Chapter 31: Twilight of the golden city (4)
My brother was born on the stormiest day that Madukat had ever seen. Thunder clapped and blackened the highest tower of our city. The winds howled and destroyed hundreds of houses within the walls. The frosty hail indiscriminately killed people and livestock. However, the moment my little brother cried his first, the winds stopped blowing and the rain disappeared. It was as if that storm was an illusion.
Everyone could already tell that he was destined to be great, the matrons, the servants, the housekeeper, and even my parents. My father decided to name him “Fobãa”, the breaker of storm in our tongue, a fitting name for the next lord of Madukat.
My little brother is a born genius with the war hammer and the shield just like my father. The first time he touched father’s shield and war hammer, everyone knew he’s a real deal, unlike me. Wonten blessed him with great strength and the great aptitude to receive his miracles just like my own father. Fobãa Bellmore, my little brother was everything my father was when he was young and even more.
At the age of nine, he can lift father’s war hammer that was too heavy even for adults with one hand and I at the age of fourteen could barely lift it with two.
At ten, he mastered the bow and arrows. His arrow always flew straight to his targets once loosed. His bow was an elven war bow with dwarven metal string. Normal people could not even pull that bow, much less shoot with it, and my brother could do it naturally as if breathing and eating.
I remembered that one time father brought us to a hunting trip. We encountered a small wolf pack chased after a herd of bison. Father pointed his finger at one particular wolf, a strange wolf with black lustrous fur running amidst the pack of white wolves.
“Anyone manages to shoot down that beast will have my war hammer,” father said in a festive mood. He confirmed that the competition was for everyone, the guards, the servants and us his children.
I galloped my horse toward that pack of wolves with my arbalest in one hand. I had only one shot at best so I wanted to be as near as possible to my prey. Girout was ahead of me, trying to separate the beast from the pack with his javelins to let me have an easy shot. Only Girout would do something stupid like that, a stable boy he was at that time, only he would stand on my side, only Girout would support a loser like me. Only Girout would risk going against every servant and guard in our manor to support me. He was the biggest moron.
Even though father said that the competition was for everyone, no servant or guard would dare to shoot that black wolf. They knew the meaning of that war hammer. That was father’s personal weapon. It was his identity. Even if father gave them a bag full of gold, they would not dare to touch that war hammer.
That’s why they picked a side and they chose my little brother. Their arrows, javelins and bolts were never meant to touch that beast. They were meant to isolate that beast and create an opportunity for my little brother. He was meant to inherit that weapon from the moment he was born. Even I knew that. Yet, the meager pride I had within myself prevented me from letting my brother having that weapon easily.
Twenty of father’s servants and guards could not be compared to a young moronic stable boy. Girout has created a direct line to the prey for me. I aimed my arbalest and the string went twang.
Yet that bolt never reach the black wolf. It flew, yes it flew across the plain, that wolf.
My brother was faster with his custom war bow. His arrow that was the size of a javelin tore through the beast and sent it flying into another beast, killing two wolves one black one white at the same. He made an impossible shot. It was an impossible shot, not just because it has skewered two beasts with a single arrow but also the way he delivered that shot.
Girout was in Fobãa’s line of sight, riding his skin and bone pony that was full of scabies. My brother unbuckled the straps and stood on his horse saddle, leapt and pulled his bow as he was falling.
I had never seen something like that. Nobody has ever seen that. Nobody taught Fobãa to do something like that, and yet he did it and succeeded.
Father laughed and praised him. The servants and guards cheered for my little brother. Only Girout stood next to me, telling the dejected me, “Next time, little lord,” he said, “There is still the shield, little lord. Maybe you are not destined for the war hammer of our lord. Maybe, the shield was meant for you,” he told me.
But even I knew that was a lie. I was never meant to be born a son of my father. I was never meant to inherit anything from him, not his greatness, not his talent, nor his wealth nor title. I was meant to be nobody, a joke, a stain on my father’s good name, a loser. I knew what I was. I knew what I will be.
