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

by Ireman, M. D.

  Driven by the first form of encouragement he’d had since setting out, Decker tried to pick up his pace. Upon commanding his legs to move faster, however, he found they did not obey. Each step required picking up a heavy boot, solid with ice, and plowing it through a mass of snow past his knees in depth. The action was performed with as much quickness as the conditions would allow, but even his arms seemed to drag him downward, having become absurdly heavy. Decker found himself wondering if he could have even gone faster if he had been fully rested. His answer came to him when he realized his pace was slowing.

  Decker grunted with foul humor. This is what you wanted. A test greater than would seem possible—where failure meant death. He refused to consider that perhaps death was his true goal from the beginning, pulling the thought from its root and burning it like the uninvited weed it was. Yes a fire. A fire would be nice.

  He tripped forward, face first into the snow. It felt much the same as when his brother managed to hit him square in the nose with a ball of snow, a feat he managed more often than one might imagine. When Decker connected with such a throw it would knock the wind from his target—Decker knew the feeling well since his father’s throw delivered the same force of impact. His brother, however, had such incredible accuracy coupled with an innate ability to predict the direction in which one would attempt to dodge, that he could throw at his target’s head and rarely miss. My brother has an eagle’s aim and the instincts of a wolf. …Had, he reminded himself, before I took it all away from him.

  The image of Titon looking at him as he’d sat up in the mender’s bed came to Decker, unwanted. They were strangers now. And why? Because of their father’s weakness. Titon attacked me over love for our half-sister—a love mistaken for lust. The thought was reviling. Had their father told them the truth, it would not have brought any more shame to their mother—it merely would have prevented the tragedy that had resulted.

  Decker pushed himself to his feet, fueled with a new madness. He picked up the deadened block that was his left foot and placed it in front of his right.

  Only death can defeat me.

  He had never before entertained the notion of fighting his father. Titon son of Small Gryn had never given him a reason for any resentment beyond what a child temporarily feels for a parent when disciplined. But now it seemed justified, if not obligatory. The pillar of integrity that stood the same height as Decker needed to be felled. The hypocrisy could not be allowed to stand any longer.

  Decker’s eyes betrayed him. A dull grey was visible in the distance, blanketed on either side by the monotony of white. Nothing existed here that was not covered with snow, especially not this time of year, yet the beautiful earthen rock became clearer as he approached, warming him from afar. Mounds of the same round stones Galatai liked to place in the fire when out at hunt, either to boil water in a skin or just to keep with them while they slept, bade him come rest inside the grotto they formed. His feet lightened as he moved, no longer plowing through snow, and he entered the unlikely haven. He felt the dry heat of stones as he lay upon them, his cheek pressed to one which served as the softest pillow. Am I dead? He did not fear the thought, he merely wondered, as he drifted off into utter tranquility.

  Decker awoke to pain in his feet. A thousand knives stabbed at his toes—toes that he would be happy to trade for a drink. His thirst overwhelmed his thoughts, and he stumbled to stand and search of something to quench it.

  The sound was gone. Had he conquered the stream or merely lost it? He did not know, but he did not care to find out until first finding water. It was all around him. He could feel its weight in the air. His hope was that this cave might have a seep he could drink from. Warm as he was, he had no desire to melt snow in his hands if he didn’t have to.

  The yellow light of early evening flooded through the grotto, and he was pleased to see there was much for him to explore inside. Heading away from the small entrance and deeper inside, Decker had to focus not to topple on the loose rocks as his feet were of little use.

  A horrid sight confronted him as he rounded a bend. Before him stretched a lake of solid ice enshrouded by mist. It was massive in size, but more so, it was astonishing to see such a vast open space within the side of a mountain. He had no desire to be astonished, however, only quenched, and he threw a rock in dejection as he turned to leave. He had been in ice caves before. They were so dangerous only fools entered them without rope and ice hooks—and those fools rarely exited.

