KEETHRO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cries of gulls reverberated off the clouds.

The birds seemed to have influenced Keethro’s dreams, as he had just been walking on the shores of the Timid Sea. It was a most-welcome dream, though he could not remember the last time he’d had it, of his first real voyage as a young boy. His father and uncle had allowed him to accompany them on one of their trips to meet with the sea merchants of the eastern coast. They had expected him to be impressed by the many items the merchants had to trade, and they had to laugh when Keethro ignored the merchants and played at the shore. It was the new landscape that captivated him, and he paid the cold grip of the sea no bother as he chased after the gulls, splashing through the small waves. The elation of having found a new land overwhelmed him, and he had forever longed to see what lay beyond.

Keethro rubbed his eyes free of their waking fog, and saw Titon with a makeshift paddle at the front of the boat. Breathing deeply to take in the warmth of this exotic land, he wondered how it was he had allowed himself to grow so timid with age—to the point of being deathly reluctant to aid his friend on this voyage. Thank you for making me remember what years of internment with a self-serving woman had robbed me of. But Keethro was unable to thank Titon, even in thought, without being reminded of the letters, the image of them curling into ash still emblazoned in his mind.

“I am beginning to think the Mighty Three sent the rain merely to bathe us, not humble us,” said Titon, seeing Keethro had awoken.

Indeed, it had been many days since they had been able to bathe. After the encounter with the river dragon, both men—even Titon—had decided it would be wisest to avoid unnecessary dips in the murky waters. Being restricted to whore baths with a wet rag had taken its toll on them. Galatai were not acquainted to the amount of sweat one could produce in such damp air.

Your gods took from us Iron Hips, Keethro remembered. He was still bitter from the loss of their companion, but he knew Titon would have felt her absence just as much, given that he ate the wolf’s share, and hungrily so.

“Yes,” Keethro said. “I feel…immaculate.” He got the laughter from Titon he had hoped for. “Something I intend to remedy as soon as we find a city.”

They’d wasted no time fashioning a similar, albeit smaller raft. The loss of most of their supplies and the recent flood had them placing more importance in their craft being manageable rather than luxurious.

“Good that you intend to wait that long. I was afraid you might hop onto the first boat with tits aboard that passed us.”

The river they’d traveled southwesterly upon fed into another, far larger body of water flowing north to south. It seemed to Keethro more like a narrow sea, but the water was without the taste of salt. “The Eos,” both men had agreed in humble veneration when they found themselves upon its mighty waters. They had remained close to the shore to avoid the potential dangers that may lie in its center: odd currents, swells…leviathans. It had been a clear day and they could barely see the far shore. Although daunting, such grandeur gave Keethro hope for the first time that they may actually find a cure for Titon’s wife in this faraway land.

“We must be nearing the kingdom of the delta. These are sea birds, I believe. Like the ones on the eastern coast. I would think their presence signifies our approach on the southern seas.”

“We can hope so,” said Titon. “But it is no matter. We are definitely heading somewhere of great wealth and knowledge.”

Keethro supposed it was for the best that they had lost the giant horse hock to the rain. It had given them more of a savage appearance—something they wished to avoid, as they were no longer alone on the water. He had lost count of the many boats and barges that passed, paying them little mind so long as they were not in their way, but one such craft was headed toward them now.

It was an impressive ship with a deck that stood over two men proud of the water’s surface. Its sharp bow looked more suited for sea travel, and its sides had been painted white, giving it a finished appearance that was easy to appreciate. The two men looked on in awe of its beauty as it careened toward them.

“We had better move to shore,” Keethro thought aloud.

As they began to paddle, the ship continued on its path directly toward them. Three burly men were visible on the bow, waving their hands from one side to the other.

I fear that is not a southern gesture of greeting. It became evident the men were motioning for them to paddle their raft in the opposite direction.

“Keep paddling toward shore,” said Titon. Keethro had no cause to object. Their raft did not reverse direction willingly.

The men shouted obscenities and Keethro began to fear for their safety—the safety of the men on the other boat, should they provoke Titon to anger. God of the Mountain, give Titon restraint, thought Keethro, having no time to be amused by his inadvertent prayer.

The captain of the other boat must have realized they would not be accommodated in their request, and in turn banked away from shore to avoid the impending collision.

The crafts came dangerously close—so close that the men aboard the other boat saw fit to hurl more than insults. Spit and rotting vegetables made up the majority of the barrage. Keethro watched in horror as pieces flew by Titon’s head, smashing upon their raft’s deck of lashed timbers. He could not see Titon’s expression, but Keethro had known his friend to be incited to violence from less. It would not be long before Titon sent a spear to silence one of their harassers, but rather than look away from the impending debacle, Keethro readied himself to assist Titon in his attack. He’d spent some time earlier in their trip fashioning a throwing weapon not unlike an axe out of a piece of wood and a rusty knife, and Keethro did not mind the opportunity to sink it into something other than the stump he had practiced on.

“Sons of whores,” shouted the men. “Fecking dolts!”

Keethro had picked out the man to kill first. It was the shortest, most nimble looking of them. While Titon liked to attack in order of size, Keethro attacked in order of quickness—a combination that had served them well in the past. Keethro could see the ringleader, a large rough-looking fellow missing plenty of teeth, likely due as much to rot as to bar fights. He was winding up to throw something substantial at them. A head of lettuce, dark and wilted, flew from the man’s hand, downward, and exploded atop Titon’s skull. A fine throw, but I am afraid it will be your last, Keethro eulogized, his grip on his makeshift axe tightening in anticipation.

Titon roared with laughter.

“My friend,” said Titon, turning to Keethro. He was covered in bits of wet, slimy roughage and grinning. “I believe we are on the wrong side of this river.”