The Axe and the Throne (68 page)

Diving to the bottom he opened his eyes. He did not believe fish would live in such a pool, but his hunger drove him in search of whatever food there may be, shelled creatures in particular. Clinging to the bottom were bunches of black mollusks as he'd hoped. They were similar to the ones he and his brother dove for in the mud-bottom lakes during summer, but these had far narrower shells and it was not long before he found they also had a sweeter taste. Titon had taught him the trick to eating them raw which involved first removing the brown sack found inside.
Titon would have been in awe of this place.

The thought drove Decker back underwater where tears could not trouble him. He swam to what looked to be the deepest part and continued as his ears throbbed with pain. The glint of metal caught his eye and he swam farther still, releasing the pressure in his ears with yet another technique learned from his older brother. He could only imagine what might lay at the bottom of a pool in a cave so far north—perhaps he was the first person ever to swim in this lake. Tales were told of dragons that lived in caves, protecting vast fortunes of precious metals and gems.

The thought of returning home with a bounty of gems amused him, if only for the jealous anger it would incite in Kilandra upon him gifting them to his mother. It was possible he could infuriate her further if he gave them instead to a young girl who he would then lay with, but the idea of seduction for the purpose of scheming turned his stomach. He had no desire to become the very thing he loathed in Kilandra. Keethro's sister had warned him before he set off with the woman, but Decker had not heeded her words. “You need fear Kilandra worse than my brother's return. The woman is vile poison wrapped in a flower. Do not trust her.” And in any case, there were no girls, young or otherwise, that he truly cared for in their clan.
Save Red.
The thought almost made him inhale water, but then he saw what had caused the glimmer.

It was a blade, the thick curved edge of what must be an axe. He grasped it and pulled until it came free from its rocky prison, then clenched the hard metal above the handle in his teeth and swam to the surface.

Wading to shore in the shallows, he had time to inspect the weapon. In spite of having been underwater for what must have been some great length of time, it showed no signs of rust. There was no binding to have decayed as the helve, with room enough for three hands, was carved from the rough stem of a massive antler. Decker sliced the air with it as he left the water, impressed with its balance. It was the metal that was most captivating, however. It was odd enough that the blade and neck were a single piece that ran through the length of the handle, but it glowed with such brilliance that it seemed to radiate heat, filling him with warmth and vigor. It had little flex, yet remained near as light as an axe more fit to be thrown.

Breaking from his trance, Decker realized he had been out of the water for some time now.
How long have I been swinging this blade?
It was long enough to become dry, except for his hair, but not long enough for his arms to tire. He dressed himself, eying the resting axe as he did so, wishing to find something less fleeting than air to test his new toy upon.
The River himself, should he find the courage to face me.

After a walk around the perimeter of the pool, ensuring there were no other secrets hidden within, Decker left the refuge of the cave with a renewed zeal, eager to recover the sound of the stream and follow it to its source. The task proved difficult as the wind had picked up, masking the sound of any water. Hanging low in the sky, the Dawnstar burned deep red, an angry red Decker would soon share in mood if he could not find what he sought. He kicked clear the snow on the ground and placed his ear to the ice.

There you are, my nemesis, and weaker than ever.
He tried to determine from where the water flowed, but what he heard made little sense. The trickle seemed to lead in the direction of the cave from which he'd come. What was more, the sound grew ever fainter. A gust of wind knocked a pile of snow atop him, but he remained motionless as it helped him to hear. The stream sounded as if it was dying, its pitch gaining as its intensity lessened.

Do not hide from me you coward!
His silent taunt had no effect. The sound was gone, and in its place, just beneath the howling warning of an oncoming storm, was the creaking of newly forming ice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He studied Annora as she lay on the deck of the bow, chest rising and falling near in rhythm with the motion of the boat on the swell. Though she was not the Adeltian model of beauty that was Crella, he could find no flaw in her appearance. The many diaphanous layers of her skirts had become damp from the spray and clung to her, outlining her sensuous hips and breasts separated by so slender a waist. How tempting it had been for him, surrounded by such youthful beauty, and always forbidden to indulge, having all the power yet keeping constant abstinence. Calling them daughters was his own ill-humor, for they were truly his pets, his toys, his trinkets—delicacies to be consumed at a later date. And yet as he looked at her now, all he felt was fear… Fear that men such as he would be the first they encountered as the wind carried them southward.

