The Mortal Soulbinder (Severed Gods, #1)

Chapter VIII: Maor

Maor

Hazy smoke and the smell of roasted meat suffocated the hall, hovering above the throng of people like a clustered swarm of bees. Holding his breath, Maor carefully sat onto the seat, feeling the harsh cold of the stone seep through his trousers, snatching away his warmth against his will. He was amongst those less favoured in their company - cripples, freaks, children and bastards. Apparently, he was all of them, according to his father.

It was mainly children who surrounded him. Some were sitting quietly on their own, intently eyeing the glass of wine they had been given as if it was filled with poison. Others were rocking on their knees, whining, clawing at their ears in panic as the drunken, foul laughter of men boomed ceaselessly, along with the endless clamour of glasses and plates. Many of the Black Brother's had at least one child, although they didn't seem to know which of the children were there's - nor who the mother was.

Maor's father was expecting him to have a child soon. After all, he was nineteen and in the Black Brothers, custom decreed all boys to become adults at the age of twelve. That was when they were granted their first sword - so why not use their sword in other adult-like ways? Maor shuddered at the thought of it. Secretly, Maor was terrified of the thought of fatherhood, especially being with another woman first.

The grey-stoned walls were draped with black and scarlet banners, sprawled across the entire hall as if a child had tossed them away carelessly. It was the third hour of the feast, but those banners had been donned for days, in preparation for the feast. Maor's father always wanted the feasts to be exquisite and the Black Brother's had made sure this was always so. The Black Brother's feasted every Thineday, to celebrate their victories and successes. Maor was yet to figure out what their victories were.

Maor looked over to the tattered banner that had been shoved to the corner. It's torn corners were groping at the wall like a person falling to their death, the mouth of a red-stained eagle thrown up to the sky, peeking out from the concealment of shadows. This banner was commonly seen draped in the Citadel's wall in a more presentable manner, where the citizens would say their daily prayer, whilst kneeling underneath its mighty gloom (or so Maor's father claimed). Here, this banner was disdained and scorned; subject to tearing and scratching of dirty fingernails, the stain of diseased saliva, and the prayers of the Royals deaths. Here, the Royals were abhorred.

Swallowing, Maor looked away. It reminded him of the man he had left behind to die. A man of the Royal service. A man he was supposed to abhor - but could he? He wasn't so sure. According to Lard (and his father), apparently, he did not. His thoughts drifted back to that horrific night - the night he was sent by the Black Brothers to kill the royal messenger, take his place and fool Lord Verbyn. How could my father think that would work? Maor thought angrily, as he absentmindedly trailed his finger around the rim of a glass. When Maor had refused to go back to Halfdan's body, he had instantly been given a harsh thrashing from Lard, beginning with his fist and then progressing to Lard's dagger and the pommel of his sabre sword. His wound pulsed and screamed at the thought of Lard's angry eyes gleaming into his own as he raised his fist, plummeting down into Maor's face with a terrifying grunt. When he had finished, Lard had wiped Maor's blood away from his knuckles against Maor's bruised face and then dragged him all the way home.

His father had also given him a beating, albeit a gentler one compared to Lard's, so his father had claimed. Gently, whilst trying not to wince, Maor felt the line of bruises that lined his face with his fingertip, tracing the rugged shape from his forehead down to his neck; cutting through his skin like lightning, striking his eye, then nose and mouth. It had faded to the colour of purple and brown, deep and ghastly. This will be a permanent reminder of your own failings, his father had told him whilst striking him the back of his hand. A reminder of your disobedience and insolence. A reminder of your cowardice. A reminder of your liking to the Citadel Royals - to your enemies. A reminder of you being no son of mine.