The Axe and the Throne (72 page)

“What is that?” Titon pointed to the distance. A solitary man was on horseback, pulling a large wagon of some sort. He stopped midway between the armies and began to erect some structure. “It does not look to be a weapon.”

“No. It's a parley table.” Sir Edgar had found his voice, ugly thing that it was. “And I'd remind you, King Veront gave you command over the army, not the power to bargain with his enemies. There is no reason to send men to parley. It's like to be a trap at any rate.”

Titon heard the words but looked to Randir for perhaps more sage advice.

“He is right,” said Randir with a nod. “The Illumined are not without honor, but Lord Edwin would not hesitate to kill you with duplicity if it meant saving lives. What is the weight of a lie and one life measured against the lives of thousands?”

It had only taken a moment for the man to finish constructing the table, complete with what looked to be three chairs on either side, though it was difficult to tell given the distance and low light. The hunched man mounted his horse and rode back, disappearing into the mass of soldiers outside the walls no sooner than three mounted men appeared from the mob, making their way toward the table.

The men on horseback glimmered as the first rays peeked over the distant ocean edge. All three bore full plate, sans helm, polished and undyed. Such plain armor would likely not just be for show, but Titon was eager to see if the suits actually had dints and scratches from use, or if they were as pristine as they appeared from a distance.

“Is that their Lord Edwin?” asked Titon.

“That looks to be him there in the middle with the yellow cape and flowing mane,” said Randir.

“What can you tell me of the man? Is he a swordsman? Just a politician?”

“He is a trained swordsman, a fine one at that, but he is most known for his horsemanship,” replied Randir.

“His horsemanship? You get on the beast, and it takes you some place. Where is the skill in that?”

“It is not so simple. The man has control of a horse as a normal man controls himself. He can jump them, stand atop them, lean off the side and pick up a rose…” Titon was far from impressed. The man sounded a jester. “And he can spear a man through the eye of his choosing at a full gallop.”
A dangerous jester.

“Then I will fight him when he is dismounted if possible, or just kill his horse.”

Randir did not look convinced.

“I know you slept through most of the arena,” Titon said, grinning at his new friend, “but men fall hard from injured horses.”

“Aye,” Randir admitted with another snort. “I was awake for that part.”

Titon arched his back and stretched out his arms.
It will be good to put these double rations to some use other than walking and gossip.
“Anything else I should know about the man I intend to kill?”

Randir chewed his lip as if pained.

“Out with it,” Titon commanded.

“There are rumors the man is a bit…foppish.”

The word was not one Titon was familiar with; however, it certainly did not sound threatening.

“Very well. You two remain here and await my command. Make sure the men are poised to charge.” Titon's stunt with Aleric must have made an impression, as neither man moved to object.

The three men of Strahl were seated at the table as Titon strode up to them. Each had a shield resting on the back of his chair and a sword sheathed at his side. Titon imagined he must not have looked quite as they'd expected from a leader of a Rivervalian army, on foot, covered in soft leathers, a two-handed axe in his hands. Their perplexed glares supported his theory.

Titon pulled out the center seat on his side and plopped himself down, sitting wide-legged and leaning backwards as if with friends. “They tell me you wish to speak with me.”

“What sort of foolishness is this? Who are you, and why has your leader not come to meet with us?” It was the man in the middle, Lord Edwin—vexed as a woman shushed. He had a large frame but with not much meat on it from the look of his gaunt cheeks. As the wind blew his strands of wavy brown into his eyes he was forced to whip his head to the side to clear his view.
This boy must wash his hair more than a woman the way it flutters in the breeze.

“I am Sir Titon son of Small Gryn, and my leader is busy doing whatever it is kings do.”

“Who leads this army? You are clearly some brute sent to try and intimidate us. And let me tell you—it shan't work. We Illumined have no fear of death. The Dawnstar guide us in this life and reward us in the next.” The men to his side nodded their compliance.

The mention of the Dawnstar was a bit puzzling as this man claimed to be
Illumined
, but these Southmen made little sense. “I have told you once, and I will tell you a second time. I, alone, command the army before you flying the banners of Rivervale—the army that will see yours defeated.”

“You do not even know your sigils, foreigner,” scoffed Edwin. “Those you fly are Bywater banners, and Veront is no true king.”

Titon shook his head with a disbelieving grimace.
There is a battle to be fought, and these men would rather discuss banners.

“Where I am from we do not suffer these
parleys
prior to battle—we come to fight, not to blabber. But I lead a southern army now, and I will play your games…to a point. I offer you the chance to surrender. Your women will suffer less if our men are not fervent from battle. You have my word as one who knows war.”

Lord Edwin shot upright, sending his seat and shield flying behind him. Titon remained unmoved. “You vile shit,” Edwin spat. “How dare you make demands of our great city and threaten its civilians—and with what? Your mere three legions? May the Light blind you for your arrogance so that you do not have to witness the crushing defeat you will no doubt suffer on this day. Who do you think you are to spit on the Dawnstar and not be burned?”

Titon was not one to stand for being accused of blasphemy, but this man did not have what it took to truly anger him. His boyishness made him seem like a child throwing a tantrum as opposed to a man deserving of Titon's true wrath.

