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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “Quiet,” yelled the troll-man, and the men were silenced. “I’ve brought you more flesh, not that you deserve it, and I must explain to them the rules.” A smile crept across the long face of the hunched underground monster, and some chuckles could be heard amongst the captives. “Number one: no eating each other unless I say so. Number two: no fighting unless I say so. As for raping…well, boys will be boys.”

  Grotesque giggling and hooting was the response to the last bit.

  “And for each rule you break, I take a finger.”

  Keethro surveyed the caged men, all of whom seemed to be staring right back at him as opposed to one hundred fifty-eight. Keethro must have been the only man to still have ten fingers. Those missing their digits mostly had useless flaps of scarred skin that had taken their place, dangling over the crossed wires of the rust-riddled cage.

  “Now it’s time that we see this new meat properly—”

  The gaoler stopped speaking just as Keethro felt a faint wetness brush his cheek. The bulk of whatever it was had hit the gaoler, his face now covered in the dark, wet spatter. It looked at first as though it was blood—and that may have been partly true—but the stench that soon wafted indicated it was primarily excrement. A maniacal laughter followed, coming from a seemingly crazed man, squatting over his stumpy palm, eager to fling another handful once his bowels would comply.

  “Bring him to me,” shouted the now irate troll-man. Those in the cage were quick to obey. The shit-flinger had no time for a second throw and was smashed against the front of the metal enclosure. Keethro felt his guards release him as they rushed to tend to their more urgent calling.

  Run. The thought came to him, and yet he knew that he would not. He could not hope to navigate the maze of tunnels and would no doubt encounter too many guards along the way. He did not fear death so much as he feared the punishment for attempting escape.

  The troll-man bared his rotten teeth as he saw that his assailant had no more fingers left to take. Even the guards that were holding the man’s stubbed hands through the holes of the cage appeared to fear the building rage of their leader, and they cowered as far from him as they could while still maintaining their grasp on the prisoner. The angry gaoler unsheathed his knife and plunged it through the cage into the eye of the man, finally ceasing his laughter.

  “Eat,” said the troll-man, wiping his knife on his trousers.

  Men who had previously been sitting, particularly those who were the largest, rushed to the corpse. A mound of dirty bodies collected, all clawing and pushing each other in an attempt to get a bite. The sound of joints popping resounded through the dense air, and some men exited the fray with a calf or forearm to take back to their effeminate companions.

  Keethro forced down the push of vomit. It would be beyond foolish to waste the contents of his stomach. Surviving a month here would require everything he had. Keethro’s face must have betrayed his dread. He stood alone, with no guards holding him, and the troll-man looked at him, slimy teeth exposed by his joyous grin.

  You should have killed me, Titon.

  TITON

  “He is going to kill you.”

  Titon was more concerned at the moment with river dragons than any threat posed to him by a man. He and his men had come to the first of the several rivers they would have to cross on their way to Strahl, all of which Titon and Keethro had forded on their way south, albeit farther upstream. Titon was among his soldiers, all kneeling at the bank to fill their skins and bellies with water far cleaner than that of the Eos.

  “You’re a Galatai clansman, are you not?” continued the man. He spoke quietly and did not look toward Titon, but there was little doubt that other men near them could hear. “Veront hates our kind. Anything he’s told you is a lie.”

  Titon finished drinking and fought his impulse to back away from the water’s edge. Any dragons below would no doubt be well aware of the turbulence caused by so many men splashing water on their faces and breaking the surface with their lips to swill some greedy gulps. There’s safety in the horde, Titon told himself and turned toward the speaker. The man was the size of a Galatai, but he lacked a certain hardness in his demeanor. And it was difficult to imagine why any man, let alone someone truly from the North, would wish to have so little hair upon his face.

  “I’m only half,” said the man. “My mother was from Fourpaw, and my father was a raider.”

  “That is not possible.” Titon did not feel the need to explain further.

  “I do not lie to you. He left her alive and returned several days after. They raised me alone in the remnants of their village and later joined another community. He cut his hair and—”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Though something about the man seemed honest—his utter pitifulness perhaps—Titon was not about to believe this farfetched story.

  “He may have shaved his face, but he was still Galatai. What do you think happened when Veront’s collectors came and demanded a portion of all his coin?”

  Titon’s grunt of agreement was involuntary. “My business with Veront is none of your concern.”

  “It is. I am a part of this hopeless attack. Not even Veront expects it to succeed. My friend is a cupbearer and overhears many things. It is just a diversion—”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Titon growled at him. “And I command you, keep silent.” Titon left before the man could blurt any more nonsense, wishing to himself that he’d picked a different place at the bank to drink.

  Titon returned to his two officers in their quickly erected tent, a pair of sirs, one possibly the most boring man he’d ever met, and the other probably the most irritating.

  “What did the scouts report?” Titon asked, doing his best to not let his disdain for either man show.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Sir Aleric of House something or other, Titon had already forgotten, seemed to take pleasure in ensuring Titon had as little information as possible. As the previous commander of two of the three legions now under Titon’s control, the man was not artful in hiding his resentment.

