The Axe and the Throne (50 page)

Tielo curled himself into a ball and cowered after Keethro slammed him onto his back.
You little shit, I should have known.
Coins from Titon's purse were spread out in the dirt around the stunted cutpurse. Keethro expected Titon must have caught up because none of the people around him, desperate though they looked, had made a move to grab for the gold and silver scattered on the ground.

He was only half right.

“Up you go,” a man said, “and
slowly
.”

He did not recognize the voice, but it carried the acrimonious authority of what could only be a city guard. Keethro obeyed and saw that he was correct.

Three guards, heavily armored in mail and carrying longswords and stout shields, had their blades drawn and pointed toward his chin.

“This man stole my friend's purse,” Keethro said.

The guards snickered and their leader spoke again. “I have no doubt he did. A couple of fools like the two of you would be a fine mark. But that is the least of your worries. Throw down your weapons. You are to come with us on account of avoiding conscription.”

“On whose authority?” Titon's voice reverberated through the crowd and the carts and the small structures surrounding them. He sounded a god addressing mortals and a flicker of fear could be seen on the guards' previously cocksure faces. But the sound of a dozen or more other bodies clad in chainmail followed his voice, coming from behind them, and the guards' original demeanors returned.

“On the authority of the fecking king!” With his shout the guard slammed his sword through the ribs of Tielo where he lay on his side, still curled in a ball. Blood spurted from the wound, climbing up the blade, causing the rest of the armored men to erupt in laughter as the helpless thief squirmed and gasped for breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cassen found it strangely difficult to concentrate as he made his way with some speed through the castle. His thoughts were occupied by various concerns, all minor, expected, and being properly dealt with, but their combined weight was cumbrous.

Perhaps foremost among them was Master Warin. Their meeting had gone as well as could have been expected, but Cassen continued to replay the event in his mind in search of hints to the contrary. Without a Master of Forces, the heads of the kingdom's many legions had turned to Warin, making him somewhat of a fulcrum upon which the kingdom now balanced. Luckily, Warin did not seem aware. Cassen did not truly require his cooperation either, further negating any cause for concern.
Even should the man defy me, Sacarat will see him and his armies trampled, nonetheless.

The sound of another's footsteps came from far off, causing Cassen to place his own feet with quiet care. The noisemaker soon came into view: a boy servant approached from the far end of the hall, nearly skipping with carelessness. At the sight of Cassen, however, the boy became rigid and serious. His pace slowed, all gaiety lost.
What is a boy like you even doing here so close to the dungeons?
Cassen wondered. The young servant was unable to conceal his worry as he neared. Shrinking away from Cassen and eventually coming to a stop, he all but cowered against the wall. Only after he had passed the frightened child did Cassen force his face to an expression of geniality, not having realized he'd been wearing such a mask of rancor.

His scowl troubled him. Not only did Cassen believe himself to have mastery over his presented emotions, but more than that, he should have had no cause for displeasure. His every plan of import had been executed without so much as snagging a single fiber of his royal silks. And yet he frowned, and so menacingly as to cause this boy to have nearly pissed himself.
Perhaps he merely feared me raping him
, thought Cassen, but even that innocuous quip irked rather than amused him. Then he remembered what he carried.
No wonder the boy had shied. It is a bit bloodier than your typical sack of potatoes, after all.

Yet Cassen still could not escape his growing animosity toward Warin and the unfounded worry that came with it.

 

 

“Why should I do this?”

“It is no great task to have a woman transported from one place to another,” Cassen explained. “And it is for the good of the realm, therefore making it a task you are duty bound to perform.”

“I do not see how having members of The Guard assigned to taking a princess from her rightful home to some faraway land would be for the good of the realm,” Warin growled back.

Cassen exhaled theatrically. “No, I do not expect that you would. But might I remind you, Rivervale is not so
far
away—or have you forgotten who last conquered this kingdom? If we do not secure our northern neighbor and appease their masses then it will not be long before King Veront is marching an army upon us, just as he now marches on Strahl.”

Cassen did not know how much control he still had over Warin based upon their shared secret of Warin's debasement of his lady servant. With the king dead and the normal order of law on hiatus, the threat of such a truth coming to light was not as great.
So long as he still fears his wife's learning of it
, Cassen thought. He knew Warin had become more agitated with him, especially after his foolish slip-up at the banquet having called the
master
sir. But he would overwhelm Warin with as much detail as possible regarding the true complexity of kingdom management to ensure he did not come to the idiotic conclusion that he himself might be the best fit to fill the void left on the vacant throne.

“Veront is marching on Strahl?
King
Veront?”

“Why yes, my good master. Things happen quite quickly in kingdom politics. Without a vast network of spies and informers one is merely a bystander. Yours must not have been so quick to retrieve such news, I take it?”

“No… No, my spies had not yet informed me of that.”

