The Axe and the Throne (58 page)

“If there is one thing I hate,” said Otis, “it's a man who doesn't respect fair play.”

Gepner shook his head, but looked as though he'd expected no less from Otis. “Hurry it up, Otis. The line grows, and I have work to do.”

Dusan's arms flailed, alternating between trying to push himself upward and grabbing at Otis's boot. It would not be long before he suffocated, provided Otis wasn't already crushing his skull with his weight.

“Release him.” The voice came from behind, and Tallos knew the speaker, though he did not know him to be the valiant type.

Otis did not even look at Kelgun. Instead, he spoke to Gepner. “Where did you find this lot?”

Gepner ignored the question. “Kill the boy if you want, but I need the men,” he reminded Otis.

“You need numbers.
I
need men. Men who will follow orders, not those who think they're the ones who ought to be giving them. But I have a way of teaching even the most dimwitted their place.” With that Otis turned to Kelgun. “This your little runt?”

“No,” said Kelgun. “But that's my sword.”

Otis lifted his foot from Dusan who rolled to his back and fought for breath. Then he unsheathed the blade. “This? It's a little light.”

“I can show you how to use it, if you like.” Somehow Kelgun, the same man who was fearful of the now silent war drums, did not look intimidated. Tallos could tell he was still rather intoxicated, but he hid it better than usual.

“You think a sword makes a man?” Otis flung the weapon toward Kelgun where it jabbed to the hilt into the brown slush. “Have your toothpick.”

Otis pulled a plank of wood from the base of the provisioner's dais, eliciting some curses of protest.

Otis came at Kelgun with his wooden plank, swinging it over his head. Kelgun, his sword in hand, blocked the blow, but only just. Otis repeated the attack, and each time Kelgun blocked, it came that much closer to slamming into Kelgun's head as splinters flew in all directions. Kelgun had circled while moving rearward, and was near the dais once again.

“Fight, you coward,” taunted Otis, and Kelgun obliged with some downward slashes of his own. They were blindingly fast, but Otis managed to block each one, none of which seemed to have much power behind them. Then came Kelgun's true attack, a strike that appeared no different than those before it, but was artfully redirected to swing wide and hit from the side. The tactic worked, striking Otis on the ribs, but the slashing cut was no match for the thick hardened leather and left little more than a scratch on the surface.

Spear him with the point
, thought Tallos, and as if by command, Kelgun thrust his blade at what looked to be a weak point in Otis's armor, where the shoulder met the breast. Otis turned away from the attack, allowing the blade to scratch along his armored chest. Kelgun flicked his wrist as he withdrew, catching Otis's cheek and opening a small wound.

Otis retaliated with fury. With both hands he swung the wooden plank sideways at Kelgun's head, a move Kelgun looked happy enough to block with his blade, close to the hilt. The wood broke on impact, and the top half continued its motion to connect with Kelgun's head.

Otis was on top of him in an instant, striking the dazed knight with repeated blows with the half of the plank that remained. One such strike hit Kelgun's wrist, causing him to drop his sword, and Otis kicked him in the gut so hard Tallos could feel the impact. Otis followed up, putting a foot on Kelgun's chest as he lay on his back.

“Do you yield?” Otis demanded response by pushing the sharp splintered plank into his throat.

Kelgun made no sound.

“You yield,” Otis answered for him, then hocked another impressive glob of phlegm on Kelgun's face. Otis turned to Gepner. “Infantry for this one, right?”

“I would think so.”

Otis retrieved Kelgun's sword from the ground, flung it free of dirt, and sheathed it. “Your job is easier than you claim it to be,” he said to Gepner as he returned to the dais and threw the broken plank near where it had come from. He then went to Lily, who sat speechless in the mud, grabbed her by the hair and proceeded to drag her behind him. Neither Kelgun nor Dusan moved to protest this time.

“All right,” said Gepner as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “What's next here?” His eyes went to Tallos, who had managed to forget about his own quandary amidst the chaos. “I suppose you'll tell me you're a monk and that—Mountain's tits! I was wrong.”

