The Axe and the Throne (40 page)

“You knew my mother before I was born?”

Peace forgive me, must I spell it out?
“That I did, my
son
.” Cassen mellowed his usual femininity to help the fool better conceive that which he was being told.

Horror filled Collin's eyes. “How?” he asked, as if the implication was that he was some spawn of demons.

Cassen resisted the urge to shake his head. “As I just explained, I was not always this way. I was a man much like you.”
Very little like you, in all fairness to me.

Collin slowly seemed to grasp how it may be possible, as if the previous notion of Cassen knowing his mother involved them sipping tea together and gossiping about the most handsome men, both in and out of reach. He looked to his empty mug as if to find some serenity there, and Cassen motioned to the servant to give him another half.

“So you see, Collin, all of this,” Cassen gestured toward the table covered in finery, “could one day be yours. I certainly will not be producing any more heirs.”

Collin sipped at the small amount of mead left in his mug, eyes staring blankly forward at the table.

“All I need from you in return is the same obedience any father would expect from a son. It should be no great chore for you to be obliged by these requests, knowing full and well that all to be performed is for the betterment of
our
household. The same household you will one day inherit and have to yourself, should you prove to be a son not just by blood, but by way of action.” Cassen was every bit the father now, not his usual motherly self. He wondered how it would affect a person to see him transformed in such a way, but what harm would one more layer of manipulation cause?

The entire evening had been a charade, after all. It was no difficult task to find a bastard in the kitchens with a dead or distant mother. The first, unfortunately, had not gone quite to plan and had needed to be disposed of. But it was essential that the man Cassen selected be moved to the point of trusting that his and Cassen's fates were intertwined so thoroughly that it would spur him to commit previously unthinkable crimes. High treason was much to ask from a man with whom you just shared your first supper, but Cassen believed his powers of persuasion to be unmatched, and succeeding tonight would be confirmation enough of that.

The look of worry slid from Collin's face. Cassen knew this expression well. It was that of a man calculating his own fortunes in the event that the heavenly bodies aligned, lifting him from the depths of abjection with their combined pull and placing him atop his rightful throne. “What would you have me do, Father?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tallos heard a voice as he drifted between sleep and consciousness.

It was not uncommon for him to be awoken in such a way—his wife talked to him often as he slept. But her pleading words always turned to shrieks of horror as she burned alive in a fire of his own creation. He too felt the burn of those flames, rushing inside in an attempt to save her, his efforts rewarded only with more pain and torment. As he rose from sleep to find himself covered in sweat, what little heat he had from the struggle in his dream would dissipate, leaving him chilled and shivering, no longer aided in warmth by the burn of infection.

He did his best to ignore the phantom voice and rolled to his side to curl into a ball. The skin that covered him from the top of his head to the backs of his heels pulled taut as he did so. It was raised and bumpy, forming peaks and valleys similar to the terrain he knew surrounded him. Now healed, he found he'd lost most sensation, his numb skin serving as a shield against the claw of cold. He imagined he must look much like a monster. His affected skin felt to him how the skin of a dragon was often described, with its scale-like ridges. But he knew he was likely doing himself a false kindness with that comparison.

“Helloooooo?” It was the same voice as before, seeming quite distant, but definitely not imagined.

Tallos lay motionless. He had not considered the fact that he may be found in his hole. Rather, he had envisioned himself emerging with the thaw, reborn into evil and ready to commit atrocities. He also did not know how long he had remained below ground, isolated from all contact, eyes unopened, never speaking, though it seemed it had been long enough that he may have forgotten how to do those things that overworlders would expect of him.

“Anyone out there?” it called again. It was a man's voice and closer than before.

The thought of being discovered was not inviting. No man, nor group of men, would be here looking for survivors out of good will. If scavengers found him underground, naked except for his demon skin, how would they react? If they found the corpses he had preserved in his barrels, mostly stripped of flesh, there would be no way he could explain them. The mystic powers that, for some reason, he believed he would emerge with were not yet realized, his metamorphosis far from complete.

Someone stepped on the door to his cellar. It was a solid door, certainly strong enough to walk upon, but it groaned under the weight of what must be a large man. Such a man would have no trouble killing the weak thing that Tallos had become, and he would have no trouble justifying it either. Panic gripped him. He must not die, murdered by scroungers—it would not serve his purpose. It would please the gods far too much if he were to be destroyed so easily.

Tallos decided to open his eyes, even if perpetual darkness was his only reward. The weak muscles of his eyelids fluttered with the strain, but his lids refused to part, sealed by their own dried excretions. He crawled to the seep and wet his hands to wash them clean.

Whoever was above him scraped at his door. It would not be long before the latch was found and angry men poured inside, looking for anything of value. Tallos searched his mind for any objects that were in the cellar he could use as a weapon but could think of none. He rubbed at his eyes frantically with no effect. They would not open without the threat of torn flesh.

