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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “Your friend all right?” she asked.

  “I am afraid he is dead,” Keethro replied.

  “Dead? Isn’t he breathing?”

  “Nay, he is good and dead. I am quite sure of it. He pissed in a river this morning, and now he has drowned himself accidentally in his cup. Happens all the time to Northerners like us.” There was no point in trying to pretend they were from anywhere but the North in their current state of drunkenness and dress.

  The perplexed look on the girl’s face let Keethro know all his humor had been lost on her. She is dull, but I’d likely still be a maid if I had always let that stop me. He changed tactics and showed her a warm smile, which she was happy to mirror.

  It was not long before he and the barmaid were headed upstairs. She led him to a bedroom where she slipped into a cozy-looking bed. Then she began to throw her clothing out from under the blankets one piece at a time. Keethro rushed to undress, first kicking off his shoes. As he removed a leg from his trousers, the door to the bedroom swung open again with an unpleasant creak.

  Three surly men strode in, all armed with knives, and closed the door behind them. Keethro had a knife of his own, but it was on the belt of his trousers that were now on the floor with one of his legs still through them. Any move he made to get it would no doubt result in all three of the men jumping him with their own blades.

  “Here’s how this’ll work,” said the leader of the men. He was large, top-heavy, and appeared as though he had not bathed for several weeks. He looked like the type of man whose own shit was happy to be free of. “You strip naked, hand over all your money and clothing, and we don’t cut either of your heads off.”

  Possible scenarios raced through Keethro’s sobering mind. He thought about screaming to Titon for help, which he would not hear. He thought of charging the men with his trousers half on and killing them all—a difficult task without being mortally wounded himself. He thought of trying to slam through the weak wooden floor to make a dashing exit, but that was unlikely with his boots now off. He thought of at least killing the girl who had lured him here before the men killed him. That he could do, but it did not meet all his desired criteria.

  “Do I have your word, as gentlemen, that I will at least get my time in the sheets with her after I’ve done as you ask?” Keethro inquired.

  The leader’s smile of mock amusement showed he was not impressed. “We’ll see how funny you are with your cock in your mouth.” He and the other two men began to spread and advance. They had done this before, and Keethro now imagined he remembered seeing blood stains on the floorboards when he’d entered the room.

  A violent crash sounded as the door burst open in two vertical pieces, showering the room with splinters of wood. By the time Keethro could gather what was happening, Titon had already picked up a chair, smashed it over the head of one of the men, and was using the two wooden legs that remained in his hands to beat the life out of another.

  Keethro grabbed the bed cover and flung it like a net over the distracted third man, using the opportunity it gave him to grab his knife and follow up with an attack. It was not long before there were three corpses at their feet and a puddle of blood that would serve to produce yet another stain on the warped floorboards.

  There was also a very plain-looking naked woman trying with desperation to cover the loose flesh of her sagging breasts that Keethro had remembered being presented so differently when she still wore cloth.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered repeatedly.

  Keethro snorted contempt at the girl for whom he felt no pity. “These men killed each other fighting over who would first share your bed tonight, right?”

  The girl just stared at Keethro, not seeming to understand. It made no difference; all would know what truly happened regardless of what she said.

  Titon motioned for Keethro to put on his trousers so they could leave before having to deal with the mess they’d just made.

  CASSEN

  Cassen sat at his desk, opening, signing, and sealing his accords. Tiresome as the task was, it was far better than hauling around pots of piss—a thing he reminded himself of when calling for the boy who fetched his chamber pot.

  He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, the precursor to the familiar rap at the door.

  I must get out of this room, he thought. Perhaps whatever lady this is will get to take a stroll with her mother in the gardens.

  “His Majesty the Prince to see you, Duchess,” called the boy servant from behind the door.

  “Send him in.” Cassen turned in his seat to face his guest. As intriguing as a visit from Alther was, it deterred his plans of enjoying some dawnlight. The thought of walking together with Alther, arm in arm, through a forest of flowers, put an honest smile on Cassen’s face. But the man that entered was not the prince Cassen had anticipated.

  “My young prince, what a pleasant surprise.” The unexpectedness of the visit caused Cassen a momentary lapse in concentration, and he forgot to address Stephon by an appropriately inflated title.

  Did his mother put him up to this? An envoy to beg a refund of her deposit perhaps? The coinage received from Crella’s messenger yet remained under his bed. Its value to him had doubled when Cassen heard whispers of the king’s command for Alther and his family to move to Westport. Still, he would have gladly given it all back to have seen Crella’s reaction upon hearing the news herself.

  “Please, have a seat wherever you like.” Cassen motioned toward the small sofa and chaise longue, both upholstered to look as though they might have been pilfered from a princess’s suite. His furniture was specifically designed to make his male visitors uncomfortable and less inclined to judicious thought. It often had the same effect on women as well.

  “I…” The prince glanced around the room. “I believe I will stand.”

  “Very well. How can I be of service to His Majesty?” Cassen inquired.

  “Please. You may dispense with formalities when speaking with me.”

  “As you wish, Prince Stephon.”

