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

by Ireman, M. D.

  The king pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “Did I not pay to have you schooled and tutored as a boy? Did none of those tutors show you a map? The Devil’s Mouth is of no threat to sailors on their way to Westport, and the conditions of the waters have not changed since our seizing power.” Lyell turned his gaze to Alther now. He wore a look of disappointment that only a father can give a son after assigning him a task that he was right to fear was beyond his capabilities. “Had it occurred to you, my son, that your governing of Westport might be somewhat hindered by your residing in Eastport?”

  It had occurred to Alther, and his father had brought it up on several occasions already. Westport was a city devoted wholly to trade and had no castles or structures built specifically for royalty. Alther had been unable to find in Westport a place regal enough for his highborn wife, and Crella forbade him under threat of public humiliation to live under a separate roof. “If you cannot secure an estate for your family that meets the standards of what should be provided for the wife and son of the heir to the throne, you are certainly free to find a smaller such home where you alone can stay. Just know that upon your return I will have let a number of gentleman into my bedchambers commensurate with my estimate of the amount of whores and trollops you have debased while away,” she had informed him. “Give or take a few perhaps,” she added with her usual candor. Would that I could please both my father and wife… I fear it an insurmountable goal.

  “I am afraid I have been unable, as of yet, to find a residence beseeming my good wife.” In Alther’s befuddled state he had at last given his father the true reason for his remaining in Eastport, a fact he had been careful to conceal for fear of ridicule.

  “Ha! Did you hear that, Derudin? My noble son, the heir to the throne who shall one day inherit the kingdoms of both Rivervale and Adeltia, is unable to manage his own household—let alone the once thriving city of Westport.” The king appeared to be genuinely amused by the fact.

  Alther flinched, less at the words from his father—for he had endured far worse from him—and more from the realization that Derudin was present in the room. His father’s sage advisor stood just to the side of the desk in fact, if not a little to the rear, where he always stood. It was unsettling how the old man was able to remain hidden in plain sight or even stand motionless for so long at his age. Derudin made no sound or gesture in response, but his acknowledgment of the king’s sentiment appeared somehow implicit.

  “That Adeltian bitch has surely been your downfall, my boy,” the king concluded.

  Stephon was visibly taken aback by the remark about his mother. Alther exchanged a glance with his son imploring him not to challenge his grandfather’s assertion.

  “Is there something you wanted to add, young prince?” goaded Lyell.

  Alther prayed that his son was not so stupid as to react in anger towards his king. He knew the boy was protective of his mother and quick to defend her and her Adeltian lineage.

  “If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” began Stephon. Alther winced at the mistake repeated by his son, but Stephon was overly fond of proper Adeltian titles and customs and would not have heard instruction to the contrary. “It would seem to me that a raising of taxes is in order.” Stephon addressed the king with a profound confidence. He held his pointed chin high and managed to rid his face of his usual smirk in order to look quite stately.

  Alther was relieved that Stephon had not fallen into one trap, yet cringed as he saw he had merely stumbled into another. If there was one thing Lyell disdained, it was receiving advice from a source of ignorance.

  “Oh yes, yes! We’ll raise the levies! Why had you not thought of that, Alther? This one has a nose for politics.” The king’s feint was convincing enough to earn a proud smile of accomplishment on the young prince’s face. Bringing the boy was a mistake, as I feared it would be, thought Alther.

  “And what would we do if the peasants threatened revolt?” asked Lyell with surprising believability.

  “Father—” Alther tried to intervene, but he was silenced with a hand gesture from the king.

  Stephon shot a quick look of disdain in Alther’s direction for attempting to steal his moment of glory, then he whipped out his foil and executed some fancy thrusts into an invisible foe, accompanied with all the elaborate footwork of a trained fencer. “I’d have a mind to run through a few such peons so that the rest may be taught a lesson. …It is an act of justice I am quite familiar with dispensing, as it so happens.”

  It was true. At the age of thirteen, Stephon had pleaded with Alther to allow him a “stroll among the commoners” as he had put it. Alther thought that perhaps it might ground the boy to see how others lived and acquiesced against better judgment. The ill-fated decision resulted in Stephon killing a supposed robber who was no more than ten years of age. The bread thief turned out to be the son of the very merchant whose wares Stephon was so valiantly protecting. The woman had made the mistake of shouting “thief” at her child when he attempted to run off with an early supper, but ran into Stephon’s pointed steel instead. It was a difficult matter to conceal the truth from the public, involving first the bribery of the boy’s parents and then the taking of their other son as a vassal in hopes that fear for his safety would keep them quiet. The truth was hidden from Stephon as well, Crella not wishing to plague her son’s conscience with a deed misdone. But Stephon’s friends had let him know about the rumors circulating that the boy killed was indeed the son of the baker, to which Stephon replied unabashedly, “A thief is a thief.”

  “Guards, seize the boy and see him to the dungeons. He shall be executed on the morrow for raising weapon against his king.” Lyell’s tone was as if he was ordering his usual meal with which to break his fast.

  “Father!” Alther cried out in desperation. He was immediately unsure of whether he was more afraid of losing his son or his wife’s reprisal. That his father would go through with this action was within his character, yet simultaneously unthinkable.

