The Axe and the Throne (35 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Decker kept his focus on Kilandra. Raiding Dogmen had whetted his appetite for the matured female form, and compared to the women he had seen while in the South, whose faces more closely resembled those of their demonic pets, Kilandra stood a statue of consummate perfection. The clothing she wore—often ridiculed in whisper by the other women—embraced her in much the same way he would like to. The tasteful amounts of flesh peeking through her furs showed her confidence in her flawless complexion, begging to be seen in its entirety. Her shameless self-assurance was most evident in her eyes which, in spite of their grey color, appeared more brilliant than those of any other. Even from this distance he could feel them piercing him, provoking him.

“I challenge you to single combat!” Decker heard what he thought to be the voice of his father, but it came from beside him. “To determine who is best fit to lead our clan!”

Decker's mind was still lost in a fantasy involving Kilandra and him, alone under some furs, when he was pushed with enough force to stumble to a knee. Titon had shoved him with his foot in order to gain his full attention.

Decker's attempt to decipher his brother's words and actions were met with no success. Titon had no need to challenge him as he was already the elder. Furthermore, their father was the head of the clan—not Decker. Any challenge for the right of leadership would need to be directed at the son of Small Gryn.

Managing to peel his attention from Kilandra, Decker faced his brother. Still upon a knee, Decker nearly matched Titon's height. It dawned on Decker that this must be one of Titon's embarrassing charades where he would reenact some obscure scene from a Dogman book, fully expecting everyone to understand and appreciate his jest.

“I yield,” Decker said jocularly, hoping for the best.

With lightning-like speed, assisted by the fact that Decker had not put up his defenses, the butt of Titon's axe slammed Decker across the cheek, opening a small cut and demonstrating the sincerity of the challenge.

Decker roiled with a mixture of shock and disgust. Throughout their trip he had done everything he could to help his brother gain the respect of the men.
This is how you reward me?
Decker stood slowly and unhitched the belt that held his knife and throwing axes, letting the assembly fall to the ground. He did the same with the bow on his back.

Titon did nothing slowly. He flung the axe he held to the ground and charged his brother. Titon's shoulder dug into Decker's chest, a blow he could have withstood if not for Titon's heel having been hooked behind his own, sending Decker hard to his back upon the rocky ground. Before he could react, Titon was on top of him where he rained down blows. Decker pointed his elbows upward, defending his face with his bent arms successfully until one of Titon's fists snuck through the side and connected with his jaw. Decker was still reeling from the fall, and Titon's blow had the effect of bringing him into greater focus. He went on the offensive. He bucked Titon off him with ease and connected an upward kick to Titon's stomach which sent him backward.

“Stop this,” Decker yelled at his brother as he stood and attempted to back away, but Titon had already begun to again charge. It was a familiar charge, one Decker himself had perfected as a young boy when their father made them train—fueled by blind rage and frustration and utterly ineffective. Instead of sidestepping, which would have allowed Titon to plow face first into the ground, Decker countered Titon's momentum with his own. His greater mass made him the easy victor, and Titon was shoved rearward, off his feet, where he landed badly on his back with Decker on top of him.

Titon had stopped his assault for the moment, and Decker showed him his open palms.

“Stop, Titon. Stop,” Decker repeated, but Titon resumed his desperate attack, throwing punch after punch at his brother while still flat on his back. Decker tried to grab Titon's arms to subdue him, but Titon bucked, forcing Decker to fall forward to support himself. Titon turned and sunk his teeth into one of Decker's arms, and Decker responded with the heavy fist of his other arm. He hit Titon square in the face, with more speed than power, but his brother refused to stop. Titon reached for the knife that remained at his belt. Knowing how quick he was with a blade, Decker lost his ability to restrain his attack. He smashed his brother in the face once, again, and a third time with his full fury, letting out a yell along with his frustration.

Silence was all that followed in the wake of his cry—a silence that made Decker feel utterly alone. If there were a hundred onlookers, Decker was no longer aware of a single one. He felt no stares of judgment fall upon him, only the stinging cold of the snowflakes that landed on the back of his wounded scalp.

The realization that Titon had gone limp after his first strike was sickening. His brother lay motionless beneath him, blood pouring from his nose and trickling out his ear. Titon's eyes were open, staring blankly into the distance, his mouth agape but not appearing to be passing breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The amenable nature of their river voyage ended abruptly when the rains came. They had storms just as fierce in the Northluns, but those carried only snow. In the summer months they would receive rain, but those were always gentle and welcomed. The weather in which Keethro and Titon now found themselves was neither.

The thatching they had duplicated from their previous boat had proven inadequate, unable to shelter their bodies or their fire, and with their fire went their spirits. Violent gusts blew a horizontal deluge, spraying them in the face and making safe travel downstream an impossibility. The once calm waters of the river had swollen and rushed with force.