Cassen scanned the horizon but saw nothing. They had lost sight of shore soon after raising sail, and that was just more than a day ago. The lack of fresh water was making itself felt like a toddler tugging a mother's dress—and Cassen had no tolerance for toddlers. It seemed neither hot nor cold, yet the humidity forced him to sweat, the ocean continued to cover him with life-sapping salt, and the Dawnstar burnt him with vengeful wrath. Annora was fairing better due to her islander complexion and lack of predisposition to swelter, but even she would be crazed with thirst in a day or two. His own tongue felt as if it was twice its normal size, and he had given up trying to produce any moisture in his mouth.

The solitary swig of the cheap rum he'd finished hours ago had been the best drink to ever cross his lips. A mouthful of seawater would feel so nice, salty though it may be, and he could spit it out after. But he knew better. Daemun's draught, it was called, though most sailors called it demon's or deadman's out of ignorance, making the same mistake they did when naming the abandoned keep far to the east. The story of Lord Daemun was a dark one—one Cassen would rather not recollect, even if he believed it to be mere fabler's fantasy. Still, it helped turn his stomach to the idea of drinking from the sea, and for that he was grateful.

How did you arrive here, you damn fool?
He knew, for he had asked himself more than once already. It seemed he had made mistake after mistake ever since the death of Lyell.
Ever since you murdered him.

Yes, he must not forget that he was now a killer of kings. It gave him strength, having done what most men would tremble at the thought of. Kings were near gods with bottomless purses that afforded them vast amounts of spies and information. Everyone was an informer for the king. When questioned by such authority there were few who would dare lie, except perhaps when posed questions that condemned themselves or their closest kin. And yet Cassen had disposed of such a god-like man the way one might toss aside a worn kerchief.

His fingers stopped their chronic stroking of Crella's fabric as the action met his conscious thought. His mistakes were too grievous to rank, but of all of them, allowing her to fall into Warin's clutches was the worst.
He is a known rapist.
It was the most reviling thought—that Warin might be having his way with her this very moment, and Cassen punished himself by remaining focused upon it.
Is there a more contemptible man in all the realm?
Cassen could certainly think of none. His loathing of Alther had paled in comparison to Warin, for at least Alther was not completely blind to his own ignorance. Warin, on the other hand, was a knife too dull for butter, convinced he was sharp enough for shaving. The memory of when he first confronted Warin about his lady servant returned. Warin had denied the charge in its entirety, claiming he'd never so much as touched her, but he quickly changed his defense.
How long will you be able to pretend your acts with either of them were consensual when I return with the Satyr's army and string a harp with your entrails?

Cassen's thoughts of revenge were enough to calm him, along with the realization that Crella had been Warin's captive for much longer than since he'd taken her north with him. More importantly, marching with an army and his fellow Guard members would not afford him the privacy to do any of the things Cassen feared. Warin would need to maintain his guise of virtue.

Cassen pressed Crella's kerchief deep into his pocket, resolved not to think of her anymore. He forced himself instead to ponder one of his more recent missteps. The fisherman…
How is it that you were outwitted by a lowly docksman, a man so transparent that Annora was able to read and manipulate him with ease?
He looked at her once more, his beautiful and oddly strong daughter.
We are even now, I suppose
, he thought, then scanned the horizon for salvation.

Eyes can play tricks on a person at sea, so Cassen closed them for a count of three before taking a second look in the same direction. Five white spokes protruded from the horizon, same as he had seen before, the same he saw every time the
Maiden's Thief
first came into view. The sight was almost enough to send him to tears, but he laughed instead. “Never leave a mortal enemy who yet draws breath,”—it was a tenet he lived by and had broken having left Stephon struggling with the knife in his hand. It would have been easy to put the boy to death and assure the Satyr's victory, but Cassen wanted Stephon alive for what was to come. The five glorious specks in the distance, gradually becoming triangles, reassured him that he had made the correct decision.

I will let her sleep
, he thought, though the desire to wake her was overwhelming. No doubt Annora would be cheered by the knowledge of their rescue, but she would need all her strength just to handle the stares of the men aboard that vessel. Cassen had never seen the Satyr interact with women but was confident the man would respect Annora, given whom she belonged to.

