The Axe and the Throne (51 page)

Cassen was amused but kept it to himself. Throwing around bloody bags was not in keeping with his usual demeanor, and he did not wish to draw too much suspicion.
Not that it will matter soon.
“It is the head of the
former
king, as you requested, Your Grace.”

“This had better not be some joke or it will be
your
head that is in a sack. Open it.”

The impertinence of this young man never ceased to amaze Cassen.
You will make a perfect boy king…for a week perhaps. If not for Sacarat's coming fleet, I would see fit to beat you to death with your grandfather's head and take the throne for myself.
But he did no such thing. Cassen grabbed the bag from the bottom and held it at shoulder level. The head made a sickening thump as it hit the ground, refusing to bounce in Lyell's final act of defiance. It was a grotesque sight: blood caked in the hair and beard, the skin of the face more saggy and loose than Cassen had remembered, but there was no mistaking whose head it was.

Stephon appeared to be speechless for once, just staring at what lay on its cheek in front of him. A grin slowly found its way to his face, as if he were finally realizing the implications.

“And what of Alther?”

“He now has a cell in a dungeon far worse than this one, Your Grace.”

“He is responsible for this?” Stephon asked in disbelief.

“I am afraid so.” Cassen had considered explaining to Stephon his own true part in the murder of the king in order to curry favor with the boy, but had decided against it. If he told him that he was responsible for the murder of his grandfather, the unpredictable brat may have demanded Cassen's head out of some misguided loyalty to the kingdom, the realm, or whatever whim he fancied. He decided instead to allow Stephon to believe as did the rest of the kingdom—that Alther had killed the king. His having brought Stephon the requested gift and handing him the throne would have to be enough.

“And how did he kill him?”

“All evidence indicates the king was poisoned from a bottle of wine given to him by Alther at a recent banquet.”

Stephon looked as if he'd just tasted the most sour fruit, having first expected no less than the ripest cherry. “
Poison
?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“That coward of a man. Poison is the tool of women.”

Stephon appeared to wish for affirmation, but given the circumstances, Cassen was uncharacteristically unable to satisfy. The effort of maintaining his usual femininity had become exhausting as of late, making further pageantry that much more burdensome. It was all he could do, in fact, not to act on his former impulse to beat the boy to death. Cassen lowered his eyes so that the antipathy within them would not be seen.

“He is not so brave as you, my king.”

Stephon did not reply, causing Cassen to wonder if his cynicism had been detected—a thing difficult to discern with lowered eyes, and looking up now would be an indication of guilt.
You witless fool
, he chided himself. Killing Stephon here and now would cause complications, but it would not be near so dangerous as giving Stephon a reason for animus toward him along with the power to act on it.

“He will suffer for his crime,” Stephon said finally and with nothing in his voice to suggest Cassen had offended him. “Of that I assure you. He was no father of mine, and I have known as much for the longest time. He is a disgusting disgrace to the kingdom—not that he ever belonged here.”

Stephon stood.
The Intricacies of War and Tactics
lay on the bed awkwardly with its pages folded and crumpling. The book was one of probably no more than two-dozen copies, each worth easily more than most men would earn in a lifetime of common labor. Although he had no love for the text, it still bothered Cassen to see a valuable piece of history so mistreated.

“May I gather your things for you, Your Grace, so that we may see you to your proper place upon the throne?”

“Yes, yes. You do that. I have a kingdom to rule, after all.”

“There is one other matter, Your Eminence… It is to do with your mother.”

“What of her?”

“She seems to have gone a bit mad during her time spent confined. She is accusing everyone she can think to name of every misdeed and misconduct she can divine. She has been treated with the utmost care, however, I assure you, and not a hair upon her head has fallen to harm.” Cassen's stomach turned a bit as he spoke the words, a thing he guessed was due to the potential that Stephon may call for her release.

“She should remain confined. I have no desire to have her second-guessing my every decision in an attempt to undermine my authority. She is likely just as guilty in the king's death as is the vile man she called husband. And I will never forgive her for claiming that man to have been my father. See to it that I do not hear about her again for some time.”

