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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “On the authority of the fecking king!” With his shout the guard slammed his sword through the ribs of Tielo where he lay on his side, still curled in a ball. Blood spurted from the wound, climbing up the blade, causing the rest of the armored men to erupt in laughter as the helpless thief squirmed and gasped for breath.

  CASSEN

  Cassen found it strangely difficult to concentrate as he made his way with some speed through the castle. His thoughts were occupied by various concerns, all minor, expected, and being properly dealt with, but their combined weight was cumbrous.

  Perhaps foremost among them was Master Warin. Their meeting had gone as well as could have been expected, but Cassen continued to replay the event in his mind in search of hints to the contrary. Without a Master of Forces, the heads of the kingdom’s many legions had turned to Warin, making him somewhat of a fulcrum upon which the kingdom now balanced. Luckily, Warin did not seem aware. Cassen did not truly require his cooperation either, further negating any cause for concern. Even should the man defy me, Sacarat will see him and his armies trampled, nonetheless.

  The sound of another’s footsteps came from far off, causing Cassen to place his own feet with quiet care. The noisemaker soon came into view: a boy servant approached from the far end of the hall, nearly skipping with carelessness. At the sight of Cassen, however, the boy became rigid and serious. His pace slowed, all gaiety lost. What is a boy like you even doing here so close to the dungeons? Cassen wondered. The young servant was unable to conceal his worry as he neared. Shrinking away from Cassen and eventually coming to a stop, he all but cowered against the wall. Only after he had passed the frightened child did Cassen force his face to an expression of geniality, not having realized he’d been wearing such a mask of rancor.

  His scowl troubled him. Not only did Cassen believe himself to have mastery over his presented emotions, but more than that, he should have had no cause for displeasure. His every plan of import had been executed without so much as snagging a single fiber of his royal silks. And yet he frowned, and so menacingly as to cause this boy to have nearly pissed himself. Perhaps he merely feared me raping him, thought Cassen, but even that innocuous quip irked rather than amused him. Then he remembered what he carried. No wonder the boy had shied. It is a bit bloodier than your typical sack of potatoes, after all.

  Yet Cassen still could not escape his growing animosity toward Warin and the unfounded worry that came with it.

  Earlier That Day

  “Why should I do this?”

  “It is no great task to have a woman transported from one place to another,” Cassen explained. “And it is for the good of the realm, therefore making it a task you are duty bound to perform.”

  “I do not see how having members of The Guard assigned to taking a princess from her rightful home to some faraway land would be for the good of the realm,” Warin growled back.

  Cassen exhaled theatrically. “No, I do not expect that you would. But might I remind you, Rivervale is not so far away—or have you forgotten who last conquered this kingdom? If we do not secure our northern neighbor and appease their masses then it will not be long before King Veront is marching an army upon us, just as he now marches on Strahl.”

  Cassen did not know how much control he still had over Warin based upon their shared secret of Warin’s debasement of his lady servant. With the king dead and the normal order of law on hiatus, the threat of such a truth coming to light was not as great. So long as he still fears his wife’s learning of it, Cassen thought. He knew Warin had become more agitated with him, especially after his foolish slip-up at the banquet having called the master sir. But he would overwhelm Warin with as much detail as possible regarding the true complexity of kingdom management to ensure he did not come to the idiotic conclusion that he himself might be the best fit to fill the void left on the vacant throne.

  “Veront is marching on Strahl? King Veront?”

  “Why yes, my good master. Things happen quite quickly in kingdom politics. Without a vast network of spies and informers one is merely a bystander. Yours must not have been so quick to retrieve such news, I take it?”

  “No… No, my spies had not yet informed me of that.”

  You have no spies, you ignorant fool, just a collection of door guards too dull to listen or report anything happening within. “Well, I am not surprised. I had guessed as much would happen, but I had only confirmed it recently. Should Veront control both Rivervale and Strahl, he will have all the momentum required to then overrun our meager walls and defenses. There are only two ways to prevent such a thing: the western side of the King’s Arm magically rises from the ground to protect us—standing strong and tall as it should have long ago—or we take our forces north and seize Rivervale in this most opportune time, while Veront’s armies are occupied to the east.”

  “What keeps Veront from then marching on Adeltia? My wife and home are here.”

