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Glen
Mister Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
The Veils of Nether
Part III
-Someone else will come along-
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The Wyvern turned his wedge shaped head on the young Zilan, twin black horns protruding out of a scaly forehead and growled warningly. Phinariel made another step forward and Biscuit walked on all fours towards her like a giant bat. The young Zilan gasped and stumbled back on shaky legs almost going down, large eyes opened wide with wonder.
“No,” Glen said through his teeth, barely standing upright. “Leave her alone.”
The Wyvern stopped at the sound of his voice and snorted.
RRRRRRR
Don’t ye roar me ye little shit, Glen warned him.
“A word Hardir,” Anfalon rustled watching the scene unfolding. Behind him Maeriel helped the third Zilan to her feet and cleared the mud off her face. The female could barely stand as well.
Ah.
Yep, the hand is fucked.
“You’ll talk to him later,” Jinx intervened running to catch a faltering Glen. “He’s injured.”
Anfalon stood back surprised.
“When did it happen?” He grunted not convinced. “What’s wrong with him?”
“We fought the cultists earlier,” Angrein explained, as Jinx started carrying Glen towards their camp and the carriages. “They killed two females. We have them buried.”
“Show me,” Anfalon said and Glen glanced at the strained face of Jinx supporting him.
“I’m fine Whisper,” He croaked. “I just need a minute.”
“The hells ye are,” Jinx spat. “And ye weigh a fuckin’ ton!”
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“Keep an eye on Biscuit,” Glen groaned and collapsed on a saddle, the fingers on his left hand frozen. The skin black and hard as a rock.
“No one’s going near the Wyvern, but for that girl,” Jinx hissed and looked at Flix that had followed them. The rest of their men had approached the Hoplite and the Zilan curious. They had created a semi-circle behind them, while Angrein pointed Anfalon to the freshly dug graves. “Do you have a healing potion?”
“It won’t help him,” The old Gish replied and got his pipe out, proceeding to fill it with dried up Redleaf crystals.
“Just give me whatever you gave to Soren,” Glen snapped and dropped Emerson’s broken sword in front of him.
“I didn’t give him anything,” Flix said and lit his pipe.
“Aye, Soren was always very durable. It’s his constitution,” Jinx explained thoughtfully.
“Whisper, what does this have to do with him being able to brass off a blade through the fucking ribs?” Glen growled, everything hurting him.
Jinx shrugged her shoulders. “Was it the dagger?” She asked changing the subject.
“I didn’t use it,” Glen snapped and Fikumin, who’d approached them as well grunted.
“He’s lying.”
You boulder-nosed turd!
“Dwarf I dodged and had a plan on how to beat him,” Glen hissed, but Fikumin grimaced not convinced.
“I don’t believe you. You did something.”
“I did not!” Glen insisted his patience running thin.
“Mayhap a haste spell?” Flix chanced and offered him the loaded pipe. Glen took it and sucked at the numbing substance eyeing the old Gish. “I’ve seen this on mages using a spell absent another medium.”
“What medium?” Glen asked feeling a little better.
“Prepared incense, a special mix of rare leaves, rocks and oils.”
“Can ye be more specific?” Glen probed.
“Frankincense, Sandalwood, Marjoram, Lavender…”
Glen raised his good hand to stop him. “Sen uses some of that stuff.”
“I do too, when I have time,” Jinx said a little offended. “Mostly hers lately,” She added and Glen frowned looking at her.
“Whisper, I wasn’t implying… you know I value you as a friend,” He told her tiredly.
“Aww, yer so sweet when injured,” Jinx purred and with a small hesitation she expounded just to make it clear. “I value Soren more, but you’re a close second.”
“Fine, I can accept that,” Glen told her with a smile.
Jinx grinned widely as well, pleased they had such a good understanding and then added whispering very quickly.
“I’ve slept with yer wife.”
Glen blinked in shock.
The image disturbingly arousing.
“In her bed was my meaning,” Jinx blurted, not helping the image dissipate at all. “A couple of times more than ten.”
“Ehm,” Glen droned unsure on what to say. Flix was rubbing a spot under his nostrils that suddenly bothered him and Fikumin who was the most prudish of the lot glared at the blushing young Gish furious.
