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

by Ireman, M. D.

“Remember, you are my highborn daughter.”

  Annora nodded. I would be better served reminding myself that I am under the care of a man that cannot be trusted.

  Annora felt the uneven planks of the docks through the soles of her soft shoes. Memories of having first set foot on docks such as these came to her, and they were not pleasant. After enduring a lengthy voyage in the company of the most sordid men she had ever encountered, under constant threat of debasement, there was little relief to be had landing in Adeltia, not knowing if worse was yet to come.

  “Probably shouldn’t be sneaking up on people such as me under the cover of night.”

  A man with thick hair covering his arms barred their path. In one hand he had a long slender blade, already stained with blood.

  “We do not wish for trouble. My daughter and I require a boat for the day.”

  “Heh, you don’t want any trouble, you just want a boat? Clearly you don’t have much experience with the damn things then.” The man stuck his knife through the eye of a large fish, gutted and stripped of meat on one side. “And perhaps you haven’t noticed, the day’s over.”

  “So it is, however, I will gladly pay for both today and tomorrow should I find a suitable vessel. Do you know of anyone willing to hire out a boat? One with a sail?”

  “Aye, I know plenty, just none that do business at night.” The scrutinizing look this man gave them made Annora uneasy. “How about you and your daughter here just wait a bit. I’ll fetch a friend of mine who has a nice little sloop.”

  “Yes, please do. We will await your return.”

  “Father, what is wrong with his boat?” Annora asked before the man had time to leave, her Spiceland accent faint, but present. She walked down the docks a few steps peering at the boat in the darkness.

  “Oh no, you wouldn’t like my skiff. There’s no ballast in ’er, and she’s prone to tip. I’m a fisherman, no sailor, and my boat’s much the same. My friend has just what you need. You two just wait a bit, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Annora found and held eye contact with the fisherman and sauntered to Cassen’s side, wrapping both her arms around one of his. “I have a better idea,” she said, still gazing at the man. “How about my father pays for two nights on your boat, as he’s promised. …The first night is his, and the second night will be yours.” She moved one of her hands along Cassen’s arm to ensure her meaning was understood.

  She could feel the man’s filthy eyes accost her from head to toe and back up again. It was all she could do to maintain her composure and not reveal her repulsion.

  “I get the first night,” said the fisherman. He did not have to lick his lips; his body spoke the action for him.

  “Out of the question.” Cassen sounded as adamant as he had in the throne room.

  “All right, all right. The second. Just be careful with the damn boat. Do you even know how to sail?” In spite of speaking to Cassen, the man’s eyes were still on Annora.

  Cassen merely grunted with discontent at the man. “What provisions are on board? Is there any wine?”

  “It’s a fishing vessel not an inn. There’s some rum and water in the bow storage, but that’s all I’ve got. And don’t drink it all either.”

  Annora remained at Cassen’s arm as he stepped forward and pressed a large silver coin onto the cutting board next to the fish. “You’ll get the other upon our return.”

  Cassen had been scowling since they set off from the docks by oar, and his disposition had not changed in spite of the good distance now between them and the docks.

  “That was a foolish and unnecessary thing you did.” He finally broke the silence with words no different from his look.

  Annora, already angry, just ignored him. The fool does not even know how his own city works.

  “You were to be my daughter—no more.”

  “I was not aware I was acting anything more. I thought I played the part rather well, considering the father.”

  “Are you not aware that whoring outside of an authorized brothel is not permitted? That there is a reward for reporting those who do so to avoid the taxes? Where do you think that man would have gone had your little ploy failed?” Cassen had stopped rowing. He apparently needed all his strength to chastise her.

  “To the same place he was already headed. And certainly not to report us to some authority for a pittance of a reward.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is right.” Her accent flared, but she was too heated to care. “He’d go to a brothel owner who would have exacted a more severe penalty upon us both and paid him a fraction of the contents of your purse instead.”

  Cassen let loose a round of insolent laughter clearly intended to belittle her. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  The laundry was the best place for talk and gossip, and none of the women with choice stories had been born as washwomen. Anna, Shellie, and Jeanne, aside from being the more interesting of the women, all admitted—rather proudly—to working in brothels when they were younger. Most of their tales were a bit tall, but oftentimes pieces of their differing lies overlapped where there was truth, lending itself to believability. Annora knew exactly how the brothels operated, and how they differed between Eastport and Westport. It was a common topic, as many of the prettier servant girls contemplated running off with the idea of building enough coin with a quick bit of degradation to afford a true escape from servitude. The older women were quick to encourage the idea—to those they disliked. To the others, they warned of the true dangers involved and the certainty of never escaping until both your value and coin were gone.

  “The man was lying.” It was as definite a fact as any she had ever known, and she had no desire to explain her reasoning in further detail.

  Cassen just chuckled to himself.

  Annora turned her back to him, but there was no way to be rid of him on so small a craft. It was about three men in length—three very short men. There was no cabin, and Cassen was nearer the bow of the boat, looking rearward as he rowed. He is probably too afraid to raise sail and was lying about having any experience.

