The Axe and the Throne (24 page)

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her inside. Titon then went from room to room in search of some sign of wealth. A woman as fair as this was sure to have some jewelry.

The home had a strong fire burning in the large stone hearth but reeked of demon-dogs. This was a home of those who slept with their foul creatures beside them, but the animals were nowhere to be seen. The mantles and shelves were cluttered with knickknacks, mostly ordinary stones that gave Titon a sinking feeling. These Dogmen were a strange people to put the prettiest among them in a tiny home adorned with worthless rocks, but he put the thought aside and bore down on the task at hand.

The woman struggled now, but slowly and weakly as a person might do while dreaming. He put her face closer to his so he could look upon her and stir himself to action, but the utter despondency he saw in her eyes again sickened him in spite of her lovely features. In a rage he threw her, face down, upon a small table in what looked to be the home's kitchen. He could feel her firm form trapped beneath him, and he became more than ready for what must be done. He readjusted his grip on her hair, exposing her neck and ears, and yanked her head back with violence.

An image appeared in Titon's mind, one most unsettling given the circumstances: his mother's face, young and smiling. With outstretched arms she bade her new toddler approach her. Decker crawled to their mother through the lush grass of summer where he paused, lifted a knee, and stood. With bumbling steps, and undaunted by their father's roar of laughter, Decker slogged his way toward their mother, the breeze pulling at her hair. Titon flinched as if caught in mischief when his mother's eyes then darted toward him accusingly. And there her gaze lingered, captivated by some unknown force, unwilling or unable to glance at Decker as he finally reached her.

An overwhelming feeling of abhorrence flooded Titon as he returned to the present, his focus again on the woman he had pinned to the table.

Her ears, those small, slightly-pointed ears, the look of dejection in her eyes, the near-catatonic state, they were all so familiar because they were identical to the features of his own mother. They did not share the same face, nor color of hair, but the similarities they bore were unmistakable. Without thinking, Titon removed his knife and opened her neck with a single slice.
Like you should have done years ago, Father.

Blood fountained out her wounded throat and upon the wooden floor. The house seemed to be growing smaller, trapping Titon inside. Scant relief came moments later when he saw that she had succumbed, but Titon still felt just as eager to be gone from this home.

He ransacked the few rooms of the house, hoping to find a hidden compartment or lockbox, but the most valuable item in the entire structure seemed to be a near worthless flint. Forced to check the woman's body as a last resort, he found only an ill-fitting ring of crude metal on her finger.
Perhaps Red will be touched by the sentiment
, he thought.
A ring of metal was after all a difficult thing to make and was only given by a man to a woman if he intended to bed no others. Crude that it may have been, it was obvious someone had spent many hours toiling to shape its pattern. It was better, he supposed, than coming back empty-handed.

The men made noise outside now, and they would surely wish to go through the belongings themselves to see if Titon had left anything of value. Titon tore the woman's skirts to give the appearance of what had been expected. Then he put on his best fake grin of accomplishment and walked out of the home to be greeted by the half-taunting, half-cheering men to whom he felt no kinship.
If this is all the glory of victory
,
he thought,
I should surely hope to never taste defeat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tallos knew little of his father's faith to which he had tried to be true, only what his mother had told him. He knew that one should not piss in a river, one should not sleep through the rising of the Dawnstar, and one must bury the bodies of the dead so they can return to the Mountain. He had obeyed all these laws of the three gods of his father. In return, they had taken from him everything.

Seemingly without effort, Tallos had also abided by all the tenets of the Faith, the religion of his fellow villagers: one should be kind and giving to one's fellow man, one should be clean of mind and body, one should maintain monogamy and faithfulness to one's spouse, and one must never eat nor burn the flesh of man. There were others, but these were the core beliefs shared by all villagers…and often abided the least by those who proclaimed themselves to be most pious.

And so he watched as the home he built with his wife and shared with his faithful companion began to burn. Great clouds of black smoke billowed as the tar packed between the logs caught fire, filling the sky with the taint of his hatred while he remembered what he had found within.

Why she was still inside when he had returned, he did not know. The door in the kitchen, the one that led to a narrow vine-covered pathway, able to be barred from the outside, remained unbroken. The front door had also not been broken or dislodged in any way.
You let them inside?
Tallos thought, unable to understand.
What were you thinking?

