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Glen
Garth Aniculo
Hardir O’ Fardor
I see him afore me
Part II
-Greater Spell of Rot-
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> Angrein O’ Mecatan convinced the free Horselord Kalac, son of Duham to allow us passage through his territory. We stayed in the fort a day intending to follow Dragontoe’s Third Claw towards the Pale Mountains. Jade Lake was an uncomfortable place, deadly, as if there to caution travelers from continuing towards Imperial lands. Nothing about the journey was to be easy.
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Glen watched the fire burning, its light illuminating the walls of the old fort. Some people were still moving about, but most of their group was sound asleep. The still curious about the wyvern Horselords had been there for a long time according to them, months even and the closest Khan forces in Dia didn’t want to risk attacking them.
Or just couldn’t.
“Losing the Merchant Path must have really hurt the Khan,” he said to a silently smoking his pipe Flix. “His hold on the south has weakened, despite gaining Raoz.”
“Not easy to control a distant territory through the desert crossings,” Flix replied. “And without sufficient forces.”
“You think the High King might come this way?”
“The ports in Rida and Altarin are easier to reach, perhaps even higher up North,” Flix argued.
Glen nodded in agreement, as it made sense.
Unless one had the ships to supply everything, or Regia entered the war.
Without Wetull, the south of Eplas will always be too far away.
“Eventually the Khan will come here, unless the war goes against the Cofols,” Flix added and Glen stared at the dark sky for a moment. The Horselords had left them alone, when Glen had explained to them the Wyvern wouldn’t return that day. Not that he knew when Biscuit would come back, but he always did.
“You knew Angrein,” he noted, keeping his voice low.
“I knew of him,” Flix replied and offered a loaded pipe. Glen took it and sucked carefully from the tip. The aromatic smoke pleasant once you got used to it. “He’s an Imperial Blacksmith, quite famous.”
“What is he doing with the Horselords?” Glen asked, the information useful. He thought of Reeves’ broken blade he still had in his saddle bags. Could he repair it?
“He wouldn’t say,” Flix replied and got the peleg out, the steel weapon gleaming in the light of the fires. “This is a typical throwing axe made by Fergen for example. He made almost eighty of them, but they aren’t really that special. Useful under certain circumstances. Now Fergen had created exceptional weapons, some named and sought after, but he never reached Angrein’s skill even the blacksmith’s afore them. The Queen’s sword was forged by Angrein. Black Eirkor, a Kopis type sword like the one the pirate captain had but longer. It might have been Fergen’s that one, but Eirkor… ah, they say you can discern whether something was forged from Angrein or not by its song. He’s more of an artist really.”
“How old is he?”
“Much older than me,” Flix replied.
He doesn’t look like it.
“Where is he from?” Glen probed thinking of his dreams.
“I believe he was a slave initially.”
Like the Gish had been.
“Who is Nym?” Glen asked changing the subject, as Flix didn’t enjoy talking about it and he’d come to respect the old Gish enough not to bring the matter up.
“You heard that?” Flix said.
“I take it by yer dodge, he’s important?” Glen asked and Flix chuckled either pleased or stoned out of his wits. Glen could feel his mouth turning numb as well, so he put the pipe down.
“Nym would pretend interference,” the old Gish said and paused to stare at the shadows surrounding them apprehensively. “But also loathe being talked about in the open.”
“He sounds like a cunt,” Jinx said almost giving Glen a heart attack and Flix who’d probably spotted her before him chuckled seeing Glen’s face. “What’s it ye smoke there?” She asked and reached for the pipe. Jinx sniffed at it and then inhaled deeply bringing it to her mouth. “Damn, no wonder you ladies look like that. Dis is the good stuff!”
“Look like what?” Glen asked annoyed, but she didn’t reply. He groaned in frustration, all that warm calmness gone and turned to a still chuckling Flix. “Can we trust the Blacksmith?”
“Difficult to know where he stands. Angrein had basically disappeared from public life after Queen Baltoris—”
“Wait,” Glen said stopping him. “I may have heard that name before.” From Lith.
“Garth,” Fikumin said warningly. Apparently the dwarf was awake as well. “Can I have a word?”
