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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “I am sorry, Stephon, I never meant to wrong you. Your imprisonment was your grandfather’s doing. I specifically—”

  “You were specifically happy enough to let me rot in a cell. Do not hide behind your father’s cape. You may find it is no longer an effective tactic now that you’ve killed him.”

  “I did not mean to kill him.”

  Stephon snorted. “You Redrivers are all the same. You fail to hold yourselves accountable for your actions. What you did to Lyell was cowardly, but I’d expect no different from you. You blather endlessly about justice and honor, yet you only fancy one or the other when it serves your purposes. Tell me, Alther, where was the honor in ravaging Adeltia? In slaughtering the men, violating the women, and throwing the queen from her tower? What crime did she commit? How was justice served there?”

  Alther had no response, and again, it was he who was responsible. Had Crella and her aunt found him to be a worthy groom, there would have been no war. But Alther was also stunned to silence by the change in his son. This was not the slack-jawed Stephon who had been dragged down the king’s study.

  “But I have not come here to condemn you for your father’s crimes. If there is one thing I have learned from you—one thing that I have found to be so deplorable, so vile, that I have taken note of it in you, so that I should never make the mistake of mirroring it—it is this: that there may be no worse a quality in a man than the utter passivity you possess.” Stephon let his words linger for a moment. “In truth, I do not feel as though I have ever even had such a tendency within myself. I am a man of action, most unlike you.” Stephon stepped forward and put a hand on a bar. “Which brings me to a more important issue…

  “As I have already promised, I am not here to condemn you for the actions of your father. You say you never meant to wrong me. Well, I find that to be as contemptible a lie as any man has ever spoken. And I wish for you to confess.”

  Alther searched the depths of his mind, something he was already well acquainted with, given his setting. Of the many things he had found to hate himself for, he had not uncovered any dishonesty toward his son. There was the time he kept the truth about the baker’s son’s parentage from Stephon, but surely that could not be what he spoke of.

  “I honestly do not know what you want me to confess. I failed you as a father, by being so weak a man, that I admit, but I—”

  “As a father? How can you remain so audacious from within a cell?”

  Alther could only look at him, stupefied.

  “You were never a father to me, because you are not my father. I’ve heard as much from your own mouth.”

  Stephon had cried out similar things before, in anger, but Alther had never thought he meant it literally. It was hard to believe he did now. This all seemed some sort of show for him to gain the respect of his Adeltian cohorts. Stephon had always preferred the ways and traditions of his mother’s kingdom.

  “Stephon, I know—with certainty—that you are my son. I see the best and worst of myself within you, and I blame myself—”

  “I warn you,” said Stephon with a raised finger. “Do not take that tone. Lies, it seems, are all you can spout. You pity me? The king? No. You grovel to me. You do as I say, as I command, and you hope that I do not take offense to the way in which you have done so.”

  Humility. The one thing his father had unintentionally taught Alther was the very thing his son lacked so thoroughly that it threatened to destroy a kingdom. Lyell had insisted the boy be trained in the Rivervalian custom—with swords of true steel, the swords that saw Alther battered and bruised as a child. In this solitary thing, Alther had refused his father with uncharacteristic courage, not wanting his son to endure the pain that he had. Stephon had been trained as an Adeltian fencer instead, learning the dances of civilized combat that resulted in little more than bruised egos, and in Stephon’s case, not even that, for he was exceptional at the sport.

  Looking at the smirks on the faces of the Adeltian knights—not fencers, for even Adeltians knew their military could not be composed of dancing men with sharp needles—Alther decided to take another tack.

  “Have you thought this through, Stephon? If you are not my son, you have no claim to the throne. My sister, Aileana, would be the rightful heir.”

  Stephon laughed at him, stepping backward and spreading his hands to either side. “Look around you.” He motioned toward one of the stern-looking members of The Guard. “To you, this man may look an impartial member of The Guard, a Protector of the Realm. But he is an Adeltian man, same as the others. Tell me, who do you think here has any impulse to follow the lineage of some murderous foreign people? Do you see any Rivervalian men in power before you?”

