The Axe and the Throne (2 page)

“Quiet, boy.” It was perhaps the first thing Erik had said since the town meeting, though he looked the same as he had when they left—like he had been sentenced to death and was eager to get it done with. He would follow Tallos to the underworld and showed no sign of second-guessing his strategy, but Tallos knew he must be in turmoil with the waiting.

Tallos surveyed his men and animals for signs that they'd be unable to wait another hour for the daylight's dimming. Of the six men who had come with Tallos and Erik, each had brought one or more dogs, and Jegson, grandson to wealthy breeders, had insisted on bringing three. Almost in unison, the dogs began to sniff at the air, a scent Tallos could not yet detect

“They smell them,” said Jegson, finally whispering. “The Northmen are near.”

Tallos did not judge the boy for the fear now present in his voice, though Jegson's assertion was wrong. Tallos caught the scent; it was simply smoke, and that the wind came from the south made it mean very little. Lia looked at Tallos in a way that implied she understood her master's frustration with their ill-trained companions.

“It is just smoke.” Tallos saw the relief in his men when they heard his words. “We move when the Dawnstar crests the trees and we can walk in the shadows.” Even the dogs seemed to relax as if knowing that they did not have to sit there indefinitely.

As Tallos's thoughts began once again to drift, a tumult of snapping twigs and branches broke the quiet. The sound rushed at them from the distance, bouncing off the canyon walls, growing louder at an impossible rate. Whatever made that noise travelled faster than any Northman—faster than any creature Tallos knew—and it would soon be upon them.

 

 

 

 

 

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where do you think you're off to, girl?”

The gruff and unexpected voice sent a jolt through her body. Leona had been gathering her things quietly in the hopes of delaying this confrontation. Without turning to face her father, she answered. “I am going to Emie's for a night or two.”

“You think I'm a fool?”

It was another question that would be best answered with a lie. Instead, Leona continued pressing her things into the hempen sack that still smelled of mold and potatoes, determined to fit her every belonging of worth inside the single bag.

“Answer me when I speak to you,” her father demanded.

“Yes,” Leona shouted at him. “You must be a fool to think I will remain here with you and mother, washing away other people's filth, in a cold so fierce the cloth threatens to freeze, along with my hands, in the washbasin.” Try as she had to explain to him the benefits of having the basin inside the home rather than in the adjoining shed—the one he liked to pretend was plenty warm—her father would not allow it, fearful of a few soapy splashes on the plank floors he was so proud of.

“It is honest work that you should be thankful for.”

“And I would be,” Leona snapped, “if the money earned from my chores went to anything of value.”

Her father took a step forward. He had a new anger in his voice. “Do you think it is easy to keep you and your mother warm and fed during the winter?”

“I think it would be easier if you did not waste all we had warming your own belly with drink.”

He grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her away from the wooden box that served as her clothes chest. “You don't think I know where you're off to? With that Northman's bastard? It's bad enough that you were born with those ears you must hide. How do you expect to ever find a husband of worth when everyone knows what a little whore you are?” The familiar smell of mead was on his breath.

The air around Leona felt charged with energy, and the faintest breeze blew, within the confines of her small room, pulling her hair forward. “Release me,” she warned, feeling oddly in control.

Her father made a sound of disgust and let her go.

“If you think I have any intention of marrying some old man who owns a kennel then you must truly think me a whore.” Leona shoved her last bits of cloth into the bag angrily. “And Tallos's father came from Rivervale.”

“Is that what he told you?” grunted her father. “His parentage is the least of your problems. That boy cannot put a roof over your head. He's no carpenter.”

She looked at the man before her, the miserable thing that he had become. White and black stubble covered a face her mother said was once fine, now turned to the perpetual frown of self-pity. “And when was the last time you built anything out of wood other than a fire, Father?”

Her father looked at her with such contempt she feared she may have pushed him too far. “I am warning you, girl. If you leave here, do not come back.”

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.”

 

 

 

 

 

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 nervousness 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.