The Axe and the Throne (66 page)

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

“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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“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.”