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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “A stationary candle that you had studied beforehand,” said Sture, clearly not pleased to have been contradicted. “We do not even know what these sails are made of.”

  “I was hoping you could ignite the wood of the bow,” said Stephon.

  Sture looked to Signy as if to let her dig her own grave. “Wood does not catch so quickly, nor does damp wood tend to remain lit,” she admitted.

  “Very well. Light their sails then, but be quick.”

  The young pair went quiet and stared off, Sture to the east and Signy to the west.

  Ethel focused on the ships herself. They looked enormous now that they were within a mile, and her brother’s confidence seemed more misplaced by the moment. Stephon at least had the sense to have a horse for each of them at the bottom of the tower, should things go sour. Where will I ride it though? She could follow Stephon and hope he had another plan, but that seemed naïve. This was like to be a disaster, and her muscles already twitched, begging her to run. I will ride to the Throne, enter the dungeons, bribe the gaolers with gold—if they even remain—and see my friends and mother freed, Ethel decided. From there we will ride north to Rivervale. It was a plan so audacious it was a wonder Stephon himself had not concocted it, but Ethel was committed and determined.

  Flames engulfed one of the ships far to the east.

  “Well done, Sture. Another,” said Stephon.

  “It was not him,” said Dysar. “A ballista fired early and with luck. We should commence firing only after another minute.”

  “Another minute be damned. Fire at will!”

  Stephon’s order to fire was repeated down the ballista line in both directions, and a volley went forth. A flock of burning arrows the shape of flying geese soared through the sky. Flames sprung from the foremost sails of a ship to the west, leaping quickly with the wind from one sail to another, but the fiery birds had not yet reached the vessel.

  “Cotton canvas,” cried Signy, much louder than needed. “The sails are simple cotton canvas!” Then much quieter and abashed, “…It helps to know.”

  The arrows began to land. More than half struck water and disappeared, but the others tore into sails and prows, spreading fire quickly around the perimeter of the ships.

  “They use tar on their hulls. I was counting on that.” Dysar had passion in his voice, but his face still spoke of doom.

  Sails continued to ignite on ships east and west that had not been struck by flaming arrows. Sture and Signy were silent as they focused on one ship then the next, turning the dark silhouettes of their sails to vivid infernos.

  “Reload, damn you. Quickly!” Stephon turned to Ethel with a satisfied grin. “Do you see what happens to my enemies? What king has ever put the power of magic to such brilliant use? And to save a kingdom, at that. None shall dare offend us after this display, and Peace will triumph over the realm.”

  “Are those oars? My old eyes…” Dysar’s voice now matched his unchanged expression.

  Ethel became flushed with waves of hot panic. The boats had slowed, but the vast majority continued forward. The fire on those whose sails burned did not spread to the rest of the ship.

  “Should we perhaps mount up and leave, Your Grace…my brother?” Ethel could not mask the alarm in her voice. “We are not of much use… Just to be safe…”

  “Ha. It is no wonder our kingdom fell the last time a woman led. Your kind lacks resolution.” Stephon no longer looked at her. He was focused instead on the sight before him. “Why have we not fired a second volley?”

  As the words left his mouth the machines began to fire their second round of attack, although only one or two at a time.

  “Faster, damn you,” yelled Stephon.

  The first few shots all hit their marks, but a gust of wind came from the north as the rest were fired, causing most to drift past their targets and land harmlessly in the water behind.

  Ethel pressed her damp hands into the cool stone of the parapet. If I flee to my horse, Stephon will have me stopped, and then his pride will never allow him to leave. I must convince him to retreat—after the next failed volley.

  “Peace, see this wind settled,” said Stephon in frustration. “Did you not teach your men how to account for a bit of breeze?”

  Dysar need not respond as the wind howled to the point of all of them having to brace themselves against it.

  “All the sails are afire, Your Grace,” yelled Sture over the wind. “May we go?”

