DECKER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Decker kept his focus on Kilandra. Raiding Dogmen had whetted his appetite for the matured female form, and compared to the women he had seen while in the South, whose faces more closely resembled those of their demonic pets, Kilandra stood a statue of consummate perfection. The clothing she wore—often ridiculed in whisper by the other women—embraced her in much the same way he would like to. The tasteful amounts of flesh peeking through her furs showed her confidence in her flawless complexion, begging to be seen in its entirety. Her shameless self-assurance was most evident in her eyes which, in spite of their grey color, appeared more brilliant than those of any other. Even from this distance he could feel them piercing him, provoking him.

“I challenge you to single combat!” Decker heard what he thought to be the voice of his father, but it came from beside him. “To determine who is best fit to lead our clan!”

Decker’s mind was still lost in a fantasy involving Kilandra and him, alone under some furs, when he was pushed with enough force to stumble to a knee. Titon had shoved him with his foot in order to gain his full attention.

Decker’s attempt to decipher his brother’s words and actions were met with no success. Titon had no need to challenge him as he was already the elder. Furthermore, their father was the head of the clan—not Decker. Any challenge for the right of leadership would need to be directed at the son of Small Gryn.

Managing to peel his attention from Kilandra, Decker faced his brother. Still upon a knee, Decker nearly matched Titon’s height. It dawned on Decker that this must be one of Titon’s embarrassing charades where he would reenact some obscure scene from a Dogman book, fully expecting everyone to understand and appreciate his jest.

“I yield,” Decker said jocularly, hoping for the best.

With lightning-like speed, assisted by the fact that Decker had not put up his defenses, the butt of Titon’s axe slammed Decker across the cheek, opening a small cut and demonstrating the sincerity of the challenge.

Decker roiled with a mixture of shock and disgust. Throughout their trip he had done everything he could to help his brother gain the respect of the men. This is how you reward me? Decker stood slowly and unhitched the belt that held his knife and throwing axes, letting the assembly fall to the ground. He did the same with the bow on his back.

Titon did nothing slowly. He flung the axe he held to the ground and charged his brother. Titon’s shoulder dug into Decker’s chest, a blow he could have withstood if not for Titon’s heel having been hooked behind his own, sending Decker hard to his back upon the rocky ground. Before he could react, Titon was on top of him where he rained down blows. Decker pointed his elbows upward, defending his face with his bent arms successfully until one of Titon’s fists snuck through the side and connected with his jaw. Decker was still reeling from the fall, and Titon’s blow had the effect of bringing him into greater focus. He went on the offensive. He bucked Titon off him with ease and connected an upward kick to Titon’s stomach which sent him backward.

“Stop this,” Decker yelled at his brother as he stood and attempted to back away, but Titon had already begun to again charge. It was a familiar charge, one Decker himself had perfected as a young boy when their father made them train—fueled by blind rage and frustration and utterly ineffective. Instead of sidestepping, which would have allowed Titon to plow face first into the ground, Decker countered Titon’s momentum with his own. His greater mass made him the easy victor, and Titon was shoved rearward, off his feet, where he landed badly on his back with Decker on top of him.

Titon had stopped his assault for the moment, and Decker showed him his open palms.

“Stop, Titon. Stop,” Decker repeated, but Titon resumed his desperate attack, throwing punch after punch at his brother while still flat on his back. Decker tried to grab Titon’s arms to subdue him, but Titon bucked, forcing Decker to fall forward to support himself. Titon turned and sunk his teeth into one of Decker’s arms, and Decker responded with the heavy fist of his other arm. He hit Titon square in the face, with more speed than power, but his brother refused to stop. Titon reached for the knife that remained at his belt. Knowing how quick he was with a blade, Decker lost his ability to restrain his attack. He smashed his brother in the face once, again, and a third time with his full fury, letting out a yell along with his frustration.

Silence was all that followed in the wake of his cry—a silence that made Decker feel utterly alone. If there were a hundred onlookers, Decker was no longer aware of a single one. He felt no stares of judgment fall upon him, only the stinging cold of the snowflakes that landed on the back of his wounded scalp.

The realization that Titon had gone limp after his first strike was sickening. His brother lay motionless beneath him, blood pouring from his nose and trickling out his ear. Titon’s eyes were open, staring blankly into the distance, his mouth agape but not appearing to be passing breath.