Chapter 32: Twilight of the golden city (5)

Moira heard the shrilled shouting voice of Girout echoed. For a man of such small stature and so old, he had such a big and imposing voice. It seemed that Girout agreed to Erik’s plan without talking with the guard captains first. The gatekeepers were obviously confused by the order of Girout and intended to submit a report to the guard captains first before he would open the gate for Girout. The baldhead bellowed angrily. He reminded Moira of an angry badger fighting a wild board five times its size she once saw on a hunting trip.

However, the baldheaded housekeeper pressured the man with such an authority that the gatekeeper eventually obeyed.

Those two giant slabs of black iron that barred two sides of the gatehouse began to creak as the cranking sound of chains being pulled echoed.

Erik barked his order once and his adjutants relayed his command, signaling the beginning of their escape.

“Torches,” the men shouted and the lead chariot lit up like pyre

The first chariot charged through the opened gates in a great blaze, speeding toward the camp of the bandits.

Moira felt her blood rushed and her breath quicken as the bellowing of animals and the angry sound of stomping hooves rang within her ear canals like war drums.

Moira tiptoed and stuck her head out of her red and gold chariot to observe the unfolding situation. She was shaking, however, she wasn’t sure if it was the pressure and the built-up anxiety was getting into her body, or it was excitement and anticipation. However, Moira knew it for sure that she did not want to miss anything. She must be insane if she felt excited about this.

“Again, torches,” the men relayed Erik’s order again. Torches flew into the air and it was an angry cacophony of bellowing animals and screaming of men.

Moira saw a blazing trail of red flame and black smoke led the formation, after that, the wheels of her chariot started to roll.

The leading four chariots that mounted the charge were originally bison carts. Erik redesigned them into some sort of pseudo-chariots, fixing a thin bronze blade of two arm-lengths on both sides of the axles. Moira had her touch on those thin blades. It was her who welded them into the axles after all. Erik ordered those thin blades to be made hard and brittle. He said that it would be fine if those blades broke. He wanted them for intimidation factor and if they broke, their shards would fly and hit any unfortunate bandits.

Erik had the men fixed the wheels and axles to allow the chariots to go as fast as possible. He used bison to pull those three pseudo-chariots, binding burning torches and blade on the horns of the bison.

However, there was no rider to drive those pseudo-chariots and there was no man on the carts either. Instead, the carts were packed full with barrels of Fire wine and animal lards. Those barrels were lighted in an angry red. The animals that pulled those three chariots just charge straight into whatever standing on their path, trying to futilely run from the ruthless flame that gnawing at their tail and butt hide.

A couple of bandit watchers must have realized the blazing inferno heading their way. It’s hard to miss something like that. They shouted, alerting their gangs of the incoming danger. A few arrows flew but there was no slowing down or stopping for that raging inferno.

That red blaze of a chariot smashed into the anti-cavalry wooden fences that the bandits built like a clapping thunder. The entire chariot flew into the air, animal, and cart. The connecting wooden anti-cavalry fences that the bandits built were pulled by the momentum of the chariot and smashed apart.

The blazing barrels that were filled with Fire wine and animal lards flew into the air and exploded as soon as they hit the ground, spreading the inferno and chaos.

Amidst that inferno, the screams of the bandits sounded no different from the death throes of the two bison pulling that first chariot.

Moira could not make sense of the chaos she witnessed with her eyes, neither did the bandits.

Before the bandits knew what hit them, the other three chariots angrily charged through the blazing chaos created by the first chariots, spreading the fire and chaos. Behind those three chariots were ten of Erik’s knights riding on horseback. They drove those animals into the ranks of the bandit with their shouting and stabbing spears. They quickly dispatched any living bandits appeared on their path, clearing the path for the trailing chariots.

“Clear the fences,” they relayed the order and tossed their hooked ropes over the anti-cavalry fences the bandit built, uprooting them and clearing the path.

Only then, Erik signaled the entire convoy to pick up the speed. The men relayed Erik’s order, shouting, and started whipping their horses. Erik swept his sharp gaze around, confirming the status of the entire convoy. Erik finally noticed that Moira was sticking her head out of her chariot.

“Get inside my lady. It’s not safe,” he said and leaned over, forcefully shoving her head back into the chariot. He did not stop and allowed Moira to reason with him.

After that, Moira could only make sense of the situation from the opened window of her bumping chariot. The pallid face of the Warden of Madukat through the bars of his chariot, soulless and despondent, caught Moira’s attention for a brief moment and never again.

“Team 3, you are too fast, slow down,” Erik’s booming voice sounded like war drums. “Right wing, left wing, lighten your load.”