“To shore, before these rapids swallow us.” Titon had not so much as finished speaking when Keethro had the long pole in hand, attempting to push them toward the riverbank. Titon paddled with a wide piece of wood that had come loose from the shelter.

With considerable effort, shouts, and cursing, the men were able to land their raft, pulling it partially ashore. “How is it so fecking cold?” Titon bellowed to the sky.

“We need shelter from the wind and rain, a fire is out of the question.” A nod from Titon showed he was of like mind. “We can tilt the raft and use brush to fill any gaps between the logs,” Keethro added.

Their grunts and heaving was met with no success as they tried to lift an edge of the raft. Though they'd once carried it into the water under their own power, the giant they had constructed had become saturated with water and was simply too heavy. The exertion brought Keethro some minor warmth, but he still shook from a dangerous chill.

Titon laughed like a man deranged. “Two Northmen, to die frozen in the heart of the South.”

The temperature was not near so cold as they regularly endured in the North, but this combination of wind and rain was an unfamiliar foe. More clothing would do them no good, so long as it was soaked. Some method of shelter was essential before their fingers became useless.

Frantically they built more thatch structures with hearty bracings, cannibalizing their raft for horsehide binding. After a time, they each had a curved shield of fronds and branches large enough that they could sit together, overlapping their sections to keep the wind and rain at bay. They exchanged nods, agreeing that this would do for the time being.

Though they were still drenched, it was much warmer without the wind stripping them of all their heat. They could have been warmer still, had they sat closer, but Keethro knew Titon's pride would only allow so much. Keethro was content to remain where they were, a ways up the riverbank and safe from the water, convinced they could survive provided the storm did not persist through the night.

But the waters of the river continued to rise. With no cordage to spare to tie it off, their raft would soon be swept away if they did not abandon their shelter and drag it further aground—a task that would cost them what little warmth they'd just gained. The loss of the raft meant little to Keethro so long as they kept their lives, but he knew Titon had grown attached to their creation.

“We should save it,” said Titon, confirming Keethro's fears.

This man's stubbornness will be the end of us.

“You stay here while I—”

Just as Titon began to speak, his head jerked backward as if struck in the face.

“What the bloody hell?” he shouted. “Who is out there?” Even Titon's monstrous voice sounded somewhat weak as it was drowned out by the heavy rains.

Before Titon could lower his barrier in search of their attacker, they received a response—a response that could not have come from a mere man. The noise of the rain was accompanied by what sounded like hundreds of rocks plummeting from the sky. Keethro saw in Titon's eyes a strange emotion. It could not be fear, of course—it must have been confusion. But even Keethro, who had no superstitions, felt ill at ease in the presence of whatever power may summon a shower of stones.

“Gods of the River, the Mountain, and the Dawnstar,” cried Titon. “It was with no irreverence that we flung our coats into your waters. Know that the urine upon them was not our own, not that that is any excuse. It was a grave error, and we humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Keethro had never known Titon to speak directly to his gods, and seeing him do so in desperation was frightening in its own right. Out of instinct Keethro sought the void, clearing his mind so he may think of a way to calm his friend.

“We offer you our raft in sacrifice,” Keethro yelled, hoping Titon would accept the idea.

It took only a few moments before the raft was swept away by a sudden rush of water, and Titon's face shone with naked relief. Even Keethro was awed by the timing of it, but the sound of the rocks falling continued, and several made their way through the thatching.

“Ice,” said Titon, first with wonder then with joy. “Gods be merciful, they have turned stone to water!”

Keethro began to laugh, and Titon soon followed. Nothing cheered the man quite like believing he had again escaped certain death.
Merciful and exploitable
, Keethro thought, though it would be some time before he could be fully removed from the disquiet that lingered after seeing the raft be taken just moments after having offered it—to those gods in which he held no belief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two massive hosts of indeterminable origin had formed outside the northern walls of the Adeltian Throne. They stood with discipline, not a single man moving so much as to scratch an itch or shift weight from one leg to the other. The inadequacies of the Throne's defenses were made blatantly apparent with these armies in place. Men with ladders could easily scale the short outer walls of the city, gaining access to turrets that stood in stark contrast to the magnificence of the Throne itself, which extended countless stories above like an enormous gem set upon a dainty ring, ripe for the plucking.

Derudin and his seven disciples stood outside the walls to defend the kingdom. The very city that he and Lyell's hosts had stormed and taken from Queen Adella was now under siege in much the same way.

“Toblin,” Derudin commanded. “You must defend our western flank. Draw from the power of the Dawnstar and redirect its fire to the invading army. Set them alight so that we may live.”