  Stephon stood there, mouth agape, foil still dangling in his hand, as two armored guards seized him under the arms and began dragging him back down the long entryway. The king returned to his papers, entirely disinterested with the scene before him.

  LYELL

  Alther dropped to a knee, beseeching. “You mustn’t!”

  At last Lyell had been stirred to real emotion, if only from his son’s pathetic groveling. “You dare command me? Your father? Your king?” The words exploded out of him and reverberated throughout the room. The guards dragging Stephon paused to hear whether their king required more urgent action. Lyell let the words echo as Alther lowered his eyes in obedience.

  Stephon looked a mess as the guards held him, his foil still in hand. He had been transformed from a pompous brat to a blinking, sweating, stunned idiot—the type Lyell was accustomed to dealing with. My father would have drowned this one long ago, thought Lyell.

  Lyell peered at the dumbstruck Stephon. “Your beheading will be a mercy. Have you ever seen a man killed by impalement? Or by a mage’s fire? I would not have blamed Derudin if he’d turned you into a pile of smoldering ash where you stood.”

  Though Stephon seemed to be staring at something behind the king, Lyell’s eyes never moved from his mark. “Raise the levies you say? Your father has already done as much—twice now, I believe. He drives all the business he can away from his ports and to the East.” Cassen may be a cockless fruit of a man, but he might make a better heir. How have I failed my son so thoroughly in his rearing?

  “Worse yet, the levies are but a pittance of our kingdom’s income. The wolf’s share is made through the spice trade that we alone control, and your father has managed to allow his merchants to repeatedly increase the cost of shipment to his ports, which, if I am not mistaken, are the same distance by sea from the Spicelands as have they always been.

  “It is perhaps my greatest regret…” Lyell looked for a moment at his son before returning his glare to Stephon, repressi
ng the urge to make an internal quip about his true greatest regret. “…That Adella managed to throw herself from atop her tower before I could capture her. She would have made a fine prop to unite our two peoples, the river and the delta. Not to mention a fine addition to the comforts of my bedchambers.”

  Stephon looked like he might piss himself at any moment, but Lyell believed his words were being heard. “We had agreed before the war, Queen Adella and I, that your father and Crella would be married. There would be peace between our kingdoms eternal, without need of the silly wall. But when Adella got a look at your father, she changed her mind; said her little niece was far too fair for a ‘Northerner’ such as him. That cunt. Too fair for the likes of my son? Crella? That slut of a girl with her bastard daughter and the audacity still to call herself a princess?” The recollection of the insult burned at him, and Lyell raised his voice and turned to Alther. “I took this kingdom to preserve our family’s honor, to preserve your honor.”

  Alther remained where he was, refusing to meet his father’s stare. It is his mind that is weak, Lyell lamented. The secondborn always lacks a certain fortitude. Lyell neglected to mention that Crella had first been promised to Alther’s older brother, but that was a fact that only served to further roil him. Edwin was easily the more comely of the two, taller and with the boyish features that girls of Crella’s age seemed to prefer, and that he was the realm’s best horseman only added to his charms. Upon learning that his father intended to marry him to the foreign princess, however, Edwin renounced his claim as heir, thus eliminating the possibility that Adella would allow the marriage to take place. It was a scandal that Lyell was happy to forget, and he focused instead on her later rejection of Alther. Nonetheless, Lyell was furious at Edwin for the embarrassment, and it was some time before the two reconciled and Edwin received his lordship of Strahl.

  “Perhaps I was wrong to have given Crella to you after the war,” Lyell continued, “in the hope that it would help you regain respect and allow you to garner the support of the Adeltians that you now so poorly rule. Young though she was, she would have made a fine addition to my bedchambers as well.” Lyell allowed himself to drift in thought for a moment. “Perhaps it is not too late for that, should you continue to disappoint me.”

  Lyell gave Alther time to ruminate and was amused to see Stephon had the wherewithal to gape at what he’d said.

  “Release the boy.” Lyell’s guards complied with haste. Stephon stood there dumbfounded until he finally dropped his foil to the ground as if he were afraid the action of sheathing it might earn him a second sentencing.

  “You think I fear a boy with a stick?” Lyell gestured with his wrist mocking the fencing maneuvers. “Let this be a lesson on how quickly your life can come to an end out of ignorance. You may have slain a baker’s boy, but faced with a hundred such boys, you would be overrun with your eyes clawed out. Which is surely what would happen in time, were the city placed under such oblivious governance.”

  The insult seemed to sober the prideful boy. He made no move to pick up his foil, but he frowned, smoothed his tunic, and walked cautiously back to his father’s side.

  “As your king, I command you, Alther, to take your insolent child and Adeltian bitch with you to live in Westport where you belong. Should you fail to fix the state of the city, I will make good on my promise to take from you your responsibilities. All your responsibilities.”

  Stephon looked as though he was about to speak, but anticipating his reaction, Alther swung with force, connecting the back of his hand with his son’s jaw. As Stephon fell to the ground clutching his face in pain with a feebleness not befitting a boy his age, so did Alther drop again to one knee before his king. “As you command, Father.”

