The Axe and the Throne (63 page)

The two guards executed their command, both looking relieved to no longer be the bodies of interest. One grabbed Annora's upper arm, and the other attempted to pry Eaira from Ethel's clothing. The little girl put up a powerful fight as she clung to her surrogate mother, but Cassen's focus was on Ethel herself. The hatred in her eyes was transparent, and he was not surprised when she bolted forward as soon as Eaira's small hands lost their grip.

Ethel was no great threat, but she sprinted toward where Stephon sat with the ferocity of a wild animal protecting her young. Sture cowered as she neared him, though he was not her target. The shine of a blade caught Cassen's eye as she came within a few paces of the throne, and Cassen stepped in front of his king, grasped her wrist that held the weapon, and easily broke her momentum.

“I will kill you if you hurt either one of them,” shrieked Ethel. She fought Cassen's grip with all her vigor, but she was no match. Cassen was confronted with an inexplicable feeling of disgust as he recalled how her mother had fought so similarly.

Stephon had a good bout of laughter at the spectacle as his two guards hurried toward Ethel in their heavy armor. Cassen removed the knife from her hand himself, not trusting the two idiots to be up to the task without harming her. They each took an arm and dragged her back down the few steps she had climbed that lead to the throne.

“Saved by a eunuch. I do appreciate the gesture, Cassen, but in the future, when a woman charges me, just allow it. It would have entertained me to see if she even followed through with her pathetic attack or merely cried at my feet.”

“I would have killed you,” Ethel yelled in defiance, and she did not stop there. Her threats and screeching acrimony continued as she thrashed violently while the guards held her.

The young king rubbed his temples in protest. “Peace's mercy. Please take her away. Lock her in the throne chambers so that we may proceed here.”

The guards returned shortly after dragging Ethel off, her shrieks completely deadened by the thick doors of the room tucked behind the throne. Eaira had attempted to clutch on to Annora the same way she had been to Ethel, but Annora had made the girl hold her hand instead. The spite in Annora's eyes must have been mostly for Stephon, but the fraction of it that was for Cassen was enough to make him feel almost guilty.
You haven't anything to fear, my little Spiceland runaway. This charade will be over soon enough.

It was Eaira that Stephon now addressed. “Little girl, please listen to what I have to say as it is incredibly important. Come here first so that I may speak to you without raising my voice.”

The girl looked to Annora who nodded slightly. She had no choice after all; Ethel's attack had demonstrated the futility of rebellion. Eaira walked with caution toward the throne, looking back to ensure Annora was still there. When she was a few paces away, Stephon resumed.

“Your friend over there is going to need your help in a moment. This boy that you know, Sture, has accused her of a crime and will be attempting to punish her for it. You have my permission to stop him—if you can—using whatever magic or powers that are at your disposal. Do you understand?”

The girl gave no indication that she did. Instead, tears welled in her eyes.

“This is rather silly,” said Stephon. “I am inclined to believe you were right about Derudin's writings, Sture. In any case, you may go ahead and perform whatever dark arts upon her you wish in order to have your revenge.”

A most sincere smile stretched across Sture's face.

“Your Grace,” Cassen interjected. “It may be wise to conduct this test on someone who might actually be able to otherwise defend themselves. It is no great feat to kill a weakling girl, even if performed by a weakling boy.” Sture looked at Cassen with contempt.

“Perhaps my quote should be amended to include ‘she is the one without genitals who pleads for mercy.' As my First you owe allegiance to me before this little trollop you call daughter. And I wish to see her die to magic.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Cassen said, doing his best to hide his growing anger. “Her fate is of no consequence to me, but harming a daughter of the Spicelands will only complicate our dealings with their people. This girl was to be the wife of a king before I purchased her. Her death will not go unnoticed.”

“I do not
misunderstand
anything,” said Stephon. “Should Sture fail to kill her, she may yet be wife to a king, or at least share his bed for a spell, for I might wish to sample her Spiceland treasures. Then, I may very well cut the skin from her frame and write upon it a letter of apology to the primitives of the Spicelands for having debased her. And should they take issue with my sincere apology, I will send a fleet of warships to the shores of their little islands and take by force that which those before me have so generously bartered for.”

“Apologies, Your Grace. I see you have thought this through far more than I have, and I yield to your wisdom.” There was no reason to explain to Stephon that he had no fleet of warships—that the many ships that crowded the port cities' docks, many of which were armed with defunct catapults in an attempt to scare off Spicerats, were actually owned by Spiceland and Adeltian merchants.

“As you should. Sture, please continue. And be quick about it.”