  “Where are they? I’d like to speak with them myself.” Titon directed the question to Sir Edgar, the tight-lipped officer in chainmail and leather, in hopes he’d be more likely to divulge a satisfactory answer. Edgar deferred to Aleric with a head gesture.

  “I sent them off already. Scouts serve no purpose at camp.”

  Titon inhaled and sought the void. Scouts serve no purpose when their commander gets no information from them. He’d been civil with Aleric until now, and he meant to maintain his southern comportment for as long as possible—just as Keethro would advise me with his throat clearing and looks of worry. “The next time they return, be sure they do not set off until I speak with them. Understood?”

  Aleric snorted his understanding accompanied with a barely perceptible shake of his head. In the North, we move our heads in the other direction to indicate agreement, Titon thought with mounting acrimony.

  Titon turned his attention to the table they stood at. “If I understand this map correctly, we can continue a bit north of east and we’ll pass north of Strahl…”

  “We have no reason to pass north of Strahl,” Aleric explained as if to a child. “I realize maps are not common where you come from. However, as you should be able to see, there is a river to their west and an ocean to their east. Northmen may be able to drink from the sea, but Rivervalians cannot.”

  The void never seemed so far from reach. “If we were, however, to pass north of Strahl, would we be able to get between them and the coast, or do their walls extend to sea? On the map it does not appear—”

  “Of course their walls do not extend into the sea,” interrupted Aleric. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Then I intend for our army to pass north and attack from the east.”

  Aleric’s attention had been stolen by a man who had entered their tent and was whispering something in his ear.

  “What is it?” Titon demanded.


  Aleric held up a finger as the man finished his message, then nodded and the man left. Titon tried to make note of the messenger’s appearance, but all these southern men looked much the same in their near-matching clothes. “It’s nothing. You were saying?”

  Titon was done negotiating. “We head just north of east. That is my command.”

  Aleric let out an exasperated breath. “Veront will not be pleased by the extra time it takes.”

  “Then we will march longer and faster and with less delay. Pack up now. We leave immediately.”

  The repacking of the tent always somehow took longer than the setting up, and Titon made a note that they would not raise the structure for future stops unless it was truly needed to protect the maps from rain. After the meeting, Titon had noticed Aleric pull Edgar to the side to discuss something in private, but he had no time to be irked by their southern gossip. He instead surveyed the men, all three thousand of them. It was a great many men, to be sure, but they did not move with a unity of purpose. He’d be surprised if a third of these men had even trained beside each other, let alone seen combat.

  Aleric appeared to be holding up the process of resuming the march, as he’d sent two of their lead men off on some random errand.

  “What is this?” Titon demanded. “We should already be on our way.”

  “There is urgent business that requires our attention.” Aleric did not even face Titon as he spoke. He must not have been present at the arena, thought Titon. There was no other explanation for how this man, who wore the same thin plate as the golden guards, excepting that his was dyed a deep green, could feel so secure snubbing Titon.

  “What business?” That Titon had not been first made aware of the issue was frustrating enough, but Aleric’s display of insubordination in front of the men undermined Titon’s ability to lead.

  It was Edgar who responded. “A traitor.”

  The men returned with a third at spearpoint. It was the halfbreed who had spoken to Titon at the riverbank.

  “This man has been heard speaking treason,” Aleric announced for all to hear. “The punishment is death by drawing.” He then turned to Titon with half a smirk, an implicit challenge for Titon to overrule him.

  Titon ignored him and looked at the halfbreed. Men were busy binding his feet together while others attached a rope to his wrists, already bound behind his back. The man did not struggle or beg for his life. He did not even look to Titon for aid. He is Galatai, thought Titon. I can see that now.

  They grabbed their captive under his arms and carried him to one of only three horses had by their army. It was Titon’s horse, and he didn’t think they meant for the man to ride the beast in Titon’s stead—Titon having only used the horse to haul his gear thus far. The thought of walking beside a horse that was dragging a brother—even a half-brother who knew nothing of his people—was unacceptable. Titon finally looked to Aleric and noticed the man was truly eager to see what Titon would do.

  “Stop,” Titon commanded the men, though their work had essentially been completed. They stepped away from the prisoner as Titon approached. “Kneel.” The man obeyed, falling hard to his knees, his hands behind his back, tied to the rope that lay slack on the ground.

  “He is a traitor,” Aleric called out, as if to remind Titon that assisting him would be an offense in itself.

  Titon ignored him, speaking instead to his three legions of hushed soldiers. “I am your commander now. I, alone, will determine who is innocent and who is guilty when charged with a crime.” Titon looked at the rope on the hardened earth. He would have to sharpen his axe after slicing it where it lay on account of the rocks that would ruin his edge.

  “Halfbreed,” Titon said, acknowledging him as Galatai, if only in part. “You are charged with treason. Do you deny these charges?”

