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Glen
Mister Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Ruler of Goras Peninsula
Part I
-My loot, my lands-
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Fikumin was snoring in his cot, near the half-out brazier. It was a thunderous sound. It bounced off the high ceiling of the estate-size house Glen had moved into and its ancient walls. There was another floor a cavernous six meters over their heads, the staircase leading to it narrow and adjacent to the west wall. It shot upwards without rails, its finely cut steps narrow and slippery. A test of one’s balance if there ever was one. A great amount of skill in acrobatics was needed to climb it. Gods forbid you had to come down of it in a hurry, or half-drowsed from yer sleep to take a piss.
Phina had gone up there clearing two steps at a time to ‘explore’.
Glen could respect that and would have gone exploring as well, but he didn’t. First it was easy to pinch whatever the small Zilan might discover, if it had any value and second, he was dog tired and this place looked thoroughly looted already to his experienced gaze.
They’ve even taken the plaguin’ furniture gods darn it, he thought scrunching his nose and looking about in the dark. He’d woken up afore the sun had started its ascent on the horizon. Glen had slept poorly, as people falling asleep on uncomfortable thrones tend to do, had his back twisted on it funny and it was bothering him, the rest of his body still hurting from the ordeal of dealing with the Hydra.
Fikumin went on another round of earth-shattering snorts and Glen pushed himself upright with a groan and stepped away from the throne. They had found a table along with a couple of empty boxes, but not much else in the nearby –equally tall and impressive- abandoned houses.
He walked towards the window, now cleaned from overgrowth and opened wide, his eyes set on the mist coming from the lake. The humidity was so great, he felt it on his skin and he pushed away from the window frustrated. Fikumin was either doing it on purpose, or he was dying, he thought, staring at the sleeping dwarf. The weight of his huge head is probably slowly crashing his wind-pipes, or something. Each attempt at resting the toss of a coin wit death looming afore the next morning.
In a sense, Glen felt sorry for the tiny guy.
He walked outside, almost tripping at the large entrance, a carved lip raised at its base to keep the water out nigh dangerous. Probably another of Moron’s designs, Glen thought looking about to see if anyone had caught him stumbling out of his house.
Ye got to keep them guessing my dude. Keep up the charade and all these insane flesheating motherfuckers in the bloody dark. At least I know the dwarf is trustworthy, Soren is a friend and Jinx is the most solid of them all. A fucking trooper aye, Glen thought walking towards an enormous trunk sprouting out of the fertile ground and shooting towards the skies, lost in the thick fog hanging over his head. Just has no brains far as coin-management goes, due to her gambling problem. But you can trust her to keep everyone at arm’s length and not open up…
“Oii! Mmm,” Jinx gushed from someplace high over his head. “Move it around!”
Well this could be anything really, no need to jump into conclusions—
“That’s Bobelo’s finger ‘Rosy Eyes’,” A heavy-breathing Maeriel corrected her.
Glen’s brows shot up and he stared at the tall tree with its unseen branches distressed.
“Get it out you naughty ape!” Maeriel admonished their third partner –apparently. Glen’s left eye started twitching, when Bobelo’s reply led him down some very weird paths.
“Hooh-ha, ah-ah!” Bobelo argued, the branches rustling over a stunned Glen and wet leaves raining on him.
“Leave it!” Jinx gasped, her voice turning into a shriek. “I can handle both!”
What in Luthos balls is this shite?
“WHISPER!” Glen barked furious and glared upwards his face flushed. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!”
Ah-Ah, the monkey cackled and dropped down, landing on his shoulder. Glen recoiled and turned to punch the small winged creature away, but Bobelo jumped over his fist just as fast, causing him to miss, whilst slotting his long index finger into Glen’s left nostril.
Hard.
“Argh!” Glen groaned irate and swung with his other hand. The monkey jumped away, bounced off the trunk and came at him again. Glen tried another haymaker, the flying monkey took a dive to avoid it and a snarling Glen caught it with a well-placed raised knee. It snapped its small hairy head back almost breaking its neck. Bobelo collapsed senseless on the ground and Glen sporting a bleeding nose stepped forward and raised a boot to squash it dead alike the annoying bug it was.