  He stopped moving when he heard the sound. Hope and doubt fought within him as he knew it could not be true. The splash he heard must have been a product of his forlorn mind.

  After hobbling to the edge of the lake he plunged his hand through the mist, feeling its warmth as he realized what he’d truly found. A steam pool. His hand broke the smooth surface of the tepid water, and he brought a handful to his mouth. It tasted as sweet as any he’d ever drunk, and he wasted no time putting his face directly in it.

  His stomach ached with the mass of water he’d consumed, but it was pain filled with relief. Decker rolled to his back, letting his head dip into the water. It was inviting, and he was in need of washing. The cave would provide him with enough warmth to dry before redressing, and he was soon stripped naked and wading.

  Had the pool been moderate in size it may have felt wrong cleaning himself in it, but it was so massive it seemed incorruptible by the filth of a single man. The emerald water was clear as glass, and he continued deeper until he swam, no longer able to touch the rock floor. It was a great reprieve for his feet to no longer bear his weight. His frostbite was painful, but he had endured worse.

  Diving to the bottom he opened his eyes. He did not believe fish would live in such a pool, but his hunger drove him in search of whatever food there may be, shelled creatures in particular. Clinging to the bottom were bunches of black mollusks as he’d hoped. They were similar to the ones he and his brother dove for in the mud-bottom lakes during summer, but these had far narrower shells and it was not long before he found they also had a sweeter taste. Titon had taught him the trick to eating them raw which involved first removing the brown sack found inside. Titon would have been in awe of this place.

  The thought drove Decker back underwater where tears could not trouble him. He swam to what looked to be the deepest part and continued as his ears throbbed with pain. The glint of metal caught his eye and he swam farther still, releasing the pressure in his ears with yet another technique learned from his older brother. He could only imagine what might lay at the bottom of a pool in a cave so far north—perhaps he was the first person ever to swim in this lake. Tales were told of dragons that lived in caves, protecting vast fortunes of precious metals and gems.

  The thought of returning home with a bounty of gems amused him, if only for the jealous anger it would incite in Kilandra upon him gifting them to his mother. It was possible he could infuriate her further if he gave them instead to a young girl who he would then lay with, but the idea of seduction for the purpose of scheming turned his stomach. He had no desire to become the very thing he loathed in Kilandra. Keethro’s sister had warned him before he set off with the woman, but Decker had not heeded her words. “You need fear Kilandra worse than my brother’s return. The woman is vile poison wrapped in a flower. Do not trust her.” And in any case, there were no girls, young or otherwise, that he truly cared for in their clan. Save Red. The thought almost made him inhale water, but then he saw what had caused the glimmer.

  It was a blade, the thick curved edge of what must be an axe. He grasped it and pulled until it came free from its rocky prison, then clenched the hard metal above the handle in his teeth and swam to the surface.

  Wading to shore in the shallows, he had time to inspect the weapon. In spite of having been underwater for what must have been some great length of time, it showed no signs of rust. There was no binding to have decayed as the helve, with room enough for three hands, was carved from the rough stem of a massive antler. Decker s
liced the air with it as he left the water, impressed with its balance. It was the metal that was most captivating, however. It was odd enough that the blade and neck were a single piece that ran through the length of the handle, but it glowed with such brilliance that it seemed to radiate heat, filling him with warmth and vigor. It had little flex, yet remained near as light as an axe more fit to be thrown.

  Breaking from his trance, Decker realized he had been out of the water for some time now. How long have I been swinging this blade? It was long enough to become dry, except for his hair, but not long enough for his arms to tire. He dressed himself, eying the resting axe as he did so, wishing to find something less fleeting than air to test his new toy upon. The River himself, should he find the courage to face me.

  After a walk around the perimeter of the pool, ensuring there were no other secrets hidden within, Decker left the refuge of the cave with a renewed zeal, eager to recover the sound of the stream and follow it to its source. The task proved difficult as the wind had picked up, masking the sound of any water. Hanging low in the sky, the Dawnstar burned deep red, an angry red Decker would soon share in mood if he could not find what he sought. He kicked clear the snow on the ground and placed his ear to the ice.