  The man did not look up. He merely shook his head.

  “Then may you rest at the foot of the Mountain.” Titon’s axe swung down, taking the man’s head off cleanly and without making contact with the ground. I promised Ellie I would slay every man, woman, and child in my way. It was more an explanation than an apology. He did not pity this tactless man. He’d left Titon no choice.

  As the blood pooled on the cold earth near Titon’s feet, he addressed his men.

  “I am your commander now,” he repeated. He searched the crowd of men hoping to find the one who had whispered to Aleric. “And whoever is next to fail to report directly to me on any contention, no matter how small, will suffer the same fate as this man.”

  DECKER

  One foot, then the other. Only death can defeat me.

  Decker was in agony, but he was far from broken. Battles such as these were the ones in which he excelled. He had long since tired of fighting interminable wars, the outcome of which there was nothing he could do to influence or hasten. Word from his clan had been that none of Titon’s memories had returned, Decker’s father was somewhere in the South—his time of return as uncertain as Decker’s faith in his motives—and Decker had been awaiting in vain the waking of his mother for a lifetime.

  But this was different. This battle could be fought with strength of body and strength of will. This battle would be soon won or soon lost. And in this battle, Decker could use all his fury and rage, both of which he had in dangerous abundance.

  The taunts of his enemy came unrelenting. Under the heavy layer of ice the stream trickled with the same song of challenge that it had had for each of the many risings and fallings of the Dawnstar since Decker had departed. The cold lanced him through his thick layers of furs and skins, and the wind ripped at his face as though his beard was not there. Canyons of dried blood ran along lips too painful to move, but with no water, no food, and no one to speak to, it was of little consequence. Chewing snow was no longer an option as doing so had already covered his mouth in unbearable sores, and breaking through the ice of the stream for a drink was no longer possible, as it had become too thick—not that he would allow himself to do such a thing, in any case.

  “One day you will rest under the foot of the Mountain, but for now you work in the rays of the Dawnstar and wash in the water of the River.” Those words from his father were always more a command than an encouragement, but now they incited Decker to anger. Why it was acceptable to wash oneself in the river when pissing in it was considered sacrilege made no sense. Why a man would wish to be buried under the foot of a god was also puzzling. The thought of being covered with dirt did not seem a pleasant way to rest for eternity. The trust his father placed in his gods was contradictory in many ways, though that was not what bothered Decker the most. How can you show your precious Three such unfaltering faith, yet betray Mother so shamelessly? And what kind of man can do such a thing, then preach honor to his sons as if he were the very embodiment of integrity?

  The impact made when his boots parted enough snow to hit rock or ice sent bolts of pain through his already aching head. As each step brought him farther forward, so did it bring him farther skyward. Breaths came easy at this height, but the act was like cold fire in his lungs and did not seem to satisfy his thirst for air as it should have. It was difficult to believe that this trek, up what appeared to be a solitary mountain, had never been attempted before. And if it had, why were there no legends of the endeavor? Perhaps there were. There were, after all, so many things that Decker had not been taught about his people and their past. And the things he had been told seemed evermore the types of foolish stories recited to children to pacify them to contentedness.

  Only death can defeat me.

  Decker could not remember, in truth, but he hoped that his trick for ensuring victory had been his own invention and not a lesson of his father’s. Decker had not always been the largest and strongest man yet to be a man; there was a time well recollected when he was just a large boy. Axe combat became more dangerous to practice as boys grew, gaining the strength to devastate even with the soft wood of their practice weapons. It was among the reasons his fathe
r had made Decker and his brother train when they were younger than most. Before even that time, their father had taken them to see other boys fight. One in particular caught Decker’s eye—and the eyes of all others as well—for he was the best with axe by far. He was a bit smaller than average for his age, though not so much as Titon, and he bested boys far larger and with more experience. Everyone had concluded that the boy had a knack for axes, that natural talent was the cause for his supremacy. Only Decker saw the truth. The boy, Grenspur was his name, was no more gifted than any of the others, truth be told. The difference was his willingness to commit. The boy simply was not afraid to be struck and thus never flinched, never hesitated, and almost never lost. Decker had applied that important principle to his own combat when his training had begun, and after a time he began to reap the rewards. But where Grenspur was small and weak, Decker was a force of nature. It became habit for Decker to ignore all fear of pain or defeat, and as it became rarer for him to suffer either, it became that much easier. Eventually there were none that could contest him, not even his elder brother who was vexingly nimble. Grenspur was not so lucky. Word that the boy had been maimed during practice spread with sadness through their clan, but the news did not deter Decker. Better to be killed by your better than to lose to your lesser, he reasoned.

  And so it would be with the stream.

  Only death can defeat me.

  The first signs of weakness began to show, and they were not in Decker. As the climb steepened, the stream thinned, and the incessant trickle changed in tone. The sound that now came from the water beneath his feet was lighter, faster, and more desperate. You are cracking, thought Decker, but the smile that began to form on his face had to be abandoned lest he split his two lips to four.