Bolomang

Story of my Life...

I suppose it started when I became a soldier. No, wait, that's not right. It started before that, back when I came to Fairhaven. No, forget that. If I am going to tell you this story I ought to start at the very beginning.

My mother, Gerina, loved my father I've been told, but I know he loved her. She died when I was very young, I hardly even remember her, I suppose. Still, I have seen her face in dreams many times.

People told me that my father was grieving, and I suppose I knew already. I had hints of memories where I'd seen my father laugh and look at my face without finding pain in my resemblance to his wife. Still, he cared for me as much as anyone could ask for.

As a half-breed I couldn't expect for people to leave me alone; people always try to impose their will on those they find to be below them. Most 'decent humans' will count orcs amongst such, and half-orcs even below that.

I took their beatings, the kicking and the abuse with passive resignation. My father had taught me never to give into the red-hot fury inside of me. If I did, he told me, I'd never be able to cease its flow again. “Barke,” he told me once, “that anger inside of you is a monster growing inside of you. Whatever you do, never set it loose. You’ll kill someone, if you do.

“And I wouldn’t want for my son to end up in the gallows.”

One day, I had been chopping firewood; I was stronger than the other children my age and had an instinct for wielding axes. While my father had disapproved initially, he relaxed when he watched me one day, venting my anger at pieces of passive wood rather than people. I had just put the wood into the shed to dry when They came.

I didn’t know their names, just that they were a few years older than myself and that their families were well-connected, allowing them to sow chaos without fear of reprisals. I just stood there, scared out of my mind. I must’ve lost sight of them somehow, though, because the next thing I remember is that one of them grabbed my shoulder. On pure instinct, I rammed an elbow backwards and felt his nose break under the surprise attack. Another boy had pulled a knife that he turned on me and I moved out of the blade’s path effortlessly, instinctively falling into the rhythm of combat. I grasped his wrist and upper arm and broke them over my knee as one would a stick. The boy screamed in agony, but my hands were already moving again, pulling his head down into an oncoming knee. I heard later that I’d broken the poor sods jaw, but at the time I didn’t even notice.

Before I knew it, they were all lying on the ground, disabled and with various injuries. As for myself, I was covered in blood, none of it my own.

That night, I chose to leave the farm. My father wanted me to stay, of course, but I also knew he was disappointed that I had given into my urges. Something had changed, I knew, and I had become more of a son to my deceased orcish mother than I could ever become again in the eyes of my father.

My next few months aren’t exactly the pride of my life. I struggled to make a living, picking berries and herbs and even occasionally catching a rabbit, but I never quite got enough hang of it for it to be entirely reliable if I wanted to eat every day. And when you sleep on cold, hard ground and bathe in a freezing river, then eating is the only thing that will help you keep your energy up.

So I did what so many others in my situation have been forced to do; I stole. Became a brigand. Really, it wasn’t as brutal as the word implies, I assure you, it was merely something I did to survive. I can promise you I never did anything in those years that I enjoyed, apart from, perhaps, eating.

I did things in an orderly fashion; I waited by the side of the road until a vulnerable group passed and then demanded food (and a bit of gold, if it seemed my victims could afford it). Those who refused found themselves subject to what fighting I’d learned to make do with. And when you fight to survive, you learn one or two things never taught to good, honest soldiers. For example, a stomping kick down on the side of someone’s knee will break your opponents knee, leaving him unable to fight or flee.

An excellent way to ensure surrender, if you ask me.


***


I fled towards the city soon enough. Winter was coming, and there was no way I would be able to survive on my own in the wild like that. I hadn’t been taught the necessary skills for that. Besides, I had known a lot of people who had gone to the city to “make their fortunes” and seeing as how none of them had ever come back home, my young mind figured that they’d made it, each and everyone of them.

How wrong I was.

