Good Dogs Die Slow

“There weren't always dragons in the valley.” Old Dog knelt down and scratched Luna behind her pointed ears, looking back at the morning's work. Crimson slashed the wilderness over the place he once called home. Speaking the words, to keep him in practice - and on the right side of sane, “There weren't always dragons in the valley. Soon they won't be here again”. Turning away from the morning's violence he left the scent of gore, the soft whimpers of dying men, and scrubbed the ruby splatterings from his face on to his sleeve. Luna's blood-drenched muzzle snapped up as Old Dog clicked his tongue. Her disappointed eyebrows furrowed as she attempted to turn back to her meal. He clicked again and Luna begrudgingly came to heel, her long tongue pulling the flavor of meat from her fur. “Come on you two.” And so, she fell into step with her lumbering mate, Cotton. His scruff browned with layered filth. Old Dog whistled his same old tune with a renewed spring in his step.

It had been a long time since Old Dog heard a voice talk back that wasn't in his own head. The dragons weren't much in the way of conversation when he came upon them. Looking back one last time before starting his long trek down - always down - from the high sides. He tucked away the good axe and stowed the daggers. He inhaled as if he hadn't taken a breath since the last time he'd set eyes on those slopes. Memories filled Old Dog's head, like steam from the unchanged, soupy, air. The aroma stirred up past regrets. Only makes sense he'd come back to this place the way he left it. Covered in Dragon's blood. “Well it won't get after itself", he mused. Shifting his pack, the weight of freshly plundered supplies settled.

His tattered shirt clung to his skin, hair just greasy locks. Luna, was panting furiously, as the drying gore clung to her darkened muzzle. A small white crescent, where maw met soul, was tinged a ruddy pink. Cotton was even worse. His, normally, white fur was caked in chest-deep mud and splattered with the day's scavenging. “By the Rain and the Wind, you two needed a bath.” Cotton snorts. Pulling his threadbare cape off, Old Dog dropped his pack, and rolled it up like a blanket to strap it down. His head snapped up, “What was that?”

…..

Pharil hated this part, “Please stop your whining, all it accomplishes is to make me hurry the boys along with their knot tying.” "Sir, we were on our way to the tributary, I swear!”, blubbered the man with thinning hair, through bloodied and swollen lips. “A covenant enough lie, eh men?”, a menacing chuckle grumbled as his men went about their work, a sneer breaking out over Pharil's pitted face. He never could leave those scabs alone as a child but, being ugly has its advantages. A sneer from one of the pretty boys like, Grarehil or Doven, and people think you're pomus. From Pharil? People cower. “Because how can we substantiate that claim? Go out of our way to follow you?”, pointing out past the bend in the road with a lazy, weary, flail of his arm. “Leave our post to ensure your honesty? Take your word that you aren't fleeing His Majesty with his taxes in tow?” Phairl tutted as he walked the line of kneeling, mewling wretches. The bloody man, a woman who could be his wife, and two boys - both weeping violently. Well, them along with that old man that his men had worked over so badly his heart gave out before they could even hang him. “No”, Pharil stopped before the kneeling man. Polishing his medallion of office, the silver seal in the shape of the Calgravic heraldry, encircled by the phrase, “What we are owed and no debt unpaid”. He locked eyes with the man, “Law must be upheld and His Majesty must not suffer…”. Biting out the steely words, "... ungrateful subjects." Before he could turn his inhale into another tirade of belittling this soon dead, valley born, filth - he was cut off. “Lines secured captain”, Grarhil fell in at his side, the usual look of self-satisfaction plastered over his chiseled features. Golden curls falling from under his flat-brimmed steel cap. The bloody man’s plea was already cut off as the noose pulled tight, his legs kicking in the air. The woman cried out, in a last-ditch effort before the rope's course fiber bit into her neck, “Please spare my boys, how could they be of any harm to you? I’ll do an...” The horse attached to her walked away at an easy gate, heading toward a small basket of apples. One horse was already crunching away, two more were still held by Grarehil. The smaller children had longer ropes so only they were privileged with a few more seconds. No parent should have to watch their children die. Her voice faded to a gurgle. “For all, we know it was their idea. Theft of taxes is punishable by hanging. My hands are tied as much as yours.” Phairl held his wrists together in a mocking gesture and the taler of the two children's noose slipped tight. Droven and Burnwise were already divvying up the farmer's assumed life savings. The oldest of the two boys' necks was already feeling the stretch.

Then there was a growl and a crash.

This spooked the horse and it jolted toward the apples bringing the last boy up on his toes before Grarehil, wrenching his sword off of its saddle, strutted its hoves, and slowed it. The wheeze of suffocation broke the heavy silence of the four Calgravians on edge. Droven clutched the purse of silver coins to his chest. Clutched them white knuckle tight, as the blade burst out of his chest. No breath, nor sound, except the clatter of coins. Then the bark and snap of dogs exploded from the trees. Burnwise was spilling onto the road, while two mutts were fighting over his flailing limbs. Drovens frame falling to his knees, then to his face. A new man standing in his stead snarling, his ragged clothing heightening the air of savage desperation around him.

