They repeated the procedure with Arron, without issue—other than the updraft wafting his aroma to their nostrils. Several bags of weapons and supplies were then lowered, followed by the remaining men. Some required time to rest halfway down, signaled by two tugs, and the rest made it to the bottom just as Decker had. Then Titon was alone with the four that would remain.
“Time for His Royalness to go,” snickered Griss, Galinn and Hallon joining him with smirks of their own. “Don’t slip on any loose rocks now.”
Titon was suddenly grateful for Decker’s previous threat. He thought of reminding them of it, but decided against it as it would make him look a weakling.
“Just remember all the signals,” Titon said, “and we will all return home with the glory of victory. Pray I make it safely as well, as I may be the only one who knows the route home.”
“The Mountain’s strength and the River’s deftness be with you on your raids,” said Dicun. “We will wait for you up canyon and help you to carry the plunder, brother.”
“Aye.” Titon was happy to at least have one man atop who did not want to see him dead. He tried to ignore the knots in his stomach while he lowered himself over the edge.
The hardest part of passing the edge of the cliff to begin his descent was done, but no longer spurred by the faces of his peers, Titon found himself gripped with an uncertainty that bordered on terror. He gave two hurried tugs on the thin line, justifying the cowardly action to himself as merely a test of the response time of those above. His progress halted, and he could hear their laughter above.
The wind and the cold had only increased as each man had been lowered, and it grew dark as well. Gusts of air whipped up the mists from below, moistening his skin and freezing him to the point of sharp pain. He was already concerned about retaining full and proper use of his hands and knew he was better off descending with quickness. One tug later and he was once more being lowered, into the throat of the mist eager to swallow him, making it impossible to see even the rock wall just beneath his feet.
Titon panicked again as he realized there was no longer any tension on his harness line. He cursed the men above in his mind, too scared to make any actual sound, and attempted to concentrate on a way to survive. All his weight was now supported by his hands and legs wrapped around the static line. If they had released the harness line he would need to slide down the static line the remainder of the way, and he had barely gone any distance at all. He would run out of strength and die unless he slid painfully fast. He refused to slide down, however, fearing the rope burns, and started to lower himself carefully under the power of his arms. He was then stricken with the realization that if they wanted him dead—and they must if they had released the harness line—they would now be cutting the static line. Titon pictured what must be unfolding above: Dicun subdued by Galinn as Griss sawed strand by strand with a knife through the thick rope, Hallon merely looking on in horror. Titon loosened his grip, determined to slide down as fast as possible.
The jolt he received as his momentary plunge was halted by his harness shocked him.
You fool, he thought to himself. They had done as instructed and stopped feeding the harness line due to lack of tension as Titon clung to the static line so forcefully in his fright that he’d ceased descent. I must put my trust in them and place weight upon my harness or I will not have the strength to reach the bottom. He did as his thoughts commanded but kept his mind sharp in case he had to grab hold and stop a sudden fall. And thank you, Dicun, he added, in the case that Dicun’s threats were all that kept Griss from treachery.
A rock came up beneath him without warning and bent Titon’s ankle in an odd way. He jerked in surprise and pain, but could tell it was only a sprain. Such a minor thing would not have bothered him much on land, but every injury, no matter how small, seemed to foretell disaster at this height. Titon wondered if all the men had hit that very rock and injured themselves as such, then pictured Decker shoving himself away from the cliffside and enjoying every moment of his conquest. Only an imbecile could take pleasure in this, he reasoned with himself, secretly wishing for some of Decker’s witless confidence.
After what felt like an endless ordeal, Titon heard hollering from below. The men had seen him as the mist gave way at the bottom and cheered. They were no doubt eager to begin what now had the potential to be the greatest raid their people had seen since the times when his father still led them.
TITON
“So where exactly are we headed?”
It had been several days since their scuffle at the inn, and Titon had noticed a marked improvement in his friend’s demeanor. Keethro seemed more eager to get in a few gibes of his own on Titon, and they were gladly received.
“South.” Titon’s response coincided with his march.
The terrain had changed as they headed out of foothills and into rolling plains. The ground was so flat and dry it was unnatural, and the path they walked was straight enough to see for miles down its barren length. On either side of them the vegetation varied between patches of thick spruce forest and open stretches of nothing but tall grass.
“Do you perhaps have a particular kingdom you would wish to see along the way?” Keethro asked in good humor.
Together they knew about the lands to the south what every Galatai knew, which was very little. They knew they shared the continent with at least two great kingdoms, one that was said to be of the rivers and the other of a great delta at the foot of the Eos.
“I would hope to find the kingdom of the delta, but I will settle for the kingdom of the rivers if we come across it first. It makes no difference to me where we find the proper elixirs, so long as we find them.”
“Would it be too soon to ask for help finding such places?” Titon did not need to look at Keethro to know he’d posed the question with a jovial expression.
