KEETHRO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So this is what happens to men who lower their arms.

In the many years he and Titon had fought beside each other, Titon had never dropped his weapons and surrendered. The prospect was as laughable as it was appalling. What danger could be so great as to cause Titon to expect defeat? The man saw a path to victory in the most absurd situations, and no matter how small that opening may be, always somehow managed to squeeze his colossal frame clean through it.

That had not been the case as the several dozen armored guards wielding swords, halberds, spears, and shields closed ranks about them. The weight of the guards’ chainmail and weaponry seemed to shake the ground as they marched in step to surround them.

Titon had reached for his knife slowly, and Keethro assumed—as he always did—that Titon intended to kill the largest of them first. But when Titon’s hand released the blade into the dirt instead of flicking it toward the skull of one of the guards, Keethro was perhaps more terrified by what this capitulation meant than he had been of his likely imminent death.

Galatai were not taken prisoner. Their battles with the Dogmen had never posed threat of capture. Their only other foe was other Galatai, and they had sacred laws against allowing defeated clansmen to live in dishonor. The prospect of being taken captive had simply not existed. This strange land had changed all of that, and moreover, it seemed to have changed Titon. It was as if he’d grown soft or simply desperate to live in order to find the remedy for his wife and confirm his sons’ conquests.

Keethro had found it harder to drop his own knife than it seemed Titon had. He clung to it in confusion until the neck of a guard’s spear smashed his wrist, releasing him from both his daze and the hold on his blade.

They were underground now, imprisoned. The conditions were almost comfortable for Keethro, but he imagined Titon must be cramped. They were well fed, and more importantly, they were together. Twice a day they’d exchange trays with a guard through a slot in the door. Then they’d sit and eat their ample provisions of stale bread, cheese, and dried meats, the only sounds coming from their chews and gulps.

With their pride shattered, there was little of which to speak. For several miserable days they’d sat in near silence. They could certainly not recall stories of past triumph from within a cell, and given that they had just surrendered themselves to this fate, the thought of immediately planning escape was a bit absurd.

“Did we indeed avoid conscription?” It was Titon who broke the quiet.

“I would be better able to answer the question if I knew what this conscription even was.” Keethro continued to scratch a trench with the heel of his boot in the floor of hardened sand. “Hopefully we are not in here on account of merely avoiding some ceremonial hand bath.”

“The Mighty Three damn them. Why cannot these southern men speak their meaning plainly? It is as if we use a different tongue entirely at times.”

It was good to have his friend speaking again, but it also brought with it unexpected thoughts. There was a time when I wanted to see you like this, crushed and driven into the belly of the earth so that I could take your place. How did I let Kilandra convince me you were anything but a brother? Somehow the idea of it was more painful than their current confinement, and Keethro was desperate to keep Titon speaking, if only to avoid being left alone with his thoughts.

“They are feeding us well,” Keethro said. “My question is why? Why are we being so well cared for when there were so many who appeared to be starving in the streets above?” Keethro nursed his wrist as he spoke. It was the type of fracture too small to require bracing lest he suffer embarrassment worse than the injury. It would simply have to mend during continued use.

“That I also do not know. I seem to be growing duller the farther south we travel.”

Keethro chuckled. He considered avoiding the topic altogether, but his fear of silence drove him to it. “That was a foolish thing you did back there.”

Titon grunted in anger. “Who are you to call me foolish for avoiding an unwinnable battle after having yourself turned us from the more obvious path of heading straight for Strahl? Their guards were like to have had lesser armor than these men. They were so covered in steel it was surprising their meager frames could withstand the weight.”

Keethro shook his head. “No, I do not mean that. That was an unwinnable battle. You will get no argument from me there. I mean the swindler who would have taken you for all your gold, had the cutpurse not beaten him to it. You realize he was selling a thief’s promise?”

“Yes,” Titon let out with a pained sigh. It was some time before he continued. “But I would pay all the gold I have and ever will have for even the slightest chance of bringing her back.”

“Well, we do not have any gold now, nor do I think we’ll have any soon.” Keethro made a vague gesture toward their surroundings. “In the case that we do, let me do the dealing so that we can afford the wares of multiple charlatans and increase our odds of finding an elixir that works. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough. If that time ever comes.”