With a turn of the rudder they were headed east, and slowly at that. Cassen fumbled with the lines on the boom in an attempt to get more speed, concerned only with putting their vessel in the direct path of the Satyr's boat as quickly as possible. He did not need to close his eyes to verify what he saw on the horizon this time, for the massive square sails of the second ship were plain to recognize. The warship was not only closer than the Satyr's ship—it was headed directly toward them.

“Wake,” Cassen said, his voice too scratchy for his panic to show. “Annora, there is trouble.”

She roused like a painting come to life, though Cassen had no time to appreciate the sight. How simpler things would be if she were an ugly toad as he guessed a true daughter of his making would be.

“What could be more trouble than dying of thirst?” She was rubbing her eyes and stretching, her long hair falling down her back.
We should cut that hair
, he thought, but shoved the idea aside like the rubbish it was. Desperation was the last thing they needed to show if they were to survive this ordeal.

“A boat!” Her glee was sickening as she pointed toward the massive ship now only several miles off. “But they are not your friends?”

“Friends of friends, but not the type I'd want to meet. My friends are there,” he said, pointing to the south with his head.

Annora studied the distant sails for a moment. “Your friends' ship looks more menacing than the one that approaches.”

That it may be, but not to us.
“We need to discuss how to best handle this encounter.”

Cassen steered the vessel directly toward the oncoming ship. Satisfied with their trajectory and minutes away from contact, he reached over the side of the skiff and scooped a handful of seawater into his mouth.
I will have death or fresh water soon, the success of which depends on the slickness of my tongue
, he reasoned.

Though he was determined to not be outwitted by another seaman, some serious hurdles remained in Cassen's way. All the logic in the realm may do little good to convince these war-hungry men that Annora was not a mermaid sans tail, sent to them by the gods to do with as they pleased. What was worse, they may not understand a word of his common tongue—Sacarans had their own language.

“Throw a ladder, and be quick about it,” Cassen shouted.

Men with barbed spears attached to ropes lined the bow's railings three men's height above. Cassen and Annora would be hauled upon the ship one way or the other, and Cassen preferred the method that did not require puncture wounds.

Annora climbed first, as they had discussed, and Cassen followed, allowing their skiff to drift off. As greedy hands pulled Annora over the rail, Cassen struggled to remain tranquil—anger he could show, but all panic must be repressed. As he himself was hoisted over the rails, that became difficult.

Of the hundreds that must be aboard, they were greeted by no fewer than ten, two of whose strong arms had pulled Cassen over with the force of malice. They stared at Cassen and Annora—mostly at Annora—while mumbling amongst each other in words that had no meaning. They looked amused. Eager smiles crossed most of their faces, faces covered with dark unkempt beards grown from weeks at sea. All stood Cassen's height or shorter, none of them large men, but all looked to possess a seafarer's wiry strength.

Cassen tried to appear to pay them no mind as he brushed his clothing with his hands. “Fetch water and see our course corrected,” Cassen commanded. “I will have words—”

Annora let out a yelp, and Cassen glanced upward just in time to see that one of the men had squeezed her breast. It was the second time in so many days that one who meant her harm had accosted her in such a way, though this olive-skinned assailer smelling of acrid sweat appeared a far greater threat than had the Adeltian boy.

Cassen turned to another man, this one having the look of authority. “Take that man's hand and feed it to the fish, and I will see that the Satyr does not take your own.” Cassen had no need to fake his disdain, but was purposeful in his self-assuredness. It was a risk calling Sacarat by his informal name as it might be considered slander, but Cassen had already weighed it in his mind.

The man inspected Cassen intently, but did not speak.
He does not comprehend my words.
Cassen widened his eyes, incredulous. “Chop…off…his…
hand.
” He repressed the urge to mime a chopping motion as it seemed beneath a man of Cassen's station—whatever station it was he was pretending to have.

The presumed captain did not break his stare. It penetrated Cassen not unlike Duke Calder's had, but this was a man who hunted men, not animals. These Sacarans were a people who had waited a full millennium to kill, humiliate, and subjugate Adeltians such as Cassen—not be ordered around by them. Cassen returned the man's stolid glare with one of his own, not even contemplating letting his gaze wander from the man's black eyes.

“Amavaeo elmanuus,” the man finally said. No action took place until he turned from Cassen to his men, at which point clamor ensued.

And now we die.