The Axe and the Throne (26 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In spite of conditions frigid enough to have made a similar trip via carriage an uncomfortable affair, Alther had warmed to the point of becoming wet with sweat while riding his silver-grey palfrey. In stark contrast with Rivervale, the kingdom of Adeltia saw no snow even at the height of winter, but the humidity remained year round, ensuring discomfort.

I must take Crella and Ethel to see their first snow
, Alther resolved. Why it had not occurred to him before was puzzling.
I should take Stephon as well, if he will come.
But he knew better. It was too late for Stephon to form the types of memories Alther recalled with fondness, those of King Leofwin upon a black steed kicking up puffs of white powder. His grandfather had made a point to visit his family weekly—a tradition Alther wished Lyell had continued.

The mender would not approve of him exerting himself just a day after having suffered the blow to his head, but he could not remember last having felt more robust, and there was no faster means of travel.
Perhaps it was something in that tea
, he thought, amused. That might also explain his wife's behavior. It had been years since he could remember actually having enjoyed a night with her, if indeed he ever had. But the two of them turned giddy as the night went on, sipping their tea and becoming blithesome in their overtired state.

It was certainly the first time he had seduced her. Their previous fornications had been out of the necessity to consummate their marriage and produce an heir, but this was different. She yielded to him with grace, and for a night he was her equal. He would not forget it, nor would he allow himself to change back to the Alther whom his wife scorned and pitied.

His pace varied between a smooth ambling gait and a full-on exhilarating gallop as he made his way toward the Throne. Alther did not push his horse hard for long, but he took great pleasure in the short bursts of speed along the more favorable terrain.
I will insist that Crella finally learn to ride.
Riding was common enough among Adeltians, but it was not cherished in quite the way it was in Rivervale. Crella had always been opposed to learning, not wishing to dirty anything she owned, or to “stink as a foul beast,” and the old Alther would have known better than to press her.
In Westport I will buy her a mature palomino palfrey, with a good temperament and golden mane to match her own. She will learn to ride it or sleep in the stables until she does.
Alther knew he'd never have the spine to demand such a thing of her, but the thought still brought a smile to his face as he galloped the final quarter mile.

The Dawnstar was still high in the western sky as Alther strode with purpose toward his father's chambers. The trip that normally would have taken at least two hours by carriage had taken him well under one—a welcome gain, as he was eager to speak with his father and clear up the matter involving his assailant. It was always best to be honest with the man. Lyell had spies everywhere and would respond very poorly to being misled. Alther expected his father would give him the right to punish Stephon with the method of his choosing, though Lyell would likely have some harsh suggestions of his own.
I might even consider them this time.
The thought of his estate staff being interrogated also weighed heavily upon Alther, and he wanted it immediately halted.

“Stop!”

Alther had nearly crossed the wall to reach the turret that housed his father's chambers when he heard the shout. He did not need to look, for he knew it was not directed toward him; it was the pleading voice of the same caped child he and Stephon had seen tormented on a prior visit. Alther found himself reveling in his rage—a feeling he would have previously suppressed. Below him he knew he was like to see the same four boys torturing the helpless one they had aptly dubbed the pig-wizard. He was angry at the boy for not defending himself, he was angry at the bullies for continuing their assault after having once been warned, and he was angry at himself for having been more often on the side of those doing the bullying in his youth.

As he looked into the courtyards, the scene he saw beneath him was close to what he had expected, although there were only three of the four aggressors from the previous encounter. Two of them held the smaller one in place by his arms as he knelt before a stone saucer where the birds bathed. The third was on the other side of the saucer, facing Alther, the glee on his face clear to see. Alther strained to remember his own bullying, assuring himself that he had never borne quite such an exalted expression. Alther had never been the ringleader, and his participation was merely a means of keeping from being targeted himself, or so he rationalized.

“Come on, don't pig-wizards like slop?” The lead aggressor forced the boy's face into the water of the birdbath, thick with the brown of decaying leaves and the white and black of bird droppings. Only after quite some time did he allow the boy's head out of the mess, then looking at his victim with scorn.

“Why are you not eating any? I will drown you if need be, but the pig-wizard will eat some slop tonight!”