His despair had turned to rage as he'd sat with her on the blood-covered floor, squeezing her cold body in his arms. He would never forgive himself for having left her, but he wondered if he could forgive her for not having done what together they had so carefully planned. He sought more reasons to justify his anger towards her, or at least to explain what to him made no sense. The house was in disarray, but the table he found her on still had objects upon it.
Did you not even fight your attackers? Did you enjoy it, you whore?

He rid himself of his spiteful thoughts and shamed himself for even having had them. The men who attacked their village were savages; they could have killed her before raping her. He desperately hoped that was the case. And was he not truly the one who should be blamed? She had all but begged him not to leave, and he'd answered her pleas with frustration and anger. He thought of how fine she had looked the day he left. It seemed her aura of youth had never diminished over their many years together, and now it had been debased and snuffed out in the cruelest way imaginable. He thought of when he had tricked her into baring her breast during a dip in the brook, the many times they so happily tried to make a child, and the work and pride they'd shared upon completing their home. He thought also of when he brought her to meet Lia at the muddy riverbank. The memories tore at him.

Flames leapt to the roof where they danced defiantly, consuming in an instant the thatching that Leona had woven so perfectly as to always keep them dry, even during the worst of storms. The roof collapsed, sending an explosion of embers into the air that drifted with demonic grace. They would be burning now, Leona and Lia. It hurt him to know, but he embraced the pain. He needed their memory erased for his sanity. He needed to burn it out of the world and out of himself, but it would not yet let him be.

As he had sat on the kitchen floor with Leona, he'd heard a faint cry, and, for a moment, he had let himself believe it could be his wife. Putting her at arm's length, searching for some sign of hope, all he saw was the same lifeless corpse with the smiling wound on its neck. It was no longer the wife he had loved. It was a laughing husk, a horrible reminder of what he'd had and what he'd thrown away, but he was as gentle with her body as if she were merely unconscious as he laid her down, not wanting to leave her. Hearing the cry again, he sunk yet deeper.

He found Lia lying in front of the hearth as he had left her. She was saturated in blood, some dry and some still sticky wet. The bandage he had made for her was not adequate to staunch the flow, and that the trickle had all but ceased was only due to her having so little left to lose. Without the strength left to lift her head, her eyes begged him to fix her. Clinging to life, she looked confused as to why he had waited so long to pull the thorn from her paw, to give her relief. There was nothing he could do to save her, however. She was far worse than he had expected. Even with a flint and quick fire his efforts likely would have resulted only in lengthening her torment. He had only to end her suffering or watch her slowly die, and having had made a promise to himself to never again avoid the path of action, he removed the knife from his belt. But as he saw the dull luster of his small blade, he could not help but imagine it to be little different than the one used to kill Leona. He could not cut Lia's throat. Loss of blood did not kill as quickly as one might think. It would simply cause her more pain.

“I am sorry, girl,” he'd sobbed with tears in his eyes. He stroked her head where she had no wounds, trying to comfort her as he put his head beside hers. But she had lacked the strength to lick his face. “I'm going to help you.”

Lia's breaths came rapid and labored as she foolishly fought to stay alive so that he could save her. Unable to bear allowing her to hurt any longer, he hoisted the iron kettle from the hearth above his head and looked into her sad, confused eyes a final time. Images of her as a pup dirtying Leona's dress on their first meeting barraged him. The horrific injustice too much to bear, he'd screamed out with rage and fury when the deed was done, hoping it would stir the very gods that had forsaken him.

Tallos turned away from the house and the horrible memories sealed inside. With outstretched arms he backed closer toward the inferno. Heat surged from the source and scorched his naked skin, causing it to redden. The fine hairs on his arms were the first to be singed to nothingness, filling the air with an acrid stench. Leaning his head back, he allowed all the hair remaining atop his head to shrivel and smoke, until his scalp was seared, as was the rest of his back, his legs, and the tops of his arms. He moved closer still as flames licked at him, causing his skin to broil and blister. He remained there, listening to the hissing of the boiling fluid as his blisters burst open. Unable to wash out the agony and suffering he had endured with tears, he welcomed the cleansing pain, his only respite, as his vision turned red.

 

 

 

 

 

Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She's Cassen's property.”

Annora pressed her ear to the dank wood of the door, desperate to hear more of the conversation that would determine her fate.

“So she is,” came the voice of the viler man. “And even more reason for us to have a taste. I'd give her a lesson in obedience that cockless daint is unable to teach.”

