“Good, is it not?” he asked, half expecting an answer given the perfection to which he had prepared it.
“My little Storm Wolf, I have good news. Our boys now lead a raid south to slaughter countless Dogmen and bring back food to last through the winter. Others may doubt them, the old and the timid who have failed before them, but I know they will succeed. I see some part of us in each of them, all the better parts or so it would seem.” The chair Titon sat on groaned in protest as he shifted his weight.
“I need to tell you something else that I hope you will understand. I am leaving for a while. How long, I cannot say. I have no way of knowing how far I will need to travel. Those lands to the south where the rivers flow like oceans and the goats grow fat as pigs, they are said to have healers—healers with potions, elixirs, and magic able to cure any ailment.” Titon fed her another spoonful and waited for her to swallow. “I do not believe in magic, the stuff of children’s tales, but I believe I can convince any such healer to inform me of his methods and ingredients. I can be quite persuasive.”
Titon had planned this trip for some time and had given it plenty of thought—certainly enough to realize the obstacles he’d face would be many. Southern men were not like to take well to a giant of a man such that he was, but that only concerned him to the extent that it would make finding her remedy more difficult. Though his people and those to the south looked little different, his size and dialect would reveal him for what he was, a Northman, and his scars would betray him as a Galatai warrior.
“Do not fear for your care. I have arranged for some of Ulfor’s girls to tend to your needs and comforts. Just do not be too mean to the poor girls. You can have quite the temper,” he gibed.
More troubling than the dangers of the journey itself was how Titon imagined his sons might react upon returning to find him gone. He did not like the thought of leaving while they were off, but it was the best way to ensure they would not follow him. Whichever of the two took his place while he was away, Titon had decided that that son would remain as clan leader even upon his return… Should he return.
“I am taking Keethro with me.” Titon answered the question his wife could not ask. He placed the empty bowl on the ground and sat in silence, trying to come to terms with his feelings on the matter.
He is a good man, thought Titon, wishing for that to be the end of his unrest.
He had known Keethro as long as he’d known anyone. Keethro was Titon’s most respected and trusted friend, and the one to whom Titon had turned to keep the clan fed when Titon could no longer lead the raids. But will he agree to come?
Titon had put off the asking due to his concern that he might be refused. Keethro was a cautious man, or at least he’d become one, and a trip farther south than any had attempted, to find an elixir that may not exist, was not like to interest him. I am still his leader, and I will command him if need be.
But the thought of ordering his friend to partake on a potentially futile and deadly quest was an ugly one. Fifteen years ago Keethro would have gone gladly, but things were different now. His harlot is what changed him, thought Titon.
It went without saying that Kilandra had been pressuring Keethro to usurp control of their clan during Titon’s decade of decline. Titon knew—better than even Keethro, perhaps—just how hungry she was for power. How much poison has that woman infected him with? Can I trust a man whose motives may no longer square with my own?
Leaving without Keethro was out of the question. Titon had never truly feared Keethro challenging him for leadership, but in his absence that might change. The idea that Keethro may fight Titon’s sons for the right to lead revolted him. Though it would not be a true betrayal, as these were the ways of their people, it still felt as such—perhaps only because he knew it would be Kilandra’s ambition that caused the needless death of one or both of his sons. Neither would be any match for Keethro, not yet. They lacked his veteran’s maturity. You would take my son’s from me? Because of that succubus?
The snapping of wood brought Titon back into focus. In his hand he held the right arm of his chair, now detached from its base. He looked at his wife guiltily, but she was far from accusing.
Keethro would come. That was simply the end of it. It made no sense to worry over scenarios that would not be. Even so, Titon was not free from misgivings when it came to leaving his sons behind.
To each of his boys, Titon had written a letter, best he could. To Decker he wrote of his pride in the man that he had become. He reminded him that the clans needed a leader who could unite them to conquer the Dogmen, take their lands, and build a defense against the other southern men who were liable to attack in retaliation. Titon was confident Decker would find his way to greatness with or without his further guidance.
His letter to his elder son was of a different nature. Throughout young Titon’s upbringing, Titon had been careful not to show how he favored the boy for fear that it would complicate matters when Decker inevitably seized the right to be the clan’s next leader. And though he’d kept it hidden, Titon was awestruck by his firstborn’s intelligence and wit as well as his prowess with axe and bow. He feared the boy had no idea of this, which was something he aimed to remedy in his letter. Given the likelihood that he might not return from his trip to the South, it was of great consequence.
Titon, I see in you the same soul of a Storm Wolf I saw in your mother, that which made me break from our customs and protect her as one of our own. Decker is a good lad and a man other men will follow into battle without question, but you are a far rarer breed. It is true, you are not the son I always wanted, you are one better. Please watch over and protect your brother and mother while I search for her cure. They will need your help and your guidance.
The sealed letters lay on the table where the boys were sure to find them when they came to check on their mother. With the reading of my words, they will understand my leaving, Titon resolved.
“Ellie,” Titon said to his wife with stony determination, “my promise to you is this: I will go to the South with Keethro. I will find the remedy to your ailment. You will awaken from your slumber, and we will be together again as a man and woman should.” He looked into her unmoving eyes and half imagined they showed an uncharacteristic wetness. “And I will kill every man, woman, and child that stands in my way.”