They had their reasons for not yet seeking aid in direction. The farther north they were, the more likely the people were to be frightened of Northmen, yet toward the south, Titon’s appearance would be more of an oddity than an immediate threat. They also simply did not wish to look foolish. More specifically, Titon did not wish to look foolish. Keethro had wanted to ask someone for guidance for some time now, not that they’d had many such opportunities.
“No, I suppose not. We will ask the next traveler we see.”
“Ha,” replied Keethro. “Fair enough.”
Since having left Phylan they had seen only one other pair of travelers. It looked to be a man and a child, but they did not get close enough to see. Titon and Keethro had separated from the trail by several miles while the two went past. Better to have fewer people see where they were headed in case word got out about a handsome man and a giant having killed some thugs in a dirty inn.
He would not let Keethro see, but Titon himself was growing impatient. Capable though they were at hunting and foraging for food, Titon would have preferred the expedience of simply buying some. Their coin purses, heavy-laden from years of raiding Dogmen, were of little use in these lifeless plains. Titon estimated the near three hundred and fifty marks they had started with would keep them fed for a few months, if not years. Some reassurance that they were headed toward an inhabited location would have been welcome, as the path they traveled gave no such indication.
Hours later, the Dawnstar’s glow turned the plains of tall grass to a sea of gold.
“Our goats would grow fat in such a place,” said Keethro.
“Hmph…” Titon stopped to look around. “So would we. Winter is taking root, yet there is snow only on the fingers of the pines.”
Keethro continued down the path a ways but stopped as well, turning to face him. “Perhaps a fourth god exists in these lands, a god of fire who warms the very ground.”
Titon scowled with honest anger. Keethro was never one to show much respect for the Mighty Three, and Titon was no fan of his blasphemy. You’ll condemn us both with such speech.
Keethro apologized quickly. “
A foolish thing to say and said in jest. There are surely only three, and we will need their support if we are to brave this path without dying of boredom.”
Having received no response, Keethro dropped all jocularity and raised his hands in innocence, but Titon’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. “I meant no disres—”
“Do you see that?” Titon pointed past Keethro into the distance.
“What kind of beast is that?” asked Keethro.
The two men stared down the road at silhouettes they could not identify. There were no animals in the North that would give a pair of armed Galatai warriors cause to run and hide, but these were larger than a full-grown elk, and there were several of them. By the time they realized the silhouettes were those of men upon beasts it was obvious they too had been spotted.
“We should hide in the grass. These are not men I would seek direction from,” said Keethro.
“It is too late for that. If they mean us harm they will pursue us.” Titon resumed moving forward to meet them, hoping for the best.
“Halt.” The man atop his horse spoke with authority. Though there were none in the Northluns, Titon knew of horses and had realized what they were upon getting close enough to see their manes.
Keethro and Titon obeyed. Perhaps halt is a common greeting in the South, but I do not like this man’s tone, thought Titon.
“Hello, men,” said Titon, his voice making the horses uneasy. There were three riders, armed with spears. Their horses were adorned with fabric bearing an identical scene of the Dawnstar rising above grassy plains, its rays emanating in all directions.
“Who goes there?” asked the same man.
Titon looked at Keethro who shrugged.
“We are headed to the kingdom of the delta.” Titon hoped his response would answer the man’s question.
“I don’t have time for games. Who the feck are you?”
“I am Titon son of Small Gryn—who the feck are you?” Titon roared back. He was not used to being treated like an impotent fool, nor did he intend to start getting used to it.
“I’m the law out here, you common shit. Now throw down your arms or I’ll stick you like the giant boar you are.” The man raised his spear as if ready to strike, and his two companions did the same.
Titon suddenly wished he had brought his axes. Both he and Keethro had left them behind for fear of attracting too much unwanted attention. A hunting bow and knives were all the weaponry they had, but Titon figured they would have some spears soon enough the way this was headed. He was more concerned about the horses than the men. I wonder if they bite.
Titon yelled and charged, driving his shoulder into the chest of the lead man’s horse. Rather than biting a chunk out of Titon’s neck, the horse reared, sending the rider crashing to the ground with such violence that he was not like to be of any threat for the moment.
The second man, a boy no older than Titon’s sons, moved forward on his horse, shouting something about the light. Titon retrieved the fallen man’s spear in time to parry the boy’s attack, at which point his senseless yelling turned into girlish shrieks. An arrow had sprouted from his eye, and Titon wasted no time finishing him with a spear through his soft leathern tunic.
The third man was already galloping away from them on his horse. Titon stumbled for his bow but had lost his arrows in the commotion. Keethro looked to be gauging the wind as he took his time aiming at the fast-riding man, finally loosing an arrow. The metal of the sharpened tip flickered as it spun, catching the Dawnstar’s low rays. The arrow arced downward, finding a home far to the right of its intended target in some distant grass. Keethro shrugged as Titon stared at him in disbelief.
“You know I’m better with axes,” said Keethro.
“You shot that one right in the eye.”
“I was aiming for his chest,” said Keethro with enough candor to be believed.
