Battleaxe: Book One of the Axis Trilogy

Faraday leaned close to Devera, hoping that the intricate knot of her heavy hair, held together with only small pins of pearls and diamonds, would not tumble down. “Everyone looks so beautiful, Devera,” she whispered, unable to completely hide her excitement. Her eyes slipped to the goblet of watered wine she held. Its golden cup was encrusted with small diamond chips. Noble she might have been, but Faraday was still young enough to be impressed by the extreme wealth and ostentation of Priam’s court.

Devera smiled at Faraday. She remembered how she had felt when she first came to court two years ago, but she was not going to let Faraday know that. “You should try and look more bored, Faraday. If people suspect you are in awe of them they will seek to take advantage of you.”

Faraday looked up from the goblet, her green eyes serious now. “Oh, Devera, surely you have read Artor’s words in the Book of Field and Furrow? Taking advantage of people is not the Artor-fearing way.” Besides teaching Faraday the courtly graces, Merlion had also made sure her daughter received strict religious instruction.

Devera suppressed a small grimace. Faraday sounded a little too devout for her liking. Everyone at court genuinely feared the wrath of Artor, and most respected the Brother-Leader, but they generally only paid lip service to the Seneschal. Devotion to the Seneschal’s Way of the Plough was a trifle too peasantish for most court nobility – indeed, most Carlonites. Besides, many nobles resented the interference of the Seneschal in the political affairs of Achar. Faraday would have to drop the expressions of devoutness if she was to hold the interest of one of the better-looking courtiers. Devera assumed Earl Isend had brought Faraday to court and decked her out in such an exquisite dark-gold silk dress and fine pearls in order to find her a husband. Devera herself was betrothed to one of the younger sons of Baron Fulke and would be wedded within the month. She looked forward to the event with lustful impatience.

Well, if Faraday was devout, then perhaps her father could arrange an audience with the Brother-Leader for her. Devera indicated the white-haired and stooped old man one place down from the king’s left hand. “Have you met the Brother-Leader yet, Faraday?”

Faraday turned her gaze back towards the royal table and the leader of the Seneschal. He looked as noble as any other at the table with his well-groomed (and non-tonsured) hair, his gently waved and perfumed beard and rich clothes. He wore a massive emerald ring on his left hand, and wielded his napkin with as much grace as the king himself. He had a kindly, intelligent face, though he seemed preoccupied with some grave concern.

“No.” Faraday hesitated a moment. “Does he come from the royal family itself, Devera?”

Devera snorted behind her gravy-stained napkin. “Not he, Faraday. No, Brother-Leader Jayme comes from an undistinguished farming family somewhere in the depths of Arcness. Knowing that province, he probably has more than a passing knowledge of pigs, although he hides it well now. He was appointed chaplain to the royal household a few decades ago – that’s where he learned his manners. Jayme was … is … an ambitious man, and he learnt well at court. Well enough, I suppose, to be appointed Brother-Leader.”

Faraday was dismayed at the sacrilegious way Devera talked about the Brother-Leader. “Devera, you must not speak ill of the Brother-Leader. The Brotherhood of the Seneschal elects the Brother-Leader – the royal household has no influence at all.”

Artor! but the girl had a lot to learn about the intrigues of both court and Seneschal, Devera thought dryly, and decided to steer the conversation away from religious matters. “What do you think of King Priam, Faraday?”

Faraday smiled and her face looked truly beautiful. “He’s handsome, Devera.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “But such curls!”

Devera laughed despite herself. Priam had inherited the regal good looks of his family as well as their magnificent dark auburn hair, but it really was a trifle ridiculous for a man in his late forties to continue to have his hair curled so tightly.

“That must be his wife, Queen Judith.” Faraday indicated a woman of ethereal and fragile beauty sitting between Priam and the Brother-Leader. As they watched, Priam leaned over attentively and gave her the choicest meats from his own plate.

“Yes. It’s so sad. They say that Priam loves her dearly, but that she cannot have children. Every year of their marriage but the past two she has fallen pregnant, only to lose the babe in the fourth or fifth month. Now, perhaps, she is too old.”

Both girls fell silent for a few minutes as they contemplated this supreme tragedy. The primary purpose of any noblewoman was to bear her husband sons as quickly as possible. No matter the dowry, the connections or the beauty that a woman brought to her marriage bed, her life became meaningless if she could not produce heirs. Faraday picked up a piece of cloudberry cheese and nibbled delicately at its edges, a line of worry appearing between her eyes. “It would be a tragedy if King Priam does not have any sons to follow him.”