  Lyell was unmoved. I fear it is not enough…and not in time.

  DECKER

  This would be a lonely place to die, thought Decker, wondering if one could even be buried here.

  There were no bushes or shrubs, no greenery at all save the occasional spiny weed, and the only trees in sight were solitary pines with more dead branches than needles. No birds sang, and no tree rats protested their presence. The scree and small rocks they were accustomed to had been replaced by boulders so immense a shadow cast could eclipse their entire party, and the foggy mist that clung to their ankles only added to the ominous nature of this cold, desolate land.

  Decker and his brother had led their party on a southwestern march for several days, the trip thus far uneventful. The terrain was more easily navigated than the more direct southerly route would have been, but as this was the first raid for the majority of the men, there was no appreciation for the difference. Some began to grow dour, muttering under their breath about their various discomforts.

  He and Titon continued to push the pace. It was important that they did not exhaust their supplies before reaching the Dogmen, and unbeknownst to the other men, Titon had predicted they would have hit their first landmark by now. If they did not find it by nightfall they may have made a grievous error.

  “Titon,” Decker began. There was no privacy, but when keeping their voices low they were able to speak without much of their conversation being heard. The men were like to assume they were just discussing some minutiae of battle strategy, and being the young fools that they were—eager for battle and assuming certain victory—they had visibly bored of Titon’s tactical musings. “You should take the first woman.”

  Decker looked at his older brother to see if he understood, but Titon had on the same expressionless mask he’d worn since having awoken that morning.

  “Or at the very least, the first bitch attractive enough to rouse you to action,” Decker added. Of all you must accomplish on this epic raid, this should be by far the easiest. He shot Titon a brotherly grin to make him feel as though they were both of like mind and equal experience.

  But they were not. It was known that Decker, in spite of his age, had already shared a bed with several women from their clan. Decker did not need to boast of it either. When it came to talking among themselves about their carnal mischiefs, the girls of the North were no different from those of the South, ill-reputed for their gossipy nature. Inexperienced girls with no reference of comparison soon spread tales of Decker’s more prominent characteristics, earning him both respect and lighthearted ridicule from the other young men.

  “Of course. Yes.” When Titon finally spoke it was as if it had been his plan all along.

  As with most things related to virility, Titon lagged behind him. He had not yet been with a woman as far as Decker knew, though Titon certainly made it obvious enough that he would not turn down the opportunity, so long as it was with Red. Decker wondered if Titon had a notion that remaining chaste until he won her affections would make their eventual encounter that much more meaningful to her, and he hoped for Titon’s sake that he did not. Aware of Titon’s infatuation, Decker made it a point to stay away from Red, who to her credit, at least did not share the lascivious reputation of her mother. He did this solely out of respect for his brother. Decker no longer believed Red to be a cunt of a whore. It had been impossible to deny the dark-haired beauty she’d become.

  “I shall bestride the first bitch that I find appealing.”

  Decker winced at his brother’s words. And stop speaking like that.

  Whereas most Galatai had little use for books taken from the Dogmen except as trophies, Titon would have his nose in one at every opportunity—even during the nightfall camps of this journey, further distancing himself from the men. It made little sense to Decker, having never found the humor or wisdom the elders claimed hid between their many pages. His several attempts to enjoy Titon’s favorites had resulted in the same mind-numbing boredom he was accustomed to when forced to read by their father.

  “Do you know if it is customary to do…as such…with an audience?” Titon’s voice had been lowered to such an extent that it was hard to make out his words.

  Decker could not help but laugh, then w
ish he hadn’t. “I am sure that some do, but I know that I will be taking my women behind closed doors. The things I will do to them might be unsettling, even to the older men in our company.” It took Titon longer than it should have to respond to Decker’s joke with appropriate laughter. Some things cannot be learned from books.

  “How ’bout a rest?” The sour voice belonged to Galinn, a lank boy of similar age to Decker. “I’m hungry, and my knees ache from walking atop boulders all day.”

  “Aye,” chimed in Galinn’s elder cousin, Griss. “We’re overdue for a stop. We don’t even walk toward the Dogmen. What’s the hurry?” Griss’s every word seemed spat with lye.

  “It is crucial we maintain our pace,” Titon yelled back to them, not slowing his stride.

  “We’d walk faster after a rest,” argued Griss.

  Decker and Titon exchanged glances and shook their heads in disbelief.

  We should not have let him come, thought Decker. Griss was irritable and grubby for his age, a thing forgiven by most only because his mother had lost her husband in a raid just prior to Griss’s birth. Decker had suggested to Titon that they not take him, but Titon had pointed out that refusing him would mean they would also lose Galinn, one whose axe they could use. Decker had begrudgingly conceded.

  “Yeah, just a short rest,” agreed Galinn.

  “If your knees hurt, walk softer. If you hunger, then eat,” said Decker. “And give your scraps to Griss. He prefers the leavings of others.” The comment elicited some chuckles from the group, all knowing Decker spoke of Anna.

  “You act like you were the son of the Mountain,” Griss snapped. “But your father is the reason I’m forced to come with a group of boys. To do what men should have done months ago.”