Sture motioned for the guards to seize Annora's arms, and after they did so, he moved forward and placed his hand upon the center of her chest.
If this knave is merely using this opportunity to touch his first breast, he will certainly regret it.
Stephon would not be overjoyed if all this effort caused the victim nothing more than embarrassment.

And just as Cassen had suspected, nothing much happened. He watched Annora's eyes intently since all he could now see of Sture was his back. She still had within her all her strength and defiance. A boy's hand upon her chest was not enough to unnerve her, nor apparently was the threat of some gruesome death by magic. Cassen found himself admiring her just as he had the night she had recounted her tale of defending herself against Emrel—the man Cassen had given her to for the express purpose of being violated. Cassen quickly pushed that thought aside.

Her expression began to change, albeit slowly. Her defiance melted away, replaced with confusion. She was not the only one confused, though. The guards holding her exchanged troubled looks when what appeared to be smoke began to rise from between Sture and her.
What sort of device did that boy slip into his hand? Will it be enough to truly harm her or just produce some smoke?
Cassen wondered.
And why should I care?
Cassen reminded himself that he would gladly sacrifice a hundred of the girls he had been calling daughters in exchange for the consummate victory that was so close at hand.

Cassen turned his attention to the king he would soon depose with the help of the Satyr. Stephon gripped the large wooden arms of his throne tightly and leaned forward, sniffing the air. The smoke was no illusion. Cassen could smell it as well. Stephon's look of hunger irritated Cassen, but he found a way to comfort himself.
Let the idiot believe he has the power of true magic at his disposal. It will make his defeat all the sweeter.

A whimper turned Cassen's attention back to the scene in front of him. It was not the little girl as he had hoped. Eaira had her face hidden in her hands, and she certainly did not look to be invoking any magic of her own to save her friend.

It was Annora who had made the sound, and as Cassen looked upon her he felt something inside him revolt. Bile made its way up his throat and into his mouth, but he swallowed it down and hardened his resolve.
She is a piece of property, paid for and imported from a faraway land. Nothing more.

Annora struggled, her moist eyes glistening in agony, but the guards held her firmly. The smell of charred flesh hit Cassen just as she began to scream. Her cries filled the room as she writhed like a helpless animal caught in a toothed trap.

Again, Cassen looked to Stephon, searching for any indication that he might stop this demonstration short of Sture killing her with whatever instrument he held. Stephon had mentioned his desire to bed Annora—perhaps his fondness went deep enough to wish to spare her. But Stephon's delight was plain to see. To him, this was validation of his curiosity, and he showed no sign of wishing for this triumphant moment to end.

Cassen closed his eyes as his rage built, but it did nothing to stifle Annora's wails, which grew louder and more desperate still.

“Enough!”

A man's strong voice echoed throughout the room. Cassen opened his eyes in search of who had yelled, but he saw no new occupants. His attention went to his hand as he noticed he was gripping something quite tightly. It was Ethel's knife, plunged through the top of Stephon's hand, pinning him to his wooden throne. Stephon's head turned slowly in utter disbelief to face his wound. The boy king was awash with incredulity as his gaze shifted from his bleeding hand to the man who had attacked him, probably wondering what demon had possessed the docile duchess he had so kindly made his First.

All of Cassen's careful planning had been undone with a single thrust—and of his own action, no less.

What have I done?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dawnstar stood low in the darkened sky, taunting Tallos with its presence. He paid it no mind, instead inhaling the sweet-smelling air, enjoying it for the first time since having gone underground. The scent that flooded his nostrils and chest brought back the memory of the day he had first approached Leona as she struggled to wash her family's clothing in the cold.
Some small respite it is that I should die enjoying the same perfume of early winter snow and chimney smoke.

But he was not merely to die. A bonfire had been built for the sole purpose of his destruction. After the men had determined fire to be the only suitable means of snuffing out his existence, a healthy debate had begun over how best to accomplish the task. The typical execution by burning was achieved by simply starting a fire under the prisoner staked above a mass of wood. The dissenters argued that they had seen such burnings take place before, and that the stake often weakened and broke before the flames had consumed the body. Their fear was that Tallos might simply fall to freedom prior to his body being devoured fully by fire and turned to ash—the only way to be sure he'd truly been dispatched. The plan that was settled upon was to first build a massive blaze, chain him to a stake, and hoist him, not above, but directly into the center of the conflagration.

It was perhaps a more humane method, but it made no difference to Tallos. His recollection of the pain he'd endured when setting his own home alight had not faded so much as the scars that it had left. And those scars were as clear and gruesome to his own eyes as they were to the many who stared at him.