“Ah,” Devera took a healthy sip of wine, “that would leave the way open for his closest living relative. Now tell me, if you can, do you know who that is?”

Her tone irritated Faraday. “His nephew, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar,” she retorted.

Faraday had arrived at court only the day before and had yet to be introduced to the King and his family. If she knew names, faces as yet meant little to her. To her humiliation, Faraday could not place Borneheld’s face among the three or four noblemen at the royal table she still could not identify. Which one was he?

Devera savoured Faraday’s embarrassed confusion for a moment, then inclined her head towards the man sitting immediately at Priam’s right hand.

“Ah,” Faraday breathed, for now that Devera had pointed him out she could see some resemblance. Borneheld had Priam’s grey eyes and his hair was precisely the same shade of auburn, although dressed in a soldier’s close crop rather than Priam’s court curls. He was a man in the prime of his life, about thirty, and as solid as he might be, it was clear that his bulk was all muscle. If Priam was a courtier, then it was obvious that Borneheld was a warrior, his body honed by years in the saddle and wielding the sword. He looked a formidable man. Her mother had been remarkably silent on Priam’s immediate family.

“Borneheld is the child of Priam’s only sister, Rivkah, who married Borneheld’s father Searlas, the previous Duke,” Devera explained.

Faraday paused in her contemplation of Borneheld to glance back at Devera. For a moment she thought that there was some hesitation, or some darker shadow, behind Devera’s words, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “So, if Priam has no children, Borneheld will become king.”

Devera shrugged and took another sip of wine. “Probably, unless the other Earls and Barons decided to fight him for the privilege.”

“But that would mean civil war! Are you suggesting that our fathers would be so disloyal?” Faraday valued loyalty above most other virtues.

“Well, the prize would be worth it, wouldn’t it,” Devera snapped, the wine she had drunk making her tongue dangerously loose.

Faraday turned her head away and concentrated on the food before her. Perhaps it were best if she let Devera chat to the youth on her right for a time.

Some twenty silent minutes later, Faraday became aware of a man moving quietly through the shadows behind the great columns, then weaving sinuously between the crowded tables and the darting, anxious serving men and women. Occasionally he bent to speak to a person or two seated at the tables.

She watched him, fascinated by his unusual grace and the suppleness of his movement. He was moving towards the dais where the royal table stood, and she wondered if he were one of the nobles. Faraday was enthralled.

Finally he stepped into the main body of the chamber and Faraday had her first clear look at him; she took a quick, sharp breath of surprise. Not even Priam commanded the same presence that this man did.

He was still a relatively young man, perhaps some ten or eleven years older than herself, striking rather than handsome. This was due partly to his lithe grace, but also to the unusual alien cast of his features. His shoulder-length hair, drawn back into a short tail in the nape of his neck, and his close-shaven beard were the colour of sun-faded harvest wheat, his eyes an equally faded blue – but as penetrating as a bird of prey’s. He was tall and lean, and wore a uniform unlike any that Faraday had seen before, either in her home of Skarabost or here in Carlon. Over slim-fitting black leather trousers and riding boots, he wore a black, close-fitting hip-length tunic coat of cleverly woven wool. Even the trimmings and the raised embroideries down the sleeves of his tunic were black. The only relief was a pair of crossed golden axes embroidered across his left breast. As he stepped into the brilliance of the central chamber the entire effect was as if a panther had suddenly strolled out of a dark jungle into the sunlight of a glade.

“Devera!” she whispered.

Devera turned and looked in the same direction. “Ah,” she said, in understanding. Faraday’s reaction was the same as every woman’s the first time they laid eyes on the BattleAxe. It was a reaction the BattleAxe was fully aware he created and, if in the mood, capitalised on.

She sighed and tapped Faraday’s hand to get her attention as the BattleAxe weaved through the last few tables towards the royal dais. “That is Axis, BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders.”

The Axe-Wielders! The legendary military wing of the Seneschal! And this was their commander! No wonder he had caught her attention. Faraday hadn’t even hoped to lay eyes on one of the Axe-Wielders while she was in Carlon, since they generally stayed close to the Tower of the Seneschal across Grail Lake.

Devera’s lips twitched. It was a shame to disillusion Faraday about this man, but if she didn’t do it, then someone else soon would.

“Faraday. Look at Priam for a moment, and tell me if you see a resemblance.”

