The Axe and the Throne (67 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One foot, then the other. Only death can defeat me.

Decker was in agony, but he was far from broken. Battles such as these were the ones in which he excelled. He had long since tired of fighting interminable wars, the outcome of which there was nothing he could do to influence or hasten. Word from his clan had been that none of Titon's memories had returned, Decker's father was somewhere in the South—his time of return as uncertain as Decker's faith in his motives—and Decker had been awaiting in vain the waking of his mother for a lifetime.

But this was different. This battle could be fought with strength of body and strength of will. This battle would be soon won or soon lost. And in this battle, Decker could use all his fury and rage, both of which he had in dangerous abundance.

The taunts of his enemy came unrelenting. Under the heavy layer of ice the stream trickled with the same song of challenge that it had had for each of the many risings and fallings of the Dawnstar since Decker had departed. The cold lanced him through his thick layers of furs and skins, and the wind ripped at his face as though his beard was not there. Canyons of dried blood ran along lips too painful to move, but with no water, no food, and no one to speak to, it was of little consequence. Chewing snow was no longer an option as doing so had already covered his mouth in unbearable sores, and breaking through the ice of the stream for a drink was no longer possible, as it had become too thick—not that he would allow himself to do such a thing, in any case.

“One day you will rest under the foot of the Mountain, but for now you work in the rays of the Dawnstar and wash in the water of the River.” Those words from his father were always more a command than an encouragement, but now they incited Decker to anger. Why it was acceptable to wash oneself in the river when pissing in it was considered sacrilege made no sense. Why a man would wish to be buried under the foot of a god was also puzzling. The thought of being covered with dirt did not seem a pleasant way to rest for eternity. The trust his father placed in his gods was contradictory in many ways, though that was not what bothered Decker the most.
How can you show your precious Three such unfaltering faith, yet betray Mother so shamelessly? And what kind of man can do such a thing, then preach honor to his sons as if he were the very embodiment of integrity?

The impact made when his boots parted enough snow to hit rock or ice sent bolts of pain through his already aching head. As each step brought him farther forward, so did it bring him farther skyward. Breaths came easy at this height, but the act was like cold fire in his lungs and did not seem to satisfy his thirst for air as it should have. It was difficult to believe that this trek, up what appeared to be a solitary mountain, had never been attempted before. And if it had, why were there no legends of the endeavor? Perhaps there were. There were, after all, so many things that Decker had not been taught about his people and their past. And the things he had been told seemed evermore the types of foolish stories recited to children to pacify them to contentedness.

Only death can defeat me.

Decker could not remember, in truth, but he hoped that his trick for ensuring victory had been his own invention and not a lesson of his father's. Decker had not always been the largest and strongest man yet to be a man; there was a time well recollected when he was just a large boy. Axe combat became more dangerous to practice as boys grew, gaining the strength to devastate even with the soft wood of their practice weapons. It was among the reasons his father had made Decker and his brother train when they were younger than most. Before even that time, their father had taken them to see other boys fight. One in particular caught Decker's eye—and the eyes of all others as well—for he was the best with axe by far. He was a bit smaller than average for his age, though not so much as Titon, and he bested boys far larger and with more experience. Everyone had concluded that the boy had a knack for axes, that natural talent was the cause for his supremacy. Only Decker saw the truth. The boy, Grenspur was his name, was no more gifted than any of the others, truth be told. The difference was his willingness to commit. The boy simply was not afraid to be struck and thus never flinched, never hesitated, and almost never lost. Decker had applied that important principle to his own combat when his training had begun, and after a time he began to reap the rewards. But where Grenspur was small and weak, Decker was a force of nature. It became habit for Decker to ignore all fear of pain or defeat, and as it became rarer for him to suffer either, it became that much easier. Eventually there were none that could contest him, not even his elder brother who was vexingly nimble. Grenspur was not so lucky. Word that the boy had been maimed during practice spread with sadness through their clan, but the news did not deter Decker.
Better to be killed by your better than to lose to your lesser
, he reasoned.

And so it would be with the stream.

Only death can defeat me.

The first signs of weakness began to show, and they were not in Decker. As the climb steepened, the stream thinned, and the incessant trickle changed in tone. The sound that now came from the water beneath his feet was lighter, faster, and more desperate.
You are cracking
, thought Decker, but the smile that began to form on his face had to be abandoned lest he split his two lips to four.

Driven by the first form of encouragement he'd had since setting out, Decker tried to pick up his pace. Upon commanding his legs to move faster, however, he found they did not obey. Each step required picking up a heavy boot, solid with ice, and plowing it through a mass of snow past his knees in depth. The action was performed with as much quickness as the conditions would allow, but even his arms seemed to drag him downward, having become absurdly heavy. Decker found himself wondering if he could have even gone faster if he had been fully rested. His answer came to him when he realized his pace was slowing.