“Sure,” Glen replied and forced himself up.
“Where did you hear the name Garth?” Flix asked him behind a veil of white smoke.
“Ahm,” Glen said and Fikumin’s stare turned into a glare. “I’m not sure. Smoking that shite, really fogs my brain.”
“Mmm, aye,” Jinx purred, well-drugged and half-sleep, her eyes closed. “But it feels so fuckin’ good!”
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“What is it dwarf?” Glen asked after Fikumin had dragged him away from the fire and the giggling Gish.
“Your friend is an assassin,” the dwarf explained. “Who knew Larn, am I right?”
Glen sighed. “Fikumin relax. Flix and I have been through a lot. He saved my life back in Rida. You don’t have to worry about him.”
“Garth is a name given to people that can work with Wyverns,” Fikumin grunted. “But Hardir O’ Fardor, means the Tamer of Monsters and is quite a different matter Garth.”
Glen smacked his lips and eyed him. Even in the dark the dwarf’s nose stood out prominently dominating the rest of his face. No amount of facial hair could hide that monstrosity.
“You find this funny?” Fikumin grunted seeing his grin.
“Was thinking of something else dwarf. I’m a busy man wit lots of stuff on my mind,” Glen replied. “Garth or Hardir, what does it matter? These people love throwing monikers around,” He played it down.
“Hardir O’ Fardor isn’t thrown around willy-nilly Garth,” Fikumin admonished him. “It’s a cautionary tale the Folk are taught about the start of the Third Era.”
“What’s that?”
“An epoch, a change of times. The war with the Aken for example, happened at the end of the First Era, Queen Baltoris ruled for most of the Second,” Fikumin explained. The whole thing atrociously boring to Glen, but for a small detail.
“Baltoris,” he said slowly.
“Lithoniela’s mother,” Fikumin elucidated.
Ah.
No way.
Holly crap!
“Lith’s plaguing royalty?” Glen guffawed and Fikumin jumped and punched him in the stomach doubling him over. “GAH!” Glen cried, the wind knocked out of him. “What the fuck?” The dwarf felt as strong as Soren.
“Keep your voice down,” Fikumin grunted.
Glen stood up and kicked him aiming for his big nose. The dwarf dodged somehow, went under his loaded punch and sidestepped a knee to the head without batting an eyelash. Glen stopped breathing heavy and thoroughly bewildered. “How in Oras hells do ye do that?” He griped eyeing the small creature with hatred.
Fikumin shrugged his shoulders. “Luthos favors me more than you,” he replied simply.
“So what, you just dodge at random?” Glen snapped not believing him.
“No,” Fikumin replied shaking his head. “You just miss a lot.”
Luthos is a fuckin’ cunt, Glen decided. A playing favorite’s motherfucker.
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The morning found him waking up with a welt on his neck where a mosquito have sucked at least a liter of blood and quite dizzy. Murmuring under his breath, he washed his face and went to eat at a table outside the fort’s bakery. The woman working it bowed deeply, when she brought him a piece of bread and a cup of tea.
“They were slaves,” Kalac rustled and sat on the chair across from him. “I’ve let them go, but they opted to stay. Now they do what they did afore and behave the same,” the maimed Horselord leader said sounding troubled and placed his bronze hand on the table. While heavy and unwieldly it was also beautifully crafted and lifelike.
“People are creatures of habit,” Glen said tasting the bitter black tea.
“I suppose they are,” Kalac agreed. “Your Wyvern didn’t return.”
“It will, once he finishes whatever it is, he’s doing.”
“What does a Wyvern do?”
Glen smiled but didn’t reply and pointed at the fake hand. “Angrein did that?”
“He did,” Kalac replied. “It was a trade.”
“What did he trade for?” Glen asked him.
“The life of the woman that made yer bread,” Kalac replied. “The other slaves.”
“You were going to kill them?”
“I wasn’t going to keep them,” Kalac said and stared at his hand.
“Yet, you did,” Glen pointed. “What changed your mind?”
“All I’ve known is the Steppe,” Kalac replied. “Now I find myself longing for something else.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“This is a bad spot to settle,” Glen noted and the Horselord nodded.
“It is. Where are you heading Garth?” He asked him.