The familiar creak of his cellar door opening froze him in place, just as a devastating pain shot through his head. His eyes felt as if they were exploding, forcing him to bury his head in his arm. He had always been careful just to crack the door before venturing out, and he knew from experience that the pain of catching just a single ray could be excruciating. The agony Tallos now felt was so crippling he feared he would never again be able to see even when his eyes did open.

“Gods be damned!” The shouter sounded shocked, angry, and disgusted.

Tallos had been seen—he must have. He imagined what it must look like, the hunched-over creature hiding guiltily in a corner, three barrels of human remains and a fourth full of vinegar and his own pus. He cowered by the seep, trying to make himself as small as possible so whatever was thrown at him would be less likely to strike. He waited for a spear to hit the wall near his head or pierce through his side, unable to determine which would be worse. Odd noises came from above. They did not sound promising.

One man laughed cruelly, interrupted only by his own fitful coughing. Another man gagged and sounded to also be pouring something on the ground. It was oil, Tallos feared—buckets of it. They intended to burn him to death. Fire was said to kill demons, or was it warlocks? It made no real difference. He knew he would die just the same. But the thought of burning again was far worse than being speared. Tallos decided to call out to them and at least let them know he was human.

“Please, do not harm me,” he tried to say, but his open mouth refused to make the sounds it was once capable of. All that came was dry wheezing.

They stomped around above him, two men at least. Messing about with a flint most likely, a whoosh of flame sure to follow. He had to cry out before they set him alight.

“Help me,” he attempted. This time all that came was a few squeaks.

“Anybody down there?” called a voice. Why they asked that, he could not tell. Perhaps they wanted to make sure he did not have any living prisoners before they torched him. Someone put a foot on the first step and the wood protested. If they had not seen him yet, they soon would. The second step creaked from the weight of the descending giant.

He tried again to speak, but was overwhelmed instead with the need to cough. From a recent passing sickness, he knew his cough sounded more like the screech of the hellborn. It would do him no good in terms of appearing human. Covering his mouth and fighting to suppress the action, his ability to speak was again prevented.

The man was on the third step, a piece of wood wet with rot that threatened to break even under Tallos's lightened frame. They might believe he rigged it as a trap. His fate would be sealed when the wood split in two.

“Noaaaaa,” Tallos finally managed to say, sounding oddly childlike.

“What? Who is down there?”

His mind raced for what he could do or say to delay them killing him. He considered just charging blindly—as he had no other method of charging—toward the man on the stairs in hopes that he'd be killed quickly. But if Tallos wanted to die he could have done that long ago. He would not give up now. The gods would be amused by his pathetic failure.

“Clothing,” he said, still unable to recognize the sound of his own voice.

“What's that? Clothing?”

“Please,” Tallos said. “Give me clothing.”

For several minutes Tallos waited while the man whispered with the others above him, things that Tallos could not make out.

“I am throwing down a shirt and trousers,” the man called down.

“No,” Tallos said, now having had more time to think. “A robe.” His voice was so weak and desperate. “
Please.
”

“Hang on now, little one.”

The man must think Tallos a child, and now he worried they might be angry when they saw he was not. They would be even more suspicious if they felt deceived.

It was a good five minutes later before the man called down again. “It is going to be too big for you, but it's all we have.”

Tallos heard the sound of some heavy fabric landing at the foot of the stairs, and he wasted no time crawling over, grabbing it with an outstretched arm and dragging it back to his corner where he put it on with nervous energy. He feared at any moment they would come down to peek, seeing him in the process. Relief coursed through him when he felt the hood of the robe and pulled it over his head.
Thank the gods
, he thought, almost bursting to laughter, but he was able to contain himself.

“I am coming up,” Tallos said. “Please do not come down here.”

Tallos ascended the steps with some difficulty. Walking on just his feet as opposed to crawling felt dangerous; each step played with his equilibrium. He was hunched, feeling the wall with one hand, waving the other in front of himself to avoid collision. The heavy hood kept his eyes sheltered from the worst of the light—he just hoped it was adequate to hide his burnt skin as well. With his hands withdrawn into the sleeves and his hood up, he was as well covered as he could have hoped.

“It is a man,” one of them said, alarmed.

“Yes, I am sorry,” said Tallos, motioning to his throat. “My voice…”

They seemed to accept his apology, or at least did not perceive him to be of any danger.
Not as yet
, he thought.

“How did you survive down there?” It was the first man, the one who had descended a few of the steps, and his tone was trusting.

“Please, do not go down there. It is piles of shit and piss.” In spite of his blindness, weakness, and utter vulnerability, Tallos felt growing power as he believed his deception to be succeeding. “I am ashamed,” Tallos said, closing the door behind him, not needing any sight to accomplish the task he had done so many times alone at night.

“Smells like worse than that!” This man's roar was followed by the same cruel laughter from before. His voice gave Tallos no comfort.

With the door closed, the gentle breeze brought the scent of vomit to Tallos. They had apparently been pouring out the contents of their stomachs, not oil.

“What is your name?”

I am Nekasr,
he thought to say, half believing it to be true,
and where I go, the world burns.

“Tallos,” he responded. “This was my village.”