  “Stephon will do.”

  “Yes, I suppose it will.”

  The prince shot him an incredulous look but quickly replaced it with one of faux pleasantness. My sardonic tongue will get me in to trouble some day, Cassen chided himself.

  “You must be wondering what has brought me here,” the prince said, attempting to look dispassionate.

  “I am.” It was perhaps the first truth Cassen had spoken all day.

  “As you may or may not be aware, His Grace the King has ordered my family to take up residence in Westport.”

  “Oh, I had not heard… When will you be leaving?”

  “I do not intend to.” The prince lifted his chin slightly in demonstration of his defiance.

  “Ah, I see. Have you made your wishes known to your parents?” Cassen still could not see where this was headed.

  “I am not a child, Duchess Cassen.” The prince struggled with Cassen’s title. “…In no way am I a child.” He then flashed what he must have thought to be a charming smile—the type of audacious smirk an overconfident prince might show a lady he hoped to bed. He couldn’t possibly…

  Cassen was well practiced at suppressing laughter, but this was too much even for him. He quickly moved his hand to his face and tried to turn what would have been an unbridled guffaw into an embarrassed-looking giggle. Cassen was quite sure that the prince only had interest in the fairer sex and that these advances, if that is indeed what they were, were only a ploy. To what end exactly he could not guess, but he could certainly attempt to determine the authenticity of the prince’s forwardness. A little test perhaps.

  Cassen floated in his silks from the desk to the curved sofa, sat down on one side and patted the seat beside him, smiling coquettishly. The flash of horror on the prince’s face lasted only a moment, but it revealed what Cassen had already surmised.

  Stephon had the presence of mind to blush and feign bashfulness to delay and let his mind proce
ss the situation. He reluctantly acquiesced and sat across from Cassen, though leaning somewhat farther away than an actual suitor might have. You pompous little ass. Now to make him think he has accomplished the task.

  “Prin— …Stephon, you most certainly are no child, and I apologize for the implication. I want you to know that I think of you as an…ally.” Cassen reached out and touched the prince’s hands with his. To his credit the prince did not pull back in revulsion, though it probably took every fiber in his being to avoid so. “But how can I assist you in staying in Eastport? Surely you have some plan?”

  “Everyone is aware that you have my grandfather’s ear.” Stephon spoke quickly. “Perhaps if you told him it was necessary for me to remain in Eastport for some reason.”

  Cassen mulled it over. “As an apprentice of mine perhaps.” As Cassen said the words he shot a flirtatious smile at the prince. I should be careful not to push him too far. All men have their limits. I of all should know.

  “Yes, perhaps. I suppose it would be good for me to learn the ways of successful city management.” Cassen saw no fakery in the boy’s jab at his father.

  “You will make a fine apprentice, I think,” said Cassen warmly. You shall indeed.

  DERUDIN

  Alone in the king’s study, Derudin and Lyell performed their nightly ritual. After a servant had brought the king his evening meal, he and Derudin would speak in earnest of the happenings of the kingdom and how best to manage the intricacies therein. Tonight it was one of the king’s favorites: crisply roasted pheasant, first marinated in beer, served with a hot chutney of butter-fried gooseberries, sausage, and sage.

  “You are a fool, Derudin,” said the king. Derudin tried to think back on all the kings and leaders he had advised in the past hundred years. Had it truly been only a hundred years since crossing the Devil’s Mouth? It seemed more like a thousand. He believed, in any case, that the man seated before him, sucking his fingers of the fatty juices from a meal that smelled of heaven, was among the better of those kings.

  “There are men who forgo the pleasures of sex,” continued Lyell. “Fool men of foolish religions, I say, but I can, in a perverse sort of way, understand their restraint. Coitus makes a man weak, truth be told. Makes his head not work in the way it ought. Like a hungry hunter. Nevertheless, you are a man. I have seen you take to bread and water as we all do. And every night I have brought for you a meal that is, well, befitting a king. And every night you abstain. I think perhaps you have a lunacy exceeding that of those of celibacy. Ha!” The king had been amused by his unintended poetry and rewarded himself with another mouthful of food.

  “A mage’s conductance comes from focus and is amplified by continence, my king.” Derudin was always content to recite an Ancient Law and took pride in being recognized for the supreme restraint he exhibited—the meal did look and smell delicious.

  The king licked his fingers, pushed his plate piled with bones aside, and took a long swig of wine from his wooden goblet. Then he leaned forward and dragged Derudin’s plate close, digging his fingers in and once again covering them with bits of food and grease. Nor do I think you would wish to be denied your second plate.

  “So tell me.” Lyell paused and swallowed the food that fought his speaking. It would have amused Derudin, watching this man, with a beard of pure white so meticulously groomed, do everything in his power to cover his face instead with chutney. But the reports Derudin must share left no room in his mind for humor. “What news of the kingdom tonight?”

  “Some troubling things, my king.”

  “There always are. I’ll hear them just the same.”

  “It would appear our friend Duke Veront has taken to calling himself a lord.”

