But he would not be deterred. The nightmares from his fitful sleep had redoubled his cause for urgency, the image of Keethro’s head having been the one he’d recently cleaved from the halfbreed’s shoulders still fresh in his mind. The castle that sat behind him may have looked majestic, enveloped by the setting Dawnstar, but it was an infant in comparison to the behemoth that guarded Rivervale and had no moat. If they formed a mound of bodies, they would use it instead to climb the walls—a thing Titon hoped to avoid by breeching the gate.
When the men had settled into formation, Titon addressed them.
“Tomorrow we take the small fort you see in the distance.” Titon paced in front of them, speaking with enough strength to be heard by all. “Though most of you look to be no strangers to combat…” The lie was almost too much for him to say without a grimace. “…For some this will be your first battle. Those of you who have not witnessed the horrors of war, I tell you now, it is more gruesome than you imagine. Turn to your left and right. Expect to see the heads of those men roll upon the ground, their arms ripped from their bodies, and their entrails spilled and trampled by your own feet. That will help you tomorrow when what you see is worse.”
“Hmph.” Titon did not need to look to know the smug and disapproving grunt had come from Aleric who stood behind him. Titon’s speech after executing the halfbreed clearly had not worked as hoped to stop this man from being a blister in the boot. Aleric had continued to bemoan Titon’s decision to march past Strahl to the coastline—loudly so. And each time Titon would try to remind Aleric that it was he who commanded them, Aleric would have some retort about Veront being their true commander. This man is a liability without benefit, Titon thought, but he continued as if he had not heard the sound.
Titon let his hard gaze sweep all three legions, hoping each man would feel it. “Listen to the words I speak now, and obey the commands I yell tomorrow. Doing otherwise would be a grievous mistake.”
The son of Small Gryn had marched his men without compassion for nine days at half again normal pace and at half ration. He suspected they’d hated him for it, but returning to Rivervale with haste to ensure their deal remained fresh in King Veront’s mind had become an even more pressing concern after the halfbreed’s warning. I hope you are enjoying the large portions of the Rivervale prisons, Keethro, Titon thought upon finishing each of his own half-sized meals. Only in these last few days had Titon allowed them to switch to double rations and slow their pace, and the thankfulness was written on the faces of all his men.
Only victory matters, Titon reminded himself, in preparation for the action he feared he may come to regret. The parting Dawnstar bathed the two crescents of his weapon in amber and violet as he raised it above his head. “And on the battlefield,” he yelled, “no mistakes are forgiven.” With a fluid motion Titon turned and swung his blade downward, first connecting with the plate on Aleric’s shoulder and continuing until the man was split to the ass in two. His halves fell to either side, each still in their plate containers, with the exception of his intestines, which spilled between.
Sir Edgar had a panicked look but calmed when Titon nodded to him as only one man can do to another in acknowledgment of their mutual accord.
“If you are upwind of this, the smell of war,” Titon went on, “be sure to come and give your nostrils their fill before you retire. If you are too far to see what it is this man last ate, come and let your eyes share in his feast. Look upon it until you grow weary from the mundaneness of it. If such things give you pause tomorrow, your enemy will cut you down the moment you hesitate.” I found a purpose for you after all, Sir Aleric.
His thoughts went to the pheasant killed by one of their scouts, which had been herbed and salted and would soon be roasted over oak coals. The man with the lucky arrow had said it was a tradition in Rivervale to offer your leader game before a battle, as it brought greater chance of victory. Tonight, Titon planned to amend that tradition to include sharing it with the man who’d killed it. His speech would only require a few more minutes, and he had a hunger in his belly that not even the stink of Aleric’s bowels could expunge. “But let there be no mistake,” he continued. “Tomorrow you will be afraid, as will I. We all feel the grip of fear when faced with death. But fear is like a beautiful woman…”
“Looks to be four, maybe five thousand infantry with a cavalcade of several hundred,” said Randir.
It was the same as Titon had estimated. Just as Titon had roused his men, his enemy had also stirred to action in the predawn glow.
“And what are they doing outside the protection of the walls?”
Randir did not need pause to think. “Lord Edwin is Illumined. They will avoid killing—even their sworn enemies—whenever possible. He is showing you the brunt of his army in the hopes that you will know that victory is hopeless and leave.”
Titon’s face contorted in disgust. “But I could have ten thousand men hiding in the mountains to the north, and he would have just shown his forces for nothing.”
Randir was unmoved. “He could also have ten thousand men hiding behind his walls.”
“If he were truly wishing to avoid battle at all costs then he would need show all fifteen thousand, no?”
Randir shrugged as if to concede with some reluctance.
Titon had not noticed Randir until the conclusion of his rallying speech the previous night. Randir was the third survivor from the arena, knocked unconscious by the dragon’s wrath but otherwise unharmed. It was his frame that caught Titon’s attention as he scanned his soldiers—the man was built much like Keethro, if not a bit shorter, and Titon made the connection upon seeing the buckler on his arm. Titon invited him to share the pheasant and found he was a good source of honest knowledge, nothing at all like Sir Edgar who seemed to know little more than his own name and title.