  There you are, my nemesis, and weaker than ever. He tried to determine from where the water flowed, but what he heard made little sense. The trickle seemed to lead in the direction of the cave from which he’d come. What was more, the sound grew ever fainter. A gust of wind knocked a pile of snow atop him, but he remained motionless as it helped him to hear. The stream sounded as if it was dying, its pitch gaining as its intensity lessened.

  Do not hide from me you coward! His silent taunt had no effect. The sound was gone, and in its place, just beneath the howling warning of an oncoming storm, was the creaking of newly forming ice.

  CASSEN

  He studied Annora as she lay on the deck of the bow, chest rising and falling near in rhythm with the motion of the boat on the swell. Though she was not the Adeltian model of beauty that was Crella, he could find no flaw in her appearance. The many diaphanous layers of her skirts had become damp from the spray and clung to her, outlining her sensuous hips and breasts separated by so slender a waist. How tempting it had been for him, surrounded by such youthful beauty, and always forbidden to indulge, having all the power yet keeping constant abstinence. Calling them daughters was his own ill-humor, for they were truly his pets, his toys, his trinkets—delicacies to be consumed at a later date. And yet as he looked at her now, all he felt was fear… Fear that men such as he would be the first they encountered as the wind carried them southward.

  Cassen scanned the horizon but saw nothing. They had lost sight of shore soon after raising sail, and that was just more than a day ago. The lack of fresh water was making itself felt like a toddler tugging a mother’s dress—and Cassen had no tolerance for toddlers. It seemed neither hot nor cold, yet the humidity forced him to sweat, the ocean continued to cover him with life-sapping salt, and the Dawnstar burnt him with vengeful wrath. Annora was fairing better due to her islander complexion and lack of predisposition to swelter, but even she would be crazed with thirst in a day or two. His own tongue felt as if it was twice its normal size, and he had given up trying to produce any moisture in his mouth.

  The solitary swig of the cheap rum he’d finished hours ago had been the best drink to ever cross his lips. A mouthful of seawater would feel so nice, salty though it may be, and he could spit it out after. But he knew better. Daemun’s draught, it was called, though most sailors called it demon’s or deadman’s out of ignorance, making the same mistake they did when naming the abandoned keep far to the east. The story of Lord Daemun was a dark one—one Cassen would rather not recollect, even if he believed it to be mere fabler’s fantasy. Still, it helped turn his stomach to the idea of drinking from the sea, and for that he was grateful.

  How did you arrive here, you damn fool? He knew, for he had asked himself more than once already. It seemed he had made mistake after mistake ever since the death of Lyell. Ever since you murdered him.

  Yes, he must not forget that he was now a killer of kings. It gave him strength, having done what most men would tremble at the thought of. Kings were near gods with bottomless purses that afforded them vast amounts of spies and information. Everyone was an informer for the king. When questioned by such authority there were few who would dare lie, except perhaps when posed questions that condemned themselves or their closest kin. And yet Cassen had disposed of such a god-like man the way one might toss aside a worn kerchief.

  His fingers stopped their chronic stroking of Crella’s fabric as the action met his conscious thought. His mistakes were too grievous to rank, but of all of them, allowing her to fall into Warin’s clutches was the worst. He is a known rapist. It was the most reviling thought—that Warin might be having his way with her this very moment, and Cassen punished himself by remaining focused upon it. Is there a more contemptible man in all the realm? Cassen could certainly think of none. His loathing of Alther had paled in comparison to Warin, for at least Alther was not completely blind to his own ignorance. Warin, on the other hand, was a knife too dull for butter, convinced he was sharp enough for shaving. The memory of when he first confronted Warin about his lady servant returned. Warin had denied the charge in its entirety, claiming he’d never so much as touched her, but he quickly changed his defense. How long will you be able to pretend your acts with either of them were consensual when I return with the Satyr’s army and string a harp with your entrails?