“It wasn’t sexual,” Jinx added.
“There then,” Glen said relieved and attempted to steer away from the uncomfortable topic. “Now, Flix hand me that expired elixir of yours—”
“But we were all naked,” Jinx added to get everything out of her chest given the opportunity. “The girls too.”
“Damn you!” Fikumin snapped. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“It was too darn hot in the ship!” Jinx protested and Glen sighed deeply, pressed the pipe on his mouth and inhaled as deep as he could, his eyes watering.
“I’m not as sure about this one,” Flix told him calmly and offered him a rusty, mouldy and cracked vial. “It’s probably not mine also.”
Glen cleared his throat and eyed through his haze Fikumin giving Jinx a tongue-lashing.
“So a fifty-fifty chance?” He asked him hopefully.
“Eh, I wouldn’t be that optimistic,” Flix deadpanned. “This has much lower chances, than my own potions… Or it doesn’t hehe,” He grinned at the last part.
Glen who’d no idea he was risking his life each time, uncorked the vial with his teeth, spat the stopper away and glugged it all down trying not to smell the foulness emanating from it.
He almost cracked his skull open collapsing backwards, but Flix managed to hold him upright -of sorts- expecting it.
> Clang.
>
> Glen saw the coin strike the first step of the stairs. It clattered for a moment and then stopped. A gold perfect square, classy undulating motif at its sides and nothing depicted at its center. On either side.
>
> “It’s a coin,” The man with the black dragon eyes said. “Two sides of the same thing. Like dreams and visions.”
>
> Glen had climbed the stairs and had entered the old temple pyramid without realizing it.
>
> “What does it mean?” He asked and raised his blackened hand to see if it had healed.
>
> “This isn’t that kind of dream,” The man said, reading his thoughts.
>
> “I’ve done this before,” Glen noted, looking about him. The walls were still standing, the roof as well. No holes, or signs of damage.
>
> “Many a times,” The man replied, his common face blank of emotion. “One time.”
>
> “Which is it?” Glen asked and the man showed him the coin he held in his hands. Glen turned it around to check on both sides and found them identical. The man smirked, lips pressed together tightly.
>
> “Rav’ Naure,” The man said in Imperial. “But you’ll need the name to end it.”
>
> “Where’s the name?” Glen asked. He’d no idea what the man was talking about.
>
> “Without the name, you’ll fail and die,” His smirk grew at the latter. “The leash broken.”
>
> Suck a bag of dicks, un-carameled.
>
> “What name?” Glen asked again, enjoying the insulted look on the man’s face.
>
> “Check your darn pockets,” The man sitting on the throne growled and the walls shook, the ground danced under his feet and his mouth flooded with water.
“GAAH!” Glen cried out and woke up coughing his lungs out. Water had gone down the wrong pipe, entered in his nose and then got expelled as he stumbled around retching. Jinx standing where he was laid down earlier, large iron carafe in her hands grinned.
“Whisper,” Glen said sounding strangled. “What the actual fuck?”
“Had to force water down yer mouth,” She explained offering him some more. Glen waved her off still trying to get everything out. “Dilute the effects of the potion.”
“I was out!” Glen protested angry. “You could have drown me gods dammit!”
“Pfft, yer fine,” Jinx said dismissively. “People can survive a bit of water.”
“Gish might!” Glen blasted her. “Not normal people!”
Jinx frowned, pink brows meeting in the middle of her small forehead.
“What you mean? I’m as much a person as ye are!”
“Fuck’s sake,” Glen groaned and tried to move his hand. The color had improved a bit, but he couldn’t really close his fingers still. “Can you bring me my leather gloves?” He asked her.
“Ahm,” Jinx said taken aback at the change of topic. “Remind me which ones are these?”
“The ones ye pilfered out of my saddlebags,” Glen explained to her calmly.
“Well, I didn’t and I resent—”
Glen stopped her raising his good arm. “Whisper, get me the left one. I need to cover this,” He told her all serious.
“I’ll go get them,” She relented. “I had everything put in me sack to clean—”
“Thanks,” Glen said cutting her off. “I appreciate the gesture.”