The chariots protecting the right flank and left flank started unloading their goods. Barrels rolled and exploded in red raging inferno.

Before Moira knew it, the camp of the bandit was already behind her in total chaos.

“It’s too easy,” Erik gnashed his teeth, standing up on the driver seat to review the state of the convoy, “They did not put up so much of a resistance. Is this a trap?”

Moira thought the same.

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Girout stood on top of the battlement on the Northern Wall, his breath ran ragged. He was drowning in his own sweat. He had to lean against a guard to stand. He was too old to climb those stairs with such speed. Girout trained his old and weary ear to listen to the noise of the battle. However, he could only hear the sound of the rolling gears of the closing gate and the shouting of the guards.

The northern wind blew, icing the old housekeeper’s ashen cheeks. Girout’s fading eyesight did him no favor in realizing the situation of the battle. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see beyond the black smoke and the trailing dust.

“They are through, Master Girout,” the guard spoke.

Girout’s old legs slumped and hit the stone cold battlement. The guard quickly tried to support him to stand, but Girout could feel no strength within his body. “They are through,” Girout repeated what the guard told him.

“Yes, they are through,” the guard affirmed.

“That’s good,” Girout absentmindedly nodded his head, “That’s good.” His voice was quiet. His voice was relief.

“Stay safe, my little lord,” Girout quietly whispered within his heart, telling himself that this decision was for the best.

“Help me returning to the manor,” Girout told the guard and let the man support his weight to climb down the battement.

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“Girout, you bastard, what is the meaning of this?”

His feet could no longer touch the ground and the collar of his robe tightened around his neck. Girout said nothing to defend himself. Syllar’s loyalty as guard captain is with the walls of Madukat and Zard first and the Bellmore second. Girout’s loyalty on the other hand is placed on the Bears of Madukat. His loyalty is with his lord and not the city, the wall or the king himself.

Girout has never forgotten for a moment that he was saved by the lord, the Great Bear of Madukat in his direst hour. The lord weathered the storm and summoned the healer to save his feverish mom. The lord gave him the job. The lord changed his star. Therefore, Girout knew where he would place his loyalty.

“Restrain yourself Syllar,” Borig quickly came to Girout’s rescue, grabbing Syllar’s arms and putting Girout to his feet again. “And Girout, explain yourself.” Borig sighed. His face showed an expression of regret like he was telling himself that he should have expected Girout to do something like this.

“Follow me to the throne room first,” Girout fixed his collar and spoke.

“You bastard. Do you know what have you done?” Syllar bellowed and clenched his fists. Borig stopped him, restraining the tall guard captain with his firm grip.

Girout walked into the throne room and the two guard captains followed him.

“Master Girout, what is the meaning of this?”

As soon as Girout took his first step into the throne room, he was greeted with the confused accursing voice of the chief Inquisitor of White Winter. The man was completely manhandled by two of the manor guards. They locked his arms and pressed his face against the very floor of the throne room.

Syllar looked stunned at the sight. Borig only sighed, staring at Girout grimly.

“You of all the people in this room must know the meaning of my action, don’t you treacherous dog?” Girout gnashed his teeth.

“I don’t understand,” the inquisitor still defiantly denied of his crime.

“Your treachery has come to light, mongrel. My lord treated you with hospitality and kindness and you dared to betray him, colluding with those bandits and despoiling this land,” Girout hissed.

The Chief Inquisitor’s face turned pale. However, he quickly shook his head, pleading to the two guard captains, “Please, this must be a misunderstanding. Master Borig, master Syllar, please convince master Girout out of this madness.”

Syllar finally came to himself, looking at Girout and demanded, “Girout, explain yourself.” However, Borig came to Girout’s defense, “Girout spoke true. These people have betrayed us and leaked our plans to the bandits. They are with Bloodbeard and his gang.”

“Quite a number of your men have admitted that, treacherous cur. Did you think that I have you captured without dealing your treacherous cubs first? Do you think that all man of Zard is stupid? Do you think you could deceive us forever?” Girout brought his voice to a new low, hissing as he sat down near the subdued inquisitor and grabbed the man by his hair.

The chief inquisitor looked stunned for just a moment. Then, that nervousness, that confusion, and that pleading look on his face completely dissolved within the arrogant smirk on his lips. “Is that so? My apology for underestimating you all,” he calmly spoke. In his eyes, there was no fear, doubt, or weakness, only zeal and zeal alone.

“How dare you?” Syllar bellowed, drawing his sword. His face was red with fury. Girout immediately stepped in between the furious guard captain and the inquisitor.

