KEETHRO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They had been three days at sea on the eighth day of what Titon believed would be their epic journey. Keethro still had other plans.

It had taken four days of fast-paced travel to reach the eastern coast, passing many Galatai clans along the way who wished them well and restocked their supplies. A full day was then spent on the construction of their modest sea vessel, using a design similar to ones they had built together in their youth, with the addition of a large square sail. It had a pointed bow that would cut through water and a simple rudder. Together, these would make straight travel over long distances a simple task. The wood they used was light and buoyant, allowing for the many leaks they would have, given their quick construction. Perhaps most importantly, it had enough room for them both to crouch beneath a simple slanted piece of thatching that would shelter them from any weather; if one were to die on these waters it would likely be from exposure, not from capsizing. The boat came together faster than they’d expected, and they shared pride in their accomplishment before hoisting her into the calm waters of the Timid Sea.

“You took an arrow, did you not?” asked Titon, looking content. Keethro did not remember the Dogman battle Titon recalled with the same fondness.

“Caught it in the meat of the thigh,” said Keethro. A reminder of the danger I find when following you.

“It was a fine battle, considering the foe,” Titon reminisced. “A good surprise at least to have them raise weapons for once.”

Keethro snorted. “Yes, I was quite pleased as I limped home over the scree.” You have a strange notion of what makes for pleasant surprises, thought Keethro.

“Ha,” Titon cried. “You may have limped to the barrow. We took turns dragging your dead weight home while you drank and cursed your luck.”

Keethro could not help but laugh at himself as the faint memory returned. He turned his gaze toward the coastline. The jagged points of intraversible mountains reached to the sky.

“What else was there?” Titon asked. A silence hung while the two of them tried to remember any story worth reciting.

“Gunnar’s goats,” Keethro recalled aloud, feeling the grin that formed on his face.

Titon laughed loudly in response. “That dumb bastard with the pretty young wife—and the even prettier goats!” Titon slapped his thigh. “If he had just ignored the prank it would not have worked, but every time we put one of your sister’s skirts on a goat of his, he would become even more furious. He even bothered the elders about it, but they were not fool enough to care. That poor bastard.”

“Aye,” said Keethro.

“You were a clumsy oaf back then, though. How many times did you get snagged on his fence and forced to muck the goat houses by his woman?” Titon asked.

“Just once.”

“No, you damn fool. I remember it well. You must have been caught near half a dozen times. You would get snagged on the same loose wire and wear the same shaggy coat time and again, despite my telling you better.”

“Aye, I was caught maybe five or six times. But of those times I only shoveled goat shit once, and of those times I was only truly a clumsy fool once,” Keethro replied, still wearing his grin, allowing Titon to put together the pieces.

But Titon just looked at him skeptically with half a frown, imploring explanation.

“Young, yes, and pretty as well, his wife was eager to find me punishments that were, well, more rigorous.”

Hearing that, Titon burst into a roar of laughter. It was a good story to be sure, but given their circumstances, everything seemed half again as funny as it ought to be, giddy with the prospect of adventure.

“Perhaps her husband truly did prefer his goats then if she was so eager to jump in the sack with the likes of your ugly arse,” said Titon. The mock insult was enough to bring Keethro back to the present, where he was again sailing with a man he intended to kill rather than a friend with whom he intended to find the far corners of the realm. “But you did always have a few secrets when it came to women.”

For a few moments all that could be heard was the gentle rocking of the boat on the waves.

“Aye, but I never did stray from Kilandra’s bed.” It was a lie, but it was as good a trick as any for Keethro to try to catch Titon in a lie of his own. “Did you?” Did you ever stray into Kilandra’s bed?

“Stray from Ellie?” Titon was fiddling with some splintered wood on the handle of the rudder, his gaze having broken from Keethro. “Never. Not even with a Dogman bitch I intended to kill.” Titon’s eyes met Keethro’s again. “You do not want to draw the anger of a Storm Wolf. One might suffer less godly wrath after pissing on the River.”

Not even once, old friend? Keethro left the question unasked.

“What about that boy…Dicun?” asked Titon. “Everyone whispers that he is your bastard, and he certainly looks it.”

It was no small charge, to be a bastard among their people. Should a Galatai woman give birth to a child that was not her husband’s, the man would have the right—if not the responsibility—to snuff that child. But the father of the one Titon spoke of died before the truth could be revealed—during a Dogman raid Keethro well remembered. He was a decent man, Keethro recalled with some remorse, but he had not once regretted his action that spared the boy.

“Perhaps he is mine. He is a handsome lad. I only claimed to have not strayed from her bed. I never claimed not to have brought someone else into it.”

Titon laughed like a drunken warrior after a triumphant raid, and Keethro joined him with feigned candor as the wind pushed them farther southward.

The sea journey came to an end upon reaching Port Phylan. Though no Galatai were known to have traveled so far south, they were well aware of the existence of this city, often doing trade with its people. Phylan seafarers’ unconventional sails allowed them to travel northwards on the Timid Sea in spite of the invariably southward winds, and they would often bring jewelry and glass to the northern coasts in exchange for leather, furs, and Dogman plunder.

“I suppose one night in our own clothes will do little harm,” said Titon. “The shops look to all be closed in any case. Some food and a night’s rest then? We’ll find some southern dress in the morning.”

“Aye,” said Keethro. “I barely slept a wink on that boat.”

