The River Red

I am the victor of my time,

not because I despaired,

I am the conqueror of my mind,

only because I cared.

Thud!

Down with the last wall. Another village demolished, another loot captured back. One more victory for Doolmah's clan.

Bolur finally sat down after climbing the hill. He took out his pipe and took a long drag. The weed felt good, calmed his anger, numbed his pain. It was the forty-third battle for gold and their clan's thirty-fifth victory. The housers would now come in, count the gold and take it back to the secret storage – hidden from the strong giant clans, hidden from the leader at Lutswayhe castle.

"The leader," spat Bolur. A thirteen-foot giant with a six-foot beard and arms the size of half an oak tree, Dorgond was the leader of the giants west of river Maradrih. Known for his lavish taste for blood and infamous lust for gold, Dorgond was the fiercest, ugliest and cruelest giant Bolur had ever known. He was his brother by blood and no two giants hated each other more than Bolur and Dorgond.

Bolur was twelve feet, six inches tall himself and had enough battle scars on his face alone to scare the living daylights out of a rowdy giant.

They were brought up on the river side. Their mother was killed in a rumble of ruthless giants and humans, something that was awfully common in those times. The humans were hunting them to expand their territory. Humans knew that the giants were the only resistance against their inhumane world conquer.

Their father was a good male. He worked hard, he fought hard and slept less. Most importantly, he was a giant of many words – big words, something giants were rarely capable of.

“There was royalty in his blood,” old Mifur used to say. “He was a sensible giant, if ever such a thing meant anything.”

Father loved Dorgond more, probably because he was his first born, probably because he was righteous when he was a kid and most probably because Bolur was a senseless, trouble-making coward. Bolur knew that and he respected his brother nevertheless. They were inseparable, Dorgond and Bolur, always playing, running, grunting and drinking together. Then father got killed in a coup for leadership and that event changed their lives.

The righteous Dorgond, who never hurt anyone unless they deserved it, got into a mad frenzy and hunted his father’s killers. He killed them all one by one – slow, painful deaths. Bolur was there, standing beside his brother, his general in arms, horrified at the cruelty but loyal to his kin.

They killed the leadership, their kin, their clan, friends of their clan, clans of their friends. Dorgond and Bolur – the battle-thirsty, hardest, tallest and fiercest giants west of the river – as they were known to be now. Giants heard of them and travelled long to come and pay respects, offering gold, precious stones and high quality mead for acceptance in their clan. Goblins fled their villages when news of the brothers advancing towards their land reached. Some resisted, tried to form armies but none survived. Only humans could have stood a chance but cowards that they were, most of them never dared.

The clan grew, sometimes by force, sometimes by fear but the brothers fell apart. Too much bloodshed may have been a cause, Dorgond’s blood lust or Bolur’s consciousness may have been other reasons. The separation may have been triggered by that continued ruthlessness but the final stroke came when Dorgond bedded Bolur’s love interest – a female giant who was the daughter of a chieftain from the south. They had joined their clan two months back and ever since Bolur had seen her, he had become mellow.

Maybe Dorgond saw that weakness in his brother. Maybe he did that to keep him alert and fierce. Maybe Dorgond used his anger to make Bolur remain fierce or may be Dorgond was just like those cheap, backstabbing, jealous humans. Bolur didn’t know, he didn’t want to know. Bolur was angry and there was a fight –  not like the common rumble of giants in disagreement but a real fight – with the intention to kill.

“Come out,” roared Bolur at the gates of the castle. “Come out you murderous wretch.” Bolur called out the chief and the chief answered. Giants could not ignore a call for a one-on-one fight. It was traditional. 

The other giants formed a circle and laid down their shields to make a wall. This was a fight to the death – the winner would replace the one killed as chief. The brothers would fight each other to their deaths.

Bolur was furious, Dorgond was amused. “Are you, my little brother, sure that you are giant enough for this fight?” mocked Dorgond.

Whatever he said fumed Bolur more. Whenever he laughed, Bolur burnt with anger.

“Now or never, brother,” said Bolur.

“This is it, you or me. I have killed as many as you have. I have more friends than you’ll ever make.”

Dorgond laughed and laughed and got into the mad frenzy in which he knew not friend from foe. Dorgond charged and the two brothers clashed. Bolur saw Dorgond and he knew that in that frenzied state, his brother felt no pain. Whoever would win, whoever would die, Bolur would end up being the only one hurt. But it had to be done – this tyrant had to be removed – for his friends, for the families of his friends and for his love.

The battle continued for more than an hour, the brothers equally matched in strength and skill. Initially Bolur couldn’t make himself throw a killing blow but seeing Dorgond’s wrath he stopped holding himself back. It had to be done. For a better world. For the river to remain bloodless.

Dorgond left no stones unturned, blow after blow his axe delivered, chipping, hurting Bolur’s shield. Bolur was the smart one, the quicker one, the cunning one. He dodged around, taking blows, tiring Dorgond out. He wearied out Dorgond and then went on his offensive. His famous full-swing blows cut Dorgond – his knees, right arm, left shoulder, right toe – spilling blood. Dorgond was down. Fighting, but down. Bolur was close now. Everyone waited for the finishing blow. Some in shock, some in awe and some in hopeful enthusiasm. They cheered Bolur and not their chief.

