The Axe and the Throne (52 page)

Keethro was both confused and relieved by the creature he saw inside the arena. A huge boar stood some twenty paces ahead, and he might have been a somewhat menacing foe, had he not been encumbered as he was. Draped around the boar's shoulders was mail barding, a tad long at the knee. Over the top of his mail was a series of overlapping plates as thick and heavy as any armor Keethro had seen. Tied to his tusks and completely blocking his forward vision was a wooden shield with a thick metal facing. The boar carried the weight, but seemed uncompelled to travel for any determined distance, appearing flustered by his blindness.

Keethro looked for something with which to fight and was at first glad to see a fine array of weaponry splayed out on racks at either side.
If they are supplying us so amply with weapons, what is it we will be facing?
Certainly not this pig.

A hush fell over the crowd soon after the doors had swung full open, though it was not apparent why.

“There must be several thousand people here,” said Titon, clearly awestruck. Titon was no fan of large gatherings of people, but at least they no longer shouted.

“Perhaps over ten thousand.” Keethro was rather sure that his estimate was conservative.

“Then we are to be famous.” Keethro did not hear any cynicism in Titon's words.

A single voice sounded throughout the entire arena. Keethro could see it came from a man on his feet, low in the midfield stands. He made grand gestures with his arms as he spoke. “And now for the event you have gathered to see—demonstrated upon some of the most fearsome warriors from the far corners of the realm. In addition to personally having overseen the training of those who are now the most talented swordsmen, spearmen, halberdiers, and archers of the realm, His Majesty King Veront has commissioned the
breeding
of perhaps an even more formidable weapon with which to wage war. Behold, the dragons of Rivervale!”

The crowd erupted again in raucous cheers. Keethro glanced at the other men in their group, confused.
Are these the fearsome warriors?
He decided he would ponder that later and focused on what may lay ahead as identical doors opened at the other end of the field. At first, Keethro could only see some rising smoke, but soon flames crested the gentle slope. Four skinny pillars of fire crept upward, stopping to form a well-spaced row. Keethro was unimpressed as the flames seemed to each be coming from some wooden contraption that had been wheeled into place. The distance made it difficult to tell how many, but there were at least several men for each contraption, somehow tending to its needs. There was no sign of dragons, however.
Perhaps the flames attract them from the sky?

One of the guards behind them must have flung the rock that struck the boar on his mailed rump. The beast took off running down the field away from Keethro's group, and after a brief moment of allowing the crowd this amusement, the dragons finally loosed their first attack, stifling all humor.

The flames leapt forward from the wooden structures with incredible speed, arcing only slightly through the air until they reached their target. The enormous shield on the face of the boar served as no protection. The first flaming projectile smashed through both metal and wood, piercing the skull of the animal and protruding out the rear of his shoulder between a gap in the plates. The second came immediately after, impaling the now-turned beast through his upper ribs and pinning him to the ground, puncturing the plate armor cleanly. The third and forth shots missed their marks, if only by a bit, but the obvious intention of showing the savagery with which these new pets of the king could decimate a fully-armored foe had been well demonstrated.

The crowd's fervor reached a new high as the dead boar performed its final throe. These man-sized projectiles spit from the dragon's mouths appeared to be no more than giant arrows. They had thick feathered fletching on their rear and triangular metal points at the tip. The head of the first arrow still burned even after having passed through the boar's head, the flames singeing the hair upon its neck.

The group of men Keethro and Titon were now a part of stared at each other, trying to come to some collective decision without words. Titon seemed the only man among them who did not have fear in his eyes. He looked hungry, in fact, as if he had been just presented a plate of potential heroism upon which to gorge himself. It was inspiring, but Keethro did not believe it would have any effect on their odds of victory.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stephon was quick to leave his cell, accompanied by an entourage of Protectors to escort him to his royal chambers.
I wonder if he will be happy enough in his grandfather's old quarters or if he will soon insist on taking the chambers atop the Throne.
The thought of young Stephon residing in either was somewhat amusing.

Cassen was at first confused to see Vidar's post abandoned, but as he passed by the final cell he noticed it had a new occupant.

“You may come out now. Your new king and would-be killer is gone.”

Cassen thought it wise of the old gaoler to have taken refuge. Knowing Stephon, he might have demanded a sword from one of his escorts and ended Vidar's long and diligent service to the kingdom.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Please, I am but a humble duchess now that the kingdom once again belongs to a son of House Redrivers.”