That night, my little brother offered me the war hammer, telling me that I can have it, perhaps realizing how bad my mood was. That was like rubbing salt to the injury. Only the meager pride of an older brother prevented me from lashing out on him.
“Keep it,” I said, “You got it with your own hands. But don’t think for a moment that you can have the shield of our father. I will have it,” I told him, repeating the lie that Girout told me. I tried my best to not lashing out at my little brother with all of my hatred, envy and anger.
Fobãa smiled, an untainted smile, innocent and without a sliver of doubt. That smile of his only fueled my hatred for myself. I did not hate the attention Fobãa received from my parents and everyone. I did not hate the secretive whispers that the servants made about me. I certainly did not hate Fobãa. The only person I hated was no other than my ugly and useless self.
Fobãa was so good with the bow that father used to joke that mother must have slept with an elf and she would bar him from their chamber every time he made that ugly joke.
Fobãa was everything I could never become. He mastered the art of horse riding at the age of twelve. He was so good at horse riding that the servants gave him the nickname Sagittarius, after a mythical half man half horse creature in the Titan’s myth.
It was like he was chosen. The war hammer and the shield chose him. The bow, the sword, the spear, the horse, and everything that a man would like to master in his life time chose my brother. He was chosen the very moment he came to the world.
My little brother learned fast. The house tutor never had to stop, dwelling on a topic for days to make sure he really understood the lesson.
He was great at everything. He was the personification of greatness and talent. I remembered that one time father brought us to the birthday party of the king of Zard. The king loved my brother so much that he praised Fobãa at the parties as the reincarnation of Craxus, the very Little Conqueror, the Demon Bane and the Dragon Slayer himself. Even the king himself predicted that my brother was destined for greatness.
“The Great Bear has sired a dragon cub,” the king joked and all the guests laughed.
I remembered shamefully hid myself at the corner of the king’s great hall, removing myself from the gaze of the guests and saving myself from being compared with my brother again. In the shadow I was, that the place I was meant to be.
Yet, it was me who was spared from “that”.
My little brother was broke down in high fever one day after his sixteenth birthday. That never happened to him or me or my father. We, children of the Bellmore, never got sick in our entire life, not me, not my father, not my uncles and aunts, not my grandfather and even our ancient ancestors. The gods created us, the Bear of the North like that.
Father rode to the Essence Temple himself and brought a priestess of Niwdar’s Temple to heal my little brother.
“A curse”, she said, “A very powerful curse has been placed upon him,” she told my parents, sweating profusely. Her face paled, fearing for the life of my little brother. She told my parents that it was too powerful of a curse that she could not lift it herself. She suggested bringing my brother to the temple, hoping that her sisters would change the outcome.
My parents immediately agreed, sending my brother to the temple as fast as they could. The priestesses tried everything they could, spells after spells, miracles upon miracles, potions upon potions. Nothing could save Fobãa from that curse, nothing. My parents cried as they watched my little brother’s lips turned pallid blue. Even the Great Bear cried for his dying pulp.
“I don’t want to die,” my little brother said, brimming with tears. That was his last words as he laid dying in my parents’ arms.
My father was beyond himself with wrath and fury. He chased the priestesses out of the temple and burned it down as he was holding my little brother in his arms, crying. I have never seen him so angry in my entire life. He cursed the priestesses that they did not try hard enough. He cursed the deities for allowing such terrible thing to happen upon my brother. He turned the entire city upside down, searching for the culprit that placing such a terrible curse on my little brother. However, my father did not catch the culprit of that tragedy.
Everyone cried for my little brother on his funeral, everyone except me. I was sad. I remembered that I was sad. And yet, I found no tear welled within my eyes no matter how hard I tried. The corners of my eyes were hollowed and dried just like the warm snow of Zard. I remembered asking myself if I was truly sad from my little brother’s death. I remembered asking myself if I was secretly happy from the bottom of my heart.