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Glen found Angrein working on Emerson’s blade, the Zilan watching the Wyvern eating a jungle pig and making a show of it, but for Anfalon who listened to Fikumin. The Hoplite had taken his helm off and looked even more impressive. His long cobalt hair braided and caught at the nape. Elongated ears, gracing a chiseled long face, a thin straight nose and a pair of teal-silver eyes.
Anfalon didn’t look a day over thirty.
Probably he’s living a healthy life, Glen decided. Or walks about. I do and have turned out pretty darn fine.
“You’ll need a new blade,” Angrein told him. “How’s the hand?”
Glen wore one leather glove to cover it.
“Better.”
“Anfalon is willing to travel to Goras,” The Blacksmith continued. “Help you resolve the issue.”
“I hadn’t decided to get involved,” Glen told him and Angrein returned his stare. The eyes reminded Glen of the man in the dream.
“Anfalon expects you to solve the issue,” Angrein elucidated.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Ah.
“What’s the deal with him?”
“A watchdog without purpose, or orders, might find purpose at some point. It might take him a while, but he’ll look for it. Once he does,” Angrein sighed and dropped the broken parts of the sword down. “It is better to have him on your side.”
“He’s with the girls,” Glen said.
“They got to him first,” Angrein explained. “Learning of the… unfortunate events, had them shook to their core. Especially the youngling. Foolish they might be, but they have his ear.”
“Why foolish?”
“These Zilan never cared about the strays,” Angrein explained. “It wasn’t hate, though some of it was present in the Queen’s circles, but more indifference.”
“Why hate?” Glen asked.
“The strays loved Edlenn and she loved them was the word,” Angrein said thinking back. “And they worship the Moon’s Daughter, still wait for her return. It didn’t sit well with the palace.”
“Isn’t that blue cunt in Rida called—?” Jinx started to say, but Glen turned around and put a hand on her chest to stop her. He wasn’t going for that, but got a handful of it, over her leather vest. Jinx had filled up nicely in the years he knew her and had grown quite the nipple.
“Whisper, I need a favor,” Glen told her, his voice cracking at the end of it. “We’ll talk later Angrein.”
“I’ll have a new blade made for you,” The Blacksmith said. “When I get my forge back.”
“Keep the handle,” Glen urged him, just as a livid Jinx removed his hand from her breast with a hiss. “It has sentimental value.”
“It’s cracked Garth. I need to make a new one, but I can keep the spirit of the old blade in it,” Angrein explained.
“You mean the engravings?” Glen asked and Angrein smiled thinly. “They are worn out,” Glen added.
“It’s an Elk, I give you my assurance that the result will please you,” Angrein said, sounding offended.
“Gratitude,” Glen said a little embarrassed. “Whatever I can do to reward you for yer trouble—”
“Get Anfalon on our side,” Angrein told him quickly lowering his voice. “Go to Goras and root the cultists out. Be Hardir and not something else.”
“What else?” Glen asked him taken aback at his proposal.
“Many have tamed Wyverns here Garth. Made fortunes and garnered great fame,” Angrein had told him. “But very few had ruled over these lands. If you don’t, someone else will come along and rule over you.”
Like the cultists was his meaning.
Or Anfalon, if the females had their way.
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Glen stared at the various groups formed in their camp, Anfalon and Angrein with Maeriel, an Imperial Ranger apparently and Lymsiel, a lower caste Healer. Kalac with his riders at the periphery. Alix, Metu and Flix talking about potions in their own little group. Biscuit resting next to his meal, burgundy eyes with transparent eyelids closed observing Glen and Jinx in his semi sleeping state. Phinariel standing at a distance, watching the Wyvern in turn awed and extremely curious.
“Apologies for before,” Glen said to Jinx and she snorted, then punched his right shoulder hard. She must have hurt her fingers something fierce, but Jinx was never going to admit that, so she swallowed her pain, eyes tearing up in a glare of sorts.
“Yer not sorry,” Jinx hissed. “I had to remove your hand.”
It was the truth. Once Glen had grabbed that tit he wasn’t releasing it that easy.