The Dawnstar shone brightly through the clouds checkering the sky. Although it was the dead of winter, Adeltia did not suffer seasons much, and it was far from cold. Derudin was quite comfortable in his grey robes, but looking at Toblin he could see sweat pouring from his face and soaking through his clothing.
The poor boy fears his own shadow. Let us see how he does against an army.

Toblin was dressed as impressively as ever. In addition to his royal violet cape, he wore an ornamental breastplate bearing his house name and words. “Everbold,” it read at the top; “Fortidia & Audacius,” it read below—the ancient tongue for courage and daring. The piece of metal was far too tall for the boy and made him waddle more than usual as he positioned himself to unleash hell upon the invaders.

Toblin closed his eyes, focusing all his efforts on his most important task. The rest of the apprentices waited impatiently as nothing happened—a result they had come to expect. In his quest to set the western host alight, it seemed Toblin was only able to drench himself with enough sweat to quench the fire he was meant to create.

I will give him two minutes
, thought Derudin.

Two minutes passed, after which three more of Derudin's least promising students tried a hand, all without so much as smoke coming from the clothing of a single invader.

It was difficult for Derudin to peel himself away from the king in such chaotic times, but conducting these classes had always been a priority of his, even with most of his students having no chance of progress.
Just one would make all my efforts worthwhile
, he thought. Derudin prided himself in being a man of patience, and in the task of finding a successor, he believed he was demonstrating that patience in abundance.

“We are too far away,” cried Rexton, the most recent apprentice to have failed.

“Distance is not the problem. Lack of focus is the issue,” Derudin explained. “Eaira, do you wish to try?”

The little girl shook her head. Ever since her first demonstration where she had impressed Derudin with her abilities, she had been reluctant to go again. He did not know why, but understanding little girls was not among his gifts.
She has such promise, but greatness can never be forced upon a mage.

“Sture, Signy, take positions on the western and eastern flanks. Save us from certain death.”

The two cousins raced to their positions on the field, eager to show that they could indeed protect the city. Their matching hair of blonde gleamed with brilliant luster in the dawnlight. Their pale skin, however, seemed to be at odds with the exposure, having already turned somewhat pinkish.

Sture was the first to get smoke, but Signy was the first to acquire flame. Within seconds both armies had one member burning and a second smoldering. Sture and Signy retained concentration, continuing to light one soldier after the other until each had all sixteen members of their assigned host consumed in flames.

“Well done,” Derudin told them truthfully. “Certainly faster than a man with a longbow could have removed sixteen foes.”

Signy appeared quite proud of herself, but Sture was clearly exhilarated with power and let it be known. “A mere bowman is no match for the power of a mage!”

The boy looked close to tears, having finally had a chance to realize his dream of dousing men in fire.
You poor fool
, thought Derudin.

“Is that the conclusion you have drawn from this, Sture?” Derudin asked. “Another demonstration then, perhaps. Toblin, I will need your assistance. Please take this and stand under the bucket.”

He gave Toblin a child's bow and an arrow with a large padded tip. The structure to which he directed Toblin supported a giant bucket. Attached to it was a rope that, given a good yank, would rotate the bucket, emptying its contents upon the head of whoever stood beneath.

“Rexton, if you would, please grab hold of the rope. I will need you to pull on it at the first sign of smoke…” Derudin looked at Rexton with utter seriousness. “Toblin's life may depend on it.”

Toblin's eyes went wide with fear, and he stopped mid-shuffle to protest.

“Go on, Toblin,” Derudin insisted. “I will not allow you to be harmed.”

The boy reluctantly obeyed, his fear far from quashed.

“Now, Toblin, I want you to give Sture a moment before you shoot your arrow at him.” Derudin looked to Sture with consideration. “He is no doubt very tired from his last exertion.”

“I am not tired!” Even if Sture was exhausted, the prospect of having a living target seemed to have revitalized him. “I assume I will not be held responsible when I roast this hog? I am warning you in advance, as my powers are greater than you realize, old man.”

Derudin did not show any offense at the way in which he had been addressed. “I am responsible for Toblin's wellbeing. You are merely responsible for setting him on fire. Focus all your energy on Toblin and
only
Toblin. Do not hold back. I will not hear any excuses when you fail the task.”

“I will not fail.” Having said that, Sture's eyes shot to Toblin with extreme intensity. Toblin immediately began to squirm as if being cooked from the inside, shielding himself with his arms and turning to the side.

“Stand still, Toblin, and face him. Sture will need all the help he can get.”

Toblin regained his composure somehow and turned to face Sture, although with his eyes only partially open, as if afraid looking directly upon his attacker may blind him.

Moments later Sture was beginning to show his first signs of frustration, repeatedly clenching his fists. “It is his breastplate,” he finally yammered in anger.

