The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1)

by Ireman, M. D.

  “Fecking hell,” he cursed aloud. Had I just freed him the moment he was caught, this would not have happened. His bitterness was amplified by the fact that the frog still had another hand encased in webbing, his fingers stuck together and useless. Keethro could think of no way to free the hand without mangling it as well.

  “Your choice,” Keethro said, opening his own hand. The frog hesitated only a moment before jumping off, and a few hops later his dry skin drank in the river as he swam away. Any pride Keethro had hoped to feel from saving the critter was lost having maimed him in the process.

  Keethro’s pity was short lived. In the distance he could make out what appeared to be a series of boats tied to docks.

  “Titon,” he called, knowing his friend had risen by the lurch of the raft. “A town.”

  A place for trade and barter was as welcome a sight as any, as they were in desperate need of resupply. Having been forced to flee Port Phylan in a hurry, each still had a full purse of coinage that had done little but serve as extra weight. Well over three hundred marks remained after over a month of travel.

  “Wear your best expression of boyish idiocy, and we will see if we cannot fool these people into thinking we are from these parts,” Keethro said. We will look a pair of vagabonds no matter the case.

  The men navigated their raft expertly enough to not cause any collision when pulling abreast the farthest of five boats tied side by side, forming their own extension of the dock. Most of the boats were dinghies with fixed oars, same as the one to which they tied. It was a fine-looking boat for a dinghy, with a keel and two sets of mounted oars.

  “Will they mind us tying off like this?” Keethro would have felt far more comfortable moored directly to a dock, but the few thin docks that existed were completely packed by similar boats, tied beside each other in a series.

  “It appears to be the custom,” said Titon. “I see no better place to tie off, and you intend for us to act like Southmen. I can stay with the raft while you get us some salt and meat. And a damn pot or skillet.”

  The lack of a vessel in which to boil water had taken its toll on them both. This river, while mighty, was a far cry from the clear waters of the streams in the mountains. The results of drinking from it directly were not pretty, and required frequent stops to avoid further polluting the waters.

  Keethro knew it would be a poor decision to leave Titon alone. “Let’s remain together. I have no reason to trust these people yet, especially with a full purse of coins.” And I have a point to prove about that beard.

  Passing by a vendor selling dried fish for two marks per pound, they agreed to purchase some on the way back and proceeded to a shop with plenty of bags and crates of nonperishables in front. Titon already attracted a fair share of sidelong glances, and Keethro knew he was perceptive enough to notice. One does not last as a Galatai clan leader without the ability to sense mistrust and discontent.

  Three shopkeeps worked the counter in the store they’d entered, and it appeared they got the grumpiest of the lot. He was an old man with a decent beard—for a Southman—of gnarly white hair, cut short at the chin but long on either side. He wore a perpetual frown that Keethro guessed was not just for the sake of negotiation. “What do you two drifters want?” he asked.

  Keethro’s eyes went right to the copper pot. “How much for that green piece of rubbish up there? And what is it, some sort of club?”

  “Ten marks for the pot. No less.” The man’s expression did not change.

  It was twice what Keethro wanted to pay, but not a bad starting point. “I will do you a favor, old man, and throw it off the docks for you. Three marks.”

  “Ten marks. No less.”

  Keethro winced. “Do I look like a prince? How much do you expect a drifter can afford to pay for something he could find on the side of the river?”

  “You find me a pot like that on the side of the river, and I will give you three marks for it.” The man’s expression remained, but Keethro was happy to get him into some dialogue.

  “How about that rope?” Titon’s question sounded more like a demand.

  One of the other shopkeeps turned to the third. “Ha, Randal! You owe me a copper. It can speak.”

  Titon glared at the man who just went on about his business, unafraid. Threats of violence do not seem to carry the same weight out here. Must be lawmen nearby, Keethro reasoned.

  Their shopkeep ignored the others. “Fifteen marks for the full coil, twelve marks for the half.”

  “Gah,” said Titon, making a face of disgust.

  “I will just take two pounds of salt then, how much will it be?” Surely these men will not gouge us on salt. In the North certain necessities were never haggled over, salt chief among them. Being so common and yet so essential, if a neighbor needed salt, one would give it to him and expect nothing in return. To do otherwise was unheard of.

  “Twenty marks.”

  Keethro scowled at the man, and Titon growled quite audibly.

  The shopkeep returned their anger in kind. “I do not know where you two oafs come from, the permafrost by the looks of it,” he said, eyeing Titon as if to drive home his point. “But in these parts we have certain customs. You do not cheat a man on salt or fresh water, and if you are accusing me of such, then you can take your business elsewhere. We’re all feeling the pinch of the new prices. I buy salt by the lot for nine marks a pound and sell it by the pound just the same to friends and for a hair more to strangers. And you’re about as strange as they come.”

  The man did not appear to be lying, so Keethro put ten marks on the table to diffuse the situation. “Just a pound, then.”

  With his bag of salt in hand, Keethro said with finality, “And fifteen marks for the full coil and the pot.”