The first inn they came across was not the cleanest looking establishment, but neither were Titon and Keethro the cleanest of patrons. His Grace’s Hole, as it was called, had a rowdy crowd gathered in the first floor’s eating and drinking area. It had the dark, uninviting atmosphere of a place frequented only by locals, and a mild smell of sweat and spilt ale. Nonetheless, it was a welcome sight.

“Barkeep,” cried Titon upon finding a pair of empty stools. “We will take your heartiest meal and two strong meads. Both meads are for me, though. My friend here prefers the rich flavor of pickled milk.”

It seemed as if everyone in the place was eyeballing them, but Keethro had expected little different.

“Make that a strong mead for me as well,” said Keethro, unoffended by Titon’s hackneyed gibe. “I’m feeling oddly virile tonight.”

Failing to appreciate the humor, the barkeep was at least kind enough to oblige them in their request after seeing their coin. They were served their drinks and some house stew. To their surprise the food was quite impressive: a hot mash of chicken and beef, potatoes and carrots, sage and thyme, nearly overflowing the wooden bowls in which it was served. They also received some warm crusty bread that had a light coating of flour still on the surface as if it had been made in a hurry. A generous mound of honeyed butter melted in the middle of each split loaf, steam rising from the gap. Bread was not a staple in the Northluns where there was no land suitable for wheat, and it was a welcome treat whenever they had the chance to trade for or steal some.

Titon raised his mug. “To two brothers, once again spitting in the eye of destiny and charging south for glory!” Keethro raised his mug in kind, and the two men downed their drink and food with a warrior’s efficiency.

The drinking did not end there, however. The shadowy, dank conditions of the lively place seemed to darken and become yet more raucous as they continued their quest to empty the bar of all its mead. As Keethro glanced around, he no longer met stares of men, but could not be removed of the feeling that all of the turned eyes he saw had just been aimed at his back.

One ray of light was seen by Keethro amidst the gloomy sea. A barmaid looked in his direction, and he was quick to ensure she noticed he was looking back. Her homely smile was warm and inviting, and her plaits of hair on either shoulder gave her a look of innocence unbefitting her surroundings. If there are often girls like this in shitholes such as these, I might enjoy these southern lands.

Upon looking to his left to tell Titon he might be absent for a while to tend to some business, he saw his big companion face down on the bar, snoring. Keethro gave his full attention to the bosomy barmaid who approached.

“Your friend all right?” she asked.

“I am afraid he is dead,” Keethro replied.

“Dead? Isn’t he breathing?”

“Nay, he is good and dead. I am quite sure of it. He pissed in a river this morning, and now he has drowned himself accidentally in his cup. Happens all the time to Northerners like us.” There was no point in trying to pretend they were from anywhere but the North in their current state of drunkenness and dress.

The perplexed look on the girl’s face let Keethro know all his humor had been lost on her. She is dull, but I’d likely still be a maid if I had always let that stop me. He changed tactics and showed her a warm smile, which she was happy to mirror.

It was not long before he and the barmaid were headed upstairs. She led him to a bedroom where she slipped into a cozy-looking bed. Then she began to throw her clothing out from under the blankets one piece at a time. Keethro rushed to undress, first kicking off his shoes. As he removed a leg from his trousers, the door to the bedroom swung open again with an unpleasant creak.

Three surly men strode in, all armed with knives, and closed the door behind them. Keethro had a knife of his own, but it was on the belt of his trousers that were now on the floor with one of his legs still through them. Any move he made to get it would no doubt result in all three of the men jumping him with their own blades.

“Here’s how this’ll work,” said the leader of the men. He was large, top-heavy, and appeared as though he had not bathed for several weeks. He looked like the type of man whose own shit was happy to be free of. “You strip naked, hand over all your money and clothing, and we don’t cut either of your heads off.”

Possible scenarios raced through Keethro’s sobering mind. He thought about screaming to Titon for help, which he would not hear. He thought of charging the men with his trousers half on and killing them all—a difficult task without being mortally wounded himself. He thought of trying to slam through the weak wooden floor to make a dashing exit, but that was unlikely with his boots now off. He thought of at least killing the girl who had lured him here before the men killed him. That he could do, but it did not meet all his desired criteria.

“Do I have your word, as gentlemen, that I will at least get my time in the sheets with her after I’ve done as you ask?” Keethro inquired.

The leader’s smile of mock amusement showed he was not impressed. “We’ll see how funny you are with your cock in your mouth.” He and the other two men began to spread and advance. They had done this before, and Keethro now imagined he remembered seeing blood stains on the floorboards when he’d entered the room.

A violent crash sounded as the door burst open in two vertical pieces, showering the room with splinters of wood. By the time Keethro could gather what was happening, Titon had already picked up a chair, smashed it over the head of one of the men, and was using the two wooden legs that remained in his hands to beat the life out of another.

Keethro grabbed the bed cover and flung it like a net over the distracted third man, using the opportunity it gave him to grab his knife and follow up with an attack. It was not long before there were three corpses at their feet and a puddle of blood that would serve to produce yet another stain on the warped floorboards.

There was also a very plain-looking naked woman trying with desperation to cover the loose flesh of her sagging breasts that Keethro had remembered being presented so differently when she still wore cloth.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered repeatedly.

Keethro snorted contempt at the girl for whom he felt no pity. “These men killed each other fighting over who would first share your bed tonight, right?”

The girl just stared at Keethro, not seeming to understand. It made no difference; all would know what truly happened regardless of what she said.

Titon motioned for Keethro to put on his trousers so they could leave before having to deal with the mess they’d just made.