Nimrod

                          Nimrod

His father handed him the crossbow. “It’s a beauty. I had master Jorman make it especially for you. Try it. Don’t hold your breath. Just squeeze.”

Nimrod took the bow in disbelief. It was made of seasoned heartwood from a black iron tree, generously and beautifully carved with house Morka’s sigil. He had never tried a real Jorman crossbow, even less owned his own.

“Is it really mine?”

“A gift from me and your step mother,” Solan said, smiling. His father was openly satisfied with the crossbow he had commissioned. ”You are leaving this castle tomorrow as a boy, but you must return as a man. A real man needs a real weapon.”

A man, Nimrod thought. He knew this day would come. It had always been something far in to the future, but now it was present. “I will make you proud father,” he said. “I know what to do.”

His best friend Rigio had arrived the day before as a man. He had stayed in  black forest for 3 nights and returned broad chested with a fox, and Nimrods father had arrived with a young wolf on his back. A story Nimrod had heard all too many times.

“The animal you arrive with is said to color the man you are going to become,” Solan said.

He was an older man with broad strong hands, a long face grey as ash, and a voice full of gravel. But it was the deep darkness in his eyes that scared most men.

“Use the days in black forest wisely, son.”

Nimrod said nothing. He had the crossbow pressed up to his cheek, and squeezed the trigger. The bolt went out into the air and made a high-pitched swoosh as it passed just over the target made of straw, and buried itself deep into the large oak tree behind.

His father frowned. He grabbed the crossbow in one swift movement, and fired of a shot hitting the center of the target.

“That’s how it is done. Don’t aim, point!”

He studied his son critically. “Stand strait. Your back is hunching.”

He planted his fist in Nimrods lower back.

“No wonder you missed your target. Straighten yourself!”

“I didn’t,” Nimrod said, meekly.

His father handed Nimrod the crossbow. “You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t miss my target father.”

Solan’s eyes narrowed as he approached the oak tree to inspect the claim. “Good.” He pulled the bolt from the tree, and was holding up a dead squirrel. “Let’s hope you can hit something bigger in black forest.”

When he was gone, Nimrod went to his chamber and placed himself in the corner of the window. There in the distance he could see the White Mountain, and at the foot of the mountain, black forest.  Nimrod could hear children beyond the castle wall, shouting and laughing. For a moment he wished he could be one of them. He hated the meetings, the arguments, the threats and the killings. The thought of becoming the Lord of Emblem made his stomach turn.

Somewhere beyond the White Mountain, across the Great Bear Lake, lay the land of Farendale with its deep blue fjords, green hills and magnificent castles where statues rose tall as mountains. Every knight in Eina rode to battle under the banners of their lords, and every lord had pledged allegiance to King Bjorn. Below the window a singer playing his harp started to sing his sour tune about the battle of Winterbridge.

 

---------------I WILL HAVE A SONG LYRIC/poem…….

And the singer was right, everyone in Eina knew the story. The places he was singing about, Barlind and the Enel, Farendale and Lyna were all just words to him. Except for Winterbridge to the southeast that was towering in the horizon. The place where he was liniment with the seven oils of the rainbow.

Now that Nimrod was a man grown soon, he was to be married in the same arch at Winterbridge. He was the oldest son of lord Solan Morka, and when he becomes the lord of Alben he will have to travel to the Gods Headland and bend the knee and swear allegiance to King Bjorn. Like his father did after winning, then loosing, what the singers called the Black and White war.

He had been born at Castle Morka a year after his three brothers had been killed by a raging and unexpected winter storm, leaving Solan no true heir to house Morka. The small folk called it the ice storm and the singers would have their heads on spikes overlooking castle Morka, if they made or sang a balled about it.

Nimrod sometimes pictured how it would have been having three older brothers, but he knew little or nothing about them. If possible he knew even less about his mother. All he knew about her was the fact that he was the one who had killed her.

Lady Triane was 15 years passed her last flowering, well beyond giving Solan a new son.  Yet they had summoned every maester, healer and posteriors in Eina. They had started to lose all hope, until Maester Aslak arrived Castle Morka. He had given Lady Triane the power to make life, one last time.

He could feel a hole inside him every day, whenever he thought about it.  It wasn’t heartbreak, he knew that feeling all too well. This was more like a hollow place, an emptiness where his brothers and mother should have been. As if his heart had made room for them, yet they never had the chance to fill it. This hole will never go away, he told himself as he watched the shadows grew longer. He had always preferred dusk and night. The sunlight was more of an annoyance to his eyes, though he never had shared that fact. He liked being outside on cloudy days and moonless nights. Hunting when no one else dared, and had to watch their step so as not to fall.

He sat there in his chamber window thinking about everything and nothing, watching the shadows growing longer and longer until everything was a shadow. Something he had done a thousand times before.