  Stephon looked at the boy as if Sture had just kicked him in the shin. “Go where?” he demanded. “You may go home to speak of victory after every last invader has been burned. Set their tar-laden hulls aflame. Now!”

  Signy was already staring hard at the closest ship that had not yet been struck in the prow by ballista, but she did not appear to be having success. Sture gazed forward toward the ships. Seeming neither confident nor concentrated, he appeared to be attempting to incinerate his fears more than their enemies’ hulls.

  “This gale may cause some misfires, Your Grace, but it is fanning their fires and slowing their approach.” Dysar’s voice was difficult to hear now over the keening wind.

  “The North keep its abominable storms. We have no need of them,” responded Stephon.

  The ships were so close now that Ethel could somewhat make out what was happening upon them. On those with hulls engulfed in flames, men poured overboard, on others, oars stroked in tandem, and on all she saw smaller vessels being shoved over the railings. The men in the water fought to right those small boats in the sea and clamored into them by the dozen.

  “They are launching skiffs, Your Grace. We should get you to safety,” shouted Dysar.

  Perhaps Dysar’s words of reason will have more effect than my own.

  “Then shoot their skiffs!” Stephon cupped his hands around his mouth, repeating, “Shoot their skiffs,” to the men below, none of who appeared to hear him.

  He will not leave. He is mad. In spite of the cold ripping wind, Ethel felt nothing but heat. Every other sensation had become numbed, yet something frozen and painful lanced her repeatedly in the back.

  She turned to look behind her, but there was nothing—nothing but the same lancing pain upon her face. Rain, she realized. A fitting end for us both, to be slain in a frigid rainstorm.

  The sea was littered now with bodies and small boats, spewing from the ships like a disturbed colony of insects. Signy’s face was impossible to see as it was covered by her flapping hair, but Sture wept. His tears fell forward rather than downward, carried by the wind along with the growing number of other droplets to extinguish the flames that had been their only hope of victory.

  As Ethel’s chance of escape diminished, so did her missteps seem evermore distinct. Stephon’s failings were her own. Her retreat into her books and her music, her inability to face her peers, to force them to respect her, it was all somehow to blame for the man her brother had become. I have become the worst of both my parents, she thought, and in no way was I a sister. I could have shown him another path, yet I only scorned him as our mother did our father.

  The fluttering noise of thick fabric ceased as the large banner atop their turret pulled free. It tumbled through the air, the sigil clearly visible: the proud Adeltian Throne jutting through the clouds.

  Ethel heard cries from below and looked to see if attackers had flanked them upon land. But the men had their arms raised and were cheering. The surf now moved away from shore rather than toward it, splashing waves over the bows of skiffs so close Ethel thought she could see the anger on the attackers’ faces. Anger or fear? The waves battered the small boats so relentlessly that many began to capsize. A massive ship in the distance had turned to the east, listing so severely it threatened to tip, and others followed suit.

  “The storm is preventing their landfall,” yelled Dysar. “It is too strong.”

  The squall intensified as if incited by Dysar’s words, and Ethel bent at the knees to ensure a strong gust would not blow her o
ver the stone wall. Stephon’s vindictive laughter cut through the roar of the wind, interrupted only by the crack of firing ballistae.

  THE BEGUILED

  As he approached the halfway point of his journey, just before his path looped back toward where he’d come, he was greeted by a familiar sight. There was no motion by the patch of birch trees, nor any disturbance in the snow at their base. This trap was empty, as were the many before, but Titon was well aware that he had within his clutches another kind of prey.

  His nostrils flared, though he was not in need of breath, and his skin went hot, threatening to break sweat, though he was not warm. He did not know with certainty who trailed him, but could wager a guess. Had he been followed by any other, he’d simply have been flattered and amused, but for her to be at his heels put a fire in his chest—a fire he could not pretend was purely anger.