  The shopkeep shook his head, but lacked the genuine anger he had concerning the salt. “You heard my prices.”

  “Let’s go, Titon. We will no doubt find a better price downriver.”

  The shopkeep frowned as if confused by something but was quick to respond. “Eighteen and they’re yours.”

  “Done,” Keethro said, not expecting the man to have come down so far.

  On their way back to their modest vessel, they spent another ten marks on dried fish—dried perhaps by southern standards; it was at best lightly smoked. It would do, however, if eaten quickly. Keethro felt rather accomplished having negotiated a fair price for their hardware while also allowing Titon see how much his beard made him look the Northman.

  His good feelings vanished when they found their raft floating away from the docks. The boat they had tied to was upriver, the two men aboard laughing while they paddled.

  “No more than five boats per mooring,” one shouted.

  “Not that you could call that bundle of debris a boat!” said the other. Their sleek vessel cut through the water with grace, making the possibility of reprisal out of the question.

  “Stay here. I’ll get the raft.” Keethro dove in before Titon could respond.

  After a few minutes of labored swimming, an action he was not adept at, he boarded the raft and attempted to pole back to the docks, finding the river too deep to touch ground. He did his best to paddle with the stick, but it was impossible to tell if he was making any progress.

  “It is no use,” shouted Titon. “You cannot make it.”

  Keethro heard the splash of Titon entering the river as he continued to paddle. If anything it seemed he had drifted farther.

  Aided by the current, Titon stroked with the arm that carried the pot, holding their newly purchased supplies to his chest with his other. He threw the fish, rope, pot, and salt aboard one by one after reaching the boat and hoisted himself up last.

  “The fish is ruined,” he said. “The salt we can salvage.”

  Keethro agreed. He saw no point in mentioning that Titon could have left the supplies on the docks and they paddle the raft back together. He settled instead for words of comfort. “Damn Southmen.”

  �
��I will be happy to drink some boiled water for once though,” said Titon, surprisingly unaffected by the confrontation that had cost them five pounds of fish that he was no doubt eager to sample. “Perhaps my next solid shit will put me in a well-enough mood to think about trimming this bush about my face.”

  Keethro chuckled in approval.

  Most of the fish had to be discarded, having already turned to mush, but they saved some and planned to use it as bait before it began to stink too much. The bag of salt sat drying near the fire, and their second pot of water was nearing a boil. Keethro was ready for a nap and had just stretched out on the thin bed of cloth-covered straw at the back of the raft when he caught sight of the most fearsome structure he had ever seen.

  “Those are no tits of the Mountain,” said Titon, having obviously seen the same thing.

  “No.” Keethro knew what it must be, but the sheer scale of it made it difficult to believe. “So that is a castle.”

  The rounded turrets of the mighty fortress seemed to reach into the clouds. Massive parapets surrounded the turrets and connecting walls, projecting outward in a way that made imagining they had been built by mortal men even more difficult. Titon looked a dwarf in comparison to such immensity.

  “How does such a structure even come to be?” asked Titon with wonder.

  “I do not know. It is incredible.” But Keethro’s true thoughts were much darker. I fear we may be crushed by those men powerful enough to create such a thing.

  TALLOS

  The familiar birdsong of the southern woods filled his ears as Tallos found himself pleasingly surrounded by the crisp winter chill. A light dusting of snow covered the otherwise naked branches of the trees, unmoving in the gentle breeze.

  Nothing but sour oak and scraggy pine grew in these parts, and neither tree was of any use other than for timber or firewood. The acorns of the sour oak were not edible, no matter what was done to them. Even tree rats avoided the acrid fruit, eating instead the seeds in the pines’ armored cones. In spite of this, Tallos continued forward with anxious steps, a bucket in his hand, and hope in his chest.

  Then they saw it. They knew where it was, but each time they came upon it felt like a new discovery. The honey pine had stout, roundish needles. It stood tall among the oaks but short among the other pines. And that was the least of its differences.

  Lia was the first to race to the tree. Having been taught to forgo her natural instinct to squat and pee beside it, she instead ran around it in tight circles, waiting for Tallos and Leona to catch up. At the base of the tree, Tallos was happy to notice that their harvesting pail appeared to be undisturbed beneath the simple knee-high roof that sheltered it from the snow and rain. He reached the tree, crouching to allow Lia to lick his face as he petted her. They had been careful not to tap too greedily into its veins, and looking up the trunk, Tallos could confirm it was as healthy as ever. The deep green of its needles contrasted with the bits of light blue from the sky that managed to peek between its countless limbs and fingers, and the scent was pure bliss.

  Leona was beside him now, and she took over the responsibility of petting their overjoyed accomplice. Tallos carefully removed the pail, replacing it with the one he carried, and looked inside. A finger’s width of thick dark amber pooled at the bottom—a fine harvest. Well pleased, he handed the pail to Leona so she could enjoy the first taste. Her face brightened when she saw how much they had collected. They could have brought it back to town and sold it for a handsome sum, but this was one of their few luxuries, and it had become a tradition for the three of them to share.

