Chapter 25: Twilight of the golden city

Lightning flashed, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, framing a small shadow running on the back alleys of Madukat.

The boy ran, he paid no heed to the passengers who took shelter under the orange glow of torches and braziers of the surrounding whorehouses.

He closed his ears to the hedonic laughter of men and women echoed from within the walls of the whorehouses or music.

He kept running, clutching tightly to the small dirty pouch with his tiny fingers that was numbed to the frosty water. His cheap and dirty tunic, thin, provided him no comfort or protection from the lashing winds and frosty rain, but the boy ran, allowing himself to be caught in the nipping downpour, and ran he did. He ran through the dark alleys of the whorehouses district, taking all the shortcuts to reach the business district of Madukat.

The ground was suddenly pulled off beneath him and the boy fell flat on his face. His knee struck a shard on the cobbled street, he cried out. Still, the young boy refused to let go of the small pouch. The putrid smell of stagnate water and mud was thick in his nose, as well as the mouldy smell on the cobbles. The boy was back on his feet, he wiped his face and started running again, he was desperate.

The boy remembered the derisive words of the whorehouse’s owner telling that if his mother could not work and still in the bed, he would kick them out and left them on the street. The boy remembered the coughs that doubled his mother’s body and left her with no strength to leave her bed. He remembered the burning touch of her skin and her painful labored breath.

Lightning flashed again. The oaken house of the healer came to the boy’s view, he grabbed the rusty doorknob and started hitting it against the door. He called the healer to come out.

Soon, the door creaked open and the old healer peeked his head out.

“What? You again? Go away. I don’t work for free.” The old man squinted his eyes after recognized the boy.

“I have money.” The boy gave the old man the pouch he clutched so tightly.

The old man unfastened the thin string and poured the content of the pouch on his bony hand and started counting all the coins. “16 coppers? That’s not enough. I have told you that it’s 40 copper.”

“Please. Please, my mother require healing. I will do anything. I will work to pay you back all the money.” The boy grabbed the old man’s bony hand and begged.

“I said no. I have told you that my potion are costly. Besides, I will not leave my home under this storm. If you require healing, go to the Essence Temple and pray to Niwdar instead.” The healer brushed away the boy’s hand and put back the coin into the pouch, tossing it at the boy.

“No, please. You know that the priestesses would not bestow their miracle on my mother because she is a prostitute. Please. You have to save her.” The boy grabbed the old man’s hand again, his eyes wetted with tears. “Please, save my mom. I will work for you. I will be your slave. Please, my mom requires healing.”

“Go away,” the old man shook the boy’s hand away and closed the door.

Lightning lit the sky and thunder clapped, no matter how much the boy knocked on the rusty door knob, that wooden door refused to open.

The boy did not know what to do. He turned back, walking under the rain, shivering as the cold winds bit his flesh and the heavy rain pummeled his tiny body. He cried. His tears showered his drenched cheeks with the frosty rain. His boyish cry muffled by the angry thunderclaps, the howling winds and the noises of the heavy rain, unheard to the gods above. The tiny boy returned home with broken footsteps, drench, cold, sad, and afraid under that raging storm.

Suddenly, the boy heard the sound of horses’ hooves hitting the cobbled street, he turned and saw riders amidst the rain. He was slow to avoid them. A horse nearly trampled over him, almost, the rider managed to veer his horse to avoid the boy.

The rider who dressed in black and white armor immediately neighed his horse to a stop, looking at the boy and cursed. The group of riders followed him stopped as well.

The little boy intuitively tried to escape, only to be stumbled on the street. His legs numbed to the frosty water and fear.

The boy saw a rider dropped off his horse and approached him. He was a large man, tall and towering like the walls of Madukat themselves. He did not dress like the rest of the riders. He wore a set of shiny armor adorned in gold and regal pattern, a dark and thick eagle coat framed his shiny armor. He looked kingly, no, godly.

“Boy, why are you here on the street under this heavy rain?”

The man asked. His voice was deep and penetrating, if the god… if Sinintee himself had a voice, this would be his voice. “Are you Sinintee?” he boy unconsciously asked. Wonten had no face, neither nose, nor eyes nor mouth, a blank canvas. That’s how the boy knew this man was not Wonten.

“No, I’m not,” replied the man, picking the boy up with his large and burly hands, “I have answered your question child. Now, it’s your turn to answer my mine.”

“I…” the boy befuddled, then he cried, “My mother is ill. But the healer refused to heal her… I have not enough coins for his potion, he said.”

“Have you call the priestesses of the Essence Temple?”

“They said lady Niwdar forbade them to grant their miracle on my mother”

“I see,” said the man, quietly.

“Please, I beg you, please save my mother. I will work for you. I will serve you for the rest of my life. I will be your slave. Please save my mother. I will work hard and earn back all the coins you use to save my mother. Please save my mother.” The boy begged.

