TITON

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He is going to kill you.”

Titon was more concerned at the moment with river dragons than any threat posed to him by a man. He and his men had come to the first of the several rivers they would have to cross on their way to Strahl, all of which Titon and Keethro had forded on their way south, albeit farther upstream. Titon was among his soldiers, all kneeling at the bank to fill their skins and bellies with water far cleaner than that of the Eos.

“You’re a Galatai clansman, are you not?” continued the man. He spoke quietly and did not look toward Titon, but there was little doubt that other men near them could hear. “Veront hates our kind. Anything he’s told you is a lie.”

Titon finished drinking and fought his impulse to back away from the water’s edge. Any dragons below would no doubt be well aware of the turbulence caused by so many men splashing water on their faces and breaking the surface with their lips to swill some greedy gulps. There’s safety in the horde, Titon told himself and turned toward the speaker. The man was the size of a Galatai, but he lacked a certain hardness in his demeanor. And it was difficult to imagine why any man, let alone someone truly from the North, would wish to have so little hair upon his face.

“I’m only half,” said the man. “My mother was from Fourpaw, and my father was a raider.”

“That is not possible.” Titon did not feel the need to explain further.

“I do not lie to you. He left her alive and returned several days after. They raised me alone in the remnants of their village and later joined another community. He cut his hair and—”

“Then what are you doing here?” Though something about the man seemed honest—his utter pitifulness perhaps—Titon was not about to believe this farfetched story.

“He may have shaved his face, but he was still Galatai. What do you think happened when Veront’s collectors came and demanded a portion of all his coin?”

Titon’s grunt of agreement was involuntary. “My business with Veront is none of your concern.”

“It is. I am a part of this hopeless attack. Not even Veront expects it to succeed. My friend is a cupbearer and overhears many things. It is just a diversion—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Titon growled at him. “And I command you, keep silent.” Titon left before the man could blurt any more nonsense, wishing to himself that he’d picked a different place at the bank to drink.

Titon returned to his two officers in their quickly erected tent, a pair of sirs, one possibly the most boring man he’d ever met, and the other probably the most irritating.

“What did the scouts report?” Titon asked, doing his best to not let his disdain for either man show.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Sir Aleric of House something or other, Titon had already forgotten, seemed to take pleasure in ensuring Titon had as little information as possible. As the previous commander of two of the three legions now under Titon’s control, the man was not artful in hiding his resentment.

“Where are they? I’d like to speak with them myself.” Titon directed the question to Sir Edgar, the tight-lipped officer in chainmail and leather, in hopes he’d be more likely to divulge a satisfactory answer. Edgar deferred to Aleric with a head gesture.

“I sent them off already. Scouts serve no purpose at camp.”

Titon inhaled and sought the void. Scouts serve no purpose when their commander gets no information from them. He’d been civil with Aleric until now, and he meant to maintain his southern comportment for as long as possible—just as Keethro would advise me with his throat clearing and looks of worry. “The next time they return, be sure they do not set off until I speak with them. Understood?”

Aleric snorted his understanding accompanied with a barely perceptible shake of his head. In the North, we move our heads in the other direction to indicate agreement, Titon thought with mounting acrimony.

Titon turned his attention to the table they stood at. “If I understand this map correctly, we can continue a bit north of east and we’ll pass north of Strahl…”

“We have no reason to pass north of Strahl,” Aleric explained as if to a child. “I realize maps are not common where you come from. However, as you should be able to see, there is a river to their west and an ocean to their east. Northmen may be able to drink from the sea, but Rivervalians cannot.”

The void never seemed so far from reach. “If we were, however, to pass north of Strahl, would we be able to get between them and the coast, or do their walls extend to sea? On the map it does not appear—”

“Of course their walls do not extend into the sea,” interrupted Aleric. “What kind of question is that?”

“Then I intend for our army to pass north and attack from the east.”