“When the time comes we’ll want to be ready. I recommend we make the best use of this food and drink while we have it to keep our strength up. Some exercise would do us good as well.”

Titon leered at Keethro. “I am not sure what kind of exercise you think we have room for in this tiny box, my friend, but I assure you, we have not been in here quite long enough for your charms to have any such effect on me.”

For the moment, they did not seem so much prisoners given the way they laughed and ate. If we can keep our spirits, we may keep our lives, Keethro thought, though he knew they were just as likely to die in this box of torrid stone and sand.

The many days spent below ground had been monotonous at best. Galatai warriors were not meant to live in cages, and it was obvious to Keethro that it was taking a horrible toll on Titon. They still ate well and managed to retain their strength, but Titon was no longer as eager to do any training. His only exercise consisted of spending a good five minutes of every hour kicking at the door of their cell in an attempt to loosen its iron hinges. He had not yet made any progress, nor did Keethro expect him to break anything but his leg striking such a door.

The past half a day had been different, however. Up until recently there was nothing to be heard outside their enclosure. Keethro had no idea just how deep underground they had been taken, but the previous peace had made it feel quite deep. That had changed when they heard sounds of great rumbling from above, as if some colossal rock was being slid across the naked ground, pulled by a hundred oxen. It might have been a frightening sound, had they not been so utterly bored. Even Keethro found himself thinking like Titon, more willing to face whatever made that noise than to continue in the tedium of this purgatory.

“Those are cheers?” Keethro asked.

“It is wind, no more. Though I like to hear those sounds of the outdoors. It has been far too long since I have heard the trickle of the stream that runs by my home.” Having said that, Titon began to kick at the door again, the thud of his foot and the clang of the hinges became all Keethro could hear.

“No, stop. …Listen.”

Titon snorted, kicked once more, then sat down and was quiet for a moment. “The wind I tell you.”

“No, it is a massive—”

The sound of approaching footsteps silenced Keethro. This was soon followed by the heavy clanking of their door being unlocked for the first time since they’d been shut inside. Keethro felt his racing heart in his throat.

The sharpened points of spears appeared in the door opening, followed by the guards who held them.

“Out with you!” shouted one.

Keethro shrugged his shoulders at Titon and was the first out the door. His big friend lumbered behind him.

“Where are we going?” Keethro asked.

The half-dozen guards snickered as they continued to direct them forward at spearpoint. Keethro was pleased to see the path slanted upward. He did not think he could stand to be deeper beneath the surface. The leader of the guards finally hinted at their fate. “You go to face the dragons.”

Keethro was optimistic about their chances of being able to kill quite a few of the large river beasts, so long as they were on land and properly armed, but the glee with which the guard had spoken made him feel as though they would be in for something far worse.

Titon, on the other hand, seemed unaffected. “We have slain dragons before.” He spoke with the unimpassioned candor of a man who truly had. Keethro saw no need to remind him that they merely injured a river dragon—a beast that regularly found its way on to the plates of these Southmen.

“I don’t think you’ll be killing any today,” said the lead guard, inciting more snickers from his easily impressed underlings.

The small tunnel through which they had been traveling opened wider and taller as they continued. Eventually they came to a pair of massive doors. Standing no less than five men in height, they looked to Keethro the type of doors mortal men were only meant to pass through once. Just in front was a motley group of men under the watch of another small force of guards with spears.

Keethro and Titon were prodded until they too were within the group. The men among them ranged from the thin, agile-looking type, to the massive—one even larger than Titon. These men look as if they should be accompanied by a stench, Keethro thought, wondering why they did not. Perhaps it is I most in need of a bath.

The guards had all ceased speaking and stood disciplined and battle ready, their spears pointed at the group of men as if expecting them to turn and run at any moment.

It had been cheers they’d heard from their cell, though even now they sounded too numerous to be real, more like an angry storm than so many blaring voices. I do not believe it is us they cheer for.

The chains attached to the upper corners of the doors went taut and began to hoist them open with a familiar scraping sound. The moment the doors began to move, the cheers reached crescendo. Perhaps they are cheering for us after all, he teased himself, knowing full and well that it must be their horrific death they so eagerly anticipated.

The light that shone through the crack between the doors was blinding, causing all of them to cower behind their own arms. The thick smell of animal dung was quick to follow, assaulting them yet again, though less violently than the light.