“It’s all right, boy.” The man nodded his head, putting his luxurious eagle coat over the boy, “Which way is the healer’s house?” he asked, putting the boy on the saddle of his horse with him.

The boy immediately led the way, and soon, the boy arrived at the healer house again, this time accompanied by twenty riders.

The man loudly hammered his fist against the door a few time until his patience ran dried. He stepped back and sent the wooden door flying with his massive leg.

“What’s on Escana?” the healer’s voice echoed and he showed his face. Then he saw the man, “My lord, I …” he stuttered, “Forgive me. I did not know,” and bowed deeply.

“Bring your potions and salves and whatever medicines you need. I will see that this boy’s mother treated.” The man said.

The healer saw the boy, his face dreaded with surprise for a moment, then he bowed low again to the man, “Of course, my lord.”

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The red flame danced in front of Moira’s eyes, it reminded her of that woman who was whipped and consigned to a flaming end by those Inquisitors from White Winter. That image haunted her mind still.

Moira sighed, putting her negative feeling aside and focusing on her task. She casted the spell “The Blazing Tongue”, squeezed the red tongue of fire until it was the size of her thumb and focused the conjured heat on the bronze axle cap of her chariot, welding the cap with the blade of a sickle. When Moira was done with her task, Erik and the smiths he hired fixed the welding with a large entrapping ring of iron and some few nails.

Moira kept doing her job without complaining. Her fiery magic was crucial to hasten Erik’s plan. She could soften the metal with her flame or melt them, making it easier for the smiths to do their job. That’s all she could do to help her men.

The manipulation and mastery of flame, water, wind and thunder was the foundation of the gifts of Sinintee given to all intelligent races. However, Moira could only manipulate fire, that’s all she’s good at. Her magic tutor once told Moira that it was very rare to see a gift bearer of Sinintee who could only use one of his domain. It was a rare defect and Moira should hide it, the magic tutor would repeatedly tell Moira.

Moira used to think that as well, that her magic was a defect version of Sinintee’s gift, but no longer. Flame was the most useful among the four. There was countless of its applications in everyday life ranging from engineering works, smith, alchemy and more. And Moira, even though she was limited to with the ability conjure flame alone, she was better at that than most magic casters, that including her magic tutor. She thought herself as being specialized to the aspect of flame.

Erik and his knights has managed to gather over twenty horse cart and fifteen wagons, including the original forty horse carts Moira brought with her to transport the wedding gifts her brother sent to the Warden, that made seventies.

One of the chariots purchased by Erik’s knights caught Moira’s attention. It was obviously belonged to some rich merchant or someone who was wealthy or even nobles. That chariot really stood out among those that were brought back. It was mostly in good condition, the axle was however broken and needed to be replaced, and making it’s very hard to believe that someone would be willing to sell such a good piece cheaply.

The chariot was painted red like the sun itself and adorned with an ancient crest of an impaled gold dragon on a spear. That crest belonged to the greatest hero in the Northern Realm, Craxus the Dragon Slayer.

Every child who was born in the North would know that story of Craxus the brave who killed the last dragon Karijard and later united the entire Northern realm into a single empire. He had many names, the Dragon Slayer, the Demon Bane, the Little Conqueror, and many more.

Craxus was widely known for killing the last dragon Karijard who had been terrorized the Northern land for many centuries. Championed by Sinintee and Wonten, Craxus killed the dragon with his magic spear, that’s how the story went. He later ate the dragon’s heart and drank its blood, performing a secret ritual to steal the dragon’s strength and immortality. After that, following Sinintee’s gospel, he conquered the entire Northern realm, subjugating men, dwarves, and elves under his rule. It took Craxus thirty years to subjugate every kingdom in the Northern realm and his rule last for another forty years.

Ironically, the man who slayed dragon and demon lord, the man who said to be immortal, the man who was favored by the gods themselves, he died not at the hands of his enemies. He was killed in his sleep, or so the bards sang, by the hands of the woman he loved the most in his own bed.

Craxus wedded over thousands of women. They were princesses, queens, tribe leaders, and heirs of powerful families. That did not sit well with his queen. In her jealousy, she planted her dagger into the heart of Craxus. It was a cursed dagger laced with deadly poison that negated the immortality Craxus attained from the dragon. She used that dagger to kill him and then herself after that.

The Empire Craxus created dissolved after his death. A civil war broke out between his children and his generals, the War of the Dragons. Everyone claimed their rights for the throne and eventually, the Empire was split into many kingdoms, back to how they were before Craxus conquered them.

Craxus’ crest was not so much of a surprise to Moira. She knew about it, more like forced to learn it by her matrons and tutors because it was the origin of most crests used by imperial families.

The Imperial Family of the kingdom of Zard used the crest of a gold dragon standing on black. The king of White Winter made his crest with the gold dragon impaled by three swords. The kingdom of Silver Snow’s crest was a white dragon on gray background. Each of the imperial family ruled the northern realm used a variation of Craxus’ crest as their own, signifying their connection with him and their rights for the throne.

