The Axe and the Throne (5 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little was said after discovering the identity of the bodies fallen from the mountainside, but it was obvious their mission for rescue and vengeance had ended. All that was left was to bundle the twisted remains of the boys and make their way back.

Heads hung low, Tallos's party retraced their steps with humble footfalls. Even the birds that would ordinarily trill at the presence of anything larger than an acorn seemed somber and silent as the procession of men made their way through the forest.

Tallos's stomach was laden with stones of sickening regret, yet he did not feel half as bad as his friend looked. After his violent heaving and sobbing, Erik had become unthinking, his movements lifeless and mechanical. He stared ahead, not speaking to anyone—not that any tried—looking a man with no reason left to exist.

How many hours had they sat and watched the boys as they clung desperately for life, and all of it under Tallos's command? The despair Tallos felt for the loss of the boys was eclipsed only by the guilt of being responsible for the decision that had caused it. Had they circled around to drop rocks on them as Jegson had suggested, they would have recognized and been able to rescue the youngsters before their fall.
What kind of man are you?
Tallos asked himself, further sickened by the self-serving wish that they had never gone searching in the first place.

With Lia picking her steps carefully and looking at her master with worry, Tallos crunched heedlessly through the deadfall. The noise they now made while walking was inconsequential. Tallos almost wished for a Northman attack on his party, an outlet through which he could vent his frustration, but he knew he would not be so lucky.

He was left instead with distasteful visions of what his life would be upon their return. All would know what happened, and everyone would whisper that it could have been avoided had Tallos not have been so cowardly. Greyson's sneers would be insufferable, and Jegson would tell tales to those who would listen of how he fought Tallos's order, how he begged and pleaded that they “charge 'round the bluff” and kill or rescue whoever clung to the rock. Yet all of that would pale in comparison to having to face Erik day in and day out. Erik, the one Tallos had known from childhood and would back him no matter the encounter, Erik who had been hurt already by his boys' admiration of Tallos, Erik who sat patiently, obeying his command to wait for a full day while his boys clung to a mountainside, only to watch them fall to a gruesome death.

Tallos resigned himself to the notion that he, Leona, and Lia would simply have to leave. They would pack their belongings and find a new village somewhere farther south—maybe travel all the way to Rivervale. But even his thoughts of Leona were tainted with regret and self-reproach. The way in which he'd left her was unacceptable. He could not recall another time when he'd departed without saying his farewells and with a promise of his safe return.
It was a mistake I shall not repeat. This I promise you, Leona.
He estimated it would be another night before they reached the village, one more agonizing night in the hell of the Northluns, a place he vowed he'd never return.

His thoughts of Leona were interrupted as several of his party stopped walking, the rest soon following suit. When they were all motionless, he could hear what had caused their alarm. Encroaching sounds: the plodding stride of someone's careless approach.

Tallos's chest felt as though it were collapsing, overwhelmed by the mistake of having wished to be attacked. He bent at the knees and tried to will himself to invisibility. Lia was by his side, as always, poised to protect him against whatever threat may appear.

The noises grew louder. How something could make so much racket walking through dried leaves and not yet be visible, Tallos could not understand. Bears were not like to be out this season, and he could think of nothing else that would advance with so little worry of attracting attention. And then he saw it.

The solitary figure that approached them was a sickly old man. His white hair bounced with his ungainly steps as he trudged through terrain unkind to his spindly legs. It seemed a wonder his frail frame could endure the punishment of those steps without breaking as the man continued forth with no regard for his own wellbeing.

The figure neared, and familiarity gave way to recognition. It was Greyson. He looked as though he was wont to commit murder, but in fairness that was his usual expression. He must have formed a party of reinforcements to save face with the villagers, becoming separated at some point during the trek. It was all too easy to lose sight of others among the trees and elevation changes, and without a strong sense of hearing, one could find himself lost even after stepping away to piss.

Greyson continued onward, moving toward them without words but with purpose—purpose and pure hatred burning in his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Get your wooden axes, and come with me.” Titon son of Small Gryn barked the order at his two sons.

It had not been a particularly pleasant day for him. Another raid sent south by his clansmen, led by Keethro, had been unable to find any inhabited Dogmen villages prior to the need to turn back. That news alone had been enough to put Titon in an unfriendly mood, but far worse was what Keethro had told him about the men. “They grumble and complain that you are not there to lead them,” Keethro had said. “When I fail in finding a village it is you they wrongfully blame. And I must admit, they are not alone in their desire to see you lead them once again. I am not able to push them far enough. They will not follow me beyond the point at which return is impossible without success.” Titon was not pleased by his friend's confession, and the two men had not parted on the best of terms.

“But we just started eating,” Decker moaned.

His boys were tall with pride, having returned from their first hunting trip that was both unsupervised and successful. Animals in these parts were skittish and scarce, and that little Titon had managed to skewer a tree rat with an arrow was indeed an accomplishment. The boys had made a meal of it by combining the skinned animal with tinder berries, boiling it to oblivion, and had just begun to enjoy their first tastes of the tangy mush spooned up with bits of hard bread.

“Then finish it quickly and get your axes.”

Titon waited outside while his sons shoveled down their meal, recalling his own such moment of triumph. He and Keethro had snuck out at a younger age, and Keethro took the head off a rabbit with a throwing axe. Finding that the rabbit was tied to a tree, kept alive by a neighbor for a later date, had not discouraged them enough to keep from roasting it and savoring every morsel.