Phairl's feet instinctually carried him back. He told himself it wasn't out of fear, that he had his duty to consider, and he would need to report this. His body turned, even as Grarhil dashed forward with a warcry. His eyes lingered on his second, “FOR THE KIN..”, and there his momentum stopped. The strange bandit had killed two of the king's men and was now walking towards him, closing the gap quickly, as he dropped the knife he had sheathed in Grarhil's neck. He took to tax collection to avoid the wars and weapons but, still, here it was. Pharil scrambled away from the lean, blood-splattered, personification of death chasing him down. “Wait!”, his words sounding high and panicky, “We're king's men, we're on official busin…oof.” He had caught his heel on something and tripped. Looking up at the willowy man, even hunched, the size of a tree in his own right. His stringy hair caught the breeze and clung across his face, making a broken mask of his features. “Take it”, he whined pointing at the spilled coins, “take all of it but, please leave me be.” Pointing a trembling hand to the hanged family, the little one still kicking, he said, “They won't be missing it.” As the stranger turned to look, Pharil clutched up a handful of dirt. When the man of menace turned back, he flung it in his eyes as he began to dart back into the woods. Fear was hammering in his chest so hard, that he couldn't make out the words the stranger barked when the cloud of road stones had blinded him. His mind raced to find an escape. His mind raced to find an excuse.

…..

Old dog coughed and cursed, blinking out his careless mistake. Shaking his head, he whistled for the dogs but they were too drunk on meat to be of any use tracking. The whisper of air returned his attention to the tree, three dead, one clinging to life. A mirror to the fighting men that set out to rob these poor folk. Old Dog grunted and hefted his workin' axe, striding up to the youngest. A shake of his head to clear the clinging hair, a swift chop, and it was done.

…..

The thud tells her that she hit the ground, the air coming slow. The rope is set to slack and she breathes buckets of wet air into her lungs, trying to put out the burning of suffocation. Swimming, her vision blurs back into cold focus at her brother's feet. Then a voice “boy.” gravel base and unfamiliar. Snapping around. That was a mistake her neck raw from the hanging. Clutching at the burn tears flowing freely as she lets out a small scream. Lungs still too strained to get the appropriate volume for the pain. A big hand claps over her mouth. Terror strikes. “Shhh boy, we move now.” and she was in a half sprint, half drag. She didn't know this man but his accent sounded like Helms before he was kicked to death, brave old man. Always went on about the war, and going over the wall at Metrizel now he lay in the mud breathless. She never took it for truth, just old campfire stories but the farmer stood to fight them off before her father could even stop the cart. This man was lean, smelling like earth, copper, and road-weary sweat. Almost twice her size and looking more staved than the mutts he had with him. The beasts so caked in filth and blood you could bearly get the color of them. “Graa” She croaked trying to speak, a whisper that shot fresh pain searing through her brain. “Be still boy’o.” then he clicked his tough twice and one of the beasts came round tongue dangling from between its viscera dripping teeth. The man plucked his blades free from each corpse in turn, each with a grunt. Then sizing up one of the Calgravians feet to his own pulled off the dead man's boots and swapped them for his own. “Dragons may be the greediest, lowest, treacherous DeShai the world over, but they make a good boot.” DeShai, one of her Pa’s words. One for when she was older, one she used when Ma and Pa weren't round to know about it. She couldn't clear her throat. “Give it a rest boy’o.” cleaning up the spilled coins whipping his head around sending out a flickering of blood that splashed against her trousers.

Ma said it was better for her to travel as a boy since her shape wasn't showing, so they had cut her hair short and fitted her in some of Walsh’s old clothes. He cocked his head to the side, his hounds doing the same. Then frowning, “Old Dogs got you Boy’o that's to be sure. Come along now.” a fever brightness in his eyes. “You may be in the mind to kill you some dragons but I think it's fair that we try not to get in over our talent.”

The trembling started not long after they had moved off the road. She followed Old Dog back down into the valley her family was leaving. Her bones chattering like she was in the dead of winter with no coat. Tears came down freely, her throat still racked with pain as she let out small sobs. Then shakily she just sat down. Next to a tree in the woods maybe 80 paces off the road her family had just died on. Died and left hanging, now she sat blubbers of snot and weeping she didn't even have the energy to wipe clean. Her eyes shut tight she felt their cold noses on her skin. Snuffling into her trying to get their heads in close. Heaving breaths as she went to push the two smelly beasts away. But the dogs worked around her arms and layed into her. Heavy and warm. Cold noses sending jolts through her body when they caught her skin. “Good dogs can bring a man through anything.” his rough voice was still low and she looked through blurry eyes to see Old Dog on his keels crouched, new boots in stark contrast to his weathered clothes and the shabby frayed cape he was tucking into his pack. A concerned frown set into his leathery face. “Sadness never got nothing done lad.” he rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath, a look of discomfort tugging at the corners of his eyes. “They're dead..” those words hit like a hammer and she screwed up her eyes and fresh sobs burst forth. No longer pushing the dogs away but holding them close as her trembling turned to a rocking. She could hear him shifting clearing he throat. “Now err umm” his voice trailed as he searched for the words. With a grunt, he stood. “Have your tears a while longer, then when you've dried out will keep moving. Then will start building a fire in you. Sadness sure as sure never got nothing done but angry.” pausing will a quick chuckle. “Angry, DeShaing built kingdoms boyo.” then he spat and gave her some distance.

She didn't know how long had passed but the day was drifting toward darkness when the crying stopped and the numb set in. Sweaty, exhausted, and hungry she didn't have room to feel anything else. Old Dog had found a small flat spot between some trees and cleared it of sticks and rocks. He lay his back propped up at the base of a tree hands folded across his wiry chest, eyes closed, cape used as a blanket. She crunched over, the pair of hounds circling her as she moved. Without opening an eye “wondering if youed ever hit the bottom of that sad Noose.” she blinked voice framing the question. “Noose?” voice husky with the strain of speaking. lifting one finger “Can't be calling you boyo all the ever can we.” taking half a step further toward Old Dog“that's not m..” “who you were died crying by that tree there.” shifting as darker of the two dogs found a spot beside the man. “Noose is as good of a name as you've earned until the time comes you earn one better. Now we got less daylight and more woods for the morrow. Get some rest and we’ll set out with the sun.” Relacing his fingers. “Bread in the bag”