The Axe and the Throne (12 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keethro swung his axe with rancor. The viscous blood of his victim clung to the well-worn head of his weapon as he continued his assault. Swing after swing, Keethro's wrath only built as the corpse of his fallen foe stubbornly refused to break way.

Petrified, those he would kill next looked on in silent horror. Droplets of sweat pooled on his brow, falling with some of the fiercer blows into the deep wound he had carved. Then, with a final stroke, Keethro's blade bit into the center of the wooden cadaver, breaking it into two manageable pieces.

He turned and flung his axe at the next tree. Botching the release, his axe flew downward into the knee-high snow as Keethro squeezed his eyelids closed with the force of his embarrassment. No matter how he practiced, he simply could not throw an axe—not with his left. He could shave the wings off a dragonfly in flight with his right, however.

His sled piled high with half a day's work, Keethro made his way back to his home. Iron pine, with its thick crimson sap impossible to remove from the skin and heartwood hard as stone, was the bane of many men. Difficult that it was to fell, it provided more than enough heat to be worth the added labor. This trip would be Keethro's last, having gathered enough to warm his home, largest of the clan, through the coming winter.

Keethro stopped as he saw what awaited him. He removed a flask from inside his furs and took a swig of the sour alcohol. The figure in the distance, that beguiling siren he called wife, standing upon the balcony built by his own hand, was no doubt scowling though he was too far away to tell. Keethro resumed his march into the awaiting ambush.

“You would leave your wife and daughter to starve in the cold of winter?”

It was as charming a greeting as he could have expected, but it did not warrant a response. He began to move armfuls of the firewood to the neat stack under the balcony. For the winter they had food enough for three stored—plenty, considering it would only need to support the lesser two.

“While you go seek the warm beds of southern whores?” Kilandra snarled.

It is a wonder we need wood at all given her fiery rage
, he thought.

Keethro was not one to suffer discomposure from a woman's scorn. After facing the likes of hardened warriors from other clans, screaming and spitting in his face, eager to feed him his own entrails, and always emerging the victor, Keethro had no mind to be brought to anger. “I believe in the dead of winter even the beds of southern whores can be cold.”

He turned to face her as she flew down the steps of the balcony. The sight of her—her sultry defiance that begged him to overpower her, to force her surrender—was enough to turn his own pine to iron, but he was resolved to thwart her advances. He allowed her to slap him once across the face. Her second strike, he caught.

“You must put an end to this foolishness and kill him! Kill him and we—” Keethro's unyielding grip was around his wife's throat, silencing her. He glowered his warning, letting her know this was not to be one of their games.

“Talk like that will get us both killed,” he said through clenched teeth.
With her harlot's body came a harlot's mind. Perhaps I will see if southern beds creak in much the same way northern beds do, and bring back a young maiden kissed by dawnlight.
“You would announce to the whole clan my intentions? Now how do you expect me to return on the next moon, alone, with a tale of how clumsy Titon tripped and fell from a cliff?”

Keethro had no desire to go south with Titon, nor did he feel any real obligation to do so. The friend and brother in battle that Titon once was had long since disappeared, replaced by a man consumed by the hopeless revival of his slumbered wife. This voyage, apart from having no chance of success, was like to cost Keethro his life, or—should he somehow manage to survive—his marriage. Keethro was more concerned of the damage that would be dealt to his name if he returned to find Kilandra had strayed. “The mighty Keethro,” they would taunt, “handsomest of all Galatai, but unable to keep a woman in his own bed.” The source of his inadequacies would be implied, and he would end up killing many a drunken brother in his own drunken retaliation. It was not acceptable. He would not spend countless months in search of a cure that did not exist only to return to a life in ruin.
Better to kill the one brother than the many.

“I promise you this,” she said after released. “If you do not return far sooner than that, you will find I am no longer waiting.” She spoke with all the venom she could spit, but Keethro heard in her voice her sincerity—and
that
, he could not forgive her.

He walked away, leaving Kilandra standing beside the still-loaded sled.
May the next fool be more tolerant of your nature
.