Tallos had moved up to the front of the dais obediently, and by the way Gepner had begun to contort his face, he knew it was his stench that had hit the man.

“What sort of monk are you? You must pay homage to the gods of rotting flesh.”

Tallos had not come up with a plan that would allow him to remain in his robes, if even such a possibility existed. But in any case, he knew that he must rid himself of the stench.

“Please, allow me to jump in the river and bathe myself with stationed guard. It would be a kindness to the others in the camp.” There were plenty of fires going inside warm-looking buildings that would allow him to dry without disrobing. “I am not a fighting man, but I can read and write.” It was the only station he thought may allow him to retain his robes during service.

“Step back, you.
Farther.
”

Tallos complied, as did the small group of people behind him.

“You don't think I know what you are? We've had men like you rot an entire legion of infantry before. Remove your robe, plague bearer.”

It was exactly what he had sought to avoid, but if this man thought him pestilent, perhaps that would explain the appearance of his skin, and he would be cast out completely. He stopped himself before praying to the gods for assistance—he'd gotten better at that, at least.

Tallos was not moving quickly enough for the provisioner, however. “Guards, force his fecking robe off,” he commanded.

Tallos raised his hands to show it would not be necessary and untied the cords at the neck and waist. Then, looking as feeble as he could to assist in their presumption, he pushed off his garment at the hood and shoulders, allowing it to fall to the ground and reveal him in stark nakedness.

A wave of gasps and muffled shrieks passed through all those near. Tallos thought he recognized the gasp of Dusan.
Why does it hurt to be judged by one I sought to see dead?
He had no time to contemplate such things, however, as the situation continued to worsen.

“Kill him,” shouted one of the guards to his side. “He's no monk nor plague bearer. He is a necromancer, a practicer of dark arts.”

“Do
not
kill him,” shouted Gepner as the guards began closing in on Tallos, swords raised. “Cut down a demon and he will only return that much stronger, you fools! Seize him, and put him in chains. …He must be burned alive.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Titon inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich oaken scent emanating from the magnificent doors in front of him. They were not nearly the size of those found in the arena, but they far surpassed them in prominence due to their elaborate carvings. The scene depicted a great battle. Armored men laid siege to a castle with weapons of war Titon could have never imagined. Massive contraptions hurled boulders at the turrets along the walls, shattering them to pieces and sending men falling to their death. The drawbridge of the castle gate was raised, exposing an empty moat, but a makeshift bridge had been formed with piles of dead bodies over which several dozen men wheeled an enormous roofed log. The thing was at the gate, smashing through the drawbridge and portcullis, shards of wood flying in all directions. Other men had ladders across the moat and alongside the walls, crossing and climbing only to have rocks dropped upon them or their ladder thrust backward with long poles. Some had made it to the top of the walls where they advanced on the hordes of archers raining endless volleys of arrows down on those who had not yet crossed the moat.

Titon wondered how long it took to create such a carving, and if it could even be accomplished by a single man in a lifetime. More so, he wondered how war could be waged on such a scale.
It must be utter chaos
, he thought, remembering how difficult it had been just to get his raiding parties of never more than fifty to attack with any coordination or order.

He and Keethro had been escorted to those doors by golden-armored guards similar to those that had led them from the arena. Titon noticed the scene upon their tabard was identical to the one that flew over the gatehouses: the river flowing before a massive keep. They wore the same gaudy armor with spikes and gems. Even the pommels, hilts, and cross-guards of the longswords these men carried were covered in gold.
At least they had the sense to keep the blades bare
, he thought with a combination of disgust and humor.

A guard knocked four times, aided by the thick metal ring on his finger, a large black jewel held in a wolf's jaws, and the doors soon opened. At the end of the lengthy room, Titon saw a massive throne, near two men in height, sat upon a raised dais another man's height above the floor. The steps leading up to the seat were so large they would be cumbersome to climb and a fair defense against a charging attacker. But the throne was empty. Below it, the king was seated at the head of a great table. He wore no cape today, covered instead by tanned leather, skillfully tooled to reveal an intricate pattern. Short hair of light brown, heavily receding at the forehead, revealed him to be older than Titon. This was further evidenced by the deep lines on his face, caused by years of intense thought or disappointment. Perhaps both.

