The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1)

by Ireman, M. D.

  He glanced once more at Erik, if only to nod him a farewell. His foolhardy friend had brought himself to a knee and was motioning with his free hand for Tallos to leave.

  “Lia, with me.” Tallos turned away just as a dozen or more men with long, shaggy manes charged out from behind the brush. Carrying only his bow, arrows, and a knife, he ran. He weaved purposefully through the trees as he went, hoping any axes or arrows sent his way would hit a trunk behind him instead of lodging itself in his head or back. Although he could feel phantom projectiles splitting his skin and cracking his bone, as far as he could tell he was yet uninjured. He did not dare look back, but the thought of those wide-eyed men giving chase drove him on at a speed that was itself dangerous on such craggy terrain.

  Lia kept up with him. He could hear her heavy footfalls and panting beside him. For her this was not a difficult speed, but it was equally dangerous due to the jagged rocks. Be careful, girl, he pleaded in thought.

  His progress came to a sudden stop when he found himself staring up from the bottom of a cliff not unlike the one that Erik’s boys had clung to. Climbing it was not an option. Tallos figured he’d been running for a few minutes, enough to gain some distance from where the fight had begun. He had no way of telling if he’d been followed. His racing heart bade him keep running, to trace south without stopping, but given the narrowness of the canyon he would no doubt be heard when the fighting ceased. Against his instincts, he decided to sit with his back to the cliff and wait.

  With an arrow nocked and ready, he strained to listen for any who had pursued him, finding it exceedingly difficult. In addition to Lia’s panting and the sound of his own labored breathing, Tallos felt as if his skull had been stuffed full with cotton, and his heartbeat was unending thunder in his ears.

  “Shhh, quiet, girl,” he said in a hushed voice to have some of the distraction diminished, and Lia began to pant a bit more softly.

  The lichen at his back was moist and began to soak through his shirt as he pressed his body hard against the rocks of the cliff, as if doing so might put greater distance between him and the unseen threat. It only served to give him a chill.

  A distant rustle of leaves caught his attention, but the sound stopped as soon as it had come. Tallos adjusted his position to face the exact direction of the noise and waited. “Good girl,” he mouthed as Lia mimicked her master with silence.

  Near as frightening as a Northman having followed him would be one of the men from his own party crashing through the bushes, breathless, making enough noise to attract all the North. He wondered if he would be forced to silence such a man with an arrow—a thing he never would have considered if not for the frantic nature of his overwrought mind. If it is Jegson, I will shoot.

  Through the thick fog of fear clouding his thinking, he envisioned Leona. His reminiscence of her was immediately corrupted, recalling how shameful their last exchange had been. Tallos’s resolve hardened to that of steel, and he gnashed his teeth. I will not die before seeing Leona and making right the way in which I left her. I will shoot any man who approaches, even Erik come back to life.

  Before Tallos could pass final judgment on his most recent thoughts, a figure charged from the woods where he faced. The man was tall and heavy, running at full speed with tangled hair bouncing behind him. Neither the thick furs that clad him nor the weapons dangling from his waist seemed to abate his reckless dash.

  Tallos drew and loosed an arrow—an easy shot at that distance under normal circumstances, but shooting a man intent on splitting his head was not something he had experience with. In his rush to fire he pulled the shot right. He watched in horror as the arrow sailed off, missing its mark by over half a foot. Now close enough to be clearly seen as a Northman, the runner showed no intention of slowing, and his axe was poised as if to throw once in range.

  Tallos readied himself to jump left or right the moment the axe was thrown, hoping the man would not wait until it was too close to dodge. But it was Lia who acted first, snarling and bolting toward the attacker. The relief of realizing he had help turned to dread as the Northman threw his axe instead at Lia. She made no effort to avoid the tumbling weapon, which sliced her along the back, not affecting the speed of her assault. Tallos sprinted behind her with his knife in hand.

  Lia reached the Northman first and dug her teeth into his arm, shaking her head violently. Tallos was not far behind, expecting at any moment for his vision to go red like when finishing a deer. He saw with crystal clarity, however, the edge of his knife bite first into the hand and then into the neck of the flailing man. The Northman continued to fight with surprising strength as the blood gushed out of him, and Tallos stabbed him repeatedly in the chest and stomach. Finally, the man curled up, only trying to shield himself, then ceased to move altogether.

  Lia seemed to know instinctively that the man was dead but remained close to the kill. “Over here, Lia,” called Tallos, fearing the man’s corpse may come alive and hurt her. His heart pounded, and he could see now his hands were shaking and felt oddly cold. There was no time for worry, however; he could check for wounds later. He was more concerned about the potential for other Northmen to follow, and he led Lia back to their original place of ambush to wait.

  Minutes of silence passed followed by distant yelling as one Northman continued to call the name of another without answer.

  In time, the yelling stopped and Tallos heard nothing more, but he watched in the same direction without making any movement of his own. Blood rushed back into his fingers bringing with it the relief of knowing their cold had not been from an injury, but he still feared death as much as ever. Tallos focused on the spot from which the man had come with unwavering intensity. This time I must not miss.