Sweet dry air filled his lungs as he stepped foot into his home. The raw timbers of its sturdy pine framing supported its impressive ceilings and large rooms. In stark contrast to the warmth of his home was the cold countenance of his teary-eyed daughter seated at the kitchen table. If not for the faint glow of auburn in her hair, he would have believed she was every bit his daughter with her dark blue eyes so matching his own.

He leaned to kiss her on the head before he left.

“I hate you!” Her verbal assault was accompanied by a knuckled punch to his chin. “I pray you do not come back this time,” she yelled over her shoulder as she ran to her room.

Keethro was a warrior and knew little of raising a girl, and his mastery of seduction did not translate to fatherhood. His reputation only seemed to cause Red to despise him as she grew older and understood more of what the stories about him meant. Nor was it any help that her mother saw fit to poison her mind with her own beliefs about the cruelty and duplicity of men—all men.
Or perhaps Red simply loathes me because she too suspects the truth.

Keethro never doubted Kilandra would bed a man of higher position, given the chance, and there was but one. Keethro believed that a man should hold his woman responsible for infidelity, since believing otherwise would have made him quite the hypocrite. However, in the case that the man also claimed to be your friend, it was unforgivable of both parties.
He will confess with his dying breaths. I'll make sure of it.

Keethro hoisted his readied supplies onto his back and set out for the journey with his best and only friend—the one he sought to kill.

 

 

 

 

 

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A banging on her door had awoken Janin from slumber. It was not unusual for her to be called upon in the dead of night, but the urgency with which her summoners had insisted she come worried her greatly. By Peace's grace there had been no miscarriages or stillbirths since the Rivervalians overran their kingdom.
What will they do to me
, she wondered,
when I fail to deliver one of their own?

As they rushed to an undisclosed residence, Janin prayed in silence. The near panicked men who'd roused her now compelled her to move at a pace that had her almost tripping on her skirts. Given the direction they led her, they could be headed to the estate of any number of noble houses. If forced to guess, as it seemed she was, she would have assumed it was the young princess who was in need of her services—the one whom she had helped through a pregnancy just two years prior, back when the queen sat the throne and Crella was still the
very
young princess…and unmarried, at that. Crella had come to term a week ago by Janin's best estimate, and she visited the girl daily.

She was eager to confirm her suspicion, but her mutes for escorts refused to tell her to where they were headed on account of an archaic tradition. Commoners were not to be told who'd summoned them. This was not the first time she had been troubled by this predicament, but the nobles always seemed to forget to give special instruction to forgo such idiocy in, of all times, those of emergency.

“It is important I know beforehand so that I may best prepare myself to tend to the needs of my patient. If you will not speak her name then at the very least give me some sign that my assumption that I have been called to care for the young Lady Crella is correct.”

One of the half dozen men escorting her made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough. It was not uncommon for these men to make such noises for no apparent reason, but she believed the glare from the noisemaker's commander to be proof enough that it was the sign she'd requested.

Freed from her burden of not knowing what to expect, Janin became aware of the oppressive heat. Even during the night, the summers of Adeltia felt little different than leaning over a pot of boiling water. She glanced around, hoping to not be alone in her discomfort, but she could not discern any of her escorts' expressions, let alone any beads of sweat. Their lanterns directed the light downwards, and the only visible detail of interest was the authoritative crest of the Protectors of the Realm that glimmered upon all their chests. Known more commonly as The Guard, these men foreswore their allegiance to any kingdom and were bestowed a duty of service first and foremost to the realm.
First and foremost to the king who pays their wages
, Janin thought, disgusted that they now bent to the will of their Rivervalian conqueror.

As they neared their destination, Janin could hear muffled moans of pain and suffering coming from inside the home. It was, as expected, the home of Crella and her new husband.

Crella looked to be in great distress, but perhaps not so much as did the young father. It was the first time Janin had been in the same room with Alther, the son of Adeltia's new king, and she was surprised by his vulnerability. He knelt at Crella's bedside, looking eager to hold a hand she would not give him, his face pale with apparent concern for his wife and unborn child. The sweat on his brow was unlikely to be from the heat. Janin was relieved to be inside this home cooled by means beyond her comprehension.

“My lady,” Janin addressed the princess. Despite her pregnancy and current state of misery, Crella remained quite stunning. The glow from several sconces shone on her golden hair which fell in waves, and lit the delicate features of her face that one would expect and desire in royalty. “You must tell me what ails you, and please, be precise in your detail.”