It was no mystery to him why they thought him a demon—it was, after all, exactly what he had intended to become. But his failure in that task was now utterly complete. The fact that he'd eaten human flesh meant little. He imagined most would have done the same if faced with starvation. The taste was far from unpleasant, and it was made easier for him, able to eat in the comfort of darkness.

There was, however, a mystery that Tallos now pondered. As he sat naked, cold, and in chains, kept alive only by the heat of the fire that would soon kill him, he could not help but wonder how this camp existed as it did. Of the hundred or so men here, he counted no more than a dozen who were those in charge of conscription. The rest all complied with the orders of these few men, their new masters, as if there was no alternative. The men of the village had even been armed with swords and shields and received instructions on their proper use. Should they choose to, the armed villagers could easily overwhelm the few who had originally forced them into this fate worse than slavery—for slaves were not marched into death with the same haste that Otis promised his conscripts, giving these men even more cause to fight.

“Otis, make sure your miserable recruits are alert in case we have need of their blades.” Gepner had remained in command and had been barking orders ever since Tallos was deemed a demon. “Erik, go get the scribes from notes and queries, all of them. Half of them probably can't write worth a damn, and I want what takes place here kept record of.”

The skinny man that ran to fetch the scribes shared little in common with the Erik Tallos had known. He tried to remember his large, red-speckled friend, but every image formed in his mind was of Erik clutching his neck, blood spurting from between his fingers.
How much of that was my fault, and not the gods'?
Little difference it made now, but little differences seemed to be what consumed his thoughts—and what likely consumed all men's thoughts before dying, Tallos imagined.

When the wind shifted, the heat of the bonfire became more than Tallos wanted or needed for warmth, awakening his deadened skin in anticipation of the torture that awaited him. Tallos reminded himself that he had lost everything, and with nothing left to lose, he no longer had need of fear. But the crackling pyre with flames reaching overhead made clinging to this notion rather difficult.

Near a hundred village men with shields and swords in hand were lined up next to the bonfire. Otis stood in front with a look of reproach. Tallos's ordeal had kept Otis from his intended time with Lily, Gepner having ordered him and his conscripts to keep vigil over the captured demon. Though Otis stood a fortress in his water-hardened leather, Kelgun had shown the man to be mortal. Twenty or so recruits would be more than enough to topple him and find a seam in his armor or smash his helmless head.

The four mounted men-at-arms were in their own group, chatting amongst themselves, butts still in their saddles. Occasionally they would all glance at Tallos and laugh or frown. These men presented the biggest threat should the villagers rebel. Their long-pointed halberds were the perfect weapons for dispatching unarmored foes from a distance. If the villagers were to acquire the weapons for themselves, however, they would serve equally well for countering the mounted men, pulling them down with the hooked side or merely impaling their charging horses with the sharpened tip.

A slow procession of old men with quill jars and parchment followed the man called Erik back to his place at Gepner's side. Tallos found he was relieved to see Wilkin was among them and unharmed. Another group of villagers, mostly women and children, streamed in from the opposite direction. Tallos thought he saw Dusan and Lily among them, but he could not be sure. He scanned the infantry in hopes of finding John but saw no sign of him. Tallos had seen him removed from the gibbet far sooner than expected and hoped he would have gone directly into infantry without further punishment.
The more friendly faces, the better my chances of escape.
Tallos realized he had no intention of dying without a fight.

It seemed the time had come. The two mailed men who had cast aside their weapons in order to fashion Tallos's crossed stake had completed the task. They spoke quietly to each other, glancing nervously toward Tallos.

Gepner approached. “Stop your gossiping and break the demon's chains near the ground.”

“Shouldn't we stake him first?” asked one of the stake's proud constructors.

“Just do as I ask,” Gepner spat, then looked to Tallos smugly. “There's been a change in plan. Otis, have a few of your recruits wheel over the gibbet.”

Tallos did not need any more reason to hate this provisioner. His loathing had grown by bounds when Gepner had begun to pray to the Mighty Three shortly after passing judgment on Tallos.
Finally I find one deserving of my wrath, but I have little means by which to make him feel it.
Tallos's fate rested solely in the hands of the villagers. With the hundred or so that had just joined the onlookers they were easily two hundred strong, whereas there were only nine of those who commanded them present.

Tallos stood and faced them. “Men and women of the Fourpaws,” he began, “I am not the demon these men have judged me to be.”

“Let me shut him up,” growled Otis. “I want to see a man burn, not hear a boring speech.”

“No,” said Gepner. “Let the demon speak. All can see what he is. We have no reason to fear his words.”

Otis grunted his disapproval.