The two holding the boy's arms snickered as the ringleader forced his head into the sludge again, holding him down longer this time. Alther wished to intervene, but he had no desire to merely run the boys off as he had the first time, only to have them return to torture the child on another night.

He envisioned training the child. He could put a sword in his hand, as Lyell had his own, and show him what it took to have the strength to wield it. It would require months of hard work, perhaps years, but the fat on the ham would slowly render, and the meat would firm around the bone. Alther tried to picture what the child would look like after years of training, but all he could imagine was the same hapless, chubby face upon another's body, still wearing the ludicrous cape of royal violet with yellow embroidery. It would be of no use. The child would never be a swordsman, and even if he were, a sword is not a tool that lends itself to defense against bullies.

The boy's head jerked out of the saucer as it was finally released. After a few coughs he sobbed, “I'm eating it,” and he must have been as all three of the others burst into laughter.

The familiar laughter turned Alther's blood to froth, and he gripped at the wall, his knuckles going white. The memory surfaced, the one he had suppressed in hopes that it would never return. But it did, and often, and with it came the rush of blood to every inch of his skin: his elder brother and hero, Edwin, upon his knees, humiliated beyond repair. How boys seemed to be born with the instinctive ability to degrade each other so thoroughly was beyond comprehension. Had Alther promptly left, Edwin may not have seen him, and he would not have seen in Edwin's eyes the look of shame that to this day haunted him.

A piece of stone broke free in his right hand, and without thinking Alther hurled it at the leader of the boys, half expecting it to not even reach. The large chunk of rock tumbled through the air, landing with a sickening thud onto the skull of one of the other laughing boys. Alther had time to see the boy's body crumple to the ground before he ducked behind the wall and waited for the others' cries to alert the guards.

His drenched clothing clung to his body as his skin alternated between sickly hot and cold. If he had maimed or killed the boy, the fact that they had been taking part in some childhood bullying would be no excuse. Even a prince could rot in a dungeon if his father did not see fit to conceal the incident.
And why should he?
thought Alther.
Westport would be better off in the hands of another.

Moments passed, and no cries were heard, just hasty footfalls. With his heartbeat pulsing in his head, Alther crawled along the wall until he knew he would be out of sight from anyone in the courtyards and walked back to his horse, looking as calm as his nerves would allow while passing the several guards.

When he was safely out of the walls of the castle, and upon a tired trotting horse, he realized his greatest regret was that he would not be able to speak to his father that night.
I brought one Stephon into the realm. That I might have just removed one may be my absolution.
He then jumped off his horse and sprayed the contents of his stomach onto the ground while the beast shied and whinnied, attempting to flee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Titon's actions reminded Keethro why he had originally planned to murder the man. After killing the two riders who claimed to be lawmen, Titon had insisted on continuing on their path directly to Strahl.

“Titon, let's be rational.” Keethro did not think Titon a fool, but his friend certainly had it in him at times to be foolish.

“He said there were menders in Strahl. Do you think he was lying?”

“No, I am quite sure he was being honest,” said Keethro, recalling the agony of the man screaming with the spear in his guts.

“Then we go to Strahl.” Titon was not being argumentative; he simply stated what he believed to be the obvious course of action.
The man is blinded by focus.

“And what do you expect we will see in Strahl, other than the inside of a dungeon?”

Titon took some time to think about what Keethro had asked, seeming at last to grasp his meaning. “Aye, we may have to fight more of these weakling bastards, but what of it? We will cut them down as they ride these tame beasts.” Titon slapped the shoulder of the horse they had captured, and it whinnied and shied.

“That is the problem. You know no fear. We have been made soft and overconfident by years of fighting the impotent Dogmen.” Titon scowled at him as he spoke, but Keethro did not allow it to derail him. “You know it to be true. Do not expect these people to be dumb enough to continue to send groups of only three men with spears to attack us. If they are wise enough to make the elixirs we seek, they will be capable of killing two men, no matter how strong. They will send archers, and we will be skewered with arrows from afar. What good will it do Elise when we die on this road?”

