Alther’s wheeled prison was shoved over the edge, somehow rolling on top of the densely packed mass of people without tipping. Those directly around the cage lucky enough not be crushed by the base jumped upward, trying to grab the bottom.
As the people continued to press forward, Derudin, it seemed, was the only one moving back. He watched as Alther scanned the crowd, probably looking for someone who might help him—not that any could at this point, not without an army. Alther’s eyes found Derudin’s among the masses and their gazes locked. I cannot help you, thought Derudin. He feared the look of disappointment that would surely spread on Alther’s face. But Alther’s countenance only hardened. Alther, the rightful king, mouthed one final request to Derudin, “Save Ethel.”
In truth, the words could have been anything. Derudin was no mouth reader and Alther’s speech had no sound. His mouth simply opened and closed with a cadence that matched Derudin’s assumption.
At the moment Derudin believed himself to understand the meaning and went to nod his understanding, one man climbed another and grabbed the bottom of Alther’s cage. The weight tipped the structure forward, sending Alther and his metal coffin onto the top of the crowd. Hundreds of hands reached upward toward him, those close enough poking through his cage, scratching and clawing. Alther, brought back to life by the assault, screamed and struggled, but with little room to move in the cage his efforts were all but futile.
Derudin was filled with a rage unbecoming of a man beholden to the Ancient Laws. He drew from the power of the Dawnstar’s early rays and focused them onto the platform upon which Stephon stood. Derudin only had line of sight on the front of the platform, however, and an ember soon formed. The structure did not erupt in flames. It merely smoldered at the point Derudin had focused. He poured in more energy, and the damp wood began to be eaten away as it smoked and turned to ash.
Several guards had noticed and alerted Stephon to the fire, pointing at the disintegrating wood. Stephon merely frowned, removed his cape, and threw it over the wood. Then he began to scrutinize the crowd.
You damn fool, Derudin chastised himself as he pulled the hood of his coat further over his head. What did you think would happen? Derudin at least had not been foolish enough to dress in his usual robes. His disguise made him look more an old farmhand than anything else—a very old farmhand. He began to weave his way backward in the crowd diagonally, as moving straight backward may surely single him out.
Stephon was laughing now, his attention caught by something more interesting than an errant fire. “He’s now a eunuch,” Stephon cried with glee. Derudin could only bury his face to hide his disgust. “Let it be known,” continued the young king, yelling over the tumult of the crowd, “that there will be no penalty for the killing of any such Rivervalians. Slay them all, and together we will see this kingdom bask in the glory of purity and Peace.”
Derudin’s thoughts went to little Eaira. The girl would be in peril the moment word spread to the Throne. He could still hear Alther’s screams as he turned the bend that put him out of sight of the platform. They would be no kinder to a young girl, Derudin knew.
ANNORA
“My lady, we must leave,” Annora pleaded.
Ethel had already been in a terrible state after learning her father had been imprisoned for the murder of the king, but the latest news from Westport had seen her to stupor. Ethel walked to and fro, hastily putting her things into a heavy chest. Tears pulsed down the well-carved streams on her cheeks, yet she did not sob or whimper. She moved mindlessly, but she was at least moving. I should not have told her.
“Ethel, listen to me. We cannot bring this thing. We can take only what is light and valuable. Things we can conceal, above all. If we are to leave the city, you must not appear to be who you are. Listen, please.”
I should leave her. The thought pained her, but it was an unassailable truth. Even in her right mind she will only slow me and draw attention. She will never survive outside these walls. Annora felt her anger surging.
Ethel would not break from her trance. She was now packing some of her ball gowns and silk slippers. Annora wanted to hit her—and she did.
The blow surprised them both. Annora had simply endured all she could of this foolish girl, but if truth be told, she was equally mad at herself for having considered leaving her. Ethel was as close to a sister and friend as she had known since being sent from her islands, and leaving her to die at the hands of the first drunken fool who decided to kill her, having forgotten that Alther was her father only by marriage, was unacceptable.
“He is dead,” said Ethel, showing some sign of clear headedness.
“We should do as he would wish and leave here. It is not safe for either of us. Anyone who is not pure Adeltian may be murdered without consequence. We must leave.”
“Eaira.”
It was a name Annora had hoped would not come from Ethel’s mouth. They had both become close with the girl ever since her rescue. Eaira was not unlike Ethel; Adeltians wanted nothing to do with her, and the few Rivervalian families that lived near her all had children old enough to have been left behind in Rivervale or no children at all. That was the problem, however. She lived in the estates purposefully set aside for Rivervalian nobility. They would be the first to be raided once the news from Westport flooded the city.
“She and her parents have no doubt left already,” Annora said.
“And what if they have not? What if she is hiding in a cabinet after just hearing her parents be killed?”
There are not like to be any cabinets left unopened by those ransacking her estate, Annora thought, but telling Ethel that would do no more than further upset her. This is idiocy.