  This troubled the king enough that he hesitated a moment before stuffing another finger full into his mouth. “Never trust a man who eats with knife and fork,” he once told Derudin, “for such a man must think that having clean hands at supper will somehow keep them cleaner after having betrayed your trust.” Derudin thought it a wise observation.

  “That rapacious fool.” The king gesticulated with a pheasant bone. “Had I a better alternative for Rivervalian rule, I would have chosen as such. He is too thin and hungry. But even so, a king’s throne makes a duke feel lordly and a lord feel kingly. It will not be long before we are at each other’s throats.”

  “We should be able to easily defend against any threat he poses, should he turn against us, given our twenty thousand men to his ten and the richness of these lands.” Derudin was stating a fact that they both knew, but even to himself his voice lacked reassurance. He had advised the king to remain at the Adeltian Throne after the victory, a decision he had been second guessing for some time now.

  “Aye, but I hope it does not come to that. Half of his men are those that took Adeltia. Good men—I’d remember their faces if I saw them today. They would not march against their true king and leader.” Lyell took another sip of wine, and his face soured. “The man is a fool if he tries to overreach his power…” The king’s grip on his cup tightened as his expression darkened further. “I should crush him now and be done with it. Damn him!”

  “I would advise against it, my king. We can remain passive, collecting the income he still sends to us as commanded. If the payment stops, we will know his intention, and we can move to have him eliminated. We have many allies in Rivervale who will see it done.” Derudin had already thought the matter through. Assassination was not a tool he advised lightly, but it was a fitting punishment for what would be such blatant and treasonous betrayal, should Veront rebel.

  “You speak as if Rivervale is not my kingdom. They are my subjects, not my allies. But yes, that is the wisest course of action. A dirty business though, killing a man in the bed he sleeps. Mind you it is my bed that he sleeps in. What else?”

  “I have it on good authority, my king, that some among the Adeltian nobility seek to conspire against the throne.” As have they ever, though I fear these plots to be more dangerous than before.

  “I have beaten the fools into submission while keeping them well fed, rich, and seemingly in good spirits. On what authority do you make this claim?” The king had finally reached the limits of his stomach and pushed Derudin’s half-eaten plate of pheasant away.

  “Firsthand authority, my king.” And I know Cassen to be involved as well, but I must not implicate the king’s favored Duke, the magician of coin, without tangible evidence, lest I draw suspicions of pettiness.

  “Very well. You have never led me astray with your gazings. See to it that all potential conspirators have as many ears close to them as possible. I would like to pull this weed at the root this time.” The king finished off his second goblet and slammed it back down on the table as if to drive home the thought. He enjoyed his wine but was not given to overconsumption as his father had been, another quality Derudin respected. “Any good news?” the king asked in jest.

  Derudin paused to contemplate what he was to report, fearing it would not be taken seriously. But I feel it is more serious than one might presume.

  “There are accounts, my king, of ships to the south. From enough sources that I feel it worthy of mentioning.”

  “My good man, you are not a sailor. When two ships at sea spot each other, one will naturally be more southerly than the other and may report it as such. What of it?”

  Derudin did his best not to take offense at what his king had said. Derudin’s trip across the Devil’s Mouth may have taken place before Lyell could form memories, but he well knew the tale. The sudden thought that the king may doubt the veracity of the story gave Derudin a rare anger toward his leader, and he fought to keep it from his voice.

  “These are not reported to be ships of our own, nor ships of the Spicelanders. They report goliath ships of four masts and square sails, always too far for more detail to be seen. I fear them to be warships from an unknown people.” Derudin chose his words wisely—a forgotten people would have been a more accurate desc
ription but would have also invited ridicule.

  “Ships with square sails are of little concern to me. I know a thing or two about sea travel, and any people yet to perfect the sail and be able to tack into the wind are sure to be primitives and no threat to our kingdom. But I would like to see these new people, should they exist.”

  “As would I, however, I do not think these ships should be overlooked. Even primitive ships can carry an army in favorable winds.” Derudin knew enough about ships to know the king was wrong in his assertion about sail shape. He also knew enough about kings not to contradict him.

  Lyell looked toward Derudin with sincerity. “Derudin, I respect your judgment, but a king must weigh his decisions so that we do not spread resources so thin attending to every potential threat that we have none left for those of true merit. Though I often cede to your knowledge, if I always did as such it would be you who ruled the kingdom and not I. Keep me abreast of any developments in the southern seas, but I do not wish to build a southern fleet merely to fend off ghost ships.”

  “As you wish, my king.” To rule the kingdom myself? How curious that the idea never crossed my mind. Derudin’s inward smile beamed. He had a very good reason as to why he would never seek to rule. The Ancient Laws can be a cruel mistress.

  ALTHER

  “Fifty thousand marks?” Alther repeated the amount to emphasize its absurdity. He felt his face contorting to an uncharacteristic expression of indignation.

  “It is a deposit,” Crella explained as if to a child, “covering the first of five years’ service for three such ladies.”

  How it was that she remained most enticing when she was at her most cavalier he did not know, but each time he pondered it, he could not escape recalling his first glimpse of her.