A mile downstream, where the two sour oaks grew together into one, Leona waited. The air that played with her long brown hair was crisp and carried with it the smell of fallen leaves, and the trickling of the brook was ever changing like the notes of a subtle song sung just for her. She waited with an anticipation that put a discomfort in her belly and a longing like hot coals in her chest as her odd ears twitched, straining to listen for the sound of his approach.
They came here often just to be alone, spending endless hours wading in the cold clear waters where the brook became deeper and more still. They searched for rare rocks that hid their patterns when dry but were brilliantly ornate when wet, keeping the choice ones for their collection. And as the Dawnstar peeked at them through the leaves, they lay together, naked on the soft beds of moss, finding that they were strangely warm in spite of the climate.
She was not supposed to wander so far from the town… No one was. There were dangers. Savages who sometimes raided villages like hers, taking what they pleased. But those were Northmen, and she was to the south. Tallos had told her there was no real danger in the southern valleys—that the elders were old fools too scared to leave their farms and kennels. And she had cause to believe him.
Leona thought she heard a sound in the distance, the crackling of dry leaves underfoot, perhaps. Her heartbeat quickened, and she held her breath to better hear. No other sounds followed, however.
“Tallos?” she called after waiting as long as her suspense would allow. She hoped he would be within earshot, though in truth she was probably still early. She had left in a hurry, spurred by her father’s ire, setting off before she should have. Leona twirled the ring of crude metal Tallos had shaped for her around her finger, both out of nervousness and to remind herself that it still remained.
The weight of eyes fell upon her, and she scanned her surroundings for movement. A dark figure approached from the east, moving with purpose like a lynx shadowing prey. He was a tall man, leaning forward as he stalked. He had a bow in one hand, arrow nocked, ready to draw. With his other hand he put a finger to his lips. It was Tallos.
As he continued forward with stealth, Leona remained silent. She now heard in the distance what he must have already noticed—a far-off cry or whimper. She thought she’d heard it before, but it had been so faint she had convinced herself it was only the keening of the wind. That he heard it too, however, meant it was real. Whatever was making the noise might be in danger, or at least attracting it. She did not have Tallos’s knowledge of the woods, and if he was being cautious, it was for good reason.
He motioned for her to remain where she was as he continued past. She wanted nothing more than to run to him and seek comfort—to hide behind him as he flushed out whatever dangers hid in the distance—but she trusted his judgment and remained where she was. Tree upon tree wove their way in between them as he went, and within a few minutes he was out of sight.
You mustn’t leave me like this, she thought. The brook no longer sang to her—it was merely noise that kept her from hearing him, and the wind was no longer refreshing—it only burned her eyes, causing them to moisten. She waited now, as he wanted her to, but it would not be long before the wind stung her to the point that tears may fall.
“Leona,” she heard him yell. “Come quickly!”
She dropped her hempen sack and ran toward his call, dirtying her dress in the mud of the riverbank. It was not like him to sound so distressed. He was always in control of any situation placed before him. Tallos shared the courage of the very mountain god he so revered.
She found him crouched at the water’s edge facing away from her, and though she could hear the whimpering clearly now, she could not see what made it. She hurried to Tallos’s side to aid him.
In his lap was a young pup, soaked through and covered in splotches with mud as if it had been playing along the bank. Looking much like a wolf but with floppy ears and a thicker snout, it appeared quite healthy as it jumped and licked at Tallos’s face with vigor.
“What is this you’ve found?”
“It looks to be some sort of dog,” Tallos replied. She would have punched him had she not been so relieved.
“I nearly died of fright. You should have let me come with you.”
Leona thought at first the poor pup had been sent down the creek to die or had climbed its way to freedom out of the disgusting conditions found in some nearby village kennels, but she saw the guilty smirk on Tallos’s face and the leather in his hand and knew at once the true nature of this chance discovery.
“You bought it?”
A puppy was quite a luxury to a young couple such that they were, and it would have cost him nearly all his worth to make the purchase. She begged his hazel eyes for truth while admiring the handsome lines of his face.
Tallos handed her the muddy pup, allowing it to finish the job of ruining her only good dress, but she was beyond caring. Any gift from Tallos was worth more than a hundred silly dresses. She pressed the filthy puppy’s shivering body into hers to share in her warmth and to dry its coat on her cloth, but Leona found she could not help but wet the creature more with her tears.
“It seems we have a daughter,” said Tallos, beaming confidence. “Now to make some sons.”
TITON
Years Ago
Titon, the firstborn of two brothers, bore an unfortunate name. His mother had chosen to call him after his father and leader of their clan, Titon son of Small Gryn. Titon’s father was a great man—a giant among Galatai. His presence was such that he towered over all other men, even those few of greater height. He made the walls and frames of normal architecture appear to bend way as he passed, lest they be crushed in his wake. And when his father was near, Titon was able to take some small comfort in knowing that, for the time being, he was not the only one who felt small.