“Grab your jewelry and coins. If we leave now we may get to her before the masses learn of your brother’s decree. But if we see they are already there…”
Ethel nodded her agreement and raced to gather her things.
They came here often to fetch their young companion for walks in the gardens, but this time Annora noticed the way to the Rivervalian estates was strangely quiet. The two guards normally stationed at the entry were nowhere to be seen. That was perhaps for the best since they may have hassled them about Ethel being dressed as a servant, but Annora feared the implications of their absence.
Annora had heard of the happenings in Westport as gossip between some of the other servants in the laundry. The woman who spoke it was the sister of a courier, so it was possible that word had not yet spread among the city. The apparent abandonment of these estates was no great indicator, as many of these families probably left immediately after the king was killed.
“They have fled. We should turn back,” Annora said.
Ethel shushed her.
Now within the private walls of the community, Annora strained to listen for sounds of danger while creeping down the wide cobbled street, fully exposed by the light of the evening Dawnstar. The structures on either side of the road were so massive that each could have been an inn, yet they housed single families and their servants. Eaira’s was the fifth such home on their left. Ethel had told Annora that many of the families here were actually the poorest of the Rivervalian nobility. They could not afford such manors in their own cities, but Lyell had enticed them here with some of the better properties. It was yet another source of discontent among Adeltians.
“The front doors are closed,” observed Ethel as they passed a few homes. It was indeed a good sign that they were perhaps the first to come here. Those who would come to pillage after hearing Stephon’s unthinkable decree would surely not have the courtesy to close the doors behind them. It seemed to Annora that Ethel was the only member of her family with any sense. Lyell was a tyrant and Alther a coward. She reminded herself that Ethel was not related to either, however, and wondered if the rumors of Stephon’s parentage could be true. The son of Sir Stormblade—even Ethel loved to recount the tales of that brave knight.
Annora concentrated on the thick curtains in the win
dows of each estate they passed, looking for movement. Had they always been drawn closed in every home? She could not recall.
A shiver crawled up Annora’s back as she heard Ethel gasp. She saw it too; the front door of Eaira’s home was cracked open. Perhaps her family left in a hurry, as they should have, Annora hoped.
Annora led the way, trampling through flowers they were normally so careful to avoid by using the steps further down the road. Better to get Ethel used to doing things differently. Annora knew they would be faced with discomforts and challenges far worse than destroying some flowerbeds if they were to make it outside the city.
The light of the Dawnstar seemed to shy away from the partly opened door. Annora had no belief in the Mighty Three, or any gods, but the warning here was clear: inside is darkness…and death. It made her pause, and Ethel went past her and opened the door.
There was no ominous creek of hinges. There were no foul smells, and no trails of blood. There was nothing, and it was odd enough in itself. They had always been greeted at this door by a servant or Lady Janette, Eaira’s mother. She was an ordinary woman with a pleasant smile. Annora felt as though she had a thankful nature, but she was probably grateful that Eaira had found some friends, even if they were almost twice her age.
“Eaira,” Ethel called out in a loud whisper as the two of them made their way through the anteroom. Then they saw their first signs of a struggle.
Furniture in the main room had been overturned erratically. Annora pictured someone running through and pulling things onto their path to slow a pursuer. Ethel continued the search, leading Annora down the hall that would bring them to Eaira’s room. But Ethel froze when she rounded the corner.
There were four bodies. A man and a woman both lay with blood pooled around their heads. Each had suffered a gory blow. The man’s ear had been completely destroyed by the impact, and the woman had been struck in the face. It was clear to Annora who she was. I am sorry Lady Janette, she thought, you did not deserve this. She assumed the well-dressed man near her was her husband, but they had never met him.
Eager to finish the search and leave, Annora pushed past. She did her best to step over the puddles, but it was impossible. Blood pulled at her shoe as she lifted her foot from its viscous grasp. She urged on Ethel, who had a look of shock on her face, but to her credit she followed in her footsteps.
The other two bodies were just as gruesome, but there was no blood. Annora recognized them as the guards normally stationed at the entry to the estates. Both men lay on their backs, killed in some horrific way. In the center of each man’s chest was a crater the size of a large fist, the flesh, cloth, and leather surrounding which was blackened and scorched. The acrid smell of burning reminded Annora of the ship that had brought her to this land where some of the men and women being transported were branded. The screams she heard were only those of her memories. Surrounding her now was a deathly silence, broken only by the sound of their own clothing rustling as they lurked.
They reached the second room along the corridor and peeked in together.
“Eaira,” Ethel cried out again, in a desperate whisper. “It’s Eth—”
A figure charged out of the darkness of a closet in the room. It struck Ethel in the stomach with all its force, but Ethel did not budge.
“Eaira!” Ethel had apparently lost control over her volume in her elation. The little girl merely clung to her waist, burying her face into Ethel’s belly.
“Ethel?”
The unfamiliar voice was not unfriendly, but it did not belong to a little girl, which was all Annora was hoping to hear. It was the voice of an old man, and although it seemed to come from within the room, Annora could see no sign of anyone.
