Almost equally offensive was that so few of the Dogmen fought to protect themselves. All Galatai, even the girls, were taught to use a bow and throwing axe at a young age and were expected to use them to defend their homes. These Dogmen had at most only one of every ten men take to weapon to defend what was theirs while the rest cowered inside. Titon found it beyond disgraceful.
Elise’s father was one that hid, and he hid more than himself. After finding the man trembling in a corner, begging for his life, Titon, as he often did, began first to destroy his fancy home. It was not enough to kill these evil men. They had to also know that all they had was being ruined.
Her father was a rich man with a large home. Dogmen considered those who bred demon-dogs to be most valuable, and kennel owners tended to have the most wealth. Her father must have had over five-dozen dogs crammed into a small shed overrun with piles of shit and reeking of death from the stillborn pups left to rot or be eaten.
As Titon used Elise’s father’s head as a battering ram to remove some walls, he broke through to a hidden room. Large houses held large secrets he had learned, and this was not the first such room he had discovered within Dogmen homes. Titon let out a monstrous roar of laughter, eager to see what treasure was within. The room did not smell of gems and coins, however. It had the familiar stench of piss and shit like the kennels. In the center of the room he saw a girl on all fours, dressed in loose rags, chained to a spike in the ground as a dog or wolf might be. But Titon saw only wolf in this girl as she snarled and growled and snapped at him in defiance when he approached. She was a few years younger than he, and her long messy hair was as white as the fur of a Storm Wolf—save for the dirt in it.
The girl was wild and Titon could not conceive of a way to subdue her without the same disgraceful bindings used by the Dogmen, so he simply broke her chains and hoisted her to a shoulder, allowing her to claw and bite him until she tired. She had a fiercer stamina than expected, and she gave him some of his better scars that day, as well as removing part of an ear. Galatai wore their scars proudly, however, and ears were just fodder for frostbite the way Titon saw it.
“The feck are you doing with that Dogman bitch? You can’t take any prisoners. Everyone knows that.” Edgur was five years Titon’s senior and clearly resented being under the leadership of the younger man.
Among Galatai, one either followed his leader or killed and replaced him, but one did not speak to him as if he was a child. This was not the first time Edgur had been insubordinate either. Titon once found him bludgeoning dogs to death after Titon had given explicit orders that dogs were not to be killed without him present. Putting down the dogs was the hardest part of raiding for Titon, and though he saw the remnants of wolf in their eyes, he knew that once turned they could never be wolf again. Nevertheless, it was a duty he did not stray from. The dogs Edgur was killing were chained inside kennels and no threat to the men, but he was beating the life from them just the same and taking great pleasure in doing so. It was all Titon could do not to kill Edgur then, but he settled for a severe reprimand, hoping the shame would sort the man.
“This is no Dogman. Her mane is white as the Storm Wolf’s coat—a sign from the Mighty Three perhaps. She was chained by the Dogmen much like a wolf would be. Do you see any chains on her now? She is not my prisoner, but she is mine.” Titon replied with all the authority of a clan leader despite his age.
“Does a Storm Wolf roll around in its own shit? Her mane is about as white as my arse after I’ve made a pile with nothing to wipe. That don’t bother me though, she’s fair enough. Let her down. We’ll give her a ride, slit her throat, and be on our way then.”
Edgur was like to be expecting a chuckle from the other men, but a silence hung among those around. Even the squirming girl on Titon’s shoulder seemed to quiet.
“You would seek to rape the woman your leader just laid claim to?” Titon glowered at Edgur in a way that meant he had no means of escape, not with an answer nor an apology.
A moment passed as the blood drained from Edgur’s face, and he chuckled nervously. Titon’s glare remained fixed on the man, but Edgur soon lowered his eyes, turned as if he were walking away, then grabbed for the axe at his belt. “I challenge you—”
His scream was interrupted by Titon’s own axe making a wet sound as it split Edgur’s skull, landing between the nose and left eye, planted firmly. The throw was quite difficult given Titon’s cargo, but Titon rarely botched an axe throw—not when it mattered.