Cassen bore a legitimate smile. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John was the first to have joined Wilkin in his travels, the first, at least, of this current group. It was hard to imagine this was the first band of vagrants Wilkin had attracted in what must have been untold years tinkering among lands far and wide. Wilkin did not have to say he had made such journeys, for they were written upon his face. His myriad lines and wrinkles were as visible as the markings on a map of the paths he'd taken, mostly north and south, but spanning the breadth of the continent. An honest face it was, but a face that knew sadness and defeat. How many times had he watched tragedy befall his companions, spared only for being a helpless old man whose skills were more valuable left intact than the entirety of his belongings if stolen? And was he a coward or simply not a fool for allowing such things to happen without throwing himself onto the swords of their attackers, joining his fellow travelers in some desperate rebellion? Or perhaps he'd tried to do as such, just as many times, and was instead impaled by his own impotence, pushed to the side and laughed at by his would-be killers. Time stood still, allowing Tallos to ponder these things whenever he so much as glanced at the man.

“What do you mean war drums?” asked John. This man was less of a puzzle, though not by much. He was not corpulent, but was further so from being chiseled from stone. His finger-length wavy hair and face without a hint of stubble made him seem more like a squire than a tinker's apprentice, and his countenance spoke of his low birth and humility. Yet while most impoverished folk carried with them a hungry, desperate look, warning that they may lash out at any moment to steal whatever opportunity fate put within their grasp, John looked more similar to Wilkin with respect to his incorruptible honor. It seemed to come from a different source, however. Perhaps it was only their extreme difference in stature, John being half again the weight of the average man, Wilkin merely half, but John did not share the feebleness of his mentor—not in appearance. “If there was an army in that tiny village it would be spilling out the sides, and we'd surely see it.”

Kelgun shook his head, but only faintly as if to keep his eyes locked on the potential danger that lay ahead, should it reach out and grab him otherwise. “That is worse than an army. Those are the drums of a conscription party.”

All had come to a stop save Wilkin. It was not in his nature to halt at the sound of danger, and he continued forward with his two donkeys, one laden with him and the tools of his trade, the other with even more tools and supplies.

“Some knight who is afraid of war,” snickered Dusan, who immediately looked as though he regretted having mustered the courage to taunt Kelgun for the first time in earshot.

But Kelgun ignored the boy. “I go no farther. Lily, this way. We head back north.”

“She won't,” cried Dusan. He looked toward his sister, but she avoided his gaze. She turned her horse to follow Kelgun.

“Ho thur!”

It was the voice of a man not within their party, and it came from some distance. A quick glance around showed Tallos that they had been flanked by mounted men, emerging from the thick forests. Four halberd-wielding men-at-arms wearing tabards painted with what looked to be an upward facing lightning bolt approached them, a pair from each side. They were sturdy men riding upon horses equally muscled. Though somewhat smaller than Kelgun's destrier, their coursers had the statuesque look of youth and power, the striations of their shoulders and legs awash in the gleam of well-groomed dark bay coats. Tallos recalled a book from his youth stating such a breed could gallop at incredible speed for a mile if need be—something he now regretted having hoped to one day see. Their canter carried their riders within easy speaking range of Tallos's party without delay.

“Headed somewhere, young knight?” It was the smallest and seemingly most cocksure of the four mounted men, and his labeling of Kelgun was clear to be no honest compliment. Tallos had no real knowledge of armies and warfare, only what he'd heard from tales of the conquests of valiant knights in great battles, but it was obvious these were paid soldiers, not conscripts. They were probably paid twice and again whatever was handed to surviving conscripts upon victory, and likely had ten times the effectiveness in combat.
Though one must never underestimate the value of arrow fodder.
The phrase of unknown origin was stuck in Tallos's mind, repeating itself.

For once Kelgun had no answer. His expression had gone stern, and he eyed the riders untrustingly.

“Surely you heard the drums and knew their meaning? A man atop a battle-scarred destrier must know a call to arms, no? And be eager to join the battle for the good of the kingdom and the realm?”

“What makes you so sure your side fights for the good of the realm?” asked Kelgun, but his question was met with only a grin.

The remaining halberdiers came to a halt. Wilkin was out of earshot by now, still headed toward the city at his methodical pace.
He will not be throwing himself upon these halberds, it seems.

“Wherever did you find such an ugly squire?” asked one of the other men.

“The Mountain's tits,” cried another. “I believe that boy has tits in kind!” The four men-at-arms erupted in laughter.

“Let her alone!” It was not her noble knight who had come to her defense, but her weakling brother. The men paused a moment in consideration of his request and renewed their laughter.

“Come, all of you,” said their leader. “King Veront of Rivervale has need of your services, meager though they may be.”

For a man that has seen battle,
thought Tallos,
he does not appear to have a proper respect for those whose bodies will shield him from his enemies' arrows.
His dry humor served as little comfort as they were escorted toward the sound of the drums.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So this is what happens to men who lower their arms.