“Over that mountains.”
“No way over ‘em, I made the attempt already.”
“It’s a figure of speech. There is a way and I’ll find it,” Glen explained.
“An explorer,” Kalac said. “That rides a Wyvern,” he added looking at him.
“Eh, I don’t really,” Glen admitted.
“It’s an expression Garth,” Kalac had told him. “And one mounts a horse when it’s of age.”
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Glen walked to the carriage Angrein had parked outside his workshop and found the man loading equipment inside. Some of the tools massive and looking heavy, but the hale man handled them with ease.
“Will everything fit in there?” He asked him and Angrein turned to give him an onceover.
“I have an anvil I’ll need help fitting,” he told him.
Yer not expecting me lifting it for you?
Glen eyed the robust iron tool. It must have weighted a ton.
At least.
“We might need a couple of more people for that friend,” he said and Angrein grinned showing two rows of fine teeth.
“Just keep the wagon from shifting forward and I’ll get it in there,” he told him.
Glen nodded and put his hands on the wagon, near the back wheel. “I can call Soren, he’s a strong lad built for this kind of shit,” he offered not really expecting the man to lift the anvil himself, thoroughly astounded when he did. Angrein heaved it on the wagon without much trouble and then wiped his face with a hand.
“No worries,” The Blacksmith replied. “It’s easier than it looks once you get the hang of it.”
“It gets lighter?” Glen teased him and the man stood back and looked at him for a moment. Then he smiled getting his jest.
“Only the Great Gimoss knows a better way. The rest we must toil hard to make stuff.”
“Gimoss? Haha!” Glen guffawed. “No way!”
Angrein stared at him surprised.
“You know of the great Architect?”
“The great… hah. Friend, I do know him,” Glen replied still chuckling. “You just missed him.”
“You travel…” Angrein stood back impressed. “How did he… this is unexpected. Is he as vile as the stories claim?”
“Worse. Trust me it’s better you missed him,” Glen said truthfully.
“I never expected to live to your days Hardir,” Angrein admitted taken aback. While he had Glen’s height, his arms and torso were powerfully built. With the exception of his strange eyes the man looked as healthy as a horse.
“Let us stick wit Garth, I’ve enough names already,” Glen replied and the Imperial Blacksmith nodded with a smile.
“Kalac has agreed to lead you to the river’s sources,” he said after a moment.
“Thank you,” Glen said. “You didn’t have to help us. I owe you a favor, as you’ve said.”
Angrein walked towards his workshop to pick up a large leather sack containing tongs and hammers without answering him. He brought everything to the wagon and loaded them up as well.
“The Empire is gone,” Angrein said. “But if you’ve served for as long as I had. It is difficult to break out of the habit. You find yourself longing for its return.”
“You were a slave?” Glen asked him.
“Everyone is a slave Garth,” Angrein replied much as Sen had that night. “Some just don’t know it. Others free themselves from one master, only to serve another. You can be a slave to many a things and not only to people.”
Sen hadn’t explained it that well, Glen thought.
“You’re leaving?” Glen asked after a moment of them both staring at the loaded wagon in silent contemplation.
“It is time for me to return,” Angrein replied simply. “You know the road through the mountains?”
“I intend to find it,” Glen said. “Why?”
“I’d like to ask for that favor Hardir O’ Fardor,” Angrein had told him. “And the opportunity to serve again.”
> Kalac led us through the opened paths his men had created on their previous attempts to reach the Pale Mountains. A difficult journey that lasted ten days and gave us a taste of what was to come. Garth hated the jungle as much as the desert.
The rain had stopped fortunately, but water kept pouring down from the tall trees, from giant sequoias that reached over fifty meters in height and walking Palms their roots visible over the muddy ground and various other types of redwoods, even house-sized Kapok and rubber trees. The sounds of dripping water and insects maddening, it replaced the roar of the sudden thunderstorm that attacked them viciously for almost half an hour.
“Damn it,” Glen said turning on the saddle to watch Soren and Angrein push the carriage through the mud and rotten leaves covered path. “Might as well leave it here, can’t see us taking it all the way to the mountain.”