“Why it is him?” I heard the whispers of the grieving servants. “Why it is him?”
That made me asking myself, “Why it is me who live?” Why indeed.
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The servants questioned my lack of tears at the funeral with their whispers. They questioned if I was secretly cheering for Fobãa’s death. Otherwise, how else would I inherit my father’s title and everything?
I remembered asking myself if that was true, as I was holding a fruit knife inside my shaking hand as I hid inside my special hiding place. I remembered being surprise when Girout burst into the room and snatched that knife away from me. His face was full of tears. He, too, cried for my little brother.
“What were you thinking, little lord?” he asked angrily.
Only Girout noticed my disappearance at the funeral. Only he realized that when no one else did.
I was beside myself with silence. I could say nothing.
“Fool,” Girout shouted, violently tossing the knife to the ground, “Fool,” he said, knobbing his bony knuckles down on my forehead, “Fool.”
That was the first time someone ever hit me. That was the first time someone called me a fool in front of me.
“Do you think that killing yourself would make anyone happy, little lord?” he screamed. His hands, bloody from the holding the cutting edge of the fruit knife, clutched my face tightly. His warm blood smeared my cheek. “Do you think killing yourself would make our lord happy? What do you think our lord would be like when he discovered you, his son, killed himself at the end of this very day?”
“I’m unneeded,” I replied in a quiet voice.
“Fool, who told you that?” Girout shouted, shook me with his bony and calloused hands.
“Don’t you already know Girout? Everyone. Everyone. I’m unneeded. Can’t you hear the whisper?”
“You are our lord’s son. How could you be unneeded?” Girout gritted his teeth and stomped his foot. He then tore a piece of his tunic and cleaned my face of his blood.
“It doesn’t matter. Fobãa is the only true son that my father has,” I shook my head.
“What are you talking about, little lord? You are his flesh and blood,” Girout rebuked. His words held no contempt or mockery. Every bit of them was genuine.
I was sure that only Girout would tell me something like that as if they were facts. It made me seethed with fury. “That’s the only thing I inherited from him. I have none of his talent or greatness. I am nothing like him.”
Girout looked at me in the eyes, and slowly, he asked me in a calm deep tone. “Is this about my little lord Fobãa?”
“It should be me who die, Girout. I’m sure that even my parents think that.” I replied.
“You are a fool to think that, little lord. Your parents love you. They don’t wish for you or the little lord Fobãa to die.” Girout sighed, putting his hand on my shoulder to give me a good shake.
His kind words only poured more oil into my seething fury. I slapped his hand away, “How do you know that? How do you know that for sure, Girout?”
“I know that, little lord,” replied Girout. His tone unchanged.
“What do you even know Girout? You don’t even know who your father is.” The moment that escaped my mouth, even I realized that I should have never said that.
Girout blinked his eyes once, dismissing the mixed of pain and shock on his face. “That thing you call talent is truly something to be feared and admired little lord. I have never known someone as talented as the little lord Fobãa is. But, so what, little lord? It’s not everything. If you cannot do that in a year or two or three or even a decade, so what my little lord? You still have a future ahead of you. You will live long. You still have time to learn them and master them. So what if you could not do it in a decade my little lord? Keep doing those things for two or three decades, you will be just as good as our lord. Don’t heed the whispers, my little lord. They are cruel and untrue. They are petite and disgusting. Those people did not have the gut to tell you in person and only whisper among themselves in secret. They are cowards. They are worse than horse manures.”
Girout did not care that I has just insulted him. He tried to comfort me with his words.