The princess's emerald eyes flashed annoyance. “What ails me is that this pregnancy has gone on for long enough.”

Janin noted the young woman's ferocity with heartache. She was an entirely different patient than she had been two years prior, but Janin did not judge her for it.
To have endured what she has…

“It is time for it to be over with. I will not suffer another night of back spasms and utter discomfort.”

“My lady, are your spasms in your back or your belly?” Janin asked with the utmost respect. She knew how to deal with highborn in distress. She was direct but humble and obedient.

“Have you become deaf or merely stupid? Did I not just tell you it was my back that spasms?” Crella turned to her husband. “Must I repeat my every utterance to this fool while your heir grows cold and dies in my womb? I warn you now—I will
not
be made to suffer another pregnancy.” The venom that came from such young lips would have been shocking to Janin had she not heard much the same during her other recent visits.

“Apologies, my lady. I had to be sure. It has great bearing on the child's delivery. Please, sit back and try to rest. I must have a look.” Janin turned first to the few of her escort who yet lingered. “I would ask that all gentlemen leave the room.” There was no need for the princess to suffer any undue embarrassment during delivery, the entire process of which was decidedly unladylike.

“I would wish to stay and comfort my wife from her bedside, if there would be no ill-effect on the child.” Alther was a fair-looking man, not notably strong in chest or chin but neither weak. He was several years Crella's senior with a rich head of short brown hair and a thick beard to match. The prince looked to the midwife for response as a son does to a mother.

“Just do as she says and leave.” Crella waved her hand toward the door. Her pain must have subsided considerably—had it truly been there to start—as she was no longer concentrated on drawing attention to her discomfort.

“It would not harm the child in any way if you remained, but please do not stray from her side if you choose to stay, my lord,” Janin responded, shuffling the remaining men out of the room.

Janin was predisposed to disliking the nobility she served, and certainly bore no love for Alther's father and the war he'd waged on her people, but Alther seemed a man of honest compassion. She almost pitied him for the rudeness of his wife, though the princess was far above his station in appearance. “Seek a mate above yourself and be forever beholden,” her grandmother had always told her, and thus Janin remained unmarried.

“Yes, please stay.” Crella's tone had softened, but only for the moment. “I may need you to spur this midwife with the back of your hand should she fail to deliver this baby with haste.”

Janin examined the princess quickly and was not surprised by what she saw. “My lady, I beg your forgiveness, but you are not meant to have this baby tonight.” She did her best to not vex the highborn as it would only make things worse. “Things have not progressed to that stage. It could be another week or more, in fairness.”

The princess sat up, placing her hands upon the top of her swollen stomach and glowering at Janin from between her own legs. “I
will
have this baby tonight—the one you said would come a week past. The only question that remains is whether you will deliver it or I will be forced to push it from my belly by strength of hand. Should it be the latter, I assure you I will be
delivering
your head shortly thereafter to whichever lowborn is in your closest acquaintance.”

She believed Crella to be speaking the truth, for if there was one thing highborn learned at an early age, it was the importance of following through on a threat. Janin bowed her head and turned toward the husband. His look of worry bade her do as his wife demanded.

“I will do as you command, my lady. Though I would not recommend we induce for yet another week, I do not feel that doing so now would be of much harm to the child. We must have a horseman fetch a tonic that is necessary to hasten the process, and you will hold in your arms your child by midmorning.” Alther still wore a look of concern, but it seemed both he and Janin were of like mind in knowing that there would be no bending of Crella's iron will.

Seven hours later, the wailing of the princess was replaced with the wailing of a very small, very frail-looking infant. He was nevertheless crying with great strength—a good sign of health. The new father was the first to reach for the swaddled infant.

“He sounds so strong and hearty. My wife, you have given me the greatest of gifts, a son. I think we should name him Leofwin after my father's father. He was a great and noble king.”

His wife reached out her arms, and he gave her their new child. She looked at the babe and haughtily proclaimed, “We will not name him after some wretched Northman. We will name him after my beloved brother who died as a young boy to the sweating sickness. His name will be Stephon.”