  Alther sought the void, but it was far from grasp. “I see but one,” he said. “And he is an unwitting boy I should have drowned long ago.”

  Stephon smirked. “Cut out his tongue. We wouldn’t want him saying anything so clever at his sentencing.”

  TITON

  The crowd remained deathly silent as the lone man stood and spoke. To Titon, the man was only significant in that he had forestalled his much deserved ovation. On its own, each voice from the stands was of no consequence, yet when combined, those meager cries joined to create a solitary behemoth of sound that was like nothing Titon had before experienced. He longed to have them chanting for him again, and the opportunity soon presented itself.

  The clang of coiling chains and the rumble of the giant doors on ancient hinges filled him with hope—hope for more bloodshed and glory. He picked up a pair of the projectiles shot from the dragons. Titon had dubbed them dragon’s tongues, having developed a fondness for them as he’d let them soar through the air to obliterate the last of the dragons’ former masters. Leaving the dragons behind was like parting with a lover, but he and Keethro quickly put distance between themselves and the doors, not knowing what beast may come charging out.

  Titon was not impressed with what he saw. A row of ten guards marched forward in formation. Like the guards who escorted them from their cell to the arena, these men too bore spears, but that was both the beginning and the end of their similarities. Golden plate, adorned in resplendent gems of blue, red, and royal purple, covered the men in an ostentatious display. Jagged spikes long as swords projected from their spaulders. Perhaps they would have looked menacing to a lesser man. To Titon they looked as though they were dressed for some sort of comical performance rather than for battle. What kind of fool places gems upon a man’s armor? Their golden scales of plate overlapped in countless ways at the joints, allowing them to move gracefully in spite of their rigidity, but the plate itself appeared to have no real thickness to it. With a bare fist Titon could likely cave in the breastplate and chest of one of these flimsy men whose eyes did not even hunger for battle, and he found himself growing impatient to test his theory.

  “I am Titon son of Small Gryn—the Northman. And I am insulted by this latest challenge!”

  With that, he dropped one of his dragon’s tongues and grasped the other with both hands above his head. He hurled the giant arrow with all his spite at the largest of the men. As predicted, it sliced through his breastplate as if it were made of cloth, felling him backward where he struggled for a few moments before going limp. The other guards did not so much as flinch. They had not even lowered their spears, which were still planted in the ground pointing straight up. The crowd, however, burst once again into a cheer which filled Titon with the feeling of empowerment he’d craved.

  Just as soon as the crowd had resumed its roars they again were silenced, and with it went Titon’s elation.

  “Titon,” he heard Keethro growl as if angry, but Titon knew of no reason for his friend to be upset with him.

  Keethro signaled with a tilted head and glance for Titon to look toward the midfield. Titon did not wish to turn from the remaining men who were close enough to throw spears of their own, but it was possible Keethro was alerting him to a more pressing threat.

&nbs
p; There was no danger midfield, just the same solitary man in the stands, propped up by his enormous cape. This time, however, Titon heard him speak.

  “Northman,” he addressed Titon calmly, “the men before you are not there for battle but as an escort to your royal quarters. You have proven yourself to be a great warrior—a warrior that could no doubt benefit this kingdom. I will speak with you and your friend on the matter when the Dawnstar rises on the morrow. In witness of the Mighty Three, you have my word no harm shall befall you.”

  The man spoke so solemnly that it was difficult to believe he could be heard at such a distance in this setting. Yet the crowd remained deathly quiet when he spoke, and despite the weight of his words, the wind seemed to carry them dutifully out of reverence for the speaker.

  The nine remaining guards flipped their spears and jabbed them into the ground each at their right heel, signifying they had no intent of using them.