In the many years he and Titon had fought beside each other, Titon had never dropped his weapons and surrendered. The prospect was as laughable as it was appalling. What danger could be so great as to cause Titon to expect defeat? The man saw a path to victory in the most absurd situations, and no matter how small that opening may be, always somehow managed to squeeze his colossal frame clean through it.

That had not been the case as the several dozen armored guards wielding swords, halberds, spears, and shields closed ranks about them. The weight of the guards' chainmail and weaponry seemed to shake the ground as they marched in step to surround them.

Titon had reached for his knife slowly, and Keethro assumed—as he always did—that Titon intended to kill the largest of them first. But when Titon's hand released the blade into the dirt instead of flicking it toward the skull of one of the guards, Keethro was perhaps more terrified by what this capitulation meant than he had been of his likely imminent death.

Galatai were not taken prisoner. Their battles with the Dogmen had never posed threat of capture. Their only other foe was other Galatai, and they had sacred laws against allowing defeated clansmen to live in dishonor. The prospect of being taken captive had simply not existed. This strange land had changed all of that, and moreover, it seemed to have changed Titon. It was as if he'd grown soft or simply desperate to live in order to find the remedy for his wife and confirm his sons' conquests.

Keethro had found it harder to drop his own knife than it seemed Titon had. He clung to it in confusion until the neck of a guard's spear smashed his wrist, releasing him from both his daze and the hold on his blade.

They were underground now, imprisoned. The conditions were almost comfortable for Keethro, but he imagined Titon must be cramped. They were well fed, and more importantly, they were together. Twice a day they'd exchange trays with a guard through a slot in the door. Then they'd sit and eat their ample provisions of stale bread, cheese, and dried meats, the only sounds coming from their chews and gulps.

With their pride shattered, there was little of which to speak. For several miserable days they'd sat in near silence. They could certainly not recall stories of past triumph from within a cell, and given that they had just surrendered themselves to this fate, the thought of immediately planning escape was a bit absurd.

“Did we indeed avoid conscription?” It was Titon who broke the quiet.

“I would be better able to answer the question if I knew what this conscription even was.” Keethro continued to scratch a trench with the heel of his boot in the floor of hardened sand. “Hopefully we are not in here on account of merely avoiding some ceremonial hand bath.”

“The Mighty Three damn them. Why cannot these southern men speak their meaning plainly? It is as if we use a different tongue entirely at times.”

It was good to have his friend speaking again, but it also brought with it unexpected thoughts.
There was a time when I wanted to see you like this, crushed and driven into the belly of the earth so that I could take your place. How did I let Kilandra convince me you were anything but a brother?
Somehow the idea of it was more painful than their current confinement, and Keethro was desperate to keep Titon speaking, if only to avoid being left alone with his thoughts.

“They are feeding us well,” Keethro said. “My question is
why
? Why are we being so well cared for when there were so many who appeared to be starving in the streets above?” Keethro nursed his wrist as he spoke. It was the type of fracture too small to require bracing lest he suffer embarrassment worse than the injury. It would simply have to mend during continued use.

“That I also do not know. I seem to be growing duller the farther south we travel.”

Keethro chuckled. He considered avoiding the topic altogether, but his fear of silence drove him to it. “That
was
a foolish thing you did back there.”

Titon grunted in anger. “Who are you to call me foolish for avoiding an unwinnable battle after having yourself turned us from the more obvious path of heading straight for Strahl? Their guards were like to have had lesser armor than these men. They were so covered in steel it was surprising their meager frames could withstand the weight.”

Keethro shook his head. “No, I do not mean that. That was an unwinnable battle. You will get no argument from me there. I mean the swindler who would have taken you for all your gold, had the cutpurse not beaten him to it. You realize he was selling a thief's promise?”

“Yes,” Titon let out with a pained sigh. It was some time before he continued. “But I would pay all the gold I have and ever will have for even the slightest chance of bringing her back.”

“Well, we do not have any gold now, nor do I think we'll have any soon.” Keethro made a vague gesture toward their surroundings. “In the case that we do, let me do the dealing so that we can afford the wares of multiple charlatans and increase our odds of finding an elixir that works. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough. If that time ever comes.”

“
When
the time comes we'll want to be ready. I recommend we make the best use of this food and drink while we have it to keep our strength up. Some exercise would do us good as well.”

Titon leered at Keethro. “I am not sure what kind of exercise you think we have room for in this tiny box, my friend, but I assure you, we have not been in here quite long enough for your charms to have any such effect on me.”

