SWORN-DOG-ON-A-THRONE
A Dull Knife Story
His eyes were the strongest of his fellows, and he was once fast on foot, quiet when he needed to be, and did not hesitate to draw a knife and put it into another man’s back if the opportunity required it. Sworn Dog was once a passionate fighter, but to live another day, he would not hesitate to blind an opponent with a fist full of sand and cut at his wrists and ankles. Some would say that it was not fair, but he was not in this to look like a dancer at a festival, he was in this to survive and thrive. That is how be became the
Sworn-Dog-On-A-Throne. None had defeated him since he climbed the high seat at council, and none dared try in over ten long years. He had no honour, and he had no mercy. But he held a throne, and that is all that mattered.
Sworn Dog was once given a wise man’s secret in trade for a favoured rifle when he was a young man. That secret stayed with him for these many decades, and it had never failed him, not yet. The greatest secret of Sworn Dog’s success was to “…know all, to see all, and to act before another could. Opportunity only favours the bold who are willing to risk defeat. Other men fear defeat. A wise man will embrace it for the lessons it would teach.” The man who took his rifle gave him this great secret – all great kingdoms in all of the ages of the world were built with it.
When he was not yet on the high seat, he was told by a drunken guard of one of the tribe’s counsellors that a tradesman was expected to arrive on the morrow with a chest of sweet smoking herb and a wagon full of seasoned whiskey. He rode out on the night and murdered the tradesman, took his horses, his wagon, and his wares, and made a bargain with a down-the-river tribe six days to the south – a trade for seven horses and three swordsmen of young and impressionable age. They were well skilled in the sword dances of their tribe, but just as importantly, they knew nothing yet of honour. He would make assassins of them, and teach them to bitter their blades with poison. He would teach them to travel ahorse and use a rifle like his own tribesmen. He would teach them to silently move in the night and cut the throats of his enemies before they could so much as open their eyes.
Sworn Dog craved the ultimate position over all that his skill could earn, he craved power, but most of all, he wanted to be a great leader of ever greater leaders. He sought to become a god whose progeny understood that they must settle for nothing less than absoluteness. He found his opportunity, and he seized it, captured it, and made it his own. His tribe was ruled by the sword – position was earned through blood and battle and wise decisions. Through discipline and simplicity, not spangle and glitter. Nothing is accomplished by weakness. You take what is yours, there is no other way but strength. If you could take it – and keep it – then it was yours.
Sworn Dog brought his men and his horses and he challenged for his place on the high seat. The old bearded warrior danced a fine dance, his blades whirled around him like a dust devil on a dry wind, his bells jangled as he spun, his colorful clothing creating swirls of rainbows in his wake. Sworn Dog watched, parried, and defended his position, keen on his moment, and clipped the old man just above his foot when he came near enough to cut. Blade rang upon blade, but the old man’s prowess was a dance of etiquette, and his tradition exposed him to something that all skillful warriors suffered – Pride. Sworn Dog’s blade knicked the old man’s ankle, and his foot faltered. He mis-stepped, his spin thrown off, and his dance ended with Sworn Dog taking his opportunity to thrust his blade deep into the old man’s face, and he smiled as he watched the dancing man’s broken smiled astonishment when he pushed his flintlock pistol into what remained of his gaping mouth and pulled the trigger. Brains and hair and blood exploding outward from the back of his honorable head all over the honored dirt beneath him.
Pride, and grace, but the dancing swordsman expected his enemy to respect his dance, to dance with him, blade matching blade step for step, four feet locked in a dance where only one man would win, and only one man would fall, but with a gentleman’s grace, and often with mercy for a fallen opponent, because honor was forgiving. Honor demands integrity. Sworn Dog did not care for grace, forgiveness, integrity, or honor. He did not dance in a swirling fashion. He wore no bells and displayed no colored scarves in his garments. He wore only simple leather boots, breeches, and an unbleached tunic. And he fought simply. He looked for an opening, and took it. He saw weakness, and exposed it. He watched the old man fall back, a heel mark where his nose was squashed in, the gaping, black bloody hole in his scull where the sword slipped out, a matching bloody hole in the back his head. Grey and red committed itself to the earth.
Simple. No complicated dance for Sworn Dog. Sworn Dog took his place, no one stepping in to challenge his rulership. Sworn Dog knew the way of the sword, and his men became feared in the tribe. They did not speak big words, and they did not know their letters. Sworn Dog could not understand the lines and curls on the paper, they confounded him, and he did not care for flowery words. He did not say three words when one word would do. But he knew that agreements were written, and that trade was tallied with those marks upon those pages. He understood that they were important. But he was not a man of flourish and spectacle. He demanded simplicity. Simple questions. Simple answers.
Sworn Dog did not take a wife, but fathered many children. His seat was unchallenged, and any who was bold enough to utter words against him would be found tied to a post with their tongue cut out and replaced with their severed cock instead, lips sewn closed around it, the impotent nub of their childmaker speaking louder than wordful tongues. Those who were unworthy, those who spoke and did not act, those who were filled with rotful noise were never found, nor further referenced, nor discussed. They were plucked out root and stem. They were not worthy of memory. They were not names. They were unnamed. Their name was oblivion. Sworn Dog ate their names.
Sworn Dog would trade with his neighbors, seeking only the wealth they offered, the best of everything for his people. He did not enjoy luxury for himself, preferring simple garb and simple food.
His people would live wealthy on his trading skill, for he would only accept the best, and no one dared question the quality he demanded. This earned him the kind of service from those he served. This earned loyalty. A man would eat his most beloved child raw if he were guaranteed endless promises. A mother would suck the brain juice from a straw inserted in her newborn child's soft, trepinated scull, mewling from the ecstatic rapture
Promises need not be anything more than a nod of recognition. Humans were as trainable as dogs. Dogs were more reliable.
Sworn Dog knew of his tribe’s value – they were brewmasters and farmers and craftsmen and skilled warriors. Theirs was the whiskey that drew the breath out of the body and replaced it with fire. And villages far and wide knew of their skill. And more importantly, it was Sword Dog who would teach their children the way of the blade. The generations would revere him as a father, as a teacher, as the only source of love, kindness, and approval.
Treaties were signed with the councils and elders of other tribes to provide him with tribute – a man child and a woman child -- that he might teach them the ways of the sword, and of discipline, and silence. His were the methods and manners of pragmatism. Thereby, each year his tribe would grow, and they would give the best of what they had, one grown and trained warrior, exchanged like cattle for cases of the best whiskey, or the finest quality smoking herbs, perhaps a trade in horses, for his people were breeders of the largest working stock, the fastest messanger stock, and the finest food stock.
And his people grew, and with the growth of his tribe, so too did their need for sustainance. He began to search for a place where the land was fertile, and the people plump and well fed. He need not look farther than three days ride to the west, the chubby farmers, their little valley filled with many fine gardens and animals of every variety. They were known for their easy ways, and were thought of as an intelligent and peaceful people who shared more with to their neighbors than they demanded. They were known for softness. They were known for fairness. They were known for kindness. They were known for their stories and music. They were known for their friendship and welcoming nature. The
They would make a fine addition to his tribe’s holdings. He was through trading with them, he would instead take them as his own – to the winner goes the spoils.