she found one to her liking, she stepped resolutely towards him.
“You, boy, is your dick for hire or is it only your hole you are selling? I'm willing to pay you a Ximerionian moltar.”
“But you're a woman... a girl...” the prostitute gasped.
“Can't get it up with women, can you? Not even for that much money?” she taunted him while showing him the silver coin.
“It is more money than I could hope to make in a day and night,” he debated with himself. “Besides, with her short hair, she almost looks li
ke a boy. A pretty boy at that.”
“Of course, I can,” the prostitute said, “and I even have my own place nearby.”
“Lead the way then, boy. I am horny and I have not much time”
“She has a foul mouth. But as longs as she's paying...”
Once in the dusty little room that was dominated by a bed, Martillia began to undress.
“Come on, boy, strip. I haven't got all day.”
For the first time since he had entered the business, the prostitute felt embarrassed.
“How do you want me to mount you, lady? Any special—”
“You? Mount me?” Martillia laughed out loudly. “Are you mad, boy? I will ride you. On your back on the bed.”
He hesitated.
“Come on, you are bought and payed for. Lay down.”
Reluctantly the young man did so. Martillia took her leather belt, grabbed his hands and tied them up, while keeping him down with one knee on his chest. She fastened the belt on one of the spokes of the head of the bed.
The prostitute lay defenseless, with his hands tied above his head.
“What are you doing,” he whimpered.
“You're a male, boy, kind of anyway, and as such you can't be trusted to control yourself. I don't want your grubby mitts all over my body. I have use for one, and only one part of you.”
She looked at the flaccid dick of the prostitute.
“By the stinking hole of Sardoch, he can't get it up and I am certainly not going to suck him. Let's see if some light beating excites him.”
She sighed.
“This might take longer than I expected.”
Uppam Fraleck had been lord mayor of Dermolhea for twenty eight years. He had seen a lot of people come and go and he prided himself in having outlasted all of them. From a window in the council room he saw the lord governor of the Northern Marches with his retinue walk across the inner court yard.
The Invisible Chains - Part 1: Bonds of Hate (Dark Tales of Randamor the Recluse) Page 5