  A brutal wave struck her, not of water but of hunger. It must have been over half a day since she’d eaten, and her desperation spurred her to action. Leaving her seat at the stern she passed Cassen, handing him the two lines that controlled the rudder.

  “Steering too much responsibility for my lady daughter?”

  “You can do nothing as well as I. Where are these friends of yours if they even exist? We have been headed straight south if I am not mistaken. You may wish to correct our course when we raise sail, captain.”

  Annora had every hatch in the front of the boat open and was rummaging through with anger, throwing old rope, broken chunks of punky wood, and heavy pieces of anchors on to the deck behind her. “Nothing but flotsam in this damn boat!”

  “Let me know if you find anything to eat. I have a king’s hunger.”

  Cassen was the only one amused by his quip as Annora had had quite enough mention of kings for one lifetime. “We will be lucky enough to find fresh water.”

  Annora brought a glass jug sealed with a rotten cork back where Cassen could see and shook its contents in front of him. “This is the rum I believe we are commanded not to finish.” Probably more spit than rum.

  “I will have that man flayed for insolence upon our return.”

  Yes, insolence…because lying would be too serious a charge. “Upon our return?” He might be returning one day, but Annora had no plans to.

  “Just keep looking, dammit. Food would be nice, but we need water.”

  “I have looked. There is no food or water.” She knew she could not blame Cassen for this particular problem as it was her idea to take this man’s boat, but there was no reason for their continued slow travel. “Perhaps if you raised sail we could meet up with your friends before we die of thirst?”

  Cassen let his oars hang over the water and the boat continued to drift
forward. She could not help but notice his arms were somewhat muscled and lean. He did not have the brawny frame of a blacksmith or swordsman, but neither was he the maidenly eunuch that all had known him to be. It only served to bring a scowl to her face as Annora thought how easy it would have been for him to have rid the kingdom of its budding tyrant when he’d had the chance.

  “I will man the rudder,” said Cassen as he moved to free the boom. “You stay at the mast and be ready to raise the main when I tell you. Do you know how to fix a line to a cleat?”

  She stared at him with the implication of having been insulted. She would loop the line around with a twist the way she thought she’d seen it done and hope for the best before she allowed him to give her a lesson. His patronizing air had already taken its toll.

  Annora took hold of the line to raise the sail and noted the gentle breeze. It was scarcely enough to ruffle her hair, and she wished for stronger wind to move them with speed.

  “Raise it full and tie it off,” said Cassen.

  The sail went to the top of the mast with little effort and the loops and twists around the cleat seemed to be holding. She knotted the loose end just in case. The wind caught the sail, lifting it along with Annora’s spirits while Cassen adjusted a line attached to the boom.

  The vessel continued to pick up speed, but Annora soon heard a sound like rushing water that was somehow distant. When she glanced at Cassen he had the same confused look upon his face that she was feeling.

  “Lower the sail,” he commanded.

  She made her disappointment known as she moved to undo her knots and loops. If this is some trick to make me look foolish…

  “Hurry!” There was panic in his voice, and the sound grew louder. The line went taut on the cleat, making it impossible for her to undo her knot. “Hold on,” he cried and Annora went belly to deck and saw Cassen did the same. A massive gust of wind struck them, and she readied herself for a swim. The realization that it would be impossible for the two of them to right this boat if it toppled gripped her with fear.

  The boat began to list. Annora held on to the mast as it tilted more and more. Anything beyond the midpoint between vertical and horizontal would result in capsize given that the vessel was not built for sailing. But the boat continued to lurch to the side, passing the point that she had feared and continuing to tip further still. Cassen’s eyes were wide and frightened—the sea was feared by all men, and he was no exception. This boat may not even float when flipped, which would force them to cling to whatever small pieces of trash they could find, their limbs dangling dangerously into the dark waters for whatever lay below to grab hold of. They leaned so sharply it took all her strength to hold on and keep from falling into the water. She considered letting go on purpose, thinking it might help to right the boat. As she contemplated the effect such a decision would have, the choice was made for her. Rather than capsizing, the boat began to roll back to rightness, and the winds died down.

  After a few moments they were at a healthy list and traveling with a good southerly speed. Annora breathed deeply and willed herself to relax. She turned her attention to Cassen whose white face began to flood pink with embarrassment. The brush with death had stripped her of her acrimony, and she decided not to taunt him, though it was well within her right.

  “It looks like the rum and water were not the only things our fisherman friend lied about,” he said.

  It was as good a concession as she could have hoped to get from him. This boat had a fine ballast after all, and as they continued due south—to where, she still could not guess—she believed they would have more need of it.

  KEETHRO

  A month at the very least. I will eat. I will sleep. I will endure.

  Those had been Keethro’s initial thoughts, and they were sobering in their own right. This sentencing meant Keethro must remain in the purgatory that was Rivervale’s underground prison for much longer than he had before—and alone. As his mind had rattled off scenarios, he’d begun to fear he may end up in the arena, forced to fight impossible odds yet again and without his everfount of luck and courage that was Titon. He now found himself wishing those fears had come true.