They bellowed “kill” when Dorgond was down, they roared “kill” when Bolur was up.

Then it started. Arrows rained from the blue skies. Arrows polished with a strange shining metal. Humans. The filthy dimwits had done it this time – they had crossed the river – they had attacked the castle.

They were unprepared, their chief was down, their general was hurt but they were giants and now they were livid. Their home was under attack and it was by their worst enemies. The giants fought hard. The injured brothers shouting orders. They all took blows but brutally bludgeoned the human army and kicked them out of their lands. Giants never lost – not to humans at least.

The war took six hours and most of the area around the castle was ruined. Trees were uprooted, stones scattered, devastation all around. Humans had been chased back to the river, into their ships and off the coast.

They were helping out the wounded when Bolur spotted Dorgond. He was carrying a dead giant to the graveyard and limping from wounds inflicted by Bolur earlier. Bolur felt sad, he went to his brother and held out his hand. Dorgond was surprised, he looked at the hand first, and then at Bolur’s body and finally his face. They locked eyes for a moment. And then Dorgond spat on Bolur’s face. He yelled with anguish and gave Bolur a strong punch. Bolur fell on the ground, helped himself up and walked away.

Something broke that day – a bond of trust maybe. Trust in each other to feel the same pain when fighting for the same cause.

I am the one who destroyed his name,

not because I was hurting,

I am the one who earned no fame,

only because it was always paining.

Five years went by. Dorgond grew in name, fame, wealth and power and Bolur was reduced to the first warrior in Doolmah’s clan. Doolmah was a giant from the north who had started a small clan looking out for gold, snatching, stealing from the goblins and sometimes from the giants as well.

Fight after fight, Bolur shed blood remorselessly. Soon he forgot who his foes were; he stopped realizing who he was fighting against. He followed orders to the last word. He was a killing machine now. All memories of past life were clouded by Dorgond’s image of spitting on his face, the utmost contempt for a giant  – the tradition of disrespecting another’s existence. Bolur never believed in traditions earlier. What an irony!

Doolmah was an ambitious giant and like all ambitious folks, he despised the strongest of his race. He wanted Dorgond’s seat at the castle. Bolur was well aware of his intentions but he was sure that Doolmah was not half the leader Dorgond was. He was sure that Doolmah could do no harm until that day.

They were set to attack the goblins residing in the Kurshah valley. They had heard that the goblins had stolen from the eastern pits governed by Dorgond. The loot was surplus and the goblins were an easy target especially when they were caught in a valley. A handful of giants could have taken them easily but still, Doolmah sought Bolur’s council in his tent. This felt strange. Bolur had a knack for sensing trouble.

Doolmah wanted Bolur to lead the attack and deliver the final blow. “What? No,” said Bolur. He wasn’t the one to go after glory.

“Don’t you want revenge?” asked Doolmah. “Brother,” he added subtly. Bolur goggled at him.

“I know who you are. More importantly, I know who you were,” said Doolmah shrewdly. “Let me help you take back what is yours. You deserve the leadership. You are the better warrior. You are the better giant. That barbaric, rapacious monster needs to be removed. You used to believe that. Have you forgotten, brother?”

Bolur turned back and started to walk out of the door.

 “Answer me, coward. Would you watch the river turn red by the misdeeds of your brother?” barked Doolmah.

Bolur stopped. He said softly, “Dorgond has done for our people what no giant has ever been able to do in centuries. He provides, he commands and most importantly he keeps the giants from killing each other. Who among us can do that?”

“He keeps the giants from killing each other – yes. But he does that by killing half the giants. Don’t you know? Haven’t you been on his side for years, watching, assisting? Do you have no remorse brother?”beseeched Doolmah. “As for who would rule in his place – you will!”

Bolur froze in his tracks. Doolmah knew he had struck the hammer. “You will rule. And I will assist you, brother. You – the better warrior. You – the compassionate one. You – the one who everybody fears. You and I will make the world a better place for giants.”

“I need time to think,” declared Bolur. Doolmah opened his mouth to speak but Bolur cut him short. “Stop tempting me, you devil. I need time. I will lead the attack. Then we will see.” Saying this Bolur left the tent and went to prepare his giants for the attack.

Doolmah possessed a fox’s cunningness. Bolur had known this ever since he had met him for the first time. He was a weak general but a passionate talker. He was witty but deceptive. He was a calculating giant and for that Bolur never trusted him. But the monster was right. Dorgond needed to be removed. He used to believe that once, he wanted to believe it again. Dorgond, the murderer, Dorgon, the devil but Dorgond, the one who fearlessly took an arrow in battle to save Bolur, so many a time.

The loot was over soon after it started. Too easy for Bolur. He took another long drag from his pipe. So much blood! All the gold in this world could not fade the crimson from his eyes. This needed to stop. Dorgond, the harbinger of death, Dorgond the priest of blood but Dorgond, also the one who carried the severely injured Bolur for a hundred miles to safety after the battle of the nine stations.