“As you wish, Duchess Cassen.”

It was good to see Vidar had remained as humble as when Cassen had first walked in as regent.
I should continue not to bribe this man or he may think me once again a mere duchess in truth.

Cassen flicked a coin worth fifty marks to the old man just the same. “Tell me, where would our good friend and father of the king currently be staying?”

You are getting soft, Cassen
, he mused lightly.

Cassen had his hand in one of his silken folds, caressing his trophy. The very pocket that had kept hidden items of monumental consequence—slips of paper that could have resulted in Cassen's impalement had they escaped—suddenly seemed inadequate to ensure the safekeeping of the cloth he now fondled. He checked on it regularly to be certain it remained.

The smell of stale water, rust, and excrement was thick in this section of the dungeon, but Cassen ignored it, remembering instead the scent of the woman from whom he had stolen the soft kerchief. The smoothness of the fabric reminded him of her skin. How was it that her body had remained so flawless over the years, and yet his outward appearance had degraded so visibly? He had been a rather handsome man, he thought…before he'd begun altering his appearance to this thing of his invention. The skin around his abdomen had lost the will to remain firm, hidden under so many folds of silk for so long. But not hers. Her skin was as taut and smooth as any maiden's. It was almost shameful that he should have to handle her so roughly while forcing her to comply, for fear of damaging its perfection.

A constant dripping echoed in the lengthy halls of these all-but-empty dungeons. Those few occupants were quiet little mice, staying hidden in their corners as Cassen passed, afraid he'd come to torture them he guessed. The sound itself was torturous—an incessant “splash…splash…splash” that was neither in perfect rhythm nor out of rhythm enough to be truly irregular. He tried to focus instead on the memory of the beautiful sounds made by his Crella but found it was no easy task. What sounds did she make that were pleasant?
What sounds does any woman make that are pleasant?
he wondered as if to imply there were none. But he knew that was not the case. Many of his lady servants had endearing qualities, and plenty of those were their gentle laughs, giggles, and sighs, though none were made while his presence was known.
What did Crella's laughter sound like? Her sighs?
Cassen shook his head in disgust.
Why is it I should care?

He reminded himself again of the purpose of this trip. Alther. That miserable man who had been gifted—and thus had stolen—that which belonged to Cassen. To think of the man as merely ignorant would be an injustice to those born simple. He was fool beyond compare. Proof of that was the ease with which Cassen had manipulated him into killing his own father. Alther was deserving of the punishment Cassen would soon bestow upon him. What sort of imbecile would seek to incapacitate a king to reverse a ruling? Lyell would have seen through the ploy and punished both Alther and Crella far worse after regaining his health. That Alther had gone through with it was inconceivable, really.

Naïve girls did not bother Cassen so much. They were born into shelter and protected from the brutal realities of the realm. But Alther was no little girl and could not thus avail himself of such an excuse. He had been witness to the way in which things worked in war, in business, and in politics—not that there was much disparity between the three. And yet he remained hopelessly oblivious, far worse than some obtuse princess who at least knew—on some level—that she was living a life of sweet lies.

That notwithstanding, Alther had handed Cassen one of his most bitter failures when he'd refused to be seduced. In spite of what was said of Shal'sezar, the man ran an impressive enterprise, especially so in his variety of stock. Cassen had seen to the selection of the women himself, ensuring their features ran the full gamut of qualities that attracted men. He himself had found them most tempting, to say the least. But none had succeeded in enticing Alther to exchange more than a few words with them. The implication was obvious: Alther was receiving, or taking by force, all that he desired at his own estate. In spitefulness Cassen had resorted to sending a woman, with a swollen belly or infant at her breast, to Alther's door once every few months, when only Crella would be home to receive them. But none had reported achieving more than provoking looks of disgust from Crella, who insisted they must be mistaken before sending them off. Cassen's failure had sickened him then and it sickened him now, and he was unable to decide which would have been worse: Alther invoking a Husband's Right, or Crella having actually grown to enjoy his company.

Cassen stroked the kerchief and felt himself calming.
To see the look upon your face when I give you this trophy, to see your realization of all that I have taken—it will be sweeter than even the taking itself.
Cassen felt a twinge of worry at the prospect that Alther might not be aware of the kerchief Crella kept nestled beside her breast—within the garment that supported her and so unnecessarily at that. He brushed the thought from his mind.
All those years of marriage—he will know, or I will make him know.
Like the kerchiefs of most noble ladies, it had upon it a unique design that was hers alone. It would not do for a lady to have her kerchief mixed up with another's, after all.