Titon did all he could to better himself—to be more like his namesake. He ate to the point of pain at every meal and washed it down with two cups of goat’s milk in expectation of growing larger. He lifted and pressed stones above his head in his free time with the aim of getting stronger. He taught himself to read and studied the meaning of the words in their collection of pilfered books in the hopes of becoming wiser. But he eventually became all too aware that his father would forever look down at him. Even if Titon son of Small Gryn lived long enough to be shrunken and hunched, he would still likely dwarf Titon son of Titon—both in stature and accomplishment.
“A kiss for the one whose arrow flies truest.”
Stunned near to disbelief, Titon looked to the speaker. It was Red. Considered prettier than most girls her age due to her straight, bright-red hair, Titon knew he was not her only admirer. She made no effort to hide the glee in her announcement, and Titon allowed himself to briefly entertain the idea that she might be so excited because she knew he was the one most like to win.
The contest of skill was open to all the handful of boys present in the woods. The other boys shot their arrows, some missing the intended target entirely, the closest still a hand’s length away. Decker, Titon's younger brother, loosed his arrow which struck a mere finger’s width from the center. His pride in the shot showed on his face. At fifty paces it was a fine accomplishment for even a trained Galatai archer. But Titon had a confidence and coolness that the larger boys like his brother lacked—at least when Titon had a bow in his hand. His smaller size seemed to make him more dexterous, and he took to archery as does a goat to spring buds. Having grown tired of shooting the fungus stumps and such chosen by boys his age, he made games of picking a tiny spec within the target and trying to eliminate it completely with the tip of his arrow. Because of this, few realized his true mastery of the weapon.
Titon nocked and let sail his projectile with a half draw in a gentle arc. It lodged in beside Decker’s arrow, squeezing itself between it and the bull’s-eye. Titon smiled at his accomplishment, then blushed remembering what he’d won. Sweet that it was, it came with a price due to his nervousnes
s when dealing with the opposite sex.
“Axes!” cried Decker. “Any boy can shoot a bow. The way you barely pull yours back, you’d never kill anything anyhow. We will throw axes to see who wins.”
Titon’s eyes went, along with all the others’, to Red for her response.
“Very well. A kiss and maybe more for the winner.”
Something in the way she spoke reminded Titon of her mother—but that was no bad thing. Kilandra was known as the most beautiful woman of the clan. She walked with a fascinating sway in her hips and clad herself in far less than the other women, who dressed with concern only for the cold.
“You throw first this time,” insisted Decker.
Titon, engrossed in a momentary reverie of what “more” might entail, was at a loss for words. He nodded and removed the light axe from his belt and spun it in his hand. He faced a tree fifteen paces away with an obvious rounded knot that could serve as the target. Titon was proficient enough with axes when it came to accuracy, but axe throwing took more than that. It required an intuitive feel for how much power one had to put into rotation so that it would arrive blade first in a target of arbitrary distance. Some simply learned to throw an axe at a specific amount of paces, but a true axe thrower needed to master the nuances that would allow him to make use of the weapon in actual combat.
Titon did as his father instructed, which was to envision the axe in his mind, spinning through the air, the lead edge landing perfectly in its mark. Titon found it easier to see things in his mind with his eyes closed—much to his father’s annoyance—so closed they were as he threw, and closed they remained as he heard the “thunk” of the blade biting into wood, followed by a gasp from Red.
Titon never discovered whether her gasp was due to his accomplishment or because she bore witness to the event that followed. Later he learned that Decker, probably convinced that Titon had tried to make him look foolish, swung with all his rage, smashing Titon’s face with his fist.
The memory of the events leading up to that punch might one day fade, but Titon knew he would always remember, with crystal clarity, the expression on Red’s face as she roused him. Strands of her hair clung to her wet cheeks, darkening its normal red to an exquisite chestnut. On her face, stripped of its usual mask of fake confidence worn attempting to match the expressions of her licentious mother, he saw for the first time an expression of her own invention. It was not compassion in her eyes, it was fear—fear for her own wellbeing. He was well aware that she was desperately afraid of being held responsible and punished for what had transpired, but it only served to magnify his infatuation. Something carnal and primitive stirred inside him as he looked into those frightened eyes, something that wanted both to conquer and to protect, to subjugate and to shelter. He wanted her to be completely his—to remain unsullied by so much as the thought of another laying claim to her.
She wrapped her arms around him. Titon would have been elated had it not been for the realization that he’d wet himself while unconscious. He clumsily pushed her away and tried to run off. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, causing him to stumble to his side where he flopped like a fish a few times. He continued his escape from the scene, but it seemed he could not escape the embarrassment, as his only mode of transport was to crawl on all fours due to lack of balance. He thought he heard one of the boys say, “He peed,” but could not be certain. He was certain, however, that the crotch of his trousers was wet enough for all to see, that he reeked of piss, and that tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. Finally able to clamber to his feet, he ran off on wobbly legs.
DECKER
Years Ago
Decker’s shame cut him like an axe to the gut. He had not meant to hurt his brother. More than that, he felt sick with the shared ache of Titon’s embarrassment. But Decker’s regret was not fully empathetic. He had envisioned finally besting his brother at either archery or axes and wooing Red. Instead, he had earned her scorn.