“I am a Fourpaw man, the same as you. My village was destroyed by a small raiding party of Northmen.”

The two men responsible for Tallos's staking began to bang away at the chains that were anchored into the earth. The noise made it difficult to be heard so he was forced to shout.

“They killed my friends, my wife, and my dog. Everyone I knew was murdered or worse. Everything I ever built or owned was burned to the ground.”

“Then why do you still live?” It was Otis who challenged him. And the question singed Tallos as much as any fire.

“Because I was a
coward
. Just like all of you. I thought to fight, but I hesitated. And then, when the fighting started, I ran.” Tallos had decided to take some liberties with his story, but the sentiment remained. “Had we all raised arms together against the few men who came to destroy us, we would have suffered losses, but we would have won. And those of us who died would not have died in vain. These men who hold you captive are no better than the Northmen that attack us. They come and demand from us our money, our service, our lives, and they offer nothing in return.”

Tallos had expected to see some nodding in the crowd, but they were all motionless. “Do not make the same mistake that our village did and allow so few to destroy so many. You men with the swords—protect your wives and children. Sir Kelgun, show these men what courage is, and lead them against these oppressors!”

The clanging of the men working on his chains stopped. Tallos looked at the group of unarmed women and children, trying to gauge if his words had had the intended effect, expecting at any moment for just one of them to raise a cry causing all others to follow in rebellion. Lily and her brother Dusan were close enough that he could tell for certain it was them. The boy stared at Tallos with sad eyes, but Lily only looked down. Tallos looked at the other faces surrounding them, but they were all much the same. That was to be expected; they were the meek ones—too weak even for arrow fodder.

Tallos looked to the center where the scribes stood. All of them wrote busily save Wilkin. He thought he saw the old man nod at him. Was it a nod of respect or apology? It was impossible to tell. In any case, the scribes would be of no use. Their quills carried no power here.

Tallos turned his attention to the armed villagers. They were motionless as well, save for some fidgeting. It would only take one man to charge Otis and the others would assist him in felling the giant. How many of their friends had they already seen maimed in training? And how many would survive an actual battle? Kelgun had shown courage earlier, and now with the potential aid of so many others there was little reason for him not to attempt one last time, perhaps earning his title of sir in truth. But when Tallos looked at him all he saw was a beaten man whose scorn was directed now at Tallos instead of his captors.
I should not have called him by name. That was foolish.
Tallos searched instead for John. That was a man with true honor, even if he was no swordsman, but he was nowhere to be seen among the many faces.

A deep laughter came forth. Otis had his arms crossed upon his belly and each hearty guffaw pushed them up and down again. He did not even seem to care that he had his back to the mass of armed men that Tallos had just dared to kill him. Nor was it Tallos he truly laughed at. The man knew battle, and he knew the men that waged it bravely. Behind him were no such men; even Tallos could see that now.

“These men fight for Rivervale, not for darkness,” said Gepner. “Put the demon in the cage, and let us see this done with already.”

Tallos tried to imagine what he must look like addressing this crowd of people. Lit by the flames that would soon consume him, covered by self-inflicted scars of a horrific nature, and completely naked, he had just pleaded with them. He wanted to burst into laughter as the two men who had severed his chains grasped him by either arm, but his hatred presided and would not allow it. The fire that he was about to be thrown upon paled in comparison to the one that built within. He loathed the weakness of these people, and loathed himself for having once shared that weakness.

He flexed the muscles of his arms, slowly building tension between the two that held him. His stay underground had withered him and each man to his side was easily stronger than him, but he did not let it impede his struggle. He pulled harder still, fueled by his hatred, he aimed to crush these two men together, but they were simply too strong. They only pulled his arms further outward, painfully so, and attempted to hoist him into the gibbet that had arrived. Tallos grabbed them by their tabards holding as tightly as he could and fought to remain uncaged.

“By the light of the Dawnstar's crack,” one yelled. “Someone help us.”

Otis moved forward with a look of pleasure. His slow, confident stride brought him face to face with Tallos. “Do you think I fear you? I know you are just a man. Now be good, and let them coop you…” Otis put both his hands behind Tallos's skull, lacing his fingers together. “Or I'll be forced to hurt you.”

Otis was moments away from driving his head into Tallos's face, but that was not what bothered Tallos most. The leather-clad behemoth's breath stank of rotten meat, completely replacing the pleasant scent of smoke and snow.
Was it one such as you that raped Leona?
The thought of this smirking pig having his way with her was more than he could bear. Tallos inhaled the putrid air, allowing it to fill him with rancor. He would let his wrath be heard one final time.