Aleric’s attention had been stolen by a man who had entered their tent and was whispering something in his ear.

“What is it?” Titon demanded.

Aleric held up a finger as the man finished his message, then nodded and the man left. Titon tried to make note of the messenger’s appearance, but all these southern men looked much the same in their near-matching clothes. “It’s nothing. You were saying?”

Titon was done negotiating. “We head just north of east. That is my command.”

Aleric let out an exasperated breath. “Veront will not be pleased by the extra time it takes.”

“Then we will march longer and faster and with less delay. Pack up now. We leave immediately.”

The repacking of the tent always somehow took longer than the setting up, and Titon made a note that they would not raise the structure for future stops unless it was truly needed to protect the maps from rain. After the meeting, Titon had noticed Aleric pull Edgar to the side to discuss something in private, but he had no time to be irked by their southern gossip. He instead surveyed the men, all three thousand of them. It was a great many men, to be sure, but they did not move with a unity of purpose. He’d be surprised if a third of these men had even trained beside each other, let alone seen combat.

Aleric appeared to be holding up the process of resuming the march, as he’d sent two of their lead men off on some random errand.

“What is this?” Titon demanded. “We should already be on our way.”

“There is urgent business that requires our attention.” Aleric did not even face Titon as he spoke. He must not have been present at the arena, thought Titon. There was no other explanation for how this man, who wore the same thin plate as the golden guards, excepting that his was dyed a deep green, could feel so secure snubbing Titon.

“What business?” That Titon had not been first made aware of the issue was frustrating enough, but Aleric’s display of insubordination in front of the men undermined Titon’s ability to lead.

It was Edgar who responded. “A traitor.”

The men returned with a third at spearpoint. It was the halfbreed who had spoken to Titon at the riverbank.

“This man has been heard speaking treason,” Aleric announced for all to hear. “The punishment is death by drawing.” He then turned to Titon with half a smirk, an implicit challenge for Titon to overrule him.

Titon ignored him and looked at the halfbreed. Men were busy binding his feet together while others attached a rope to his wrists, already bound behind his back. The man did not struggle or beg for his life. He did not even look to Titon for aid. He is Galatai, thought Titon. I can see that now.

They grabbed their captive under his arms and carried him to one of only three horses had by their army. It was Titon’s horse, and he didn’t think they meant for the man to ride the beast in Titon’s stead—Titon having only used the horse to haul his gear thus far. The thought of walking beside a horse that was dragging a brother—even a half-brother who knew nothing of his people—was unacceptable. Titon finally looked to Aleric and noticed the man was truly eager to see what Titon would do.

“Stop,” Titon commanded the men, though their work had essentially been completed. They stepped away from the prisoner as Titon approached. “Kneel.” The man obeyed, falling hard to his knees, his hands behind his back, tied to the rope that lay slack on the ground.

“He is a traitor,” Aleric called out, as if to remind Titon that assisting him would be an offense in itself.

Titon ignored him, speaking instead to his three legions of hushed soldiers. “I am your commander now. I, alone, will determine who is innocent and who is guilty when charged with a crime.” Titon looked at the rope on the hardened earth. He would have to sharpen his axe after slicing it where it lay on account of the rocks that would ruin his edge.

“Halfbreed,” Titon said, acknowledging him as Galatai, if only in part. “You are charged with treason. Do you deny these charges?”

The man did not look up. He merely shook his head.

“Then may you rest at the foot of the Mountain.” Titon’s axe swung down, taking the man’s head off cleanly and without making contact with the ground. I promised Ellie I would slay every man, woman, and child in my way. It was more an explanation than an apology. He did not pity this tactless man. He’d left Titon no choice.

As the blood pooled on the cold earth near Titon’s feet, he addressed his men.

“I am your commander now,” he repeated. He searched the crowd of men hoping to find the one who had whispered to Aleric. “And whoever is next to fail to report directly to me on any contention, no matter how small, will suffer the same fate as this man.”