  Leona dipped a finger into the gooey amber and scooped up a small amount. It stretched and pulled away from the rest, but was almost too thick to drip. She quickly licked the candy from her finger and closed her eyes. Tallos could taste it through her, the deep sweetness that was so much like honey, but both more light and luscious at the same time. To compare it to other tree syrup would be a grave injustice, as it had no green, piney flavor. The wind lifted the long brown strands of her hair, exposing her lean neck, and sharp-cornered ears. Her tongue would be even sweeter now, were it possible, and she seemed to read his mind as she leaned forward, eyes still closed, to kiss him. Her lips compressed against his own and began to part.

  Tallos’s nose smashed into something hard, and he inhaled the scent of unwashed beast.

  “Hahaha!” The cry of laughter came from nearby, though it sounded more grating than cruel. “I told you he would pass out soon enough.”

  Tallos gripped and clawed at the memory of his dream as it was torn from his grasp. The softness of Leona’s lips…the curve of her breast. He almost preferred the nightmares to these dreams of his fondest memories. How much of them had been glorified and aggrandized, he could no longer say, but what he remembered of his previous life seemed too perfect to have ever been true. To be awakened to his new reality was a painful, jolting process. There was no perfection here, just the stench and ugliness of normalcy.

  “Let him be, Kelgun.” The voice belonged to John, a man easily over twenty years though certainly not more than thirty. He was no small man—had he been he surely would not be speaking as such to Kelgun—but his demeanor revealed he was no fighting man either. He trotted alongside Tallos on his dapple-grey rouncey, looking as if he were ready to catch him, had Tallos fallen from his seat.

  “He falls asleep because he is on the only ambling rouncey in the kingdom,” spat Kelgun. “A horse for a boy if ever there was one. I’d have a mind to put a straw bed on it and ride half asleep myself, but someone has to look out for the safety of this damn group.” The man turned his head, letting loose a few scratchy coughs. “And I am far too large a man for so tiny a beast.”

  Sir Kelgun, as he called himself, was no giant, though he would have one believe as such from his self-descriptions. He was middle-aged and rode upon a black destrier—or rather what was left of one. The horse may have been large, but its age made it unfit for any real use. Nonetheless, atop the massive beast Kelgun did have some semblance of the knight he claimed to be, and in that he needed all the help he could get. His messy beard of wiry black and his menacing stare made him look more a brigand than anything else.

  Tallos rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peered about. It seemed the vibrant colors of his dream were also exaggerated beyond that of reality. The needles of the pines and the cloudless sky both looked distinctly grey in contrast with his recent fantasy. He jerked to panicky alertness seeing the deep red upon the top of his right hand. The sleeve of his robe had fallen to the wrist, exposing his grossly raised and colored skin, and he looked to the side to see if John had noticed. John only stared straight ahead, but Tallos could not shake the feeling that the man had seen his secret.

  “Tallos, sir? Would you mind if I took my turn?” Dusan, a boy no older than twelve, walked alongside Tallos’s mount.

  “He’s no sir, boy,” scoffed Kelgun.

  “No, of course.” Tallos slid from the horse, groaning when his feet made contact with the ground. He tried without much success to stretch the painful knots in his ass and thighs.

  “Ha! What’s the matter, mage? Can’t even handle the peaceful stride of a child’s pony? How do I find myself among such a sorry lot?” Kelgun’s destrier snorted in what sounded to be approval.

  “You are free to leave, just as any are free to join,” said Wilkin. “Such is our way.”

  Wilkin could have been anywhere from sixty to several hundred years of age, there simply was no way of knowing. In any case, he seemed the only respectable member of their party. There was a depth to his eyes that spoke of endless wisdom and a kindness that implied a similar patience. Tallos found it impossible to imagine the man ever having been young. He looked as though he’d been born with his bald head and white, wispy beard.

  “Aye, and the sorrier the lot, the more like they are to need protecting.” Kelgun unsheathed his sword, and the ringing of the metal was sweet music. His horse may have been old and w
earied, but the sword shone with the perfection of a piece of metal that had been crafted and never used except for display. Even then, it would have needed daily oiling, cleaning, and polishing to retain such a luster, yet not once had Tallos seen him tend to it half so much as one might care for an axe.

  “I am no mage, as I have told you.” Truth be told, Tallos did not mind the charge as it gave him an excuse to remain cloaked.

  “No, of course not. That is why you insisted on us fetching you a robe and have since never parted with it. I have smelled much during my days, but you carry with you a stench of feet that might serve one better were they removed at the ankle. It must take a powerful magic to create such an odor, mage.” Kelgun laughed alone at his joke.

  Tallos had not been afforded an opportunity to bathe since emerging from his vinegary hole, and he imagined Kelgun must be right about his fetid smell. His only hope was to bathe with his robes still on, but that would be certain death given the current cold. Tallos’s village had been Wilkin’s most northern stop, and Tallos guessed it would take at least another week of southerly travel before it was warm enough to risk it.