He calmly told me, word by word. “Every single day, they call me whoreson behind my back. They mocked me for being born from a prostitute. They mocked my mother. They mocked me for not knowing who my father was. They mocked the lord’s decision to take me in and have me serving him. But so what, my little lord? I will be your housekeeper in the future and not them. They are coward and useless. Whisper is the only thing they can do, that’s why they are worse than horse manures. You can use horse manure to enrich the earth, these whisperers, they can’t even do that. They can do nothing but whisper. But you my little lord, you are the future lord of this city. One day, you have to manage it like our lord does. That, my little lord, you don’t need talent for that. You only need time and effort. It takes time and effort.”
“I’m sorry,” I casted my gaze downward, ashamed of myself for calling Girout with those words.
“You don’t have to, little lord. I know you did not mean it. Now, you have to come with me to the catacomb before people discover you are not there.”
“I can’t Girout. I cannot cry for Fobãa. There is no tear. People will…” I stuttered, “People will…”
“But you are sad, little lord. You are grieving just like my lord and my lady for the little lord Fobãa”
“Am I?” I asked mockingly. I could not find it within myself to believe Girout’s latest words no matter how genuine they sounded.
“These are tears, my little lord,” Girout brushed his thumb against my cheeks. It was then, I have come to realize that I was indeed tearing up.
At that time, I still dreamed of succeeding my father and became a good warden.
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I stirred awake the moment that metallic sound clicked within my head. I heard the voices of people shouting and talking among themselves, gibberish. I can only make out Girout’s voice from that gibberish but even I could not tell what he was talking about.
I felt the urge to throw up as that bitter and sour liquid rose from my stomach and flooded my mouth. So I did, sitting up and spewing that disgusting liquid that viscous and smelly liquid out of my mouth.
I had the usual brain splattering headache assaulting me, the usual stuff, that happened every time I drained a barrel of my favorite dwarven gut-bursting fire mead.
My sight was a cloudy mess. It was as if the gods decided to combine a cloudy day, a sunny day, a stormy day and a foggy day altogether to see what would happen. A thousand suns torched my vision and a hundred shadows danced in an unholy ritual under that madness.
My stomach churned and I vomited again.
“My lord,” I heard Girout’s voice and felt his strong hand patting my back.
“Girout, what’s happening?” I asked, could not bring myself to stop vomiting. The world was still spinning round and round. I saw nothing but torching suns and dancing shadows.
“Water,” I heard Girout’s angry voice ringing within my ears. “What are you doing? Fools, give that to me.”
The suns and the shadows faded instantly, making way for a sudden frosty rain. Cold freezing water splashed my face and blotted out those torching suns.
“Girout?” I asked.
“Are you awake now, my lord?”
I wiped the water off my face with my palm, still trying to make out what’s happening around me. “Girout?”
“More water,” Girout shouted and frosty rain splashed me in the face again.
“What’s going on? Why am I outside?” I asked angrily, wiping away the water on my face with the soaking wet sleeves of my bed wear.
“You have to go now, my lord,” Girout told me, grapping my hand and pulled me to a horse carriage, and mumbled within his mouth, “I should have been stricter on you.”
“Explain what’s going on to me right now,” I demanded, growing.
“You have to leave this city now, my lord. This is the only chance you have.”
“What’s going on?” I shook Girout’s pulling hand away and asked in a sober tone.
“Get on the carriage first and then I will tell you, my lord,” Girout pointed his finger at the carriage.
I listened and followed Girout into the opened carriage. The carriage tilted to one side as I stepped on the ladders and I heard the entire carriage creaking noisily under my weight.
Girout uncharacteristically sat first on one side on the carriage which prompted me to sit on the other side. I felt the carriage seemed to sink to the ground, bending from my weight alone. It was then, I noticed the war hammer and the shield of my ancestor were placed on the wall of the carriage, behind Girout’s seat.
“What are they doing here?” I pointed my finger at the pair and demanded. The sight of that hammer and shield only brought more confusion into my head.
“Go, hurry,” Girout loudly knocked on the wall of the carriage and soon, the carriage slowly moved.