“You appear to respect the man,” Titon prodded.
“I have no love for Edwin, but respect, yes. He has done a great thing for the people of Strahl, the Illumined.”
“You speak as if you were one of them.”
“I was never fool enough to consider myself Illumined. I may find their values laudable, but I do not share their beliefs. My wife is among them, however.”
“Your wife?” Titon made no attempt to mask his shock. “She lives within those walls? Am I wise to turn my back on you during combat knowing this?”
Randir scowled with vehemence. “I owe you my life for what happened in the arena. On my honor as a knight, I will help you take this city, though I do not feel we stand a chance. If we do not succeed, another army will. This is just a fraction of Veront’s forces, and he will take Strahl in time.”
And he is a knight as well… Titon could not help but believe the man, given how sincerely offended he was at the implication of treachery. And it would be foolish for him to tell Titon all of this, should he truly plan to betray him. “And if we do succeed?”
“Then I’d only ask that I am given temporary leave to protect my wife and her home from that which follows.”
He knows war. “You will have it. I will accompany you myself and ensure her safety. You have my word as a Galatai warrior.” My word as a knight means little.
Randir nodded with reverence.
“They may have numbers, but now that they are outside their walls we have range,” Titon explained. “I see no spears or halberds above their heads. Their swords and shields will not fare well against row upon row of spear.” I hope. The first to draw blood was often the first to win, and Titon’s experience with throwing weapons had taught him that the first to draw blood was often, if not always, the one with greater range.
“We have the ocean to our backs. It will make retreat very difficult should things go wrong,” said Randir.
“Aye, the ocean is where I want it. But I am not familiar with this southern word you speak…retreat?”
Randir gave Titon a good-humored snort in response.
“And we will soon have another thing
behind us with the Dawnstar’s rising,” Titon added. “With an ocean and a god backing us, I find it hard to believe we could manage to be defeated, even with the whimpering boys we have been given. And also, our men know we do not have the rations to return to Rivervale.”
Sir Edgar approached, clearing his throat as he came.
“The men are ready?” Titon asked the new arrival.
“Aye,” said Edgar.
“What is that?” Titon pointed to the distance. A solitary man was on horseback, pulling a large wagon of some sort. He stopped midway between the armies and began to erect some structure. “It does not look to be a weapon.”
“No. It’s a parley table.” Sir Edgar had found his voice, ugly thing that it was. “And I’d remind you, King Veront gave you command over the army, not the power to bargain with his enemies. There is no reason to send men to parley. It’s like to be a trap at any rate.”
Titon heard the words but looked to Randir for perhaps more sage advice.
“He is right,” said Randir with a nod. “The Illumined are not without honor, but Lord Edwin would not hesitate to kill you with duplicity if it meant saving lives. What is the weight of a lie and one life measured against the lives of thousands?”
It had only taken a moment for the man to finish constructing the table, complete with what looked to be three chairs on either side, though it was difficult to tell given the distance and low light. The hunched man mounted his horse and rode back, disappearing into the mass of soldiers outside the walls no sooner than three mounted men appeared from the mob, making their way toward the table.
The men on horseback glimmered as the first rays peeked over the distant ocean edge. All three bore full plate, sans helm, polished and undyed. Such plain armor would likely not just be for show, but Titon was eager to see if the suits actually had dints and scratches from use, or if they were as pristine as they appeared from a distance.
“Is that their Lord Edwin?” asked Titon.
“That looks to be him there in the middle with the yellow cape and flowing mane,” said Randir.
“What can you tell me of the man? Is he a swordsman? Just a politician?”
“He is a trained swordsman, a fine one at that, but he is most known for his horsemanship,” replied Randir.
“His horsemanship? You get on the beast, and it takes you some place. Where is the skill in that?”
“It is not so simple. The man has control of a horse as a normal man controls himself. He can jump them, stand atop them, lean off the side and pick up a rose…” Titon was far from impressed. The man sounded a jester. “And he can spear a man through the eye of his choosing at a full gallop.” A dangerous jester.
“Then I will fight him when he is dismounted if possible, or just kill his horse.”
Randir did not look convinced.
“I know you slept through most of the arena,” Titon said, grinning at his new friend, “but men fall hard from injured horses.”
“Aye,” Randir admitted with another snort. “I was awake for that part.”
Titon arched his back and stretched out his arms. It will be good to put these double rations to some use other than walking and gossip. “Anything else I should know about the man I intend to kill?”
Randir chewed his lip as if pained.
“Out with it,” Titon commanded.
“There are rumors the man is a bit…foppish.”
The word was not one Titon was familiar with; however, it certainly did not sound threatening.
“Very well. You two remain here and await my command. Make sure the men are poised to charge.” Titon’s stunt with Aleric must have made an impression, as neither man moved to object.
The three men of Strahl were seated at the table as Titon strode up to them. Each had a shield resting on the back of his chair and a sword sheathed at his side. Titon imagined he must not have looked quite as they’d expected from a leader of a Rivervalian army, on foot, covered in soft leathers, a two-handed axe strapped to his back. Their perplexed glares supported his theory.