  The man had mentioned Titon’s own gods. Titon had not expected nor even considered the fact that these southern strangers may worship the same gods as he, and he feared it may be some trick. The Dogmen certainly did not worship the Mighty Three. They had books that made mention, but as best he could tell, the Dogmen had some odd beliefs with no named gods among them.

  Titon looked toward Keethro who nodded his desire to comply with the man’s request. Wondering what treasures this leader of a kingdom might bestow upon them for their services, Titon remembered their purpose for having traveled south in the first place. How is it that I am so easily distracted by glory when my wife requires a remedy?

  Titon nodded his head deeply with respect to the standing man. He did not wish to comply, but he saw no better alternative.

  Titon and Keethro ate well that night. The caped man had not lied about their quarters being royal; Titon had never seen such extravagance. The fabric that covered the table was as soft as a woman’s skin, but only half as soft as the linens that covered the beds. The beds themselves were sturdy and rose far off the ground, but they lacked firmness to an extent that they were uncomfortable to lie upon. There was even some sort of plush fabric underfoot, the purpose of which was lost on Titon as it quickly became filthy from his boots. What was most remarkable, however, were the levers that when turned produced a seemingly endless flow of what tasted to be fresh water, cold as from the mountains. Titon had begun to bathe himself with the water from the small one in the kitchen when Keethro called for him to come see something.

  “Look at this,” Keethro marveled. He threw a lever and a fountain of warm water sprung from a hole in the ceiling.

  “These people seem to have no restraint when it comes to luxury. Any man can place a barrel of water above his head and open a hole to let it shower him, but would it not be easier to simply jump in the river?”

  “Perhaps, but when you have an army of servants eager to fetch barrels and it is cold outside…”

  Titon saw the logic in that but wondered how weak such men must be who did not know what it was like to build a fire next to a river in the dead of winter, break through the ice, and spend what time you could scrubbing before jumping out to warm yourself by the flames. Only the Galatai women were afforded the comfort of lukewarm water during the cold season, and that was only if they had a man who wished to enjoy them clean. Titon imagined one of his boys might be fetching water and heating it for some lucky girl, as he had for their mother. How all the girls must be fighting over them, now that they have returned with plunder and triumph.

  When they had finished bathing and dressing themselves in foreign cloth, it was time to eat and past time to drink. Serving women brought them ale and long, thin loaves of bread after instructing them to sit at the table that was not in the kitchen.

  “I must admit, this silly floor feels good on my feet,” said Keethro.

  Titon broke the bread with his fingers revealing perfectly white and delicate innards within the chewy crust. With cold butter spread atop, it was without question the best he had ever tasted.

  “Bah. Don’t get used to it. Every man in the South must think himself a king. Did you see the throne they have for shitting? How can a man need such a thing?”

  “Need…want…it was a comfortable shit I had, I tell you that.”

  Titon must have washed down his meal with half a normal man’s weight of the stuff the Southmen called ale, yet he felt no effect. The food was both odd and delicious. Titon had a fondness for trying new tastes, and he was not disappointed. The first real dish brought to them was a bowl of minced meat, formed into balls, fried, and covered in a sauce of onions, cream, and butter. Despite the rich, almost sweet sauce, the tender spheres of what must have been beef retained a crunchy exterior and a strong, meaty flavor. Titon decided it would be his favorite dish of the night and in that he had been correct, but the following dishes were also delectable. The next looked like a plate of nothing more than wet leaves, but inside was a whole fish, swimming in a bath of herbs and butter. It was trout, said the servants, and though it looked far too large to be such, Titon enjoyed it nonetheless. The last was the oddest of all and was again from the river. River guardians they were called, and the armored creatures looked as though they might come alive at any moment and claw at the men in defense of the assault now being waged upon them. They had one enormous claw and another that was so tiny it was likely no use at all, and the servants demonstrated how to break their shells to get at the flesh. Their armor was perhaps more formidable than that worn by the golden guards of the arena, but Titon found it was worthwhile to break through in order to taste the sweet meat inside, best eaten drenched in butter.