“It’s a man thing,” He told her mocking Jinx’s similar answers and she rolled her eyes, making the unashamedly watching them Phinariel chuckle.
“So?” Jinx asked him.
“So I’m not sorry,” Glen admitted. “It won’t happen again though.”
The young Gish pushed a pink curl behind an ear.
“I don’t believe you,” She told him earnestly.
“As I was saying,” Glen continued to speed the conversation along, the Wyvern making low guttural sounds dreaming -gods only knew of what- distracting him. “I wanted to keep some things hidden.”
“From Angrein?”
“From everyone,” Glen explained, looking at the pretty young Zilan. Phinariel blinked and then blushed. She was glowing almost, every bit of exposed skin and more so her eyes, in the dark moonless night.
Hmm.
“Glen,” Jinx interrupted him. “She’s a kid.”
“I wasn’t…” He cleared his throat and glared at her. “You know I’ve one woman on my mind!”
“Sure,” Jinx replied. “Since she’s a Zilan and I’m a Gish, yer answer leaves plenty of room for interpretation.”
“Whisper you’re stalling our talk,” He growled.
“Glen she’ll run to her friends and tell them everything,” Jinx replied teasingly.
Ah.
Damn it.
Glen eyed the alluring teen under a new light.
Ye sneaky little shit.
“Do you have a god you pray to?” He asked the young Zilan, pausing at every word in common.
Phinariel pointed at the canopy over their heads. No sky was visible, but for the part the Wyvern had destroyed to reach them earlier.
“The Moon’s Daughter,” She replied in singing common.
“You speak Common?” Glen asked her surprised.
“It’s a very simple language,” She replied smugly, as if trying to impress him.
Well, Glen didn’t think it was.
“Maeriel taught her,” Jinx ratted her out and Phinariel threw her a glare.
“Right,” Glen said staring at his boots. “Who is the Moon’s daughter Phina?”
“Edlenn is the Garden’s Moon. The Moon’s youngest daughter is our Goddess,” Phina recited what she had been taught orally.
“How many daughters were there?”
“Two daughters.”
“Why not worship the older one?” Glen asked wryly.
“Edlenn lost her at the Plague Isles,” Phinariel replied quickly. “It’s an evil place, where dead walk amongst the living.”
Good fucking grief.
“Do you wanna pet Biscuit?”
“Bis… cou…it?”
“It’s what I call him,” Glen explained. “Come let’s give this sleepy boy a nudge.”
> Phinariel, yes that’s Lady Phinariel, lost her mind with the Wyvern and Garth. She loved all of us in that youngling’s strange and innocent adoration. She was like the glue and still is in a sense, bringing together a diverse group of people, with dissimilar ideas and vastly different plans for the future. Garth, forced by circumstances to investigate the happenings at Goras, followed the Imperial Blacksmith’s advice to placate Anfalon.
>
> Maeriel, the Ranger wanted to bring survivors to Phinariel’s village and away from the Veils of Nether grip, but Flix of all people preached long on breaking their hold over the ruins. As I said younglings, everyone had their own agenda and Garth who could have fooled you as a brainless simpleton, had to manage all those wants and shape them into a coherent narrative.
>
> A true ruler forges his own story working with the material at hand. Using a sledgehammer isn’t always the solution and what is decent isn’t always what is right.
>
> You see Garth, with all his faults wasn’t stupid and in the end we all realized he knew more than everyone else, but never opened up truly. He’d also an uncanny ability to smell big trouble, but also miss the little things. And no he didn’t reveal his secrets to anyone. At least not that I know off.
There was a thick mist covering the coast, the trees losing the battle to the basalt rock covering the aloof south portion of the narrow peninsula. The uncharacteristic rocky terrain created out of frozen lava from the crater that had formed it, when the mountains had sunk and the waters had taken over.
“There was a ‘bridge’ here,” Angrein explained pointing at the massive stone supports still visible on the edge of the gap. “It reached the mountains and North Goras. The most expensive estates were built at its slopes.”
“Where is it? North Goras?” Glen asked and Angrein pointed at the unseen waters.