Decker grunted with foul humor.
This is what you wanted. A test greater than would seem possible—where failure meant death.
He refused to consider that perhaps death was his true goal from the beginning, pulling the thought from its root and burning it like the uninvited weed it was.
Yes a fire. A fire would be nice.

He tripped forward, face first into the snow. It felt much the same as when his brother managed to hit him square in the nose with a ball of snow, a feat he managed more often than one might imagine. When Decker connected with such a throw it would knock the wind from his target—Decker knew the feeling well since his father's throw delivered the same force of impact. His brother, however, had such incredible accuracy coupled with an innate ability to predict the direction in which one would attempt to dodge, that he could throw at his target's head and rarely miss.
My brother has an eagle's aim and the instincts of a wolf.
…
Had
, he reminded himself,
before I took it all away from him
.

The image of Titon looking at him as he'd sat up in the mender's bed came to Decker, unwanted. They were strangers now. And why? Because of their father's weakness.
Titon attacked me over love for our half-sister—a love mistaken for lust.
The thought was reviling. Had their father told them the truth, it would not have brought any more shame to their mother—it merely would have prevented the tragedy that had resulted.

Decker pushed himself to his feet, fueled with a new madness. He picked up the deadened block that was his left foot and placed it in front of his right.

Only death can defeat me.

He had never before entertained the notion of fighting his father. Titon son of Small Gryn had never given him a reason for any resentment beyond what a child temporarily feels for a parent when disciplined. But now it seemed justified, if not obligatory. The pillar of integrity that stood the same height as Decker needed to be felled. The hypocrisy could not be allowed to stand any longer.

Decker's eyes betrayed him. A dull grey was visible in the distance, blanketed on either side by the monotony of white. Nothing existed here that was not covered with snow, especially not this time of year, yet the beautiful earthen rock became clearer as he approached, warming him from afar. Mounds of the same round stones Galatai liked to place in the fire when out at hunt, either to boil water in a skin or just to keep with them while they slept, bade him come rest inside the grotto they formed. His feet lightened as he moved, no longer plowing through snow, and he entered the unlikely haven. He felt the dry heat of stones as he lay upon them, his cheek pressed to one which served as the softest pillow.
Am I dead?
He did not fear the thought, he merely wondered, as he drifted off into utter tranquility.

Decker awoke to pain in his feet. A thousand knives stabbed at his toes—toes that he would be happy to trade for a drink. His thirst overwhelmed his thoughts, and he stumbled to stand and search of something to quench it.

The sound was gone. Had he conquered the stream or merely lost it? He did not know, but he did not care to find out until first finding water. It was all around him. He could feel its weight in the air. His hope was that this cave might have a seep he could drink from. Warm as he was, he had no desire to melt snow in his hands if he didn't have to.

The yellow light of early evening flooded through the grotto, and he was pleased to see there was much for him to explore inside. Heading away from the small entrance and deeper within, Decker had to focus not to topple on the loose rocks as his feet were of little use.

A horrid sight confronted him as he rounded a bend. Before him stretched a lake of solid ice enshrouded by mist. It was massive in size, but more so, it was astonishing to see such a vast open space within the side of a mountain. He had no desire to be astonished, however, only quenched, and he threw a rock in dejection as he turned to leave. He had been in ice caves before. They were so dangerous only fools entered them without rope and ice hooks—and those fools rarely exited.

He stopped moving when he heard the sound. Hope and doubt fought within him as he knew it could not be true. The splash he heard must have been a product of his forlorn mind.

After hobbling to the edge of the lake he plunged his hand through the mist, feeling its warmth as he realized what he'd truly found.
A steam pool.
His hand broke the smooth surface of the tepid water, and he brought a handful to his mouth. It tasted as sweet as any he'd ever drunk, and he wasted no time putting his face directly in it.

His stomach ached with the mass of water he'd consumed, but it was pain filled with relief. Decker rolled to his back, letting his head dip into the water. It was inviting, and he was in need of washing. The cave would provide him with enough warmth to dry before redressing, and he was soon stripped naked and wading.

Had the pool been moderate in size it may have felt wrong cleaning himself in it, but it was so massive it seemed incorruptible by the filth of a single man. The emerald water was clear as glass, and he continued deeper until he swam, no longer able to touch the rock floor. It was a great reprieve for his feet to no longer bear his weight. His frostbite was painful, but he had endured worse.