At the same moment, a crashing noise came from the anteroom. It was followed by a mass of heavy footfalls that suffocated the life out of Annora’s newly hopeful spirits. Looters.
Before there was time to think or move, the men made their way down the hall, some shouting orders, others shouting reports of what they saw. Annora’s presence was among those reports.
Four men with an unmistakable crest on their armor were upon them, and there were more spreading throughout the house. They were members of The Guard, and Annora was not surprised to see that they were among the first to turn to pillage and plunder despite their vows to the realm and humanity. But she soon saw she was wrong to have guessed that.
“Found her,” yelled one of the men. “Along with some others.”
How it was that they had been sent to search for Ethel so quickly and had known exactly where to go made no sense.
The men were in heavier armor than usual. Their ceremonial placards now rested upon chainmail in place of their usual cloth. Each man had a sword at their belt as well as a heavy, blunted dagger of some sort.
“Who are the others?” asked a man still farther back.
“Looks to be two servants.”
“Leave them and bring the girl, then. The young king is quick to anger. We must not make him wait.”
The man obeyed the command and moved to grab Eaira from Ethel’s clutches, but both were wrapped so tightly around the other he did not succeed in his effort.
“Let her go, you damn washwoman,” he snarled.
A second man stepped in to assist the one now yanking on Ethel’s hair in his effort to separate her from Eaira.
“That is no servant, you knave,” said the second man. “That is Crella’s bastard…her first one…Ethel.”
“Bring them all and be quick with it, lest we all be impaled on account of torpor. And mind your fecking tongue about the bastard business or I’ll tear it out myself.”
Annora did not know whether she should be relieved or devastated that the three of them would remain together, if only for the time being. She had always considered herself a captive of these people, but there was a sickening difference between being a well-fed servant and being escorted by armored guard to see the new king, feared even by his own men. The realm would be better off without these kings, thought Annora, the apparent source of all suffering. Given the chance, I would see them all dead.
KEETHRO
Keethro looked at Titon. It was Titon to be sure, with a raised and glintless axe in hand, yet he had trouble recognizing the giant that now stood before him. The expression he wore was a familiar one. Keethro had seen it countless times—mostly on the faces of Dogmen, just before they shit themselves. He had seen it most recently on the face of the butcher as he diced up the tails of river dragons. But he had never seen it on Titon. It was the look of defeat, and it put a ball of writhing maggots in Keethro’s throat to witness it. He did not know if the revulsion he now felt was owed more to this King Veront, the breaker of men, or to Titon, the man Keethro foolishly thought could not be broken.
“Don’t miss,” Keethro advised his executioner. Titon nodded solemnly in response.
So this is what it is to know you will die, Keethro thought. He wondered if perhaps it would be worth it to try and yank one of the guards that held him into the path of the blade as it swung. Would another man’s suffering or death comfort him in his own? Or would Titon’s warrior’s instinct follow his motion, resulting only in an equally fatal, but more torturous death? Keethro decided it would make little difference.
For some reason it felt as though he had forever to ponder his fate and reflect on his mistakes. I was a fool to come here, knowing that such an end would be in store. In that, Kilandra was right. But I have not failed her, nor have I failed myself. It is my daughter whom I have failed, he concluded. To have let Red be shaped and molded by that spiteful woman he called wife was beyond shameful. Images of his daughter consumed his thoughts: her birth, her first words, and the first time she’d cursed at him the same way in which her mother did. She was not the seed of this man before me. It simply could not be. That was a lie I told myself to ease the guilt of never truly being a father. If you Mighty Three should exist, and I do not believe you do, take me to your hell.
Let me feel the wrath of the Dawnstar’s flames so that Red may grow to be a better woman than her mother. Do that, and I will be in your debt.
“Wait.”
The distant voice could have come from the Mountain himself, for it seemed to have no origin. Keethro was adrift in his thoughts. Titon was frozen, however, as if he, too, had heard it.
“I needed only know that you would do it. Your friend’s death will not undo the death of mine.”
It was the king. Expecting Titon would look relieved, Keethro was surprised to see nothing but boiling hatred. Titon closed his eyes, and his expression mellowed for the moment.
“He will be confined to the prisons until you return from Strahl victorious. Three thousand men is a significant portion of my army, and I must be sure to have more than just your word to bring them back.” Veront motioned for the guards to fulfill his implicit command, and they wasted no time walking Keethro back down the hall, toward the massive doors that had given him and Titon entry to this place of misery.
“How long of a march is it to Strahl?” Titon had found his voice in time for Keethro to hear a few last bits of their conversation.
“Two weeks in good weather.”
“Then expect me back and with the heads of the men you desire in no less than a moon.”
At least now Keethro had a timeframe, albeit a hopelessly optimistic one typical of Titon. In the off chance that he actually returned and King Veront honored his words, Keethro could not imagine a scenario where he and Titon could again consider each other brothers. Not after what had just transpired.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 49