“Right,” Glen grimaced and eyed the Caravan slowly gathering. A camp would be built soon, a more permanent one, until they knew what was ahead of them. “What’s at the end of the peninsula?”
“A part of the city, the East Part. Temples mostly and gardens,” Angrein said reminiscing. “Hopefully still left standing.”
“Why built around a volcano?” Glen asked.
“The land was very rich, the view breathtaking and the Wyverns love the heat. They procreate faster here. Although that is disputed.”
“Where’s the volcano?”
“Beyond the city’s center. Ahm, it’s very far away and I don’t know if something remains there, but the boiling waters.”
“The water seems fine,” Glen noticed.
“On this side, in Wyvern’s Mouth it is, but over yonder where the crater stands… the earth is still bleeding.”
“Are you sure?”
Angrein shrugged his shoulders. “I may be wrong Garth.”
“How soon can you have a blade ready?” Glen asked him.
“It will be ready, when it is,” Angrein replied and walked away. He was always prickly about his craft.
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“How soon will the birds reach Eikenport?” Glen asked Metu five days later, the massive ruins of Ninthalor’s Bridge looming over them.
“Within a week,” The slave replied eating a dried strawberry. Glen had no idea they still had those. “Another to reach the camp, plus the runner needs to reach us of course.”
“Can we send one from Goras?”
“Not immediately but yes,” Metu replied.
“We need to have a way to communicate with Stiles and Sen Metu,” Glen told him.
“Of course Master Garth,” The slave replied. “I will work on it immediately. It would be sooner with more help around.”
Glen grimaced. “I’ll see what I can do.”
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Sam Mathews stretched his arms out and eyed him approaching on top of his horse. Glen jumped down and walked briskly towards the adventurer.
“I need a scouting expedition party formed, Mr. Mathews.”
“A couple of horselords, myself and one of your Gish’s will do it Garth,” Sam replied nonchalantly.
“A bigger force than that.”
“The Hoplite, his Ranger… that’s enough people. It’s better to keep your guards with the caravan.”
“Five Horselords and Kalac. The Hoplite, Maeriel and the Gish. Us two,” Glen counted.
“That’s thirteen. What about the dwarf?”
Glen nodded and went to find Angrein. The heat near the forge suffocating. The Blacksmith’s physique impressive. Glen thought the man had more muscles on his neck than what people had on their whole bodies.
Angrein was working on the sword’s engravings. The needle like tool tiny in his hands. The horned head of the Elk that was to be the pommel on the grip so lifelike despite being minute in size, Glen thought it moved the moment it heard him approach.
Whoa.
“That’s pretty darn impressive,” He said earnestly.
“Do you want to see the blade?” Angrein asked him, leaving the finished part on a table. He reached and got a bundle of cloth smelling of oil and unfurled it. The steel blade gleamed in the sun, a dark shade running its length but for the edges. “It’s shorter than it was and I used both your swords to make it.”
Glen took it in his hand, the handle was fixed on it, with only the curved pommel missing. The leather on it hard and rough to the feel.
“Chimera hide,” Angrein explained. “It’s a serviceable weapon, but I may make you a fancier one, if I find the material.”
“It will do,” Glen murmured testing it. Each time he cut through the air the metal chimed making a distinct sound. It reminded him of a jackal’s howl. “That’s imperial steel then?” He asked the Blacksmith and the brawny man stood back a little offended.
“That’s an Angrein O’ Mecatan blade,” He rustled through his teeth. “Heated and folded twenty times and cooled as many plus one to honor the Great Architect. It won’t fail you in battle.”
“Does it have a name?” Glen asked him.
“You can’t name a reforged weapon Garth,” Angrein said. “Unless it’s yours. Is it?”
Glen could have lied there, but he didn’t. He thought of Emerson. Claiming his sword would have been like admitting the Knight was dead and Glen had stubbornly refused to accept that.
“It’s not,” He said.
“Let its owner decide whether it deserves a name or not,” Angrein told him and accepted the sword from Glen again. “If the request is just, Gimoss will listen.”
Glen blinked and then sighed. The man is going to be shocked if he ever meets his God, he thought. Or delighted, people can be weird.