THE SIREN
Many Years Ago
Kilandra had been stalking him for several miles, the man she would seduce, stopping in kind when he checked his traps. The soft crunch of snow beneath her rabbit-skin boots required that she keep her distance, lest she be heard before they were safely alone.
Her prey was formidable in every regard. The shadow he cast was monstrous, and all men seemed fearful to be within it. Though still a young man, he was the leader of their people, a tenacious leader. That he had taken control of their clan was perhaps the only reason they all yet lived. He led raids farther south than any before him, bringing back food to help see them through winters plagued by famine.
There was no doubt in her mind that the interest he no longer showed her was due only to strength of will, but that did not ease the flutter in her belly. Ever since he had returned with his stolen bride, he’d no longer looked at Kilandra in the same way. Truth be told, he barely looked at her at all, for if he had, his eyes would no doubt suffer the drop-anchored weight that pulled all men’s gazes downward, some stopping awkwardly at her chest, but most following the full length of her before turning to the side as if the entire motion had been some means of looking elsewhere.
And she was well aware of what they saw in that fleeting glance. Hours of each day were allotted to the study of her own form. “Just as a warrior must know his blade, so should a woman know herself,” her mother had taught her, and Kilandra had been forged of the finest steel. No other woman had features that bested her own, none at least that she had seen…save perhaps Kysa’s dainty knees and ankles—a meager gain not worth the flesh of hips and chest it cost the g
irl. It was loathsome what little regard the other women had for their appearance. None so much as brushed their mane, it seemed, let alone labored over it as Kilandra did. Her brown hair, dark as obsidian, shone with the faint cobalt luster of the poisonous privet berries she used to tint it, and when haloed by the white fur of her hood, her locks were quite striking. Framing a face of devilish innocence, it was no wonder men could not resist knowing what form of figure stood beneath, nor was it that some found it impossible to tear eyes from the bare flesh of her breasts that peeked from beneath her bodice.
With some difficulty she was able to place her feet within the tracks he had left behind. Best to be limber for what is to come, she mused, without any flush of embarrassment. Her thoughts may have been forward, but her tactics were not. She knew a man fell harder upon hunted prey, and though following a man through the snow was hardly coy, her methods upon her discovery would be abashed and subtle. And she had made no mistake with her timing. The man’s wife had been swollen with a babe in her womb for months, assuring his violent need for release. No Galatai man would bed a pregnant woman for fear of rubbing members with his future son—in this thinking there was no dissension.
The shiver that ran from the backs of her knees to the nape of her neck was not from the cold. She had long since become accustomed to exposing skin to the late autumn nip without discomfort, but there was no remedy for the elation of enticing an unfamiliar touch. The man she’d left behind, the one she called husband, may have been the most coveted of men, due to his sculpted form, dark features, and eyes of indomitable blue, but the man she stalked had no equal in authority.
Kilandra wrapped her arms around herself and quickened her pace. Perhaps there is no need to travel farther, she reasoned. Perhaps the threat of being caught in misconduct would only serve to heighten the thrill. It was a foolish means of rationalizing her impatience, she knew, but her hastened stride continued until she halted with sudden alarm.
He had stopped as well, his head turned to the side, not checking a trap. If he was to see her coming from so far away she feared it may make her appear desperate. And to a man of confidence there was nothing less arousing than a desperate woman, another of her mother’s lessons.
She remained motionless, hoping he could not see her from his periphery, the true danger of her task now becoming apparent. Had he been any other man it would not be so, but he was no stranger to her husband. The two men were closest friends, further complicating this affair. Warmth flooded her body as she contemplated her mistake. Forcing herself to remain calm, she inhaled slow and deep, filling her lungs with the brisk chill. It would not do to arrive wet with the sweat of worry.
The distant man remained motionless, as if listening. Her legs, caught midstride, ached and begged her to fall flat to her stomach, but the motion would draw his hunter’s eye. With her hood drawn tight, hiding her hair, she would be near invisible in her furs of all white. She waited, reminding herself that it was she who was the hunter, a thought that was difficult to accept until he had once again turned his head forward, resuming his gait. She let him gain more distance before continuing her advance—this quest must not be botched by zeal.
With her dread turning again to craving, she allowed her imagination to take flight. Whether he would yield to his basest desires was not what enthralled her, for she had every confidence in her ability to ensure that was the case. It was what he would do when, after having just begun their transgression, she suddenly rebuffed—that was what caused her heart to quiver. How would a man such as he respond to her rejection, her insistence that her intent was misinterpreted, her struggle to be free from his grasp? How would a man who answers to none respond when denied his fruit, the price of which was already paid by the taint of impropriety? She had her suspicions, consistent with her desires: that with hands of steel he would force her compliance. But if this was to be done properly, she would not know with certainty for yet another mile.
KEETHRO
Keethro swung his axe with rancor. The viscous blood of his victim clung to the well-worn head of his weapon as he continued his assault. Swing after swing, Keethro’s wrath only built as the corpse of his fallen foe stubbornly refused to break way.