His words must have resonated. Titon's pace slowed, and he had a thoughtful look on his face. Truth be told, Titon was one of the smarter men Keethro had known, but he could become so engrossed with a task that it was difficult to make him see anything but a straight line toward its achievement. “What would you have us do then?”

Keethro had already determined what they should do but took some time to best choose his words. The men continued their slowed pace and took in their surroundings. These fields and forests must have teemed with life, all of which was shrewd enough to remain well and clear of the path. The parched sands under their feet, still impressed with the prints of the horses from the very men they had slain, seemed to thirst for blood. The only sounds came from the wind in the grass and the angry calls of the circling birds, annoyed by Keethro and Titon's endurance.
I will not have this barren path be the place in which my bones are left to bake in the rays of the Dawnstar, flesh eaten by foul vultures.

“I say we break from this trail of certain death and head west. We bring the horse with us and eat it when we grow hungry. We could have enough meat to reach the Frozen Sea if need be. Once we hit mountains or coast, we head south again, and we do it in such a way as to kill as few people as possible. We are supposed to be Southmen now, and we need to play the part.” Keethro observed Titon's frown of thought.

“Hrmph,” was Titon's eventual response.

“We will hopefully miss Strahl and end up in the kingdom of the river or the delta, both of which are more likely to have the elixirs we need. Neither of us had even heard of this Strahl. It may be no more than a Dogman village in comparison to the mighty kingdoms—a village with horses instead of dogs and many men with spears.”

Titon stopped where he stood and looked to the west. The birds, noticing his lack of motion, began to caw more loudly in anticipation of Titon's response, as if they knew his decision would affect them in kind.

“Very well,” he agreed as relief flooded Keethro. “We head west, but for no more than seven days. Then we go south until we find the kingdom of the delta.”

Two days later the men were many miles west of the trail Keethro would just as soon have forgotten. Travel in the plains was little different than walking a path, and Keethro was thankful of the short stretches through forest for the shade it gave from the Dawnstar's blinding rays.

“Venison,” said Titon, then he sniffed at the horse's side again. “They do not smell as bad as I would have imagined, and they certainly do not inspire fear. They must be good for something. Probably delicious.”

For the entire duration Titon had speculated as to what the horse might taste like, alternating between beef, venison, and mutton. It did not bother Keethro; he too was rather curious, and it had kept his friend's spirits high despite not marching straight for their destination.

The torment of not knowing finally became too much for Titon, and they slaughtered and butchered the animal in a way to best preserve its meat. It took two more days to smoke the horse's hocks, and Titon agreed that the time spent doing so would not count toward the seven days of westerly travel.

“What do you think?” Keethro asked him.

Titon was chewing on some of the more tender meat from along the horse's back. They had seasoned it with salt and quickly seared it over the wood fire. “Beef,” he said. “I can hardly tell the difference.” He sounded a little disappointed the horse did not have a more exotic flavor.

For several more days they traveled due west. They had had little trouble finding water. Every day now they had come to a new river they were forced to wade across—each larger in size than the last—until finally they found themselves on the eastern bank of a truly large, deep river. Wading across would be impossible, and swimming would soak their horsemeat, making it go rancid.

“Another boat?” Keethro asked.

“It must be the only way,” said Titon. “I never thought I would see a river so large. Even a raft would scrape the bottom of our brooks and go nowhere, but you could fit five boats with sails and rudders across the breadth of this giant.” The two men took a moment to stare in amazement.

“It would not make sense to build a boat upon every river we hit, and it will be too heavy to bring with us after crossing. Perhaps we should simply let it take us south.” Keethro spoke the words hoping they were far enough west to be clear of Strahl. This river could be the mighty Eos they had heard legends about. The mightiest kingdoms must surely be on its banks if so.

“Agreed. We'll head south, stopping only to piss among the trees. It would be foolish, indeed, to anger the God of the River upon so mighty a stretch.” Titon was a rather superstitious man, but Keethro did not fault him for this precaution. Even though he had no belief in the Mighty Three, dangling one's member over the deep, dark waters of this river would be frightening enough, simply not knowing what might jump out and try to remove it.

“Aye. Let us make a craft worthy of this godly river.”