Titon pulled out the center seat on his side and plopped himself down, sitting wide-legged and leaning backwards as if with friends. “They tell me you wish to speak with me.”
“What sort of foolishness is this? Who are you, and why has your leader not come to meet with us?” It was the man in the middle, Lord Edwin—vexed as a woman shushed. He had a large frame but with not much meat on it from the look of his gaunt cheeks. As the wind blew his strands of wavy brown into his eyes he was forced to whip his head to the side to clear his view. This boy must wash his hair more than a woman the way it flutters in the breeze.
“I am Sir Titon son of Small Gryn, and my leader is busy doing whatever it is kings do.”
“Who leads this army? You are clearly some brute sent to try and intimidate us. And let me tell you—it shan’t work. We Illumined have no fear of death. The Dawnstar guide us in this life and reward us in the next.” The men to his side nodded their compliance.
The mention of the Dawnstar was a bit puzzling as this man claimed to be Illumined, but these Southmen made little sense. “I have told you once, and I will tell you a second time. I, alone, command the army before you flying the banners of Rivervale—the army that will see yours defeated.”
“You do not even know your sigils, foreigner,” scoffed Edwin. “Those you fly are Bywater banners, and Veront is no true king.”
Titon shook his head with a disbelieving grimace. There is a battle to be fought, and these men would rather discuss banners.
“Where I am from we do not suffer these parleys prior to battle—we come to fight, not to blabber. But I lead a southern army now, and I will play your games…to a point. I offer you the chance to surrender. Your women will suffer less if our men are not fervent from battle. You have my word as one who knows war.”
Lord Edwin shot upright, sending his seat and shield flying behind him. Titon remained unmoved. “You vile shit,” Edwin spat. “How dare you make demands of our great city and threaten its civilians—and with what? Your mere three legions? May the Light blind you for your arrogance so that you do not have to witness the crushing defeat you will no doubt suffer on this day. Who do you think you are to spit on the Dawnstar and not be burned?”
Titon was not one to stand for being accused of blasphemy, but this man did not have what it took to truly anger him. His boyishness made him seem like a child throwing a tantrum as opposed to a man deserving of Titon’s true wrath.
“I do not spit on the Dawnstar, nor do I piss in the River…and even I quake before the Mountain. Who am I? Remember the name this time because it is the name of the man who will send you to your grave. I am Titon, and I will have this city.”
Edwin was signaling to his companions to get up and leave when he froze in place. “Titon you said?” His head cocked at an angle. “The same Titon who killed two of our patrols in cold blood?”
“Aye, I killed two of your miserable guards, but—”
The man unsheathed his sword with alacrity, the sound of it ringing in the air as he interrupted. “I hereby arrest you on account of murder. Throw down your weapon and come—”
Titon did not enjoy being interrupted and returned the favor. He grabbed a middle leg of the table and flipped it forward, pushing it into the three men like a giant shield while keeping hold of it. In the same motion he used his free hand to remove the axe from his back and swung it under the repurposed table. His blade found its way into a joint of the first man’s armor, cutting through his knee without pause and continuing into the leg of their leader. The blade struck metal there, hard metal, but the force was sufficient to crumple the leg sideways.
The three men’s horses were gone before the two that had been crippled fell to the ground. The third man slashed at Titon with his sword, hitting only wood. Titon rushed the man with his table and slammed him with enough force to lift him from his feet, sending him to fall hard on his back. The man with the sever
ed leg was shrilling death as he writhed on the ground, no threat, but Edwin had sword in hand, supporting himself with his other arm and one good knee, and lunged at Titon with a desperate cut. The attack came from the rear and was aimed at Titon’s exposed calf, but he stepped out of reach for a moment, then returned to kick Edwin’s hand, releasing the sword from his grip.
He had courage, this Edwin, as he crawled forward without any noises of injury and tried to grapple a foot. Titon would have grabbed a lesser man by the hair and sliced off his head with a slow sawing motion of his axe blade. Instead, he rewarded the man’s courage with a quick death. A swing of his axe parted the man’s head from his body. I have need of this, Titon reminded himself, retrieving the head and tying it to his belt by the hair.
Leaving the two injured men where they lay and not even looking back at his own army, Titon picked up his makeshift shield and charged forward—toward five thousand men clamoring to get back inside the walls of their castle.
THE GAZER
A medley of snow and pine leaf swirled past her, held hostage and forced south by an angry wind. This storm that now blew was domineering in its own right and would only grow fiercer with her coaxing. The trees bent knee, both in reverence, and to dodge its fury, the clanspeople took shelter in their homes, and the Dawnstar seemed eager to retreat for the day. Even to her, this storm was a meddlesome beast. Left to its own devices it would likely cost her her secondborn son, delaying his stubborn progress through the northern snow. She closed her eyes and gazed at him, confirming as she’d suspected. Decker may have been aided by the warmth of rare metal, but he could not endure a full week of blizzard, were it permitted to continue.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 59