“Out of my way, Girout. I will avenge my men,” Syllar gritted his teeth, raising his sword. Girout sighed within his head. This is the reason why he did not include Syllar in his plan. The fool cannot control his anger. He raised his arms, preventing Syllar from committing the most stupid deed he could possibly do. Borig came to Girout’s help immediately, holding Syllar’s sword arm in a firm grip. “Let go of my arm and out of my way. I must avenge my men.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Girout curtly replied, heaving a exasperate sigh as soon as Borig pried Syllar out of him.

“There is someone with a brain, I guess,” the subdue inquisitor smirked, enjoying what he was witnessing. Grout gritted his teeth and swallowed his anger. He tore the sleeve of the inquisitor’s robe, bundled it and shove it into the smirking mouth of the man. “Take him away. Guard him carefully,” Girout ordered the guards and they dragged the inquisitor away.

“Why?” Syllar bellowed, still raging.

“He still has a use as a hostage. Though, not much, but still a hostage, nonetheless.” Girout explained, “If you killed him, I can’t use him as a piece of bargain when that Judgment Army surrounded this city.”

Syllar hissed. The veins on his face bulged to size, “But…”, he tried to reason but Borig cut in. “After that, what’s next? What’s the plan, Girout?” Borig asked. His eyes were that of resignation and regret.

“We wait,” Girout sighed, being infected by the depressing atmosphere that Borig exuded. “React accordingly and hope for the best.”

Borig clicked his tongue as if he was annoyed. He stared at Girout with ember burnt within his eyes. “That’s not a plan Girout. If that is your plan, there is no reason for you to send our lord away. Explain yourself. You never act without a plan. So, out with it, stop beating around the bush.”

Borig was the same as ever even after so many years, outspoken, the very opposite of Girout.

Girout sighed again for the zenith time of the day. He felt like he has grown older within the last few hours.

Girout turned and walked toward the golden throne of the lord and squatting down on the stars, resting his tired legs. “That Judgment army is coming. I don’t know when, but they would come here much sooner than our reinforcement.” He sighed again and came to the realization of how sweaty his palms were. They were drenched in sweats as if he was just dipping them inside a water bucket.

He internally laughed at himself, sarcastically mocking himself for doing something that beyond his capacity and stature. He was supposed to be just a mere servant, keeper of the house, nothing more. This is beyond that. “There are only two options for us to make, surrender or die fighting. And with the current state, we can’t even defend this city.”

“We have to try,” Syllar interjected, “We can’t allow these treacherous dogs to take the city like that.”

“And what good does that do? Spare me from that Syllar. There is no chance for us to win. How long can you fight against that army? One day? Two days? We only waste more blood and lives for nothing. What’s the point? We can’t win. This city is lost.” Girout bellowed. His voice was louder than he’s expected. Syllar was stunned by Girout’s sudden outburst. He has never seen Girout lashing out like that before.

“Is that why you chose to send the lord away?” Borig asked.

“Yes,” Girout admitted, “Fight and he would die. Surrender and he would be deemed a traitor by His Majesty the King. If his Majesty was able to push back these mongrels of White Winter back to their land, our Lord would be killed anyway, worse, being dishonored as a betrayer. That’s not a fate of a Bellmore. I will not allow that to happen, not when I am still alive.”

“You have spoiled our Lord rotten. This kind of decision is not yours to decide. You can’t make that kind of decision on your own,” Borig shook his head.

“Yes, you are right. This is not my decision to make. However, I have failed our late lord once. I have failed to guide our lord to walk on a proper path. I cannot afford to let the blood of the Bellmore to be lost and tainted forever in the history. That, I will never allow to happen.” Girout gnashed his teeth and shouted.

“This is just like that time over again. Why do you only make that kind of plan? Why are you only capable of making these kinds of decision?” Borig asked.

“Because this is all I can do.” Girout replied mockingly. “Let history remembers that it is I a treacherous whoreson who sold this city to White Winter. It is I, who usurped the throne and betrayed our lord. It is I, who have failed Madukat and His Majesty the King, not our lord. This is the only way I can atone to the late Lord for my failures.”

Girout freed his frustration as he sat on the stairs beneath the golden throne. His voice was the loudest it has ever been, booming and echoing within the walls surrounded the throne room. As soon as he let it all out of his chest, Girout struggled to find his breath, glaring at Borig in defiance, challenging the old guard captain to rebuke.

Borig said nothing, neither Syllar.

Girout closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness to envelop his vision. “That’s right,” he told himself, finding peace within the darkness and the coldness of his sweaty palms. “This is all I can do.” He told himself.