  “It must have taken a dozen cows to produce the butter needed for this feast,” Titon said to his friend. But Keethro was lost to him by now, having been affected by the ale.

  “You saw her did you not? The River drown me, she was a goddess in plain women’s dress.”

  “The River need not drown you—you are accomplishing that yourself, my friend.” Titon had not noticed the girl Keethro spoke of. His focus was on that which the servants brought.

  “You are a man ruled by your belly,” Elise had told Titon once. “I should not fear you being stolen by a fair maiden so much as I would an old crone who has mastered the art of the skillet.” But she had nothing to fear. She was a fine cook and as fair as any maiden. Tomorrow I will demand a king give me your remedy, Ellie. Tomorrow will be a great day.

  When the two serving girls returned with a final course, both men were forced to refuse. Titon had for them a question instead. “Tell us, what is the name of the man who rules this kingdom?”

  The girls looked nervously at each other as if unsure of how best to answer. Keethro must have spoken earlier of the shorter of the two. Though she had a pretty face, the taller one suffered from a bit of a hunch and flat bottom, and Titon knew Keethro was inclined to judge his women based more on the appearance of their backside than their front—especially so when drunken. And even Titon could not deny the shorter girl’s near perfection in that regard.

  “King Veront is the ruler of Rivervale, m’lord,” said the taller.

  Keethro found something about her response hilarious, most likely the way she had addressed Titon, and began laughing himself silly.

  “What kind of man is he?” Titon asked over his friend’s laughter.

  Again the girls exchanged glances. This time it was the shorter of the two who spoke. “It is not our place to judge the king. Please forgive us.”

  “Do not judge him then. Just tell me what others say of him.”

  The shorter girl responded after some delay. “He is known to be honest and ruthless, m’lord.”

  “And he worships the River, the Mountain, and the Dawnstar like any other man?”

  “Nearly all in Rivervale worship the Mighty Three. In Strahl they worship the Only One, but those beliefs are not shared by us, nor our king. We must be going now, our absence will be noticed. With your permission…”

  “A
ye, go on,” Titon said.

  Keethro still laughed so hard he probably had not realized he’d just missed his last opportunity to lure the shorter one into bed. The girls appeared to have had an honest fear of reprimand, and it must have carried a weight greater than reduced pay or rations.

  “This is a strange land we have found ourselves in, Keethro.”

  Keethro’s laughter subsided, and he began to look around the room, craning his neck as if to peer around the corners. “Where has she gone? She will be back, no?”

  “No, my drunken fool of a friend, I fear she has gone for the evening. It is perhaps better this way. You would have embarrassed yourself with a poor performance, and the tales would have traveled far and wide. It would ruin your chances with countless such southern women. Better that you sleep well tonight, eh?”

  “She was like no other, though. You saw her, didn’t you? She was a goddess in Jane’s woman’s dress.”

  Keethro appeared to be getting worse rather than better based upon his slurred and senseless speech. “To bed with you. Tomorrow we go before this King Veront as champions of the arena. He will grant me a remedy for Ellie and perhaps a true princess for you—his own daughter, I would wager. Tomorrow will be a great day indeed.”

  Keethro nodded and stumbled into his own quarters, leaving Titon to enjoy his first good night of rest in as long as he could remember. With the thinnest sheet he could find among the bed linens as his only covering, Titon laid upon the floor. Nondescript thoughts of pleasantness turned to dream as he drifted to sleep.

  “M’lord.”

  With reluctance, Titon came to realize the voice was not dreamt. He sat up and saw in his doorway the lovely silhouette of the shorter serving girl.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, not angrily.

  “The king requested that I come and give you comfort,” she said. She did not move from the doorway. As Titon’s eyes reacquainted themselves with a more wakeful state, he could see some sort of light fabric hung from her loosely. It was a far different attire than she had worn when serving the meal, if he remembered correctly.