“You big dumb oaf!” she had yelled at him after Titon fled. “Now we are all like to be punished.” She collapsed melodramatically, sobbing as her female retinue surrounded and tried to calm her.
It was his own fault, thought Decker. If he had beaten me without such a show, I would not have struck him in anger. It became easier to shift some of the blame to Titon whose ostentatious performance had humiliated him. Two lucky shots and this cunt of a whore is impressed? Their father often spoke ill of the cunts of whores, and though Decker did not know precisely what they were, he was now sure Red was liable to be one. Titon can have her and her damn firehead.
The image of his brother crawling away with the piss soaked through the ass of his trousers still plagued him, however. How could Titon ever be respected among the other boys now? How could he ever take his father’s place as head of the clan?
Their father must have pondered the same questions as he learned of what had occurred.
Decker had mentally prepared himself for the beating, which he’d decided he could withstand with honor. He would not cry out in pain or cringe in fear of the blows; he would seek the void as he was taught, and he would absorb the punishment with only courage, as was expected of a Galatai child being disciplined. But his punishment did not yet come.
Instead, Titon son of Small Gryn took Decker and his brother to the southern side of a nearby mountaintop overlooking a valley of moss-covered stone and scraggy pine. He sat down with them and spoke softly, softly at least for the man that he was.
“Beyond the trees and the clouds and the rocks to the south there are evil men. Men that would like to destroy you and your brother, your father and your mother.”
Decker saw his brother smile at the delivery. To hear a giant, serious man such as their father accidentally stumble into a silly rhyme sounding like the songs of dancing girls was amusing, but the humor was lost to them both when their father noticed that smile as well.
“Listen to me, you mischievous bastard. You will not like what you hear next.” Decker did not think their father had understood the reason for his brother’s momentary expression. That he was no longer the sole object of his father’s wrath brought Decker no relief. His father glowered at little Titon who looked down and blinked rapidly.
“These men take the noblest of creatures from the forest and chain them to trees.” Titon’s voice rumbled through Decker like thunder. “They torture and torment them and turn them against each other. They feed them the flesh of their dead and dying fellow man. They turn them into slaves and demons.”
They’d both heard these stories before and seen the plunder brought back from raids on the Dogmen villages, but neither had ever actually seen a Dogman. Decker knew from the tales that they were usually scrawny men with hair cut crudely short. The Dogmen and their homes reeked like animals as they often allowed their demonic companions to share the same roof—sometimes going so far as to have them sleep beside them in the same bed.
“Have you ever seen a wolf attack a man except to defend their young? Have you ever seen a wolf steal a goat except in the most desperate times? No!” Titon slammed his fist into the earth. “They run in packs and hunt deer as do we. They eat rabbits and berries as do we. They call to each other when lost. They clean each other’s wounds. They are as great and noble as Galatai.”
His father’s voice softened, but only just. “It is a vile thing those creatures they become when deprived of food and freedom. Snarling demons that hate all men, most of all their tormentor, the one that gives them just enough flesh to survive, just enough flesh to be a slave.”
The three of them sat in silence for a time, his father looking into the mists below the cliffs, his brother still looking down at his hands, clearly hurt.
Their father had never exactly been cruel to either of them, but Decker could not shake the feeling of guilt he had for being the presumed favorite. Seeing his brother so scorned—when he’d done nothing wrong—seemed more than unfair. It would have been kinder to them both, had their father
simply beaten Decker as he’d first expected.
“We are like the wolves, and they are like us in many ways,” continued their father. “And like them we fight among ourselves. Not the cowardly biting of the hindquarters of an unsuspecting brother…”
Decker could feel his father’s scowl though neither was turned toward the other. He welcomed the weight of it, eager to share in his brother’s burden.
“…But a fight to determine who is best fit to lead. Just like wolves, men need leaders. Strong, powerful leaders that others will follow without question.”
Their father’s emphasis on strong and powerful was yet another blow against Titon. Decker’s brother was quick, dexterous, and cunning, but strong and powerful he was not. Decker felt his face contort to a scowl of his own as his anger grew. This is not right, Father, he thought.
“There will come a time when the two of you, my wolf pups, will need to fight. Yesterday was not the time, nor was that over anything of importance from what I could tell. Some tart of a girl, I’d wager. You will need to fight to determine who will lead our clan, our pack, against the Dogmen. To see them crushed and driven from the land. Certainly no easy task, as they look like men but breed like rabbits. Each time we raid there seems to be more of them, yet always farther south and with less food.”
The thought of succeeding his father ahead of his brother had never crossed Decker’s mind. He may have been larger than Titon, but his brother was irksomely smart and better with both bow and axe. Decker rarely got the better of his brother in training, and when he did it never truly felt deserved. This new idea that they would one day fight to determine who would lead turned Decker’s stomach. He looked to his brother, but Titon still stared at his hands.
“Each year it grows colder. Each year the frost lasts longer. It used to be that these lands were lush for half the year, but the goats have little to eat now. Some do not agree, but it is known among those wise that we will need to move south in time. We must go to those lands where rabbits and berries are plentiful and cleanse them of Dogmen. We must take the forests of the valleys for our own.”
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 2