“Gratitude Angrein,” He said instead and the Imperial Blacksmith grunted at the needless praise.
“It was a trade Garth. Now it’s on you to deliver on yer promise.”
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East Goras stood just beyond the lightly sloped sides of a plateau, with a green mass of ancient yew trees creating a thick but easily crossed forest covering it fully. The mist covered forest majestic and mysterious, the distant rumble of a waterfall pouring down a great height, sounding in the distance.
“Witch’s trees,” Flix said, standing next to him on top of his horse, a hood shading his aged face. “Young Jinx should make a better bow given the opportunity. I asked Maeriel to help her.”
“Why Maeriel?” Glen asked, who had caught Jinx’s interest on the imposing Zilan Ranger.
“Those two need to work it out,” Flix replied. “They’ll make a good couple.”
“Hah, they are nothing alike ye old fool,” Glen guffawed.
“I know people, Garth,” Flix insisted. “There’s someone watching us from that tree,” He added. “I’ll go and prevent the Hoplite from doing anything rush.”
“Which tree…” Glen snapped, glancing towards the huge and many hanging branches over their heads. “I thought ye wanted the conflict Gish.”
“I’m not sure she’s a cultist,” Flix replied eyeing him.
Glen narrowed his eyes not seeing anything moving about them.
“She?”
“Caught a whiff of jojoba oil,” Flix admitted with a snort. “Females used it on their hair. Gives a certain shine, without the need for a spell.”
Glen sniffled trying to catch the scent, scrunching his jaw this way and that. He sighed when he failed and jumped down from his horse, sidestepping at the last moment to avoid the cackling Wyvern bulldozing him to the ground sneakily.
He could get near you without any noise, as if he was using magic, but got overly excited near the end, usually giving himself away. It was Biscuit’s favorite game since he was little, but Biscuit wasn’t petite anymore and Glen had no bones left to spare.
The Wyvern snorted miffed at the near miss and eyed Glen asking for a best of three tries game probably. Glen would have none of that though and waved him off.
“No more games,” He grunted over the Wyvern’s loud squealing protests and a Zilan female dropped from a high branch and landed five meters away from them. Glen and Biscuit had left the rest of their group behind. People usually kept a safe distance from the Wyvern truth be told. Except for Phinariel that is. The Zilan gasped seeing the Wyvern looking at her curious and semi-hungry, then glanced at the dumbfounded Glen.
The former thief puffed his cheeks out, ballooning his face comically, the Zilan a perfect copy almost of the one that Pyriael had killed a couple of weeks back. A bit older perhaps and knowing their species that could range from years to centuries.
She stood up on her feet slowly and with a resigned sigh walked up to a weirded out Glen and threw herself at his feet.
RRRRREEEE!
The Wyvern roared mistaking her actions, but Glen stopped him raising a gloved hand, the other on the grip of his dagger to catch the Zilan’s words.
Although he didn’t have to.
“Oh, Tamer of Beasts,” She begged in fluent common. “I Soletha, of Farelnn willingly surrender my life unto to you, just spare my daughter!”
Eh, Glen thought and got all that air out troubled.
“Does she have a name, your daughter?” He asked her although knowing Luthos, Glen already could guess at the answer.
“Meira,” She replied and sensing his mood started shaking, her grief so raw Glen stumbled back a couple of steps astounded.
He remembered the blade opening up her neck from ear to ear. The lifeless corpse thrown into the shallow grave by the road.
“I’m sorry,” He murmured and heard the others approaching them, the horses neighing not all of them likening being near the Wyvern.
“For the Goddess’ love ever be eternal and a mother’s affection never sated,” Soletha managed to say as dignified as she could. “Let the foul beast and its disciples be driven from the Goddess Springs. Let their black hearts be eaten,” She raised her cobalt head to stare into his eyes. “Whilst they’re still beating.”
Ahm, Glen thought unsure and Anfalon who’d approached put a hand on her shoulder and helped the grief stricken mother up.
“Arise respectable priestess of the Eternal Waters,” The Hoplite said sounding moved. “For the harshest of justice has arrived and the land shall be cleansed.”
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