Bolur joined hands with Doolmah and they plotted for days. The castle was not an easy target and a siege was useless as the giants inside had huge stockpiles of food and water. They needed to get past the guarding giants and break the stone walls – even though they were giants and could manage that easily, they always feared the stone wall.

Bolur went on several incognito missions, trying to convince Dorgond’s warriors into joining their cause.

“They won’t agree,” reported Bolur. “They are too loyal as giants usually are.”

“Aaargh!” Doolmah slammed his fist on the stone table making the tent shudder. “Help from inside or not, we attack in the morning. We have the numbers. We have the strength and the planning is good.”

“Many will die,” said Bolur softly to himself more than to Doolmah.

“Not under your watch, not when chief Bolur leads,” smiled Doolmah, the sly fox.

Night came and Bolur lay stargazing as he used to when he was small. “They all look scattered but they all stay united in the black skies,” his father used to say.

They are all so mighty

as they emit the light,

They are all so witty

as they never really fight!

Bolur slept with a sad heart but in his dreams he saw blood. The river was covered with blood. All he could see was red. And a monstrous roar. Dorgond with his axe held high, shouting, screaming, laughing. All Bolur could see was blood.

With the first light of the day, four hundred giants stormed into the chief’s valley and marched towards his castle. Shields shattered, stones flew, trees got uprooted and metal clanged against metal. The valley was filled with war cries and blood-hungry screams.

Doolmah’s giants powered themselves inside the castle. They took their foes by surprise who failed to organize in time. The castle was breached. Bolur charged inside, towards the centre. He knew who to look for.

Amidst the rumble, Bolur heard it distinctly. Dorgond was grunting orders to his personal guard. Dorgond was furious, Dorgond had started killing, Dorgond was in his mad frenzy, yet again.

They came face to face. Bolur saw red and Dorgond was missing his consciousness. Soon his guards were either dead or had surrendered.

Doolmah entered the keep and laughed. “The great chief Dorgond, surrounded by petty Doolmah and his reckless giants. What a shame!”

“Kill him, Bolur. Do not let mercy cloud your judgement. This giant is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of our kin. He will not rest until he makes the river red.”

“Come and take me yourself, you coward,” spat Dorgond. “What kind of a giant makes others do his killings?”

Dorgond knew that the giants in that room would not dare to come near him even though they attacked together. All but one – the one who’s steel gaze was boring into his very existence. Dorgond could smell blood in Bolur’s heart. He knew his brother meant business. Well, at least it would be Bolur and not any other weakling. Bolur was a part of a mutiny against him.

How did he stoop so low? How did it come to this? What had he done to make his brother part of a rebellion against him. He was tired of all the killings. He was tired of forcing fear into the giants.

“Fear controls our minds like food controls our body and blood controls our hearts,” father said to him once. He was a practical giant. He took pleasure in killing yes, but, all he did was for the good of the giantkind. It seemed pointless now that his blood brother failed to see this. If not even his own brother could see why he did what he did, he had failed as a chief. He no more deserved to lead. To abandon one’s post meant death by giant decree and he would not die by the hands of an unworthy being. He would die by Bolur’s axe and today was the day.

“Are you going to stand there traitor, or do you mean to fight today?” said Dorgond swinging his axe heavily at Bolur.

Bolur quickly got out of the way and in four, well-placed strokes, got Dorgond on the ground. His fighting skills had improved ten-fold since that day. He was a different giant now. His mind was sharp, his judgement clear. He would not hesitate – not today.

Doolmah was by his side as he had promised. Dorgond was at the ground sneering at Bolur. Bolur raised his axe high to deliver the final blow. The giants in the room watched expectantly.

Swoosh, the axe swung. “Aaaaaargh.”  A giant scream filled the keep, blood spattered all around. Blood filled Bolur’s eyes. He had done what needed to be done.

Everyone stared at him in horror. The giants around him confused, looked at general Bolur, failing to comprehend what just happened. They looked at Dorgond who was gawking at Bolur in horror. They looked at leader Doolmah who was lying headless beside Bolur.

And they all understood. They were giants and they were thick-skinned. They had slow brains and had negligible intellect. But they understood loyalty and the greatest loyalty was defined by blood. They knew when to respect a leader and when to realize that something right has happened. They laughed and patted Bolur’s back, spat on Doolmah for making them rebel against their own kin, to fight against the supreme chief, for motivating them to be disloyal.

They all carried the chief and the general outside, cheering, celebrating something un-giant like that had happened that day. Their faith in trust, their bonds of fraternity, rekindled.

Dorgond was numb, Bolur was quiet. Dorgond wanted to be a better giant. He held out his hand to his little brother.

Bolur looked at Dorgond. Bolur did not see red any more. He could see that the river would not be red now. Dorgond would lead well as he always did but less ruthlessly.

“Forgive me,” said Dorgond.

Bolur smiled, stepped forward, his face near Dorgond’s. And then he spat on Dorgond’s face. The giants made a circle around, Dorgond and Bolur got to fighting again. Giants cheered, axes swung.

Giants!
We are who we are,

whatever we call ourselves.

We are how we will be,

however we make ourselves.