Faraday did as Devera asked. “Oh! They’re related – they must be. They have the same distinctive hairline and forehead.”

“Yes. They are related. Axis is also Priam’s nephew and Borneheld’s half-brother, and Borneheld is just as unlikely to acknowledge that fact as Priam is to acknowledge Axis as his nephew. For the royal family, Axis is the ultimate embarrassment.”

Faraday frowned, wondering why her mother had not told her of this man, but she did not take her eyes from the BattleAxe. He had stopped to laugh for a moment with a lady of minor nobility sitting at one of the tables close to theirs, and she did not want to take her eyes from him while he was so close. “I don’t understand,” she said.

Devera settled back in her chair and smiled. The story of Axis’ birth was well known in Carlon – although it was not widespread elsewhere – and it was not often that she had the opportunity to tell the deliriously scandalous tale of Rivkah’s shame to someone who knew nothing about the affair.

“Axis is the illegitimate son of Rivkah, Priam’s sister,” she said bluntly, and her words were finally enough for Faraday to tear her gaze from Axis and look at Devera.

“Really!” she breathed.

“Yes,” Devera nodded sagely. “Rivkah was married at an early age, younger than you are now, to the ageing Searlas, Duke of Ichtar. Within a year she had produced a son, Borneheld. Searlas was pleased. While Rivkah had the young babe to occupy her, he left her at the fort of Sigholt in the Urqhart Hills, safe enough one would think, while he went on an extensive tour of the northern fortifications at Gorkenfort and the River Andakilsa. He was gone a year. When he returned to Sigholt it was to find that Borneheld had grown into a strong, one-year-old boy, and the Princess Rivkah was holding court at Sigholt with a bulging eight-month belly. Can you imagine the scandal? Even the stableboys knew of the pregnancy before Searlas did.”

Faraday’s curiosity would not let the next question lie. “Who was the father?”

Deveras blue eyes twinkled and her mouth curved mischievously. She tossed her curls and her breasts jiggled in their too-tight bodice. “No one knows, Faraday. Rivkah flatly refused to tell. She had not wanted to marry Searlas in the first place, and most people assumed that this was her way of ending the marriage. Well, Searlas was furious – as he had a right to be. He had believed that Rivkah would be safe at Sigholt – there is no garrison bolted tighter in Achar – and his suspicions immediately fell upon the garrison guard and servants. It is said that he had half of them tortured before he came out of his black rage. He had Rivkah sent to the Retreat in Gorkentown far to the north in a futile effort to keep the birth secret. Futile, because news of the pregnancy had already reached Carlon and the entire court knew that Searlas was not the father. The old king Karel, Priam and Rivkah’s father, was equally livid. He told Searlas that he could do with Rivkah what he wanted. But in the end Searlas didn’t have to do anything. Rivkah died in childbirth.”

Faraday’s eyes misted and she twisted her napkin in her lap. “Oh, how tragic!”

“Tragic my foot,” Devera snorted. “It was the best thing that could have happened. Well, the best thing that could have happened was that the bastard child had died at birth as well, but that was not to be. Searlas flatly refused to acknowledge him. King Karel, and then Priam after him, refused to even mention Rivkah’s name, much less acknowledge that her bastard son is of their blood.”

“But who took care of the baby? What became of him?”

“Brother-Leader Jayme, then attached to the royal household, was at the Retreat in Gorkentown when the boy was born. He took the child into the Seneschal as his protégé, hoping that the boy would eventually take orders and become a reclusive brother attached to some retreat in a dusty corner of Achar. It seemed the best solution and relieved both the King and the Duke of Ichtar of an embarrassing problem. But Axis had no penchant for the Brotherhood, and every penchant for the sword and the axe. After training in arms at a noble household for several years Axis joined the Seneschal’s Axe-Wielders when he was seventeen and, five years ago when Jayme was elected to the position of Brother-Leader, Axis received the appointment of BattleAxe from his patron. Jayme pretended not to see the horrified looks at court, arguing that despite his relative youth Axis was the perfect man for the job – which he has certainly proved to be. So now the court has to live with a royal bastard, who everyone hoped would fade into obscurity, holding one of the most elite military posts within Achar. Rivkah’s shame refuses to go away.”

Faraday looked at the Brother-Leader. “Ah, I had heard that Brother Jayme was a good and kind man, but this story is proof of it. To take a young babe no-one else wanted and give him home and family. Artor bless him for that.”