Girout strongly grabbed hold of my hands with his bony and calloused palms. He looked into my eyes and spoke, “My lord, listen to me carefully. I have made a deal with the chief knight of house Farrington and he agreed to escort you to Silver Snow with him.”
“What?”
“I have packed more than enough wealth within the coffers so that you can live without a worry for the rest of your life. However, you have to watch out on your spending. I suggest hiring a trustworthy accountant to watch over your spending. Also, when you arrive at Itos, the Farrington will help you to find a house, until then, you can be their guest.”
“Wait, what?” I could not hide the confusion that leaked out of my mouth.
“I will have our men opening the Northern Gate soon. The chief knight of house Farrington will charge out of the blockage on the Northern Gate with his entourage. Your carriage will be escorted in the middle of their formation with lady Farrington’s carriage. I have assigned a few able bodies to travel with you and protect you, my lord. This plan will work, so, you don’t have to worry. I have observed the situation on the Northern Gate for a few days now. Those bandits were slacking on their guard. They won’t see this coming.”
Girout kept on talking in chatter, without slowing down, without any intention to explain to me of what’s truly happening.
“What are you talking about, Girout?”
“Look, my lord. If you stayed in this city for longer, you will be killed, sooner or later. I have calculated and imagined all scenarios inside my head. You will without a doubt be killed. This is a lost cause, my lord. I will not let that happen.”
“Girout, speak to me. Explain, what’s going on right now?”
“We have arrived, master Girout.”
A knock on the wall of the carriage, I heard the coachman neigh the horses and the carriage stopped. A servant appeared and opened the door.
Girout climbed out of the carriage. Then he stopped, and climbed back in. He strongly held my hands with his trembling calloused hands. He grabbed my hands tightly, squeezing on them. He then bent his back and kissed my hands.
“My lord, this is probably the last time I will see you. Please take care of yourself, my lord. I wish I could be by your side and serve you until the day I die. But, this is it, my lord. You have to learn how to take care of yourself now. You are on your own now. Please live well,” Girout said, his eyes reddened with tears.
This bald headed man was the one and only person who wholeheartedly trusted me even though I have failed him times and times again. I have done nothing but failing him, yet, he still trusted me. The only reason I can still sit on the throne that my father left to me was credited to Girout. Without him, I would have died to my uncle’s treacherous blade. Without him, I would probably have committed suicide on my brother’s funeral. I’m nothing without him by my side.
“Wait, Girout.”
But before I was able to react, Girout climbed out of carriage. He shut the door and wrapped a chain around it, locking the door.
“Girout,” I called for the bald head housekeeper, “Free me,” grabbing the door and trying to open it. The door creaked but it never opened. Through the bars of the door carriage, I saw a long convoy of carriages, chariots, and carts surrounded my carriage, all fortified with shields, metal planks and blades. They looked like serious business as if they were meant for real war and battle.
Girout never looked back at me. He hastily approached a man in white armor. It was the chief knight of house Farrington. “Please, I trust you with my lord,” Girout said, grabbing the metallic gauntlets of the knight and giving them a good shake, begging.
“I will try my best to not let you down, master Girout,” the old knight nodded his head and immediately barked orders to his men.
“Girout,” I called for the faithful servant who has always been by my side since my childhood, “Girout,” I called.
The bald headed man looked at me, his hands clutching to his rusty blue bronze idols of the four patron deities of Escana, praying wholeheartedly.
The chief knight of house Farrington kept barking orders for the carriage to move out in sequences, impassive to me and Girout.
Then, my carriage started to roll its wheels, creaking, creaking and creaking. It was slow at first but soon, the carriage picked up in speed. The chief knight of house Farrington was taking the rein of a red chariot running next to mine, snapping the whip to increase the speed of his chariot.
Girout’s figure became smaller and smaller as my carriage moved. When my carriage passed through the Northern Gate, I could not even see Girout’s shape anymore.