“If metal scares you then set his breeches alight, or better yet his hair.”

Toblin once again looked as if he were about to be pushed from the top of the Throne, and his eyes began to water with tears.

“No tears, Toblin. He will only use that as another excuse.”

“You are shielding him!” Sture was furious now.

“I am afraid not, nor do I know of any such magic. Toblin, you may use your bow.”

Toblin seemed to have forgotten about the bow held in his white-knuckle grasp, taking some time to even acknowledge Derudin's words. In a frantic attempt to ready a shot, the arrow fell from his fumbling fingers. He looked to Derudin for permission to pick it up which Derudin granted with a nod.

“Be quick, Sture,” said Derudin. “You are soon to be bested by the most novice bowman in the realm.”

Toblin retrieved and nocked the arrow, drawing the bow back with trembling arms. When the arrow finally set sail, it flew in a gentle arc and fell well short of Sture, several paces to the left. It was all Derudin could do not to bury his face in his hand.

“That is enough, Sture,” said Derudin. “Had Toblin been a trained bowman, you would now be dead. You may retu—”

Without warning, flames burst from beneath Toblin, and Derudin quickly signaled for Rexton to dump the bucket. The boy did his best to comply, pulling with all his force, but only managed to lift himself. The bucket was too heavy for him to tip. Flames had caught on Toblin's stockings, and he began to scream.

A massive gust of wind sent the structure flying backward, rustling the hair of both boys and snuffing out the flames on Toblin's stockings and the grass he stood upon. In an instant, Derudin had a hold of Sture by the hair and lifted him from the ground.

“You dare defy my explicit instructions? What kind of knave are you?”

Toblin was rolling on the ground, weeping and clutching his leg, and Sture was crying as well, albeit defiantly. “You told me to do it!” he sobbed back at Derudin.

“I told you Toblin and only Toblin, and you lit the dry grass beneath him.”

“You said his breeches and his hair, and all I did was burn some straw.” His defiance was fading into pure self-pity.

Derudin released the boy in disgust, though in truth he was more disgusted with himself.
I should never have taunted him.

“Let this be a lesson to all of us in the dangers of magic. Had that gust of wind not come, Toblin could have been badly burned. Toblin, I assume you are all right? Let me have a look.”

As he'd expected, Toblin had no actual injury beside that of his pride. His silk stockings had been ruined, but he had not so much as a red mark. Sture and Signy had already suffered worse from the Dawnstar.

“You are fine. Everyone form up. Let us review what we have learned.”

The seven apprentices, all who either had faces white from fear, red from tears, or both, slowly reformed their rows of four and three.

“Who can explain why Sture was unable to set Toblin aflame without resorting to burning the grass beneath him?” No one seemed as though they had any intention of proposing a theory, so Derudin allowed them plenty of time to relax and think.

Signy finally spoke up. “His breastplate?”

“Although it would be hopeless to attempt to set a breastplate on fire, that does not explain why Sture was also unable to burn Toblin's breeches or hair.” No one else was forthcoming with guesses, so Derudin continued. “Transferring power to candles and inanimate scarecrows is met with no resistance. Transferring power to a living thing is entirely different. Just as all living things have within them some arcane ability, they also carry some arcane contravention. Whereas transference requires focus for proper use, contravention—or resistance—does not. Even the weakest of men and animals are near impossible to use as an efficient target for the transfer of power. The same can be said for anything worn upon their person.”

Derudin smiled to his class, attempting to further calm them. “If that were not the case, I am sure some of you would be without living parents by now.”

His joke seemed to have had the opposite of the intended effect, as the children began to look sick, scanning their memories for the times they had focused their hatred on their parents and recognizing they might have harmed them. Eaira was the most affected, putting her face in the crook of her elbow.

I should warn them of the exception so that they do not harm anyone by mistake.
Derudin knew that lesson was meant to follow today's demonstration, but he feared teaching them now would frighten them—or more specifically, Eaira—from ever practicing magecraft again. He resolved, instead, to teach them in the coming days.

“Couldn't a strong mage set fire to the ground beneath the feet of an army?” asked Sture, back to dreaming up methods of mass carnage.

“Yes, bit by bit you can set the ground alight. But so can an archer with a flaming arrow. It is no great feat. And had Toblin not been standing so still, you would have had great trouble getting his stockings to catch by way of the grass.”

Sture scowled with disappointment.

“A great mage can be a powerful force on the battlefield, but his power comes more from utility. He…or she…is not the fountain of death-bringing flame as so often depicted in children's tales.” Derudin glanced again at the turrets of the kingdom, focusing on the parts of stone scorched by fires he helped ignite. “And like all great powers, there is often a weakness. An arrow from a longbow can kill a mage just as easily as it can any other man. Remembering that will serve you well.”