  She had made her choice, and by all accounts she’d chosen well. Their friendship undiminished, Titon and Keethro had waged a tacit war, a war of two fronts, and each had scored a victory. Just as Titon had won the respect of the men, his fearless aggression having placed him above all others, Keethro had won the affection of the women with more subtle tactics. But whereas the battle for leadership required the swaying of many, the other struggle had always been over just one.

  She was a most alluring contradiction in her design. The other women called her wanton names, and she dressed and walked—her stride was itself a sinful act—as if they were deserved. Yet among the men, raucous and coarse, none had ever claimed to have bedded her, save perhaps in boastful jest. Brazen though she seemed from afar, she turned coquettish and bashful when in private, increasing desire while thwarting its fulfillment. Lithe and youthful though she was, she had the fullness of a nursing mother—a fullness impossible not to notice given the way in which it was displayed. Yet unlike the other girls who bathed in the river with carelessness, making a peek easy enough for restive eyes, Kilandra was never seen exposed.

  Without need of speaking, she called his name.

  Rage was all that kept him from turning. Why she had chosen to come to him now was enough to drive him to madness. Two years prior she would have come an angel, but now her furs of white hid a fiendish succubus. Had she planned this? To wait for Elise’s belly to have swollen? Had she heard it gossiped that Titon no longer stole the souls of Dogmen women, furthering his lustful agony?

  But the more he mulled her intentions, the less they seemed to matter, and before he knew it, he was upon her. With a ferocity that had built for years, he assaulted her, and as though she had always felt the same, she answered. Naked upon her white furs, the two embraced, exchanging with their lips a lifetime of longing, now acknowledged, and an unspoken agreement to a lifetime of secrecy that would be theirs alone.

  As his trespass became irreversible, she suddenly refused him, giving way to a one-sided skirmish. Her initial savagery was impressive as she screamed and bit, but the duration of her struggle betrayed its insincerity. Nonetheless, her having yielded spurred him to heightened passion, and he consumed her with his every sense: her soft skin, given as if for the first time to gooseflesh; her taste, ripened yet virgin; and her eyes, stripped of their usual defiance.

  Elation upon guilt and relief upon dread, he looked at her in the finality of his act, studying her expression of ecstasy. That he was a leader meant nothing—that he was her master meant all. But as he enjoyed his newfound glory, his ultimate conquest, so did his prize change. Her body shrunk beneath him, replaced by the slight frame of a woman svelte and lithesome. Her dark hair, first losing its cobalt luster, went grey and then white. But in the throes of euphoria, he did not notice, nor did it matter, as he realized his most coveted triumph.

  His eyes would not yet open, but he could sense he was in darkness. This was a place he had never before awoken in—Keethro was at least sure of that much. These unfamiliar and potentially threatening surroundings did not allow him the presence of mind to be properly disturbed by the illusion he’d just experienced…dreamt through the eyes of another.

  It felt more as if he had slipped from a womb than merely been roused to consciousness. Moisture clung to his skin, and an uncomfortable heat blanketed him near completely. One part of him, however, was cold, exposed, erect…and damp—a dampness not fully explained by an erotic dream envisioned to completion.

  No stranger to awakening to physical intercourse, his priority was regaining his sight without looking foolish, and he made no move to hide his turgidity. The quiet stillness he was in felt somehow contrived. It was as if he was the subject of hushed observation.

  How odd it was, to find he was somewhat relieved by the repugnant sight before him. Keethro’s memories returned to him, with a suddenness that was to be expected. Chief among them was the fear that he would have awoken to an act of violation far worse than it appeared he had suffered. It was odd as well, that which he felt toward the man who now looked at him, sickly thin and hunched, toothlessly beaming as if he’d committed a proud mischief. Those were not the only eyes upon Keethro. As he’d guessed, his molestation had been the focal point of the underground community. The light of the solitary sconce outside their cage glimmered in those eager eyes, all awaiting Keethro’s response.