  They waited for the better half of an hour but did not hear any more signs of life. Tallos looked again at the Northman’s corpse. Leknar, he thought, recalling the name that had been yelled. Could that be the name of this man I have killed? He tried to imagine such a man having a family of his own, a wife awaiting a return that would never come, but he felt only hatred. This man did not belong here, and his fate was deserved.

  From the corner of his eye Tallos noticed Lia move. She remained beside him, but apparently too tired to squat at the ready, she had laid down on her side with a whine.

  “Quiet, Lia,” he said with anger and frustration in his voice. She could easily have drawn more attackers with her noise. He spared a glance in her direction and was sickened to see her covered in blood. It did not appear to be the darkened caking blood of a wound sealed or from the Northman. The blood was thin and bright red.

  “Stay, girl. You’re all right,” he said, more to convince himself than her, as he went to examine her for wounds, encumbered with worry. The gash across her back from the thrown axe was dark and scabbed and did not look life threatening. “You’re all right,” he repeated as he moved her around gently to try to find where the fresh blood was coming from.

  He saw what appeared to be a deep wound in her side that continued to bleed. The Northman must have had a knife and managed to stab her during the confusion of battle. Tallos knew immediately it was serious. It had to be sealed or she would bleed to death, and to do so he must get her home where he could find hot coals in the fire. Not thinking quite clearly, he ripped a piece of his shirtsleeve off and tried to push it against the wound. He ripped off a larger piece and tied it around her to keep it pressed firmly and slow the bleeding. His makeshift bandage was already soaked red when he stood up and tried to gain his bearings.

  “Come on, girl,” he said. He would have preferred to wait longer, but Lia needed help as soon as possible. She looked up at him with mournful eyes but did not move. “Come on. Let’s go home,” Tallos pleaded. She stood and tried to move but fell down again with a yelp. Gods of the River, the Mountain, and the Dawnstar, you took my friend and his sons, but you will not take her.

  Tallos threw all his gear on the ground that he did not need—everything except the
knife at his belt. “I am going to pick you up,” he said to her and bent down to do so. He managed to lift her, intending to put her across his shoulders, but as she whined in protest he realized it would be too painful for her due to her injuries. He would have to carry her in his arms which would be far more difficult.

  Tallos did his best to cradle her in front of him. She whimpered at first, but he could see she understood he was only trying to help, just as she did when he’d need to pull a thorn from her paw. He imagined the pain of a thorn must pale in comparison to her current suffering, however.

  Determining that he was on the eastern cliffs, he estimated it would be six or so more miles south to reach his home. That was when the realization swept him. The Northmen had come from the south.

  THE SPURNED

  Many Years Ago

  “I would let you die.” The words came from the silhouette of a man in the doorway just as something heavy flopped onto the dirt floor in front of her. “…But the Faith does not allow it.”

  “I am sorry,” she cried. “Wait!” But the blinding rectangle of light folded in upon itself until gone—and with it, another day’s worth of hope.

  She crawled toward where the object had fallen and found it with her fingers. The top was warm and slick, the rest covered with fine dirt that had already turned to muddy paste. At least it is fresh, she thought as she wiped her fingers on her clothing and attempted to rub clean a portion of the raw meat.

  The words were cruel but comforting. In the dark she was not afraid—not afraid of death at least. It was the tedium that was killing her. Day after day of no contact, no interaction, nothing to do save make mounds of dirt and knock them down again. It wore on her like a mortal disease. It was good to hear a voice, regardless of what was said.

  She was alone in here, just her and her bucket, and there was not much joy to be gleaned from a bucket full of your own leavings. He would only take the bucket once a week, and by then it was near full. Each time the metal pail was swapped for a new one, she would use it to dig. She dug in the same spot by the rear wall, and each day she would get a little deeper through the near frozen ground. When she could hold back no longer, she’d be forced to use her bucket for its intended purpose and push all the dirt and rock back into its proper place. What he would do if he saw that she attempted escape, she did not venture to guess—she only knew it would not be good.

  A scraping noise came from the door causing her to snap to attention. Dropping her meat to the ground, she raced to the door, and pressed her ear against it.

  “Mother?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  Eternities passed as she waited for a reply. Sometimes she thought she heard weeping, but not today.

  “Tell Father I did not mean to do it…and it will never happen again. Tell him it was an accident. Please.”

  She pushed her ear harder against the cold wood, hearing nothing but her own breathing and heartbeat. After a while her ear began to ache, so she cupped her hands around it and listened that way.

  “I will always use a flint, Mother. I promise. It was just so cold, and we were in a hurry. I did not mean to stray from the Faith. I am sorry for what I did.”

  Her heart jumped as she felt a bump through the door. Someone had leaned against it or pushed away from it—she could not tell.

  “Mother?”

  She waited. Her muscles hurt from squatting the way she was for so long, but she endured.

  “How is Enka?” she pleaded. “Did her sickness pass? Just scratch the door once if she has gotten better.”

  She listened for the scratch that never came. As her muscles began to cramp and burn she was forced to sit, her back against the door. Crying did her no good. She had abandoned it after several weeks of wasted tears, but the anguish of desolation never went. I would rather die than live like this forever.