Moments later, the boys trudged out of the house, mouths stained fuchsia and looking sick. The three made their way to the usual spot in the woods, well out of earshot of their mother, not that she was like to hear them.

“Let's see if you weaklings remembered anything from our last attempt at this,” Titon taunted. “Ten paces apart.”

His two sons could not have been any more dissimilar in appearance. Whereas small-framed Titon's dark, handsome features took after neither parent, Decker was a brute, pale eyed like his mother and red and freckled like his father. There was no mistaking which son had been born on the waning moon and which on the waxing. To make matters worse for his eldest, little Titon had been born during the worst winter their clan had ever endured. So dire was the famine that all their goats had to be killed and eaten, and when the meat was gone, the family chewed on the remaining leather until their gums bled. Elise's breast went dry, but she did not allow their son to perish. She kept him alive by the sustenance of her tears, as they were all that was plentiful.

The boys faced each other, neither wishing to begin, just making feints as if about to throw or charge in for a swing. Their axes were made of a lightweight wood and suitable for both throwing and swinging, though not particularly great for either. Being struck was nonetheless quite painful.

“Come on! Fight already,” Titon yelled.

Decker was the first to action. He ran forward a few steps as if to charge, then lobbed his axe at Titon. Titon easily avoided the tumbling weapon, closed the distance, and swung at Decker's neck, not making any contact of consequence.

“Is there something wrong with your arm?” Titon asked his elder son with muffled rage. It seemed there was an unspoken agreement between the two not to strike with full force, which was detrimental to their learning proper technique.

“The point is mine, Father. He has lost his axe, and I struck his neck,” Titon replied, irresolute.

“You don't fight for points. This is not some southern game. You are training to protect your family. Now hit him! How else will he learn?”
How have I raised these boys to be so feeble? They will die on their first Dogman raid if they do not learn to swing with some fecking force.

Titon struck Decker with a partial-strength blow to the shoulder.

“By the Mountain's tits! That was pathetic,” Titon cried at them. “Try again, let's go… Hurry up.”

The boys squared off again, and again it was Decker who acted first, charging at his brother. Decker already outweighed Titon by a small margin, but Titon's extra experience and dexterity more than made up the difference. Titon ducked the attack and jabbed at Decker's stomach. The force of the blow was multiplied by Decker's forward momentum, causing him to double over and reel in pain. Shortly thereafter, he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the snow. The result was a pile of blood-red, half-chewed meat and berries.

Little Titon was wide eyed and staring at the mess, which truth be told looked not much different than a pile of entrails. All the efforts of their first hunt, the fun of which had already been stolen by the interruption of training and their father's mood, now lay on the ground, wasted.
It is a small price for them to pay
, Titon told himself, stemming his own guilty frustration.

“I am sorry,” Titon said to his brother, prompting a growl from his father.

“The Dogmen will not be sorry when they spill your brother's guts, and that is what is like to happen if you two keep fighting like southern princesses. My father would have made me eat the food you just wasted, Decker, but you two are far too prissy for that. Pick up your axes, and fight right this time before I get angry.”

Decker had tears in his eyes and a face twisted with rage. This time Decker charged his brother with an added war cry. Titon stepped to the side, and Decker went past. The only good strike open was to the back of the head, and Titon took it, but carefully. His cautious attack was too slow and only grazed his brother. While Titon was realizing his mistake, Decker turned and threw his axe, smashing his brother in the face. Some blood started to trickle from Titon's now-swelling upper lip.

That's more like it, Decker.

“Not fair,” said little Titon with a slight lisp, his lip causing him trouble.

“Not fair? What kind of Dogmen bitches did I raise? You swing like a girl, and you get killed like a girl. Decker won that. Now go again.”

Decker retrieved his axe and the boys walked to their positions, both visibly angry.

“Maybe this time, Titon, you can pretend you are fighting to defend someone you care about since your family's safety means so little to you. Perhaps you can fight for Keethro's little slut, Red.”
That ought to get him.

And it did. This time when Decker threw his axe, Titon parried it, closed distance, and clobbered him on the skull. It was not enough to break the skin, but a swollen lump formed on Decker's head as he writhed around in pain, crying in spite of his efforts.

“I guess that is what it takes to finally get you to fight like a man,” said the son of Small Gryn.

Little Titon's face was ashen as he stared at his squirming brother. The sound of his brother screaming, the blood-red splotch in the snow, the insult to Red, and the shame of being goaded into hurting his younger brother must have all been too much. He screamed and flung his axe at his father with force. Titon did not react quite in time, and the axe struck his arm first, continuing its rotation to smash him in the eye.

“You little shit!” he yelled as he tried to chase after his defiant son, but he could not see well enough to do so effectively. Titon ran off and had weaved out of sight amongst the trees within moments. If events occurred the same as they had in the past, little Titon would spend the night in the cold and come back later the next day as if nothing had happened, and neither would speak of it.

Titon rubbed his throbbing eye and sat in the snow for a bit to regain his bearings. Then he picked up the training axes, gave Decker, who was no longer crying, a pat on the back and began to walk him home.

On their way back, a satisfied smile formed on Titon's face.
The boy can throw an axe.