  Pity—that was what he felt toward the skinny creature who had profaned him. He taunted Keethro, licking his gums and lips, apparently taking pleasure in something he saw in Keethro’s expression. The vile thing sat upon the lap of his large keeper, another beast similar to the guards in that he seemed at home in this place as he stroked what remained of the hair on the head of his pet. A notion crossed Keethro’s mind that perhaps he had misplaced master and servant as he watched them interact, those gentle strokes denoting more pride than ownership, but it made no difference. Keethro would kill them both—that much was certain, and he would do so with less malice than he would have previously imagined.

  The two rightmost fingers of his axe hand twitched and cramped in rebellion—they were the true price he’d pay for his mortal needs of sleep and dignity. Before having drifted to troubling dreams, Keethro had surveyed the mangled fingers of all the men, finding none who had lost any on their left before their right. In doing so, Keethro had resigned himself to the inevitable loss of some of his most important digits, and the reality that he would never throw an axe again with any mastery. It was a small price to pay, he reasoned, should he be able to some day escape and have his revenge on the man who put him here.

  The bigger man died quickly, but Keethro was surprised by the strength and rage of the smaller. He died regardless, though his neck was so small and wiry it proved impossible to break cleanly, forcing Keethro to kill him gruesomely by bashing his head against the clay ground. Smashing the life from him gave Keethro time to ponder and gain clarity. There was a strange sadness that came with destroying these two creatures who’d found a home, if not a happiness, in this horrid place. Keethro came to realize that if anything, he thanked them. Two fingers was less than he’d expected to lose in teaching the others the result of interfering with his slumber, the sodden taint on his honor now all but expunged by his revenge. “I am a heavy sleeper,” he admitted to the corpse, ensuring it was dead with a final thud against the ground, “and I value my rest.”

  I have no hatred to spare for these two, Keethro realized as he returned to his corner to close his eyes, no longer having to fear being disturbed by his fellow prisoners. It would be several hours before the guards would come and notice the bodies. All my hatred has been promised, in full, to my faithful friend and brother. The one responsible for my being here. The one who will die when I find my way out.

  TITON

  “All halt.”

  Titon looked rearward toward the man who had issued the unwanted command. Aleric had already dismounted and was busy directing his underlings on where to erect the tent. The legions of men marching behind were forced to come to a disorderly stop, some obviously not wishing to disobey Titon’s previous order
to follow only his instructions, but unable to continue forward without trampling those who had faltered. The worst part of it was they did all of this within eyesight of their enemy—an enemy that would no doubt be bolstered by their lack of discipline.

  Titon’s horse seemed to share in his disappointment as he tugged at the reins and walked him back to where Aleric and Edgar stood.

  “We should advance a thousand or so more paces to where the gate’s path runs to the sea.” Titon spoke with as much cordiality as possible. Pretending Aleric was a neighbor’s child that he could not discipline helped in that regard. “The ground is slightly lower there, and I do not want them sneaking any messages or supplies through during the night.”

  “The higher ground is better.” Aleric did not turn to Titon as he spoke.

  Sir Edgar did not seem to share his companion’s scorn. He looked at Titon worriedly and said nothing.

  “It would be foolish to charge the gate at an angle.” Titon went on, hoping reason might finally win over this malcontent. “We’ll remain in range of their bows for a longer—”

  “They’ve already begun to raise the tent.” Aleric interrupted while sitting down to remove his boots, still not facing Titon.

  Titon tore his death stare away from Aleric’s back and turned it to his true enemy. The castle he saw was no less impressive than it had been as they marched north of it to reach the sea, then south to reach—almost reach—its eastern gate. Then he looked toward his troops, those that would need to storm that gate.

  Three thousand men… It no longer seems like so many.

  The horde before him was separating into three legions of equal size, each slowly forming its own rough rectangle with its back to the sea. To Titon they looked a force capable of storming a castle in their number, but they lacked the implements he’d seen carved on the doors of Veront’s throne room. They had no boulder-hurling contraptions, no ladders, no rams. Veront had not even spared any of his dragons from the arena. The only thing on that door we might hope to reproduce is the pile of bodies that spanned the moat.