You have no spies, you ignorant fool, just a collection of door guards too dull to listen or report anything happening within.
“Well, I am not surprised. I had guessed as much would happen, but I had only confirmed it recently. Should Veront control both Rivervale and Strahl, he will have all the momentum required to then overrun our meager walls and defenses. There are only two ways to prevent such a thing: the western side of the King's Arm magically rises from the ground to protect us—standing strong and tall as it should have long ago—or we take our forces north and seize Rivervale in this most opportune time, while Veront's armies are occupied to the east.”

“What keeps Veront from then marching on Adeltia? My wife and home are here.”

And a lovely lady servant, let us not forget.
“Strahl exists by the grace of Rivervale, and without their imports, Veront will have no food for his army. He will be troubled just marching back to Rivervale, let alone heading south to threaten Adeltia.” This was patently false, as Strahl was home to the richest farming of the continent—even their city banners boasted fields of grain—but Cassen was relying on Warin's poor knowledge of such things.
Adeltia will be safe—safely placed into the thankful hands of the Satyr.

“And the princess?”

Cassen could not help but sigh. For some reason he could not yet grasp, it pained him to think of Crella after their previous encounter. “Crella will remain our captive, but she serves a far greater purpose imprisoned in Rivervale. It will soothe the masses to know a pureblooded Adeltian is within their dungeons—even if her halfblooded Adeltian boy is the one who rules over them.”

Warin did not look convinced. “Are you sure it is wise to put that boy upon a throne? He is somewhat…temperamental.”

“Did you have anyone else in mind?” Cassen asked coyly.

Warin shook his head. “It just seems odd that we imprison one heir who has so recently poisoned the king, and release a second, who had not so long ago planned to do the same. It is difficult to believe he is the best of choices.”

He will not sit the throne for long enough to do any real damage, do not fear.
“But he is precisely that. He is the
best
choice, if not a great one. See to it that the necessary arrangements are made to have Crella accompany us when we go north. Let me know the moment the preparations have been completed and we will march.” Cassen squinted at Warin to indicate his seriousness. “And she is to be treated with the utmost care. If she is harmed I will hold you, and you alone, accountable. I know you have a pension for drowning women.”

Warin scowled. “No harm will befall her, on that I will stake my life.”

So you will.

The weight of the sack began to make itself felt, and Cassen shifted it to his other hand. Given its solitary content, it was heavier than he would have thought.

“Evening, Vidar.” Cassen sauntered past the gaoler without so much as a glance, wondering if he might be bold enough to beg a bribe from he who was now the king—or was it queen—regent.

“Your Grace,” Vidar acknowledged with reverence.

Cassen's mood had not grown any cheerier on his way to the depths of the dungeon. The same person who had beleaguered his thoughts for two decades, the girl he had first loved and then grown to hate, desiring her with the spitefulness of a man scorned, the one he thought would now be his plaything and provide him with endless amusement, Crella still yet had some death grip upon his soul.

His subjugation of her had not happened exactly as he had envisioned, but more than that, it simply did not result in the feelings of conquest he had for so long anticipated. Gone was the child who submitted to her overpowering uncle with hopeless despondency, and in her place, a strong, unyielding woman who did not allow him a moment's rest in her determined struggle. He had taken his pleasure of her, but he had not conquered her. After he'd defiled her, so did she him, as she turned and spat in his face. She did not cry. She did not whimper or moan. She fought with every ounce she had within her, and with that she had not been truly beaten.
Not yet, at least
, he told himself.

He could not deny the physical pleasure he'd enjoyed, but he grew increasingly queasy as he recalled the specifics of the act—details he should have been able to indulge in.
It is my failure that sickens me
, he reassured himself.
When she breaks, I will have my peace
. But he could not shake the oddest feeling he had when he pictured her fighting so valiantly. It must have been pity that he felt; he supposed that would be acceptable. For it could not be sympathy nor compassion. He'd cast those off when he was just a child. And he certainly had no affection for the woman—for that cunt who showed him nothing but derision.
I am not that type of man. I do not suffer from those pathetically ordinary conditions had by men of supreme mediocrity.

Cassen made his way down the familiar stretch that led to the royal cell, not bothering to knock as he unlocked the massive door and swung it open.

Inside he saw young Stephon struggling to heave the same large book as before onto his chest.
A prop book for a prop king.

Somewhat amused, Cassen allowed Stephon to situate the giant text upon himself before addressing him. “Your Grace, I come bearing a great gift.”

Stephon turned a page in his book. “I hope it is more than the worthless air from your lungs that you gifted me with on your last visit.”

“No, Your Grace. I have brought exactly that which you have asked.” With that, he tossed the sack onto the bed beside Stephon.

Stephon lowered the book and turned tiredly to gaze upon what now lay beside him, as if expecting disappointment, but when he saw it—the dark blood coagulated on the fibers of its hempen weaves—his reaction was like a girl having just realized she'd been seated next to a venomous snake. He bolted upright in his bed, recoiling away from it.

“What is
this
?” he demanded.