“It’s near,” Kalac rustled, face wet and gaunt. “The terrain turns rocky near the sources.”
“I don’t know where the river is,” Glen admitted. “Nor do I see beyond two meters in this darn darkness.”
“The canopy opens up,” Kalac insisted and glanced at the slow moving carriage start moving again, the animals pulling it exhausted.
“You’re okay there Soren?” Glen asked the big Northman.
“Aye, not much daylight in these parts,” he replied.
“It’s the trees, the sun does come up,” Jinx explained and started working on the pale-colored bark of a tree with a small knife. She cut small incisions on it and gathered the bright yellow fluids in her vials.
“What’s that?” Glen asked her.
“Good poison,” she explained. “Very useful.”
“Right,” Glen replied with a grimace, twisting around alarmed as he’d heard a strange buzzing sound nearing him. “Well, mind not to get any in our supplies Whisper.”
“I’m not stupid Glen,” Jinx replied.
“Fine,” he grunted and turned Outlaw to follow after Kalac, through the narrow path. His men were further up ahead working on reopening the route that would probably close up behind them within a week. “We should bring the workers from Eikenport here, cut down everything and make a proper road out of it.”
“Watch out, there’s the opening,” Kalac said and Glen heard Biscuit flying over them, the thick canopy hiding the Wyvern completely. “They cleared it well, but some of the roots might fight back. Vicious buggers.”
“Hah,” Glen grinned seeing the sun breaking through the branches ahead of him and went to wipe his face, but noticed he’d a vine caught on his right boot. He tried to kick it away, but it was fruitless and it got tangled up even more. Glen raised his leg from the stirrup, the strange root resisted and then suddenly pulled hard in retaliation.
One second Glen was atop his horse and the other he flew from the saddle, landed on the hard ground -now more rocks than mud and rotten leaves on it- and heard Jinx gasping either shocked, or impressed at his abrupt tumble.
He raised his head groaning, his back hurting and the root turned alive before his eyes. It moved alike a weird snake coiling around his leg and then pulled him outside the opened path with such force, he almost ripped it out.
“Oh… fuck!”
That was Glen afore disappearing into the lush vegetation, mud covered sharp branches and rotting roots smacking him in the face, bloated bugs jumping away, a real snake hissing in panic, as he got dragged for almost a minute through the jungle and then dropped into a dark hole between the giant roots of a tree.
Glen put a hand out and his other leg’s boot, stopped himself shy of the bottom of the dark pit. The bottom itself moving and then opening up with a crunching sound, stinking of rotten bones and excrement.
The flesh-eating plant’s mouth was as large as a water barrel.
Glen was too scared and shocked to panic immediately.
So he reached for his dagger first and then panicked.
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Glen tried to move away and out of the hole, but another nimble vine reached for his neck and coiled around it, little thorns prickling him repeatedly looking for purchase in his flesh. He slashed at it with the dagger almost opening his face up from chin to nose, but managed to cut it away and breathed once deep, before the living root yanked at him again.
Part of the hole started caving in, the soil soft and wet. Glen twisted this way and that in the dark, the plant’s mouth cavernous under him at the bottom of the pit.
“ARGH!” He growled, eyes smarting and gawked. Glen flipped the dagger in his hand and tried to stab down but he couldn’t reach his right leg. The latter now almost inside the mouth that started closing slowly. Glen couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. Blade-like teeth piercing through his boot.
Oras hells! What is this fuckin’ crap?
“Let go! Else I turn ye into sludge!” He threatened the silent predator absent other ideas. The living plant didn’t reply, either because it couldn’t understand him or because it had no ears to hear his voice.
A worthy argument can be made here that the living plant just didn’t care.
The Witch’s dagger did though and tried to find a way to get him out of the literal hole he’d found himself in. When nothing else seemed to work, it went with Glen’s suggestion using whatever it found near to perform one of the five forbidden spells.
The Greater Spell of Rot.
> Gantor Rond
A foreboding silence fell all around him. Something akin to fire run through Glen, his skin drying up and his pores sweating blood. Everywhere around the hidden caved in hole, in a fifty meter radius at least, birds dropped dead from the canopy and the tall branches. Bugs exploded or shrunk away into nothingness. Snakes and crawlers, seven monkeys, a couple of rare white and black spotted leopards and their cubs expired at once. The large trees lost their color, their trunks drying up and cracking. Branches snapped under their weight and finally the silence was broken when all that crumbled down into piles of unidentified material, creating a large open field with the dark hole at its center.