The doors had already closed behind them when Titon realized he had done little but analyze the appearance of this man, so eager he was to determine the likelihood of procuring his wife's remedy. He glanced around the room now, and noticed a row of more gold-plated guards on raised platforms to the left and right of the table. Including the six that had served as escorts, there must have been well over three-dozen guards present in the room, all armed with spears, swords, or maces.

“The man you killed in the arena was one of my best guards and a good friend.” It was the king who spoke. He stared at Titon and Keethro coldly with his elbows upon the table, hands in loose fists coming together at the knuckles, his chin resting upon his thumbs.

“I killed many men in the arena. But you must forgive me, king. I did not know there was one you liked most.” Titon did his best not to sound threatening.

“I am afraid there is little a king
must
do, and of those things none of them are demanded by his subjects.” Though he was easy enough to hear, the man spoke quietly as if he had no reason to do otherwise. It was obvious to Titon the power this man must wield, and the calmness with which he spoke seemed to affirm that assessment.

Titon swallowed down the sour taste in his mouth in an attempt to be rid of his pride as well. “I apologize. I am not from these parts, and I have not spoken to many kings in my time. We are not so formal where I come from.”

“Hmph… No, indeed you are not.
Savages
. That is what they call your kind in Rivervale. But you and your friend here did not fight like foolish savages in the arena, now did you? You made quite a mockery of my well-trained troops, in fact. You relieved them of their mighty dragons and tamed them for yourselves.”

Titon ignored the part about the combat in favor of the bit about his friend. “This is Keethro son of Leif, and I could not have succeeded without him. We have fought countless battles against our own people and the weakling Dogmen.”

“And you are Titon was it? Son of Small Gryn? The Northman?”

“Aye. Though it was your people who named me Northman.”

“Tell me, Titon, are you just a common man back in your home? Or are you a leader? And the son of those who were leaders before you?”

Titon hesitated, finding the question inexplicably embarrassing. “I am a leader of a Galatai clan. So was my father. So was his father. A very small clan compared to the might of this kingdom.”

“Yes, I figured as much. And there are many such small clans? In the Northluns, I assume?”

“Aye, the Northluns are home to perhaps a hundred clans.”

“And enough men to fill, say, the arena seats?”

Titon thought for a bit. “I do not know. I would guess not near that many. Maybe half. And half of those men would be boys, truth be told.”

“And why is it that you and your friend have come to visit Rivervale? Surely you are not here just to enjoy the offerings of our food vendors.”

For a man who looked so completely bored and uninterested, he had no lack of questions. Hopefully his response to Titon's next answer would be equally as casual and result in their reward and dismissal. “No, we have not. We have come in search of a remedy for my wife—one I am sure a kingdom as great as yours has within it. After we have the elixir to end my wife's waking slumber, we will return to our homes. With tales of your legendary charity.” Titon was satisfied in his delivery of his precomposed words.

Though he stood at the far end of the table which was near four men in length, Titon could still make out the tiniest of smirks form on the king's face, and he could not recall having said anything comical. It was troubling to see a man who appeared to be the embodiment of apathy suddenly amused. Titon also found it a bit odd that there was such a long table in between them, one that could easily sit several dozen men, and yet this ruler of a vast kingdom had no advisors.

“My charity? You think I would wish to have every starving Northman headed south to infest my city in hope of free meals?” His tone had not changed despite the challenge in his question.

“No, I guess you would not. Your legendary riches, is what I meant to say.” Titon could see Keethro shifting uncomfortably beside him, which furthered his own discomfort.

“Hmmm, my riches. But then I may have thousands of barbarians attacking my farms, climbing my walls, and pillaging my lands—united in the hope of securing those riches for themselves.”

Now it was Titon who shifted uncomfortably. “Forgive me. I am a fighting man, and no master of words. I only mean to praise your kingdom. We to the north are of no threat to your might. I promise you that.”

