Ushumgallu
-- Well, did you do it? Let me see... -- the middle-aged blacksmith gave the teenager a light shove away from the anvil. A moment later, the man added a solid blow to his sternum, and the boy collapsed to the ground.
-- Clumsy armless idiot, may a scorpion devour you; fifteen years old and can't even forge himself a knife... Woe to us, woe with this generation...
Ushumgallu looked at the man, noticing with surprise a new, unusually subtle expression on that terribly familiar, paternal, and dirty face. The blacksmith's dark eyes were not darting from corner to corner, nor were they wide with rage; instead, as if trying to hide completely behind his brows, they concealed either sorrow or sincere disappointment. The man and the teenager sighed heavily at the same time, each tormented by their own pain in their chest.
-- Whether to be glad that your father didn't live to see this. At your age, he had already killed a man. Or perhaps I haven't beaten you enough, and you've grown soft. All youth are like that these days. Yes... the times are wrong...
Taking advantage of the respite, Ushumgallu slipped out of the smithy, leaving the man alone with his old-man sorrows. He had had enough work for today; he still had time to wander around the city, gaze at the palace even from afar, and if he was lucky, steal some bread from a street vendor.
Something crunched under his bare foot, and the youth stopped to look. Seeing a scorpion with a crushed tail, helplessly clutching his toes with its pincers, Ushumgallu laughed.
-- Are you even a scorpion? Oh, don't make me laugh. Now those were scorpions back in the day... Poor thing.
Ushumgallu felt a slight prick of sadness. He didn't feel sorry for the insect twitching in convulsions; rather, it was frustrating that the scorpion turned out to be so powerless. Stepping on such a creature was not the most honorable deed.
The youth returned home just before sunset -- there was no avoiding a scolding from his uncle anyway, so there was no need to rush. The old stone house, strong enough to withstand even a tornado, dirty and unplastered but impressive in its own way, looked at Ushumgallu with two slit-windows. Light burned in only one, making it seem as if the stone giant were slyly winking. The youth entered confidently -- he knew he was guilty and faced many blows from sticks, but he had learned some of his uncle's lessons: timidity and a pitiful appearance only infuriate the one beating you. However, the city outskirts had taught him the same lesson -- the weak and pitiful are beaten. Always. Often in a crowd. This understanding helped Ushumgallu in street brawls more than strong arms and fast legs. Once, seeing how Ushumgallu and his friends were rolling three sons of the "new rich" in the dust -- those fair-skinned dandies in silk shoes -- his uncle, always stern, smiled approvingly as he passed by, muttering something about blood from blood...
Having endured a couple dozen blows with a stick, unusually weak for a blacksmith's hand, Ushumgallu smirked reservedly.
-- That all? Can I go to sleep?
The uncle smelled of wine, but very faintly too -- usually the man drank until he lost consciousness.
-- No. Wait. Let's talk.
-- ...
-- Yes. Listen, Ushumgallu... Do you remember your father?
-- A little.
Now the youth was truly a bit frightened. He had to choose his words carefully, like steps in quicksand. But he wasn't lying; he really remembered that stern face, those scars, and that gaze like an abyss, in which reflections of ordinary human emotions only occasionally flickered. He also remembered that their house had been huge, full of people and all sorts of weapons. He was even allowed to play with a dagger.
-- You remember "a little." You rarely ask. That is bad. Didn't I tell you that your father was a great warrior? And that you should remember this and be proud?
-- I remember. And I am proud. But Father is no more. You said you were a warrior too, but you only taught me to forge and work around the house. So what? I'll learn your shitty forging someday; why do you keep throwing my father in my face? Or maybe I'll join the guard...
Ushumgallu didn't have time to finish -- this time his uncle struck him on the head with full force. A mistake.
-- Stinking freak! Do you not know who the guard works for? For the very ones we fought against!
-- Damn... I wasn't being serious. It's just, like... there aren't many options when you live in a wretched hovel as a blacksmith's apprentice. The world is changing, and if my father was such a great guy, then it's not right for me to spend my life in this hole. So if you think about it, go to the desert, uncle; no matter how much you beat me, your way won't always be the only way.
The uncle breathed heavily, trying to calm down, and suddenly smiled. Ushumgallu felt uneasy. If this guy really had killed people -- perhaps it was with exactly that expression on his face.
-- Ushumgallu... I swear by Akonia, you've grown up. I'm not the best educator, but still, you are almost a man now. Even if you are all thumbs. You can go to sleep. We'll chat tomorrow.
The next day, his uncle called him to slaughter a calf. Having not seen meat for two weeks, Ushumgallu was so delighted by the idea that yesterday's strange conversation was swept away like wind. Only when the carcass had already been butchered, part of the meat salted and the rest roasting over coals, did the youth notice how unusually serious his uncle was.
For the first few minutes they ate in silence -- fresh meat was too delicious when starving. Even the fact that his uncle poured him some cloudy wine didn't particularly bother the boy -- only with wine did the meat seem even tastier.
-- Alright. Let's talk. Honestly, as men. Remember, your father once put a sword in your hands?
-- Vaguely.
A piece of meat happened to be gristly, and this interested Ushumgallu far more than another one of his uncle's ideas.
-- You were only about five years old. But your father gave you a real sword. He led a slave toward you and said -- strike! Oh, I was worried then! I felt that this meant something. You weren't the only son.
-- ...
Sounds like a lie, very much so. But there were slaves. And swords.
-- And so you take this sword; it almost tipped you over. You looked at your father -- and took it, and struck. Little strength, of course, but you nearly sliced off an ear. How your father rejoiced, he actually smiled, and I can count such instances on one hand. He takes you back and hands you to me: "look after him," he says, "if I die soon. He'll be a capable one." I promised, of course, especially since your mother, my sister, had already passed away then and also asked me. So...
-- And?.. Was Father killed then?
-- Killed... A month later Kingallud was killed, that same Podfelicin bastard, and everything collapsed, our whole order, the whole old Calcite. Half of ours were slaughtered, half hid like I did...
Over the following hour, Ushumgallu learned more about the old order, Kingallud, Akkad Babbar, and the civil war than in his entire life. He didn't remember everything, of course, and the truthfulness of some moments was doubtful, but the main thing was clear -- his father had been a truly formidable scoundrel. A scoundrel, perhaps, but most importantly -- a formidable one.
-- Well now, you know everything, which means you are fully a man. You don't seem like a fool; you have enough sense not to blab too much. You don't seem like a weakling; you won't perish. If Shiris wills it, Kingallud wasn't wrong. So soon I'll give you a kick in the rear, and you'll live your own life. You can't make it here; you'll go to Asuguh. My cousin settled there after the war; he'll shelter you, teach you about life. All the conditions for youth are there, so hold tight to the throat of this life. You'll leave in a month; why keep you here? You need another couple of years to settle in Asuguh.
They shook hands as they said goodbye. Ushumgallu tried to squeeze his fist with all his might and immediately regretted it. The blacksmith, in response, nearly crushed his bones with his grip.
-- Well, look at you! You still have a lot to learn, snot-nose. Go on... try not to drop dead. Although these days even a journey isn't much of a journey, these roads are -- pfft! That's why our people have grown weak.
-- And honest guides were robbed of their work.
-- Uh-huh... don't get smart with me! This might be the last time we see each other. Well, what else. Nothing. Go on, go out into the world.
Masculine, Calcite
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