That made this chariot extremely intriguing to Moira. It was the original crest after all and besides, it was put on such a luxurious chariot. It exuded power and authority, and more. It made Moira felt strange but she wasn’t sure what kind of emotion that was. Perhaps, she was simply in awe.

While Moira was admiring that strange chariot, Erik and the men switched those carts with wooden axle to metal and oiled them, then, fitting iron tire over the wheel, allowing those carts to run as smooth as any chariot. Then, they hammered and fitted those shields and wooden planks they purchased to the carts, transforming them into real chariots. The last part was to fit blades to the axles and yokes of the chariots, making them looking like real war chariots. They worked ceaselessly from morning to dusk until they could barely work anymore even with the help of torches.

That night, the flamboyant guard captain led his men to ambush Bloodbeard.

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Moira could not stand the atrocity Bloodbeard and his men committed, mutilating those captive while they were alive.

That scene was hell, the very hall of mistress death itself. That scene made her stomach boiled. Cries of rage and disgust echoed from the walls of Madukat but nobody could do anything against the cruelty of Bloodbeard. Some of the guards took it to themselves to release arrows on the bandits but it was beyond their range. The arrows felt short.

The attack on Bloodbeard’s camp last night failed, obviously. It brought a dire consequence to everyone. The guard captains found it hard to approve Erik of his plan to escape the walls, fearing Bloodbeard’s retaliation. That botched raid left Madukat with no less than 2000 men to guard the wall, not nearly enough to fend off Bloodbeard’s force if they intended to force their way through the breach and tried to storm the walls.

Neither of the guard captains and Girout could understand why Bloodbeard had not done it.

The devil had more than enough manpower to siege the wall. What was he planning? What was he after? Nobody could tell. It was like Bloodbeard was playing around with them. It was like he was toying.

Erik was mad at the result. His plan could not be carried out, of course he was mad. He told the guard captains and Girout that if Bloodbeard was ever decided to storm Madukat, Erik would just carry out his plan whether they agreed with him or not. That got everyone into a big argument, everyone except Girout. Girout, he was quiet as if he was contemplating.

The Warden was nowhere to be seen once again. Moira had thought that he simply had the absolute faith in the invincibility of the walls that his ancestor erected but she knew that she was wrong. At dawn, she managed to catch a glimpse of the Warden standing on his balcony with his golden goblet in hand, watching the part of the wall that was torn down by Bloodbeard’s siege engine. He should know that the day of the invincible fortress was numbered and yet, he just sighed and emptied his goblet and retreated into his bedroom.

It was hard to believe a man like that to be the son of the Great Bear, the national hero of the one hundred year war of Zard. He was the reason the war became a stalemate. He basically saved Zard from a certain destruction singlehandedly. Yet, his son was such an unworthy of a man.

Moira let the men had their argument, it’s not like she had an idea. She was no expert in battle and war. The kind of battle she took part in was insignificant to this. She fought bandits before and some insane pirates who thought they were strong enough to raid the Essence Temple in Neirra. Moira could not tell if those pirates were simply insane or stupid, making such a decision to raid the temple of Niwdar.

There was a common saying that “Don’t fight the Strong, don’t anger the Great and don’t mess with Nature.” The Strong implicated the followers of Wonten, the Great Sinintee’s and Nature was Niwdar’s followers.

The gifts the priestesses of the Essence Temple received from Niwdar was more than just the power to heal, there was also the power to protect themselves from harm. They had the spells to turn water into deadly poison that would melt away the skin of its victim upon touching. It was one of the nastiest spells that people used in war.

It was around then, Moira noticed an inquisitor approach the chief Inquisitor in secret, passing some sort of verbal message. The Chief Inquisitor listened and then nodded his head, waving his underling away after that.

“I bear great news,” the chief Inquisitor told everyone in the hall.

He told that he remembered that a Judgment army is traveling around the kingdom of White Winter for their pilgrimage journey was approaching the border according to their schedule. If he could sneak a witch hunter out during the night with a horse, moving through that torn part of the western outer wall. He could ride north and came back with that Judgment army to Madukat and subjugate Bloodbeard. It would probably take a week but if they could try to negotiate with Bloodbeard and drag on the negotiation until then, it’s their victory in the end.

That piece of news suddenly lifted up the heavy mood inside the room. Girout immediately asked how many men he could expect to get from the Judgment Army. At least 5000 was the Chief Inquisitor’s answer. The guard captains commented that such number was more than enough to deal with Bloodbeard and his army of scoundrels.

Everyone inside the room was cheery from the news, excited, perhaps, that was why they missed that strange smile on the Chief Inquisitor’s lips. They all missed that, not Moira, she was watching that man the entire time. His smile made she felt extremely unease. It was then Moira remembered seeing that same smile once before. It was at the plaza in the business district of Madukat where that witch trial was taken place.

Moira remembered the man had that same smile when he lit the pyre and watched the witch screamed as the fire consumed her.