  And a lovely lady servant, let us not forget. “Strahl exists by the grace of Rivervale, and without their imports, Veront will have no food for his army. He will be troubled just marching back to Rivervale, let alone heading south to threaten Adeltia.” This was patently false, as Strahl was home to the richest farming of the continent—even their city banners boasted fields of grain—but Cassen was relying on Warin’s poor knowledge of such things. Adeltia will be safe—safely placed into the thankful hands of the Satyr.

  “And the princess?”

  Cassen could not help but sigh. For some reason he could not yet grasp, it pained him to think of Crella after their previous encounter. “Crella will remain our captive, but she serves a far greater purpose imprisoned in Rivervale. It will soothe the masses to know a pureblooded Adeltian is within their dungeons—even if her halfblooded Adeltian boy is the one who rules over them.”

  Warin did not look convinced. “Are you sure it is wise to put that boy upon a throne? He is somewhat…temperamental.”

  “Did you have anyone else in mind?” Cassen asked coyly.

  Warin shook his head. “It just seems odd that we imprison one heir who has so recently poisoned the king, and release a second, who had not so long ago planned to do the same. It is difficult to believe he is the best of choices.”

  He will not sit the throne for long enough to do any real damage, do not fear. “But he is precisely that. He is the best choice, if not a great one. See to it that the necessary arrangements are made to have Crella accompany us when we go north. Let me know the moment the preparations have been completed and we will march.” Cassen squinted at Warin to indicate his seriousness. “And she is to be treated with the utmost care. If she is harmed I will hold you, and you alone, accountable. I know you have a pension for drowning women.”

  Warin scowled. “No harm will befall her, on that I will stake my life.”

  So you will.

  The weight of the sack began to make itself felt, and Cassen shifted it to his other hand. Given its solitary content, it was heavier than he would have thought.

  “Evening, Vidar.” Cassen sauntered past the gaoler without so much as a glance, wondering if he might be bold enough to beg a bribe from he who was now the king—or was it queen—regent.

  “Your Grace,” Vidar acknowledged with reverence.

  Cassen’s mood had not grown any cheerier on his way to the depths of the dungeon. The same person who had beleaguered his thoughts for two decades, the girl he had first loved and then grown to hate, desiring her with the spitefulness of a man scorned, the one he thought would now be his plaything and provide him with endless amusement, Crella still yet had some death grip upon his soul.

  His subjugation of her had not happened exactly as he had envisioned, but more than that, it simply did not result in the feelings of conquest he had for so long anticipated. Gone was the child who submitted to her overpowering uncle with hopeless despondency, and in her place, a strong, unyielding woman who did not allow him a moment’s rest in her determined struggle. He had taken h
is pleasure of her, but he had not conquered her. After he’d defiled her, so did she him, as she turned and spat in his face. She did not cry. She did not whimper or moan. She fought with every ounce she had within her, and with that she had not been truly beaten. Not yet, at least, he told himself.

  He could not deny the physical pleasure he’d enjoyed, but he grew increasingly queasy as he recalled the specifics of the act—details he should have been able to indulge in. It is my failure that sickens me, he reassured himself. When she breaks, I will have my peace. But he could not shake the oddest feeling he had when he pictured her fighting so valiantly. It must have been pity that he felt; he supposed that would be acceptable. For it could not be sympathy nor compassion. He’d cast those off when he was just a child. And he certainly had no affection for the woman—for that cunt who showed him nothing but derision. I am not that type of man. I do not suffer from those pathetically ordinary conditions had by men of supreme mediocrity.

  Cassen made his way down the familiar stretch that led to the royal cell, not bothering to knock as he unlocked the massive door and swung it open.

  Inside he saw young Stephon struggling to heave the same large book as before onto his chest. A prop book for a prop king.

  Somewhat amused, Cassen allowed Stephon to situate the giant text upon himself before addressing him. “Your Grace, I come bearing a great gift.”

  Stephon turned a page in his book. “I hope it is more than the worthless air from your lungs that you gifted me with on your last visit.”

  “No, Your Grace. I have brought exactly that which you have asked.” With that, he tossed the sack onto the bed beside Stephon.

  Stephon lowered the book and turned tiredly to gaze upon what now lay beside him, as if expecting disappointment, but when he saw it—the dark blood coagulated on the fibers of its hempen weaves—his reaction was like a girl having just realized she’d been seated next to a venomous snake. He bolted upright in his bed, recoiling away from it.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  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.”

  TALLOS

  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.