An unconscious Glen dropped onto the mammoth sized and ancient living plant, went through one of its twelve mouths like it wasn’t there, the once hard crust and inner flesh dissolving completely rotted away and turning into a strange dark green goo and landed on the stone floor of the pit.
The stones that he landed upon cracked around him and thin fractures resembling veins started ever growing outwards. The jungle over him had turned silent again and the strong sun now bathed the large freshly cleared circle in brilliant light, burning hot after the rain.
> The common man with the black and red dragon eyes of his dream sighed and stared at his hands. The long fingers laced together over his stomach. He waited for a long moment for Glen to wake up before the roof of the tunnel collapsed under him and seeing the former thief wasn’t going to, willed the dagger on the west wall, made it bounce once on it ever gaining speed and guided it on its return right at the unconscious Glen’s left forearm. He almost got him where Baltoris’ brood had wounded him almost two years back.
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> Being pressed for time he missed the exact spot for a couple of inches, the blade finding bone this time around.
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“GAAAH!” Glen moaned desperately and brutally woke up. He opened his eyes, saw sunlight coming through a small hole over his head and the dagger stuck in the arm he raised to protect his eyes. His own blood sprayed him in the face.
Good grief.
Luthos low hanging balls…
Glen grasped for the lightstone and got it out of his collar. He had it secured on a wooden pendant, next to Sen’s Capricorn. Then he reached with his good hand, breathing in short panicked breaths and grabbed the dagger’s handle.
Caught in a bear trap.
He pulled the blade out as fast as he could, the pain blinding.
“ARGGH!” Glen cried miserably the dark hole muffling it and put a hand on the wound to stop the bleeding, the wound itself impossible to explain. He looked for a cloth and found a hankie in his leather satchel. The fact that he still had it attached on him a miracle.
No bigger than the disappearance of the murderous and sneaky plant. Glen felt the ground he was on, his body complaining and hurting. Nothing hurting as much as his stabbed arm though. He discovered half a foot of goo all about him, the smell atrocious and only now registering through his hazy brain. The ground itself made out of solid cut rock, the kind one rarely paves a jungle with.
Uh?
The ground shook underneath him, rocks cracking, falling and around the former thief large holes started opening up, as a large portion of the ancient roof started caving in.
Ripped clean off in the attempt to stand.
“Oh, for fuck’s—”
Glen managed to say before the roof collapsed under him.
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Luthos ye son of a naughty goat! Glen cursed sprawled on his back and spat out putrid green plant-based sludge, puking a little bit at the end of it. He rolled once to avoid the worst of the spillage, but a big rock smacked him on the shoulder, denting his armour and cut his effort short. He made to turn his head, found another broken boulder there and tried to push it aside with his forehead, but failed at that too.
Glen stood up on his arse with a grunt, a cut bleeding down his face and his arm a burning rod of misery. Coughing and belching at the same time Glen stumbled on his feet, the lightstone chasing away the foreboding shadows of the tunnel he’d found himself inside.
“Who the fuck builds a plaguin’ tunnel under the jungle?” He wondered aloud, his voice and the light bouncing off of the distant finely constructed wall revealing part of the size of this underground construction. The other wall a good ten meters away and build with the same sturdy material. Stones cut in large square pieces, each size about a meter and attached with great precision, but for the roof. There big penetrating roots had eroded the structure, along with the living plant choosing it for its nest and Glen of course, causing it to collapse.
The tunnel extending as far as the eye could see on both directions. It was like a road in a sense build under the jungle and heading, if Glen wasn’t mistaken, towards the Pale Mountains. The former thief grunted in pain and cleaned his face from all the sludge and blood. His undergarments soaked in it and his skin feeling dry and leathery to the touch.
What had Flix said to Angrein back at the bridge? He asked, trying to remember, fresh blood trickling down his nose, at first unable to recall the name describing what he had discovered.
Until he did.