By the time I arrived in the nearest city – Fairhaven – I must’ve looked like a wild beast. I would’ve been covered in road-dust, my clothes were ragged and would’ve compared unfavourably to that of a beggar and I came waltzing in, expecting that in a matter of days I would have gold between my hands. Not copper, not silver, but gold.

I decided that if – for some unfathomable reason – no jobs were available that day, I would need a place to sleep and – having lived off the land for quite a while now – decided that this would be my first priority. So I moved through the maze that made up the city and ended up in the Whiteroof area of the city – a port-area populated mainly by half-elves – where I looked for a place that would give me shelter from the wind. This meant that I stumbled right into the home of one of the gangs there.

Now, I need you to remember that I had never actually met anyone with elven blood here, and that all I knew of half-elves were that they were halfbreeds like myself. I thought there might be some kinship between us, that’d help start me off in the city.

The Whiteroof Elves – as the half-elves of the area like calling themselves – weren’t of the same idea, and before I knew it, they charged me. One of them had a shard of broken glass, that he used as a dagger and another used an iron rod for a club. I dodged and weaved away from them, yelling apologies and my intentions of friendship, but they didn’t listen.

When the sharp piece of glass broke my skin and I felt my blood being drawn, I began fighting back. First, a twist of my arm sent the piece of glass flying from its too-loose grip and then I intercepted the iron rod as it swung towards the left side of my ribs. I put my hands around it and spun with it, ripping it from its wielder’s grasp and then rammed it into the back of his neck. I don’t know how long it took, but when finally my body stopped moving of its own accord, I sat down looking at the people I’d just harmed.

That was when I realized that the city was more like being a brigand again than being back on the farm. This was a world where you fought to survive and no matter how useful you were, you weren’t guaranteed to avoid hunger pains.

Finding work was all but impossible, so I lived as a thief and a pickpocket – not that I was particularly good, but at least I ran fast, when I got caught. By my third year in the city I had built myself a hoard of no less than twenty-seven copper crowns – almost three silver sovereigns – of which I was very proud. I had made myself a friend – Torkild – who was in a situation like mine; he had run away from home and made his way to the city and now it was a struggle to survive. I shared some of the food I stole with him and he’d share some of the money he’d made off begging, and Torkild was good at begging. He could make himself look sufficiently deformed that not even the most cold-hearted of people could help but pity him and knew just how to make his voice sound pleading and hopeless enough to catch their attention.

Sometimes I think I envied him that gift.

But of course, it couldn’t last forever. The War was still raging and when I eventually was caught by one of the guards, I was sent out to the front. I can’t help thinking, that if I’d been a respectable citizen my whole life, I would’ve never survived the brutality of the front.

I can’t tell you how many people I killed out there, or how many of those were in self-defence. All I can tell you is that I remember thousands of faces – thousands of thousands – all twisted in agony as I ended their lives. My blood called for battle and welcomed each charge and sneered at me, when I withdrew from battle, crying to me: ‘You could’ve killed more of them!’

I couldn’t sleep at night anymore. The screams of those whom I’d killed kept me up. So I found things to do. Sharpened swords, polished boots, wove rope and made sure the campfires wouldn’t go out. Eventually, sleep would take me and I would be too tired to notice, instead falling asleep in mid-stride. I still can’t sleep, mind you.

Killers don’t deserve to sleep soundly.

I know I can’t.


***


But the story I think most of you want to hear is how I became a Lord. Now, you may never have heard of Brighteye Keep before and probably won’t hear of it again, but that’s my dominion. I had been contacted by Halfdan ir’Tain, a count who despised how the Crown had let the Western Territories rebel and separate themselves from the rest of the country. That only a few days travel from our capital there was people who refused to acknowledge their Queen and hardly any of them would even admit to their heritage. That’s when I came into the picture.

Armed with a map and a small unit of the Knights Arcane – a unit blending the art of the sword, excellent horsemanship and magic in a way you could find nowhere else – I was to retake the ancient fortification of Brighteye Keep. At the time the Gatekeeper druids, some sort of sect, controlled it. That’s where things got difficult…