It was the soft sun light from the rising sun that made Nimrod open his eyes again. He sat up strait, and stretched, massaging his stiff neck. The fire was almost out, he noticed, and the room had grown chilly during the night. It will be a hundred times worse out there, he thought. Nimrods bedchamber had been used by his mother and father before he was born, and had a spacious balcony to the east overlooking winterbridge, still he preferred the window.

 

Nimrod tended to the fire, then padded barefoot across the room and headed for the stair down to the morning hall. The stones were cold beneath his feet, making him regret he did not put on his boots. As he went down to break his fast, Nimrod was struck by the share number of servants in the dining hall. They kept their voices down, as they were carrying white bread, barrels of different brews and dark yellow cheese wheels twice the size of the largest plate on the table, all under the careful watch of Fredrik Joly, the kitchen chef. All sounds seemed strangely muffled as they worked on making the hall ready for sorliday.

 

He found Lord Solan and his stepmother lady Linn sitting in the morning hall next to the larger dining hall, breaking their fast on eggs boiled soft, bacon burned black and some hard cheese on brown spicy bread. “Where are your boots, boy,” his father complained when he saw him.

“You are not surviving one day out there without them.” His voice was full of the usual gravel.

Nimrod had no plans on venturing out to black forest without his boots of course, but he did not point that out.  His father more often than not had comments that Nimrod used to call, bee sting. A bee that stings to deep, ends up dying them self, he used to tell himself, ignoring his attempt to strike. 

“I will have two eggs boiled hard, 3 slices of bread and honey,” Nimrod announced to the servants.

“Is everything going according to plan, father?”

Lord Solan was unsatisfied with the answer.

“Where are your boots?”

“In my bedchamber.”

He poured some water in his father’s cup, then to lady Linn his step mother, and lastly for himself, then he took a slice of hard cheese, and sat down. Solan pushed his plate forward, then leaned heavily back in his chair.

“You won’t have servants fetching your food out there,” he remarked, pointing with his eyes, “and one day without your boots will kill you.”

Nimrod agreed with his head. “That’s why I will walk in my boots and hunt with my crossbow.”

“You fell asleep in the window again, didn’t you? » His eyes darkening like a thunderstorm. «I should have had a mason close it shut years ago. It is a wonder you have not fallen down and broken your neck».

«It won’t happen again father. » He had heard that threat many times before, but nothing had ever happened. Either way, he was a man grown soon and then he could sleep when and where ever he wanted, or could he? The uncertainty was like a rock in his stomach.

«Have you had any sleep? Venturing into black forest tired and without food, except what your belly can carry, is not something to be taken lightly. »

Nimrod wasn’t tired, no more than usual anyway, but he would have been if he had tried sleeping in that awful bed of his.

«I’m awake and ready. I will make you proud father, » Nimrod tried to convince him.

«You will die out there if not. It’s as simple as that! » Lord Solan slammed his fist in the large oak table. Making his cup topple over and spill out the water Nimrod had just poured. «You are not welcome at Castle Morka if you can’t do this. »

«He is a Morka of Alben, and he will make us proud. I’ve heard whispers in the wind, » said lady Linn, crushing the silence. Nimrod looked up, and saw her warm and shy smile, her eyes sparkling.

«Water my lord? » a servant asked while another was busy cleaning up the mess. Solan unclenched his fist, taking a long stroke across the table with the palm of his hand, his tone changing from angry to more bitterly and sour.

«When you killed your mother, and I saw the monster coming out...»

«This is not the time, my lord» interrupted lady Linn.

 “The boy needs to hear the truth of it, » Solan said.

«I knew something was wrong with you, I could see it in your slandering eyes, your flat face and twisted ears. Even your mouth was too small for your tongue. I wanted to strangle you until your eyes popped out. I hated all of you. The eyes, the mouth, the way you were breathing, all of it. I decided to leave you in the woods for the gods to make their judgment. It was…»

He stopped, and cleared his throat, gazing into nothing, as if the words he was saying only was his thoughts.

«It was not my decision to make, » he said in a quiet voice. «But as I was leaving you in the freezing rain, you didn’t cry, not a single sound came across your lips… » 

Nimrod was more surprised that his father’s story did not shock him. In a twisted and weird way, it made sense.

«So I went back to see if the gods had made their judgment. » Solan turned his face to the left looking at lady Linn.

«And there she was. Holding you in her arms. I didn’t know what to do. »

He paused, breathing in the silence. «You will not let me down out there today. » Lord Solan said with a stare that could cut through steel. He then pulled himself on his feet holding both his hands on the table.

Dark clouds were billowing outside with rain in the air. He looked towards the window, taking note of the changing weather before he left the morning hall without saying a single word more.

Author's Note

I need help with everything. And grammar is probably the biggest thing I need help with.

Reviews

[Dave Potter]

The was very enjoyable. I would critique your writings if not for being a writer of poor grammar myself.
Thanks for your post and hope to read more soon. Dave