  “She is dead.”

  Her mother’s voice was so unexpected she believed it to have been imagined, but then it continued.

  “Enka has gone, and I intend to follow. Know that it was your doing. Goodbye, Elise.”

  ELISE

  Seated in her rocking chair, propped up with pillows, Elise stared out the window of her family’s thatch-roofed home. Through the glass, a snowy valley could be seen. It stretched between mountains and was traversed by a stream that flowed gently past the house. So high were they in the mountains that when the rains fell the stream did not flood, but countless miles away it grew into a rushing river larger than imagining. Titon claimed their creek at the top of the world was the start of the mightiest river of the land. The Eos, he said, was so wide that a man could not swim across it, so plentiful that a fish could be speared by an arrow shot without aim, and that grasses grew along the banks so thick that goats could grow fat and produce milk year-round. All this was fantasy, she knew, yet in her heart she somehow believed him to be speaking truth. For all the years they had spent together, she had never known him to tell a lie.

  Everything she had she owed to Titon, a giant, fearsome, dangerous man, a man whose axe had taken countless heads—heads of foes and heads of friends—but never of those undeserving. He was the most rare and noble of men. He was the stone that formed her hearth. And she did not deserve him.

  TITON

  He saw her there by the window, gaze transfixed on a single point in the distance, eyes never straying, rocking chair never moving. He marveled at how she had so well retained her beauty. Her stark-white hair cascading past her shoulders to her waist caught the light and shone with health in spite of her frailty.

  “Ellie,” Titon said to his wife. To his men he spoke with booming authority that commanded respect, but to her he spoke gently. “Our two sons give me a pride I fear might anger the gods. Our youngest has grown with a speed I have never before seen. He has but fourteen years, and he may best me in strength before another two. He is a wolf among men and is yet still a boy.

  “But Titon, the one the Mist Spirits tried to steal from us, the one we feared might never walk or learn to speak, his skill with bow and axe is without equal. Everything I show him, he knows before the lesson is done. He knew words on paper better than I, or even you, and that was before we thought to teach him. Every task I give him, he completes in some way of his own invention that takes half as long and is done twice better. If only I could task him with growing another head in height, he’d lead our clans into the South, steal the Eos itself and bring it back.”

  Elise did not move or respond. Titon paced while he spoke, his wife continuing to gaze out the window without answer. He stroked his thick auburn beard as was his habit while thinking.

  “What god was it that you took to bed while I was out hunting to make such a lad?” It was a joke Titon had the habit of repeating, one of many jokes he told as if for the first time, but none seemed to annoy her as much as this one. “Ah, it is just a jest. Do not be angry with me, Ellie. …But if you wish to rise and strike me, I would not be angry with you.”

  He looked to his wife. He studied her for the smallest sign of motion, willing her to retaliate. Get up, he pleaded. Please. Minutes passed, yet she refused to move. He wiped at his eyes, breathed deeply, and hardened his face.

  “The others will not follow him. They do not respect his size, and they fear his wits. Nothing can be done about it. We Galatai are a stubborn lot, though, are we not? I do not know how a pretty southern girl like you can put up with the likes of us.”

  Titon stopped his pacing before the wall where his two-handed axe hung, hesitated, then removed it from its perch. Attempting to put his mind from the task, he examined the blade. It had seen more sharpening than use since his wife had stilled. It should have no trouble with her delicate neck.

  It was the axe he’d used to kill many men, among them her father. By his sixteenth year, Titon was leading parties of Galatai south to raid the Dogmen villages. These were not just raids for food or supplies, these were raids fueled by hatred. Titon had come to despise Dogmen in earnes
t by what he’d borne witness to. Wolves and dogs tied to trees, beaten, starved, made to fight each other for scraps, all for the men’s amusement—these were a people worth wiping from the land. The raping was also justified as far as Titon was concerned, though he no longer partook. The women certainly were not any less guilty than the men, and in fact most kennels were maintained by the fairer sex. The Dogmen’s women were certainly pleasant enough to the eye, looking about the same as Galatai, if slightly shorter and more buxom. Titon’s father had taught him that to rape a woman was to kill her soul, and to kill a man’s soul one had merely to rape his woman. Titon had long ago vowed not to spare any Dogmen souls, and when he still led raids, his men had been happy to oblige.

  There were limits to their debauchery, however. It was forbidden to take a Dogman as prisoner, be they man or woman. Galatai put chain to neither man nor wolf.

  Whereas the Galatai’s persecution of the Dogmen was checked by certain restraints, it would seem in contrast the Dogmen’s impropriety had no bounds. On occasion, during raids in the cold winter months, Titon found the dogs chewing on the frozen remains of piles of starved children and perished elders. It was true that digging a grave during the winter was ten times as hard, but one could thaw the ground somewhat with a fire or at the very least place the body under a pile of river rocks. Titon’s father said it was the true measure of a man whether he buried his fallen during the dead of winter, and as such Titon had always dug an even deeper hole in the frozen earth for his dead brothers, to show proper respect.