Petrified, those he would kill next looked on in silent horror. Droplets of sweat pooled on his brow, falling with some of the fiercer blows into the deep wound he had carved. Then, with a final stroke, Keethro’s blade bit into the center of the wooden cadaver, breaking it into two manageable pieces.
He turned and flung his axe at the next tree. Botching the release, his axe flew downward into the knee-high snow as Keethro squeezed his eyelids closed with the force of his embarrassment. No matter how he practiced, he simply could not throw an axe—not with his left. He could shave the wings off a dragonfly in flight with his right, however.
His sled piled high with half a day’s work, Keethro made his way back to his home. Iron pine, with its thick crimson sap impossible to remove from the skin and heartwood hard as stone, was the bane of many men. Difficult that it was to fell, it provided more than enough heat to be worth the added labor. This trip would be Keethro’s last, having gathered enough to warm his home, largest of the clan, through the coming winter.
Keethro stopped as he saw what awaited him. He removed a flask from inside his furs and took a swig of the sour alcohol. The figure in the distance, that beguiling siren he called wife, standing upon the balcony built by his own hand, was no doubt scowling though he was too far away to tell. Keethro resumed his march into the awaiting ambush.
“You would leave your wife and daughter to starve in the cold of winter?”
It was as charming a greeting as he could have expected, but it did not warrant a response. He began to move armfuls of the firewood to the neat stack under the balcony. For the winter they had food enough for three stored—plenty, considering it would only need to support the lesser two.
“While you go seek the warm beds of southern whores?” Kilandra snarled.
It is a wonder we need wood at all given her fiery rage, he thought.
Keethro was not one to suffer discomposure from a woman’s scorn. After facing the likes of hardened warriors from other clans, screaming and spitting in his face, eager to feed him his own entrails, and always emerging the victor, Keethro had no mind to be brought to anger. “I believe in the dead of winter even the beds of southern whores can be cold.”
He turned to face her as she flew down the steps of the balcony. The sight of her—her sultry defiance that begged him to overpower her, to force her surrender—was enough to turn his own pine to iron, but he was resolved to thwart her advances. He allowed her to slap him once across the face. Her second strike, he caught.
“You must put an end to this foolishness and kill him! Kill him and we—” Keethro’s unyielding grip was around his wife’s throat, silencing her. He glowered his warning, letting her know this was not to be one of their games.
“Talk like that will get us both killed,” he said through clenched teeth. With her harlot’s body came a harlot’s mind. Perhaps I will see if southern beds creak in much the same way northern beds do, and bring back a young maiden kissed by dawnlight. “You would announce to the whole clan my intentions? Now how do you expect me to return on the next moon, alone, with a tale of how clumsy Titon tripped and fell from a cliff?”
Keethro had no desire to go south with Titon, nor did he feel any real obligation to do so. The friend and brother in battle that Titon once was had long since disappeared, replaced by a man consumed by the hopeless revival of his slumbered wife. This voyage, apart from having no chance of success, was like to cost Keethro his life, or—should he somehow manage to survive—his marriage. Keethro was more concerned of the damage that would be dealt to his name if he returned to find Kilandra had strayed. “The mighty Keethro,” they would taunt, “handsomest of all Galatai, but unable to keep a woman in his own bed.” The source of his inadequacies would be implied, and he would end up kill
ing many a drunken brother in his own drunken retaliation. It was not acceptable. He would not spend countless months in search of a cure that did not exist only to return to a life in ruin. Better to kill the one brother than the many.
“I promise you this,” she said after released. “If you do not return far sooner than that, you will find I am no longer waiting.” She spoke with all the venom she could spit, but Keethro heard in her voice her sincerity—and that, he could not forgive her.
He walked away, leaving Kilandra standing beside the still-loaded sled. May the next fool be more tolerant of your nature.
Sweet dry air filled his lungs as he stepped foot into his home. The raw timbers of its sturdy pine framing supported its impressive ceilings and large rooms. In stark contrast to the warmth of his home was the cold countenance of his teary-eyed daughter seated at the kitchen table. If not for the faint glow of auburn in her hair, he would have believed she was every bit his daughter with her dark blue eyes so matching his own.
He leaned to kiss her on the head before he left.
“I hate you!” Her verbal assault was accompanied by a knuckled punch to his chin. “I pray you do not come back this time,” she yelled over her shoulder as she ran to her room.
Keethro was a warrior and knew little of raising a girl, and his mastery of seduction did not translate to fatherhood. His reputation only seemed to cause Red to despise him as she grew older and understood more of what the stories about him meant. Nor was it any help that her mother saw fit to poison her mind with her own beliefs about the cruelty and duplicity of men—all men. Or perhaps Red simply loathes me because she too suspects the truth.
Keethro never doubted Kilandra would bed a man of higher position, given the chance, and there was but one. Keethro believed that a man should hold his woman responsible for infidelity, since believing otherwise would have made him quite the hypocrite. However, in the case that the man also claimed to be your friend, it was unforgivable of both parties. He will confess with his dying breaths. I’ll make sure of it.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 9