As best Annora could tell, they'd been sailing for no more than three days, yet the green crystal seas and white powder beaches of her people's islands seemed forever distant. These foreign men spoke with a coarse accent tinged with menace. And when they had stared at her prior to cramming her into this closet that now served as her cabin, she felt their eyes defiling her.

How have you been so foolish to arrive here?
she demanded of herself. Annora had always wished to leave her home, to be free from her father's rage and her mother's ambivalence. Now, however, she found herself longing to be sheltered by them—not the parents she had always known them to be, but the generous, pleasant people they had transformed into months earlier. It was a front, she knew, yet she'd allowed herself to enjoy those weeks leading up to the event, her father showering her with gifts and her mother smiling with pride.
What did you expect would happen when you disgraced them so horribly? That your life would return to normal?

Not allowing her ear to part from the door, Annora felt around in the darkness for anything sharp. It would be little good as a weapon against the countless men aboard this ship, but she could use a piece of glass or rusty nail on herself, dragging it from eye to lip just as she should have done before. It would have precluded her from having to become one of the many wives had by their island king, and with far less shame brought to her family than the method she had chosen in its stead. She feared, though, even a horrific scar may not be enough to prevent these foreigners from the acts their leers promised.

“You think all he teaches them is how to tidy things? It makes no difference, though. If his cargo is touched, Cassen will bar this ship from Eastport. Then the captain will have us both keelhauled—until barnacles have stripped us of flesh.”

Annora almost started as she felt the door bow inward, creaking against the weight of a man. Far closer than she ever wished to be, she could hear his breathing now, but she did not retreat from her place at the door.

“No one has to know,” he said, near a whisper.

The other man made an angry noise. “I've heard enough. There are others for you to toy with. Leave this one be, or we'll both pay the price.”

As the parting man's footsteps faded, Annora was left alone with the wheezy breather, her door still bearing his weight.

“But those ones have no life left in their eyes.” The man spoke with a sullen honesty that served to worsen Annora's nausea and worry.

The sharp sound of splintering wood shot through the door, causing the hairs upon her arms to stand. He was only picking stray slivers from the surface of the door, she realized, but each tiny piece removed meant he was that much closer to undressing her. She remained deathly still, knowing that any movement she made now he would feel through the slim barrier.

“What is your name, girl?”

The words came as if he knew she was close. Her first instinct was to ignore him, to pretend she was asleep or unable to hear him. He would soon bore of this game and let her be.

“I know you can—”

“My name is Annora,” she interrupted, startling even herself with the strength of her defiance. “What is
your
name?”

He chuckled before he answered. “My name is Pyke. You will know it well by the time we cross the sea.”

“I will remember it,” she said, summoning what remained of her courage. “And when we reach Adeltia, I will have Cassen punish you if you touch another person aboard this ship.” She did not know this Cassen, but that the men appeared to fear him seemed her only leverage.

Pyke was silent for a good while before letting loose a guffaw that threatened to break down her door.

“You little tart,” he said. “I will have to save you for last.” She felt his weight shift away from the door, then return. “But I
will
have you.”

The cries and whimpers that came from the compartment beside her own soon after he left let Annora know just how little he thought of her threat.
I should have just pretended to be asleep,
she lamented, fearful that the one next to her may be suffering more due to her audaciousness. Her searching in the dark continued, hastened by hatred, feeling no more than wooden planks and damp rope or mops. Then her hand fell upon something so familiar that it felt wrong for it to be here. She rubbed her fingers over its cold surface, feeling each of its many crenulations once and again.

It was no great feat to find one perfect half of a seashell on the coast of her former island, but to find one here gave her a sudden rush of achievement—until she remembered what she had planned to use it for. The top edge of it felt purposefully sharp, as if the previous captive had spent endless hours making it so. It would cut through flesh easily enough, either Pyke's or her own. It would not cut deep enough to end a man's life, however, and an image of his face came to her, embroiled with a mix of rage and glee, thankful that she'd given him a reason to hurt her even more. If she was to use this weapon, it could not be on him.

The cries from her neighbor had ended, though they refused to leave her mind.
A wound to my face will neither stop this man,
she confessed to herself. With the shell clasped tightly in her hands she pressed the serrated edge against her chest, fearing the pain that would come, fearing that such an act may cost her her life, but mostly fearing that she lacked the courage to go through with it.