For the moment, they did not seem so much prisoners given the way they laughed and ate.
If we can keep our spirits, we may keep our lives
, Keethro thought, though he knew they were just as likely to die in this box of torrid stone and sand.

The many days spent below ground had been monotonous at best. Galatai warriors were not meant to live in cages, and it was obvious to Keethro that it was taking a horrible toll on Titon. They still ate well and managed to retain their strength, but Titon was no longer as eager to do any training. His only exercise consisted of spending a good five minutes of every hour kicking at the door of their cell in an attempt to loosen its iron hinges. He had not yet made any progress, nor did Keethro expect him to break anything but his leg striking such a door.

The past half a day had been different, however. Up until recently there was nothing to be heard outside their enclosure. Keethro had no idea just how deep underground they had been taken, but the previous peace had made it feel quite deep. That had changed when they heard sounds of great rumbling from above, as if some colossal rock was being slid across the naked ground, pulled by a hundred oxen. It might have been a frightening sound, had they not been so utterly bored. Even Keethro found himself thinking like Titon, more willing to face whatever made that noise than to continue in the tedium of this purgatory.

“Those are cheers?” Keethro asked.

“It is wind, no more. Though I like to hear those sounds of the outdoors. It has been far too long since I have heard the trickle of the stream that runs by my home.” Having said that, Titon began to kick at the door again, the thud of his foot and the clang of the hinges became all Keethro could hear.

“No, stop. …Listen.”

Titon snorted, kicked once more, then sat down and was quiet for a moment. “The wind I tell you.”

“No, it is a massive—”

The sound of approaching footsteps silenced Keethro. This was soon followed by the heavy clanking of their door being unlocked for the first time since they'd been shut inside. Keethro felt his racing heart in his throat.

The sharpened points of spears appeared in the door opening, followed by the guards who held them.

“Out with you!” shouted one.

Keethro shrugged his shoulders at Titon and was the first out the door. His big friend lumbered behind him.

“Where are we going?” Keethro asked.

The half-dozen guards snickered as they continued to direct them forward at spearpoint. Keethro was pleased to see the path slanted upward. He did not think he could stand to be deeper beneath the surface. The leader of the guards finally hinted at their fate. “You go to face the dragons.”

Keethro was optimistic about their chances of being able to kill quite a few of the large river beasts, so long as they were on land and properly armed, but the glee with which the guard had spoken made him feel as though they would be in for something far worse.

Titon, on the other hand, seemed unaffected. “We have slain dragons before.” He spoke with the unimpassioned candor of a man who truly had. Keethro saw no need to remind him that they merely injured a
river
dragon—a beast that regularly found its way on to the plates of these Southmen.

“I don't think you'll be killing any today,” said the lead guard, inciting more snickers from his easily impressed underlings.

The small tunnel through which they had been traveling opened wider and taller as they continued. Eventually they came to a pair of massive doors. Standing no less than five men in height, they looked to Keethro the type of doors mortal men were only meant to pass through once. Just in front was a motley group of men under the watch of another small force of guards with spears.

Keethro and Titon were prodded until they too were within the group. The men among them ranged from the thin, agile-looking type, to the massive—one even larger than Titon.
These men look as if they should be accompanied by a stench
, Keethro thought, wondering why they did not.
Perhaps it is I most in need of a bath.

The guards had all ceased speaking and stood disciplined and battle ready, their spears pointed at the group of men as if expecting them to turn and run at any moment.

It
had
been cheers they'd heard from their cell, though even now they sounded too numerous to be real, more like an angry storm than so many blaring voices.
I do not believe it is us they cheer for.

The chains attached to the upper corners of the doors went taut and began to hoist them open with a familiar scraping sound. The moment the doors began to move, the cheers reached crescendo.
Perhaps they are cheering for us after all
, he teased himself, knowing full and well that it must be their horrific death they so eagerly anticipated.

The light that shone through the crack between the doors was blinding, causing all of them to cower behind their own arms. The thick smell of animal dung was quick to follow, assaulting them yet again, though less violently than the light.

Spears at their backs pushed them forward through the still-moving doors to an overwhelming sight. The ground before them sloped up into the arena, which was long and narrow, not much wider in fact than the doors. The doors were halfway under the ground level, and as the group of men were forced upward and out, Keethro saw that the sides of the arena were over three men in height and made of smooth stone that would be impossible to scale. Multiple wooden fences reaching to his shoulder ran lengthwise down the center of the field—a field so long that it would be difficult to sprint across its entire length. All that paled in comparison to the enormity of the crowd, however, the thunder of their ovation serving to remind Keethro of his insignificance.