“Hmph… No, I would think not. But if you were a threat, it would be foolish of you to admit as such, would it not?”

Titon gave up speaking and merely frowned, though not in anger—not completely. This was not a battle in which he was equipped to engage.

“I do not suppose you know the name of my house. Your serving girls mentioned you did not even know my
given
name. There are kings that would behead a man for less.” He locked eyes with Titon and allowed the words to echo in the hall before continuing.

“I am King Veront of House Bywater, ruler of Rivervale. I come from a long line of proud men—proud and
weak
men—all of whom served under
great
men. It had seemed our house name was a bit of a curse, condemning Bywaters to bystanders, forever observing and assisting those men of mightier currents. My father, Duke Vanert was his name, though I don't suppose you would have heard of him either, served the eminent King Leofwin. Dutifully, I might add.” Veront paused to sip from his goblet and reposition himself in his chair, leaning back into it more casually. “I had him killed, my father. He had a pension for whoring, which was as much to my mother's displeasure as it was to mine. Any woman who can be paid to spread her legs can be paid a little more to spy—to go through your papers and things and steal bits of information one would not think to hide. It is a degrading transaction, and more so to the man in most cases. For a man of supposed power to need to pay a woman to join him in bed… No, my father's pride was feigned. He knew he would never rise to greatness. It was a kindness I did to him. And a kindness to the kingdom.

“I succeeded my father and served Leofwin for a time and then his son Lyell.” Veront leaned forward in his chair and further beetled a brow that had already been signifying stern judgment. “But they are now both dead, and it is I, a Bywater, who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity of this kingdom. I did not rise to power by stroke of luck, and I certainly did not find my rightful seat by way of charity—that thing that is mislabeled when a person does another a good deed, and the beneficiary is foolish enough to believe nothing will be expected in return. So if you have come to me today expecting charity, I would advise you to seek it elsewhere.”

We came to you at blade point
, thought Titon. He did not enjoy the cold countenance of this King Veront, but at least he was straightforward and blunt, if not a bit long-winded.

“Fair enough, king. Let us know what we can do to repay our debt. I wish to earn my wife's remedy, not have it gifted. I see no reason for us not to be friends and to forge an alliance between our people. If that is what you would like as well.”

“Hmph.” This time his disinterested grunt seemed to have a bit of gaiety in it. “You owe me a great debt already, which I do not think you realize. In addition to potentially discrediting the effectiveness of my dragons and killing my favored guard, you have been leading raids on vassals of the Rivervalian kingdom. Those Dogmen you spoke of earlier, who is it you think they pay their levies to?”

Titon was not sure of what these levies were, but he had gathered the Dogmen were allies to this kingdom. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to apologize. “The Dogmen are the vilest of men. They torture and starve wolves to the point of madness. They feed their demon-dogs the flesh of man. The men among them run and hide when we come to steal their gold and the souls of their women. And they have no respect for or devotion to the Mighty Three. They do not deserve to live.”

“We will have to work on your manners. It is very impolite to leave a king's question unanswered.” In spite of his words, the king lessened his frown. “They owe levies to Rivervale—not that they pay them with any regularity. I wonder, in fact, if they have a greater fear of your raids or the incursions of my tax collectors.”

Titon had no need to wonder. “They store their gold beneath their floors and inside hidden rooms. Little good it does them when we come and tear their homes apart.”

“Information I will have to pass along to my collectors. But no, I find it hard to blame you for the killing of the men of Fourpaw Canyon. I have no love for them myself, nor their religion. And it is a wise thing to part a fool from his money, for a fool with money is a dangerous thing. Nonetheless, you have clearly profited from plunder that was owed to this kingdom, and for that you are further indebted.”

Much of the gold Titon had collected from the Dogmen over the years had recently been captured by Veront's guards, but he did not think it wise to complain of that.

“I do not wish for you to think of me as an unjust king. I do all that I can to ensure proper justice be dealt to all those, even those whom I call friend. I am sure as a leader you have done no less.”