“Do any others wish to challenge Titon son of Small Gryn for the right to lead?” He posed the question with the woman still on his shoulder, vulnerable to attack but without fear. There were no such volunteers, nor did anyone else take issue with Titon’s claim to the wolf woman. The action cost him more than Edgur, though. It made him many enemies among the leaders of other Galatai clans who believed he had broken a sacred law.
Titon squeezed the soft leathern bindings of his axe. Ellie, what would you have me do? I fear your wish would be for me to speak to you softly, long into the night. To tell you how strong our boys have grown and how I still care for you. To hold your hand as we watch our last setting of the Dawnstar, then end your eternal purgatory.
Titon stared at the old axe in his hands as its image began to blur. But I cannot.
And so Titon did the same as he had near every night for so many painful years. He sat with his wife in the small home he’d built for them by the creek at the top of the world. He talked to her long into the night as he held her hand, and they watched the Dawnstar disappear behind the mountains far to the west.
DECKER
Side by side Decker and his brother stood, knee deep in the thick snow, before an assemblage of other young men and boys. Today we take our first steps toward glory, thought Decker, eyeing those that may be lucky enough to accompany them.
Enough had gathered that the need for words had become pressing. Decker looked toward Titon, hoping he would address the crowd—this was after all a plan of Titon’s sole invention.
Decker had continued to grow both in stature and spirit. Though not yet fifteen, he was near his father’s equal. The same could not be said for his older brother. Although not a weakling for his age, Titon was still a runt by Galatai standards. Had Titon a different name and different brother, perhaps it would not have been so embarrassingly blatant, but the two brothers, when standing abreast, made a pair hard not to comment on—a comment more wisely made in silence to oneself.
“Hello, men.” Decker recognized his brother’s words as a thing their father often said to silence his men, but they failed to carry the same authority as when the son of Small Gryn spoke them. Many in the group continued to talk among themselves.
“My brother Decker and I have summoned you here to…” Titon struggled for words while speaking over the chatter. Brilliance and book knowledge, Titon had in abundance, but neither seemed to serve him now, not with this rowdy bunch in attendance. “We have summoned you here to go south with us. South to slay Dogmen and bring home their provisions for our families.”
“What do you know of the South, boy?” asked a faceless voice from the rear of the group.
Titon was visibly taken aback by the question. He had witnessed the many times his father’s men had cheered and raised axes at the mere mention of heading south. He clearly was not prepared to be met with skepticism or apprehension.
Decker watched Titon from the corner of an eye, but mostly he tried to read the faces of those before them. Things looked bleak, as the few who had shown Titon any courtesy at all with their silence still nodded in agreement with the question put forth. He allowed his brother to continue, hoping his wits would see him through this ordeal.
“I know my father used to lead men such as us to the South,” said Titon. “Each time he had returned, it was with victuals to last for months and stories of the battles with those Dogmen brave enough to take up arms and die with some modicum of honor.” He now had more power behind hi
s words. Titon always spoke proudly of their father…in public.
“Aye, but you are not your father.” This time the voice was not faceless. It was Arron, the son of the clan’s tanner. “You can keep your victuals and modicums. I don’t think they will help us to kill Dogmen.” Arron was fifteen, same as Titon, and was a bit over-serious for his age—something that may have come from years of being teased for smelling like soured piss, the hallmark of his father’s profession.
Decker saw where this was headed. He did not have his brother’s intellect, but he had a better understanding of the way men acted in packs. And this pack was about to turn on a leader deemed unfit to lead. The results for Titon would be embarrassing at best, violent at worst. The young men grunted their approvals of Arron’s objection.