Spears at their backs pushed them forward through the still-moving doors to an overwhelming sight. The ground before them sloped up into the arena, which was long and narrow, not much wider in fact than the doors. The doors were halfway under the ground level, and as the group of men were forced upward and out, Keethro saw that the sides of the arena were over three men in height and made of smooth stone that would be impossible to scale. Multiple wooden fences reaching to his shoulder ran lengthwise down the center of the field—a field so long that it would be difficult to sprint across its entire length. All that paled in comparison to the enormity of the crowd, however, the thunder of their ovation serving to remind Keethro of his insignificance.

Keethro was both confused and relieved by the creature he saw inside the arena. A huge boar stood some twenty paces ahead, and he might have been a somewhat menacing foe, had he not been encumbered as he was. Draped around the boar’s shoulders was mail barding, a tad long at the knee. Over the top of his mail was a series of overlapping plates as thick and heavy as any armor Keethro had seen. Tied to his tusks and completely blocking his forward vision was a wooden shield with a thick metal facing. The boar carried the weight, but seemed uncompelled to travel for any determined distance, appearing flustered by his blindness.

Keethro looked for something with which to fight and was at first glad to see a fine array of weaponry splayed out on racks at either side. If they are supplying us so amply with weapons, what is it we will be facing? Certainly not this pig.

A hush fell over the crowd soon after the doors had swung full open, though it was not apparent why.

“There must be several thousand people here,” said Titon, clearly awestruck. Titon was no fan of large gatherings of people, but at least they no longer shouted.

“Perhaps over ten thousand.” Keethro was rather sure that his estimate was conservative.

“Then we are to be famous.” Keethro did not hear any cynicism in Titon’s words.

A single voice sounded throughout the entire arena. Keethro could see it came from a man on his feet, low in the midfield stands. He made grand gestures with his arms as he spoke. “And now for the event you have gathered to see—demonstrated upon some of the most fearsome warriors from the far corners of the realm. In addition to personally having overseen the training of those who are now the most talented swordsmen, spearmen, halberdiers, and archers of the realm, His Majesty King Veront has commissioned the breeding of perhaps an even more formidable weapon with which to wage war. Behold, the dragons of Rivervale!”

The crowd erupted again in raucous cheers. Keethro glanced at the other men in their group, confused. Are these the fearsome warriors? He decided he would ponder that later and focused on what may lay ahead as identical doors opened at the other end of the field. At first, Keethro could only see some rising smoke, but soon flames crested the gentle slope. Four skinny pillars of fire crept upward, stopping to form a well-spaced row. Keethro was unimpressed as the flames seemed to each be coming from some wooden contraption that had been wheeled into place. The distance made it difficult to tell how many, but there were at least several men for each contraption, somehow tending to its needs. There was no sign of dragons, however. Perhaps the flames attract them from the sky?

One of the guards behind them must have flung the rock that struck the boar on his mailed rump. The beast took off running down the field away from Keethro’s group, and after a brief moment of allowing the crowd this amusement, the dragons finally loosed their first attack, stifling all humor.

The flames leapt forward from the wooden structures with incredible speed, arcing only slightly through the air until they reached their target. The enormous shield on the face of the boar served as no protection. The first flaming projectile smashed through both metal and wood, piercing the skull of the animal and protruding out the rear of his shoulder between a gap in the plates. The second came immediately after, impaling the now-turned beast through his upper ribs and pinning him to the ground, puncturing the plate armor cleanly. The third and forth shots missed their marks, if only by a bit, but the obvious intention of showing the savagery with which these new pets of the king could decimate a fully-armored foe had been well demonstrated.

The crowd’s fervor reached a new high as the dead boar performed its final throe. These man-sized projectiles spit from the dragon’s mouths appeared to be no more than giant arrows. They had thick feathered fletching on their rear and triangular metal points at the tip. The head of the first arrow still burned even after having passed through the boar’s head, the flames singeing the hair upon its neck.

The group of men Keethro and Titon were now a part of stared at each other, trying to come to some collective decision without words. Titon seemed the only man among them who did not have fear in his eyes. He looked hungry, in fact, as if he had been just presented a plate of potential heroism upon which to gorge himself. It was inspiring, but Keethro did not believe it would have any effect on their odds of victory.