  Cassen’s thoughts of revenge were enough to calm him, along with the realization that Crella had been Warin’s captive for much longer than since he’d taken her north with him. More importantly, marching with an army and his fellow Guard members would not afford him the privacy to do any of the things Cassen feared. Warin would need to maintain his guise of virtue.

  Cassen pressed Crella’s kerchief deep into his pocket, resolved not to think of her anymore. He forced himself instead to ponder one of his more recent missteps. The fisherman… How is it that you were outwitted by a lowly docksman, a man so transparent that Annora was able to read and manipulate him with ease? He looked at her once more, his beautiful and oddly strong daughter. We are even now, I suppose, he thought, then scanned the horizon for salvation.

  Eyes can play tricks on a person at sea, so Cassen closed them for a count of three before taking a second look in the same direction. Five white spokes protruded from the horizon, same as he had seen before, the same he saw every time the Maiden’s Thief first came into view. The sight was almost enough to send him to tears, but he laughed instead. “Never leave a mortal enemy who yet draws breath,”—it was a tenet he lived by and had broken having left Stephon struggling with the knife in his hand. It would have been easy to put the boy to death and assure the Satyr’s victory, but Cassen wanted Stephon alive for what was to come. The five glorious specks in the distance, gradually becoming triangles, reassured him that he had made the correct decision.

  I will let her sleep, he thought, though the desire to wake her was overwhelming. No doubt Annora would be cheered by the knowledge of their rescue, but she would need all her strength just to handle the stares of the men aboard that vessel. Cassen had never seen the Satyr interact with women but was confident the man would respect Annora, given whom she belonged to.

  With a turn of the rudder they were headed east, and slowly at that. Cassen fumbled with the lines on the boom in an attempt to get more speed, concerned only with putting their vessel in the direct path of the Satyr’s boat as quickly as possible. He did not need to close his eyes to verify what he saw on the horizon this time, for the massive square sails of the second ship were plain to recognize. The warship was not only closer than the Satyr’s ship—it was headed directly toward them.

  “Wake,” Cassen said, his voice too scratchy for his panic to show. “Annora, there is trouble.”

  She roused like a painting come to
life, though Cassen had no time to appreciate the sight. How simpler things would be if she were an ugly toad as he guessed a true daughter of his making would be.

  “What could be more trouble than dying of thirst?” She was rubbing her eyes and stretching, her long hair falling down her back. We should cut that hair, he thought, but shoved the idea aside like the rubbish it was. Desperation was the last thing they needed to show if they were to survive this ordeal.

  “A boat!” Her glee was sickening as she pointed toward the massive ship now only several miles off. “But they are not your friends?”

  “Friends of friends, but not the type I’d want to meet. My friends are there,” he said, pointing to the south with his head.

  Annora studied the distant sails for a moment. “Your friends’ ship looks more menacing than the one that approaches.”

  That it may be, but not to us. “We need to discuss how to best handle this encounter.”

  Cassen steered the vessel directly toward the oncoming ship. Satisfied with their trajectory and minutes away from contact, he reached over the side of the skiff and scooped a handful of seawater into his mouth. I will have death or fresh water soon, the success of which depends on the slickness of my tongue, he reasoned.

  Though he was determined to not be outwitted by another seaman, some serious hurdles remained in Cassen’s way. All the logic in the realm may do little good to convince these war-hungry men that Annora was not a mermaid sans tail, sent to them by the gods to do with as they pleased. What was worse, they may not understand a word of his common tongue—Sacarans had their own language.

  “Throw a ladder, and be quick about it,” Cassen shouted.

  Men with barbed spears attached to ropes lined the bow’s railings three men’s height above. Cassen and Annora would be hauled upon the ship one way or the other, and Cassen preferred the method that did not require puncture wounds.