“Enough!” Decker’s booming voice silenced the grunts. “My brother offers you glory in battle and you quibble over his words? Winter approaches, and we are not ready. We need the Dogmen’s mutton and cheese that the older men have been unable to acquire. Who here wishes to suffer through another winter with an empty belly?”
The usual raiding parties had been met with poor results as of late. After the tiring and dangerous descent snaking through scree-covered bluffs to where the Dogmen villages used to sit, the real task of finding the Dogmen began. The villages they came upon were either abandoned or sacked, and where the villages were deserted no greenery grew. The Dogmen, it seemed, used some sort of poison to spoil the land, making it difficult for the raiders to advance southward with nothing to forage or hunt along the way, and returning empty handed from raids was fast becoming the norm. That the son of Small Gryn no longer led the raids was a cause for great concern among the elders. But their father had not left their mother’s side for more than a day since she’d taken ill, and he’d remained in power all these years due only to the overwhelming respect he commanded. The time has come for a son of the son of Small Gryn to lead, thought Decker.
Some of the boys not yet old enough to attend the raids voiced their approval of Decker’s speech, though it was like to have more to do with their awe of Decker than the content of his argument.
Arron had not been swayed. “The older men have experience raiding these Dogmen, and most of us have never so much as seen one. What makes you think we will succeed where the others have failed?”
Decker smirked and looked toward his older brother. The stiffness in Titon’s body seemed to have gone, encouraged by the fact that the men were asking a question he knew how to answer. It was Titon who had conceived of the unconventional strategy that would allow them to attack Dogmen villages much farther to the south. It was Titon who had first needed to convince his younger brother that the strategy had merit, and of that Decker was thoroughly convinced.
Decker turned to Arron, staring him down. “They did not have a Titon.”
ETHEL
Years Ago
“Wyverns,” said Ethel.
Ethel studied Master Annan for any clue that she was making some headway. The old woman stared at Ethel with her usual aloof curiosity, seated behind a desk absurdly large for so small a person. Above her teacher loomed a bookshelf half again as tall as any man, armored with the spines of countless texts, all seemingly selected for their dry content. Perhaps not as dry as her hair, thought Ethel, unable to keep from glancing on occasion at the woman’s solitary grey braid that reached to the floor, sweeping up dust whenever she turned her head. “Wyverns?” her teacher asked.
Having forced herself from bed earlier than was usual, Ethel thought she had accomplished the hardest task of her day. She was wrong. The overwhelming feeling of being pulled to sea by outward flowing tides fought her will, but she forced herself to remain calm, remembering to whom she was speaking. Had she needed to, Ethel could probably convince Master Annan that it was not even a day of learning, that the old woman had mixed up the days of the week as she was prone to do, and that she had come to teach a class that would remain empty. But Ethel had no need to confuse the woman. She wanted only to convince her of an undeniable truth: that the book she’d brought was worthy of being added to the curriculum.
“Wyverns,” Ethel confirmed with a nod. A family of wyverns, Ethel added, albeit only in thought. The intrigue of wyverns was as good a selling point as any, and sure to interest her fellow students. That, combined with it being so large a text, was sure to impress her old master, and for once the class would get to read something that would engross them. They might even thank Ethel for having recommended it, though perhaps that was a stretch.
Master Annan looked at her askew. “This is a class of literature, child. Wyverns are the subject of…science, I believe. You should give this book to Master…” She trailed off, lost in thought. It could have afforded Ethel a few minutes to think, but Ethel had already decided how to convince her master of the true merit of her submission.
“But Master Annan, look how big it is.”
Master Annan broke from her trance and did as she was told; she looked at the book in her hands. As if prompted by the realization that it was indeed very large, she let it fall to her desk, sending bits of dust flying from the surface.
“It is heavy,” she conceded, giving Ethel hope that she had pursued the correct avenue of persuasion.
Her master retrieved a ruler from the top drawer of her desk and used it to measure the book’s thickness. As Master Annan’s eyes widened, Ethel could not control her growing smile.