“I do not spit on the Dawnstar, nor do I piss in the River…and even I quake before the Mountain. Who am I? Remember the name this time because it is the name of the man who will send you to your grave. I am Titon, and I will have this city.”

Edwin was signaling to his companions to get up and leave when he froze in place. “
Titon
you said?” His head cocked at an angle. “The same Titon who killed two of our patrols in cold blood?”

“Aye, I killed two of your miserable guards, but—”

The man unsheathed his sword with alacrity, the sound of it ringing in the air as he interrupted. “I hereby arrest you on account of murder. Throw down your weapon and come—”

Titon did not enjoy being interrupted and returned the favor. He grabbed a middle leg of the table and flipped it forward, pushing it into the three men like a giant shield while keeping hold of it. In the same motion he used his free hand to retrieve the axe from beside him and swung it under the repurposed table. His blade found its way into a joint of the first man's armor, cutting through his knee without pause and continuing into the leg of their leader. The blade struck metal there, hard metal, but the force was sufficient to crumple the leg sideways.

The three men's horses were gone before the two that had been crippled fell to the ground. The third man slashed at Titon with his sword, hitting only wood. Titon rushed the man with his table and slammed him with enough force to lift him from his feet, sending him to fall hard on his back. The man with the severed leg was shrilling death as he writhed on the ground, no threat, but Edwin had sword in hand, supporting himself with his other arm and one good knee, and lunged at Titon with a desperate cut. The attack came from the rear and was aimed at Titon's exposed calf, but he stepped out of reach for a moment, then returned to kick Edwin's hand, releasing the sword from his grip.

He had courage, this Edwin, as he crawled forward without any noises of injury and tried to grapple a foot. Titon would have grabbed a lesser man by the hair and sliced off his head with a slow sawing motion of his axe blade. Instead, he rewarded the man's courage with a quick death. A swing of his axe parted the man's head from his body.
I have need of this
, Titon reminded himself, retrieving the head and tying it to his belt by the hair.

Leaving the two injured men where they lay and not even looking back at his own army, Titon picked up his makeshift shield and charged forward—toward five thousand men clamoring to get back inside the walls of their castle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A medley of snow and pine leaf swirled past her, held hostage and forced south by an angry wind. This storm that now blew was domineering in its own right and would only grow fiercer with her coaxing. The trees bent knee, both in reverence, and to dodge its fury, the clanspeople took shelter in their homes, and the Dawnstar seemed eager to retreat for the day. Even to her, this storm was a meddlesome beast. Left to its own devices it would likely cost her her secondborn son, delaying his stubborn progress through the northern snow. She closed her eyes and gazed at him, confirming as she'd suspected. Decker may have been aided by the warmth of rare metal, but he could not endure a full week of blizzard, were it permitted to continue.

Elise shifted sight to her eldest son. Titon was much changed, but much the same, choosing to weather the storm with his nose in a book. He'd spent the past two weeks regaining both strength and wisdom, encouraged mostly by his pungent friend the tanner's son. It was in the tanner's home where Titon now read, though he had already begun the construction of his own self-inspired shelter. Elise did not lament that he now visited her less frequently and for little duration. For a young man ever in search of knowledge, a lifeless, unfamiliar mother did not provide much toward that aim.

With some reluctance, she turned her gaze to her other Titon—the one she had earlier watched chase an army into and out from its own castle walls. Ripe with conquest, he shared in the spoils of war with his men: pilfered food, drink, and cheer, but not in pilfered pleasure…as she half wished he might. Her faithful husband's devotion was as unyielding as his axe, and witnessing it time and again only cut her deeper.
You must never know my reasons,
she said to him in her thoughts, apologizing for both a decade of deceit and a century to come.

She tore her gaze away from him now, convinced that the strengthened winds would not cause him any danger, and focused on her task. The dark gale ripped through her as she stood beside their now-frozen stream, alone and safe from prying eyes. She could not call a storm, nor could she add to its total strength, but she could hasten it…shape it…guide it—into something far more fleeting and intense. She felt the energy of it flow through her, a sensation neither elating nor unpleasant, as she pulled it from its northern source. Decker was too near the origin to be greatly affected by the concentration of power, a week's worth of rage condensed into a day of wrath, but those south of her would feel it true.

So fixated was she on her effort, she did not realize until it was too late that she had begun to weep. Tearless and silent, she poured out her sorrow so that it may be carried away with the snow and pine. It seemed a lifetime since she had last expressed an emotion, and in truth, doing so brought her no relief. She hardened herself, redoubling her focus and thwarting the weakness she knew accompanied lack of restraint.
You are the only one to blame,
she scolded herself, then swallowed hard one final time, burying the entirety of her anguish back within—back where it belonged. She was a stone, once again, and so she vowed remain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My sincerest thanks to my editor, Jessica Augustsson, who was instrumental in the alchemy that turned a manuscript into something much more; to my readers, whose enthusiasm has been heartening; and to the fantasy writers with truly inspired tales involving more than an orphaned hero destined to save the world. And perhaps to the few who are able to retell that story so well that it is still a joy to read.