It was not a long walk to where Alther was imprisoned, and Cassen found he was only paces away.

“Who is there?” And after a brief pause, “Please, any news of the kingdom?”

Alther must have heard his footsteps. Cassen was usually more cautious in his approach, but he had been lost in thought.

Cassen stopped before coming into Alther's view. He did not answer.

“Please, I must know. Any news of the princess? Crella—is she safe? Who sits the throne? Has there been fighting?”

Cassen heard the desperation in Alther's voice. He dropped all the feminine pretenses of his own and spoke. “There is no fighting, but a fool now sits the throne.”

“A fool?” asked Alther sounding of disbelief. “Who is it then? Surely Cassen has taken the throne for himself. He is no fool, but I will kill him. I swear to you on my life—I will kill that vile man for what he has done to me.”

Cassen sighed. Unrestrained by theatrics the action actually brought some tranquility. “I do not believe you are in the position to make such oaths.”

“Who are you?” Alther demanded. “Show yourself!”

“Oh my, you have become quite brazen now that you have killed a king. A pity it was so late in life.”

“I did not kill the king,” Alther shouted. “I was tricked by that foul creature Cassen. It was meant to be a poison to merely sicken the man.”

It was shameful that Alther had not devised a more believable story by now. All this time alone in a dungeon and all he could think to come up with was the truth. How had the truth served Alther all these years? And still he did not learn.

“I believe you. But I am afraid I am the only one who ever will.”

“What?” The hopeful panic in his voice almost turned Cassen's stomach. “Please, you must help me. You must tell others. Cassen has sought the throne all this time. It was he who tricked me, and he who had the most to gain.”

“But it is not he who sits the throne. You are right, he is no fool. It is none other than your beloved boy.
Stephon
is king.”
And a fine king he will surely prove to be.

“He was released? How?”

Cassen finally walked into view and studied the face of his victim. Alther's expression was that of stunned skepticism, but it only took him a moment before he lunged forward with all his force, sending one arm as far through the bars as possible to grab at him. Cassen avoided the hand with a rearward step, and watched as Alther clawed at the air.

“You miserable heathen bastard,” Alther screamed. “I will kill you if I ever leave this cell!”

“Oh, no doubt, you would try. All the more reason to leave you within it. And heathenism is actually a rather—”

“Why?” Alther cried out, interrupting him. It was perhaps the most forlorn and pathetic thing Cassen had ever heard. “Why did you not just kill us both? You could have given me a fake antidote. What purpose is there in my living?” He had stopped grabbing at Cassen and collapsed backward on to the floor where he sat with his head in his hands.

It was at least a reasonable question. Cassen had considered letting Alther die, as it would have simplified things.
I had a very good reason, as you will soon see.
Cassen rubbed Crella's kerchief between his fingers. He felt a pang at the thought of leaving it with Alther, but he knew he could not simply show it to him and keep it. That would indicate weakness.

“Tell me, Alther, what is it that you cherish most in life?”

Cassen had no reason to believe Alther would cooperate in this game other than for the fact that boredom was like to be a more vile tormenter in this place than Cassen himself.

It took Alther a long time to respond, and Cassen waited patiently. But his patience was not rewarded with an answer.

“So you are a man, after all? And not even a eunuch, I'd wager. You tricked Calder—and everyone else.”

Alther came to this conclusion faster than Cassen would have guessed, forcing him to wonder how much of Alther's inability to govern came merely from his utter lack of deviousness rather than gross stupidity. In either case, Cassen supposed the order of the revelations would make no huge difference. “How very perceptive of you. And to think I did not even have to drop my silks and show you.”

“Everyone assumed Calder had. He was a horrid man with evil in his eyes. I could tell as much just from seeing him once or twice. Crella will not even speak of him. It is as if he never existed to her.” He paused. “I fear what she may have suffered under his care.”

Cassen was a bit taken aback by both Alther's candor and continued perceptiveness, and as such, declined to respond.

“You were there. You lived with them. Tell me what I fear happened did not occur.”

Cassen hesitated for some time before speaking, searching his mind for any reason to not reveal his knowledge to Alther. How nice it would be to finally be recognized by someone who might appreciate the courage required to do what Cassen had done.