DECKER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having not encountered the expected Dogman wastelands as they traveled north, Titon had explained they must be in a finger of the canyon so far to the west that it was yet to be raided. Nonetheless, the terrain had changed drastically as they went, forcing the men to recognize just how much time Titon had saved them via the route along the flat cliffs of the western shore.

Rocks and deadfall littered the uneven ground making travel slow and dangerous, especially so with all the plunder dragged and carried. Decker warned the men that any clumsy enough to break an ankle would have to limp home without aid, as they would not slow their pace for a single man. It was not long before one among them challenged him on that claim.

“You are lucky it was just a sprain and not a break,” Decker told Tryg, a boy of eleven years whose foot had found a hidden hole. “Else you would be feeding the vultures.” Else you would have made me a liar, Decker admitted to himself, believing his father would have done the same. The men took turns supporting the weight of the hobbled boy as he limped along. In spite of his injury, it was not the boy who had slowed their pace. It was the grey-haired Dogman who called himself Greyson.

They had acquired him at the last village where he’d begged them to spare him. It was not something any had a mind to do until he explained he only wished to live long enough to have vengeance on the “fools who left their village unprotected” as he put it. The band of Dogmen Greyson sought apparently had gone looking for a fight, and with Titon indifferent, Decker made the decision to allow this man his revenge—so long as he led them directly to these Dogmen who might give them their first real skirmish.

“Slay the mad one first. I will not have the stories say we let an old, crazed Dogman do our killing for us.” Decker got a good bout of laughter from the men prior to them charging in to annihilate the group of Dogmen they’d been led to, but not before one of their axes found its way into Greyson’s skull.

“Mountain’s tits!” Decker shouted in frustration. “These were the bravest Dogmen?” This was the last battle they would likely have on their way home, and it was not one to be remembered. The Dogmen and their demonic companions scattered like frightened pests. At Decker’s feet was the only Dogman still to draw breath, although not easily. He was a large man with hair as fiery as Red’s when she was younger. He almost looked as if he could be Galatai. Perhaps this one would have fought. It was a shame that this was the man Greyson had chosen to wound with his cowardly assault. Had he been any other Dogman, Decker would have let him suffer, but the way this man clung to both life and hatred was respectable. Decker rewarded him with an end to his agony.

The red Dogman aside, these were a sad and pathetic people. There was no heroism in having defeated them in battle. Titon must have felt the same, as he did not even bother to make chase when the cravens fled. He had not seemed himself since having taken the pretty woman at the previous village, and Decker suspected it had not gone as Titon had hoped. Some of the Dogmen women were quite strong, and Decker had almost been stabbed by one from the same village. Perhaps Titon caught a knee with his manhood.

After picking through the corpses’ belongings and finding only a few knives and bows worth keeping, Decker checked to see if any of their men were missing.

“Where is Leknar?” Decker asked, shocked by the possibility of having lost such a capable, if not foolhardy, man. He received nothing but dumb looks in return.

“Leknar!” Decker’s shout echoed against the rocks and faded without response.

“Perhaps he’s lost,” said Arron.

“He must be,” said Decker. “He’s too strong to have been killed by any of these weaklings.” Decker drew a mighty breath. “Leknar!”

Decker did not wish to have his brother’s raid stained with so needless a casualty, but neither did he wish to wander aimlessly in the canyon in search of a fool. As disgusting as it was to have possibly lost a man to mere disorientation, Leknar was—aside from Griss—the man Decker least cared for of their group. Remembering that Leknar had also been responsible for their only other death, Decker lost all will to draw out this search any longer.

“If Leknar fails to meet up with us north with the others, I say his cheese goes to Titon!” Decker had hoped to raise the mood with his declaration, but when the men laughed instead of cheering, Titon shot him a look of sour reproach. Perhaps I could have worded that better.

“Will we head for the shore after we meet up with them?” asked Arron.

The question had been directed at Decker, and he deferred to his brother with a questioning glance.

“I suppose.”

“Good.” Decker met his brother’s melancholy with cheer, hoping it might affect him. “The flat tops will make dragging these supplies far easier, and it only makes sense to return the same way we came—through Titon’s path of glory.”

Though it took longer than expected, their group reached the coastline as victors. The Frozen Sea, the very sound of which had once put fear in their chests, now welcomed them with adulation.

Heavy-laden though they were with quantities of both meat and cheese, they had very little in the way of treasures. Decker had snagged a broken piece of silvered glass and some of the men had taken metal cooking utensils with shoddy engraving, but they found no precious metals or gems. It did not bother Decker any. His main concern was seeing his clan through the winter, and this would do that and more. Titon, however, had the look of a man defeated.

“You do not seem pleased with your raid,” Decker said.

He and Titon had been walking in silence for what felt like ages as Decker gave Titon time to overcome whatever it was that dejected him.

Titon shrugged his shoulders as his only response. His continued mood puzzled Decker. They had just led the most successful raid in as long as he could remember, and Titon had orchestrated the entire incursion. His brother said little or nothing when they ate together, he did not join the men in song, and the one person among them Titon did speak to was an outcast himself. Nearly three weeks away from the tannery and Arron still smells like piss, Decker mused in amazement. Decker did not know how Titon could endure the assault on the nostrils that a lengthy conversation with Arron must entail and was afraid the stench might somehow infect his brother in kind.

“It will take time for the men to see you as their leader.”

“I am not their leader,” replied Titon. “Our big fool of a father has been wrong about a great many things, but he was right about this. These men will not follow me. Nor do I believe I truly wish to lead them.”

Decker tried to make sense of what he’d heard. Everyone wished to lead. For such a smart man, Titon speaks much nonsense. “Given time—”

“No,” Titon said, cutting him off. “And it makes little difference. This raid went well, but it will only force the Dogmen farther south. Given time, we won’t be able to reach the Dogmen villages even via descending the cliffs.” It seemed as if Titon emphasized his words in a way to make Decker feel as stupid as possible.

Titon was always right and this was like to be no exception, but Decker had grown tired of trying to console a man who should be overjoyed with accomplishment. Decker decided he would prefer to drop behind and speak with men that he knew would be in higher spirits. If you continue this way, Titon, none will follow you. A cynical leader inspires no belief.