  A blanket of darkness engulfed him as he descended—far deeper below the surface than he had on his previous dungeon visit. Had he been lucky enough to have been slated for more battles in the arena, Keethro would no doubt have remained in the upper levels of this underworld through which he was being dragged. Instead, his voyage continued downward, and as he plummeted, so did his hope of ever surfacing.

  A man should not know how it feels to wear a corset, and yet Keethro imagined he must; his ribs felt increasingly restricted by the small tunnels that shrunk in around him. That which he breathed had a consistency more like phlegm than air in its thickness, and the act of filling his lungs became a burdensome task that required conscious thought. There was surely a rotten stench, though he had long since begun breathing through his mouth out of some instinctive reflex. His sense of smell was not the only one lacking. All sounds were dampened, all sights seemed blurred, and he felt as though he was floating—or rather sinking—ever downward, no longer needing to walk. Perhaps I am dead. The thought was his only comfort.

  “I said, what’s yer fecking name?”

  It was not the sound of the man’s voice that brought Keethro out of his stupor so much as the spit that licked his eyes. In front of him was a man that looked more like the type of creature only children feared might exist. The troll-man looked down his long hooked nose at Keethro, begging him not to answer so that he could exact some punishment.

  “Keethro.”

  The hair upon the many moles of the man’s face danced as he let out a gravelly cackle, sending more filth in Keethro’s direction. “Take a finger!”

  It was then Keethro realized it was not merely he and this disgusting man that attended this convergence; there were guards as well. Somewhere along the way, the golden guards who had held Keethro by his arms must have simply transformed into these demons of the underworld, for the thought of those prestigious men having met with the likes of these who now gripped him was too hilarious a notion to conceive. They were men, but it was as if they had been bred for the explicit purpose of being wardens of such a place. Their comically imbalanced features would have been a source of ridicule in the light of the Dawnstar, but down here it only seemed to empower them with belonging.

  Keethro was also not the only prisoner. He had been brought down with a boy, it seemed, though all new arrivals must look like boys in this place. The man was probably no younger than twenty. He squirmed as his own pair of disfigured guards held him. A third grabbed the wrist of his right hand and placed the man’s entire pinky into the jaws of some enormous pliers. The guard began to apply pressure—the tool so large that it required him using both his arms. A series of crunches echoed through Keethro’s skull as the man’s finger was consumed, one bone at a time. Somehow the victim of the torture had remained in a silent horror until the instrument was removed, at which point he screamed like a child, unrestrained by pride.

  “Now’s the fun part,” said the troll-man when the shrieks finally died down. “We get to see if yer friend returns the favor. What’s yer name?” The question was directed toward the man who had just lost a finger.

  It took a few moments for the man to compose himself, but when he did, his first action was to give Keethro a vengeful stare. Keethro felt his own right pinky tingle as the man’s lips began to part. A lifetime of training had gone into the coordination of that small digit which was the last to make contact with his throwing axes. It may not seem like an exceedingly important finger to most men, but the thought of losing that finger now seemed to Keethro somehow worse than the loss of an arm.

  “One hundred…fifty-eight.”

  Keethro’s heart fell to his stomach and sweat oozed from his every pore, threatening to make his guards lose their grip. He could already feel the cold metal, still wet with the other man�
��s blood, clamping down on his pinky. He would try to offer his left, he decided sickly. Perhaps they would not care from which hand the finger came.

  The troll-man appeared as though he had seen a sight more disgusting than himself. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, still speaking to the young prisoner. “Ye’ll learn to be less forgiving down here in yer new home.” When he turned back to Keethro his face lit up again in spite of the darkness. “Remember yer name yet?”

  Keethro looked toward the one who would no doubt suffer the loss of another finger should Keethro answer incorrectly. The man’s left hand was moving slightly, three fingers curling back as if he were pointing downward. His face still had the same vengeful look upon it, however.

  Does he mean one further along or one less? He did not want to hear the man shriek again, if only because it was distressing. “One hundred and fifty-seven.” Keethro answered.

  The frown of Keethro’s fellow prisoner melted.

  “Let’s go,” said the troll-man, the disappointment clear in his voice.

  They were led deeper into the dankness. Keethro began to wonder if all directions traveled in this place truly led downward or if the amalgam of hopelessness and despair merely made it seem so. Every step felt as though it was further separating him from his former reality. I will never see the Dawnstar again, he realized.

  The ceiling, the walls, and the floor were all the same rusty color like dried blood. The rock foundation of the castle had ended long ago, and they were in a series of tunnels dug into hard-packed clay. The sound of barking animals could be heard not far off. Do they see the light of the torches or do they bark like this always?

  The source of the noise was eventually revealed. And they were animals. Horrid creatures. Inside a single giant cage were at least a hundred men. The structure may have been large, but the conditions were cramped. The cage spanned thirty paces by three paces, and its top was less than head height. Most of the men’s hands—or what was left of them—grasped the thick wires of the cage so they could lean forward and support their weight. Others were piled into groups, all clustered and sitting uncomfortably close to one another. But all of them seemed to be barking, yelling, or hooting in some way, save those that sat mute and grinning in the laps of other men.