“It is over three fingers,” she said, setting the ruler down on her desk.
“So we can read it in class?”
Master Annan slid the book toward Ethel. “I am afraid not. We seldom read texts larger than one finger’s width.”
Ethel’s heart sank.
“And it is difficult enough to get your classmates to read those,” added Master Annan with a smile.
The sound of chairs being dragged along the floor alerted Ethel to the presence of her peers. No one ever arrived early, meaning class would be starting shortly as the wave of children flooded the room. Ethel acknowledged her master’s implicit dismissal with a curt nod and brought the book to her seat.
Wyverns? It is big? She chided herself for having so poorly explained why the book was of both substance and merit, though it made little difference. Her father was always right about these things. “Your master already has a list of texts, and more importantly, copies for the students,” he’d explained after she brought up her plan at last night’s supper. “Pay no mind to Alther,” her mother had said. “You do as you wish, as a princess is entitled.” Ethel hated how rude her mother always was to him, and worse, how she always called him Alther, even when speaking of him to her and Stephon. “I see no harm in trying,” her father agreed, his pleasantness undaunted by her mother’s ornery tone. “But remember, even if your master agrees and adds it to her list, your classmates may not enjoy it near so much as you. Even you might not have loved it, had you read it for the first time in class. It is our nature to dislike the things we are forced to do,” his assertion earning him a glare from her mother. Ethel had found that difficult to accept, believing she would love the story in either case. “Now eat your beans,” her father had concluded with a grin.
Giggling in the back of the classroom drew Ethel’s sudden attention. She was not blind to the ugly irony that giggling, a thing that should be welcomed by a girl her age, was instead a cause for anxiety. It seemed the only person who could giggle in her presence without Ethel worrying that she was being made a fool of was Griffin, but he was a year older than she and did not attend the same classes.
As she glanced back from her seat in the front of the classroom, Ethel saw the cause for the excitement. Matthus, one of the more clownish children, had something stuffed under his shirt. Ethel quickly turned forward, hoping none had noticed that she had looked, but more so, hoping she was not to be the object of their antics. Though her mother assured her she would grow out of it, claiming she, too, had been a plump child, Ethel ha
d become increasingly self-conscious of her portly cheeks and rounded belly.
“Have a seat,” said Master Annan to the children in the rear. “Class is to begin soon.”
“He’s too big to sit,” cried one of the boys, provoking some chortles from the other students.
“What is the matter now?” As expected, their master was quite oblivious to the prank being played.
“It’s my swollen belly,” said Matthus.
“Oh, Matthus, did you eat something you should not have?” Master Annan had honest concern in her voice.
Ethel prepared herself for the coming joke about him having overindulged in sweets. At the start of the year, when invited to share something about themselves, Ethel had made the mistake of telling the class her favorite activity was eating pastries with her best friend Griffin. It had been a source of ridicule ever since.
“No, Master Annan…” Matthus spoke with emotion. “A babe grows in my belly.”
The tension that had been building in Ethel’s body released all at once. He apparently was not making fun of anyone in particular today, just messing about in a random attempt to provoke laughter and delay their lessons—a task in which he was succeeding. Ethel turned in her desk, further relieved to see every student was looking at Matthus.
“But that is only half the problem,” he continued.
“Be quick with it, Matthus. We must begin the day’s lessons.”
Matthus grinned with devious intent, a look that put Ethel ill at ease. “The real trouble is…” His gaze shifted, and with it went the eyes of every student. They whipped to Ethel, each eager stare falling on her like a scourge’s lash. “I have no clue who the father is.”
The room filled with the raucous laughter of each and every student, some covering their mouths, succeeding only in spraying their hands with mirth, others just openly howling. All, that is, except for Ethel, who turned slowly in her seat to again face forward. That the other children had begun to understand what her being the princess’s bastard truly meant was not a welcome evolution in their ability to torment her.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 6