Watching the man gallop into the setting Dawnstar, no doubt going to raise a small army, Titon had to laugh.
The man who was thrown off the horse, the mouthy one, was still alive, wheezing noisily. Titon approached him and put the spearpoint to his neck as he lay on his back.
“Who is your king?” Titon demanded.
The man looked confused. “You are?”
Keethro chuckled, but Titon was already losing patience. “What kingdom are you from, and who rules it?”
“I am from Castle Strahl…” Titon pushed the spear hard against his neck to get him to hurry. “We are part of Kingdom Rivervale where Duke Veront sits. But King Lyell rules both kingdoms from the Adeltian Throne. He is king.”
It sounded a bit too complicated to be believable, and Titon was afraid the man was trying to make a fool of him.
“Where will I find elixirs?” Titon asked him.
“Elixirs?”
Titon was at his wit’s end and plunged his spear through the man’s bowels. He screamed out in pain and pleaded for Titon not to kill him.
“Where would I go if I wanted to have you healed?” he asked the man.
“A mender, please, take me to a mender!”
“Where, you damn fool?” Titon cried in anger.
“Strahl!”
“What direction?” Titon asked, eager to finally be getting some useful information.
The man pointed toward where he and his friends had come, the same way Titon and Keethro had already been traveling.
Titon drove the spear through the man’s skull with a crunch. “We go to Strahl.”
ALTHER
“And I would never awaken?” Alther asked.
“Those afflicted with slumberskull are doomed to a life of foul dreams.” The elderly mender roughly placed his fingers about Alther’s head while he spoke. “Or so we assume, since none awaken.” A stab of pain went through Alther as the man pressed a bruised part of his scalp. “Please, be still.”
“He was a madman,” Alther overheard Crella say to the handful of members of The Guard in the other room. “He ripped the necklace off and struck me… Yes, his hand… Then he absconded—he ran… No, I did not recognize… Well, I suppose it could have been… I do not know all of the estate staff…”
“There are no signs of fracture,” said the mender. “But you did suffer a good blow. You’ll need to listen and remember my instruction—”
“Crella,” Alther called to his wife.
“You should not raise your voice or exert yourself in any way,” scolded the mender.
Crella entered the living area hurriedly. In addition to some minor bruising, she had a worry upon her face that was almost believable. “Will he be all right?” she asked of the mender.
“I was just explaining to your husband that he must remain awake for a full day, no less. I will have a tea brought that will aid in the task. A bitter tea, but it should be sipped regularly. Also…”
Enduring bitterness is a task I am adept at, thought Alther as the mender rattled on for several minutes.
“The tea,” Crella said, “would there be any harm in my sharing in it?”
Alther found Crella’s explanation of what had occurred—far fetched as it was—more plausible than the idea that she meant to stay up with him out of selfless concern. Alther had awoken after what she said was the better part of an hour, surrounded by guards. Her pearls were strewn about the floor, and she was overly distraught, repeating often how unfortunate it was that Stephon had so recently departed to stay with some of her friends, as he surely would have slain the assailant.
“It would do no harm,” said the mender.
Hours later when the commotion had subsided and the two of them were left alone, she explained.
“I did not want them assigning you some little tart to stay with you all through the night.”
Crella sat across from him in their living room, her cup approaching her lips and the plate in her hand unfortunately obstructing the view of her bust. Had I ever told her that was my favorite of her dresses? he wondered, admiring how the thin fabric
revealed form without baring skin.
“No, I suppose not,” Alther replied, a devious smile growing on his face. “For all your flaws, you never had an issue keeping me roused.”
Something about having been told by a mender that he might never wake had given Alther new license. Should this be his last conscious night, he had no intentions of spending it in fear of his wife’s rejections. After her charade with the questioners, in stark contrast with her current look of concern that appeared somehow honest, Crella no longer seemed so much the imposing Adeltian princess that he had always known. She is perhaps as vulnerable as any other.
“I am afraid you have had your wits knocked from your head. That is no way to speak to a lady.” Crella took a hastened sip of her tea, clearly bothered. “And of what flaws exactly do you speak?”
“Oh, I would not wish to name them all. We are only to remain awake for one full day,” he said, wondering in amazement why he’d never taken this tack before.
She blushed with anger. “I would slap you if not for your recent trauma. You have no right—”
He stood dismissively to interrupt. “I believe the heir to the throne can speak to his wife in any way he pleases. You forget your place.”
“I am an Adeltian princess. Daughter of King Adellos II.”
“That you are. But he is dead, and so is your aunt. It is my father, King of Rivervale, who now sits atop the throne. And without me you are just another pretty Adeltian girl. Have I not treated you well? And treated your daughter as if she were my own?”
It was incontrovertible that he had. Ethel was just a toddler when they were married, and Alther played the part of father well despite the embarrassment it caused and advice from his father to the contrary. Ethel, now nearly eighteen, lived in the Adeltian Throne where she attended a school for manners with other debutantes, all paid for by Alther.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 17