“Glen?” Jinx asked afore he’d time to avenge himself.
“What?” He barked and she dropped next to him with a thud. The Gish must have hurt her knees, the drop a good eight meters at least, but pretended she was fine. Jinx’s hair were covered in small twigs and other shit, Glen noticed, placing a hand on his nose to stop the bleeding.
Talk about a good morning scrap, he thought with a grimace.
“What happened to Bobelo?” Jinx asked, a hand sneakily buttoning the loose front of her leather pants.
Glen snorted and eyed the unconscious monkey indifferently.
Or dead. He gave it even odds, since it was a solid knee to forehead blow.
His knee was hurting a bit come to think of it.
“I’ve no idea,” He lied without batting an eyelash, wiping the blood from his nose. “Slipped and fell is my guess. Ye should take care when climbin’ on them trees all by yer lonesome.”
“I was beholding the lake,” Jinx murmured, stooping to pick the monkey up. Glen couldn’t see the house he’d just exited proper, not the plaguing lake that was hundreds of meters away. The lie pathetic, even by Jinx’s standards. “When I heard yer voice—”
“Twas a yell,” Glen corrected her, not amused.
“Uhm. It was shocking hearing it,” She admitted. “Snapped me right out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“My thoughts,” Jinx lied.
Glen stared at her unimpressed. “I don’t believe you.”
Then again the fight had snapped him out of his startle from catching them… doing stuff.
“Why not?” Jinx asked narrowing her eyes. “What were you doing here?”
Glen sighed and stared at his bloodied fingers.
“Told you the monkey scared the piss out of me,” Glen retorted casually, then frowned at his own words. His timeline did not really match the events, but Glen didn’t have something else.
“Poor thing,” Jinx said not catching it, looking at the monkey all sad.
Huh?
Ah, her brains probably turned into soup from gods know what debauchery just transpired up there.
“I was going to make a cacao leaves drink,” Glen said, cleaning his hands on his pants.
“What’s that?”
“A local beverage,” Glen deadpanned. “Soletha showed us the tree. It’s like tea but stronger in taste.”
“You know how to do that?” Jinx asked curious.
“Eh, no. How hard could it be?” Glen replied and glanced towards the still hidden branches over their heads. “Are ye coming?”
“I’ll just stay for a bit more, take in the silence, before people wake up,” Jinx blurted out and Glen nodded.
“Keep your eyes open,” He advised her and walked back towards his house. Fikumin’s snoring could be heard from a good ten meters away.
With the exotic Zilan house hidden behind the veil of the morning fog, you could mistake it for a beast sleeping in its lair.
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“Well?” Glen asked Sam Mathews an hour later and the Lorian crooked his mouth before answering.
“This is bad Garth.”
“Bitter stuff eh?”
“Undrinkable.”
“Metu has no idea how to make it,” Glen lied and poured the rest of his down. A Zilan paused to look at them with her expressive glowing eyes, but went on her way when Glen glared that way. “I’m on the fence about them,” He admitted to the adventurer.
“I’ll take Jinx any day,” Sam grunted pouring the mixture Glen had concocted down as well. “Foul stuff, if I’m being honest.”
“Aye,” Glen agreed. He could still feel the muddy lukewarm taste in his mouth. “You know Whisper is more tit than cock kind of girl,” He added and Sam looked up with a smile.
“I can live with variety.”
“She wouldn’t, is what I’m saying,” Glen insisted, although that whole thing with the monkey and Maeriel had him shook. “Plenty of pretty Zilan around though with more coming. Now that’s something people kept telling me was impossible to happen.”
Gish, Zilan, Wyverns and magic.
Dwarfs were pretty rare as well, but Glen could see why people stayed clear off them.
Obnoxious creatures.
“I’m not really comfortable around the blue-haired locals,” Sam countered pensively.
“The locals I agree, but I can’t say I ever had a problem with their females,” Glen countered, then he remembered why he wanted to speak with him. “Hey, Kalac will send a couple of scouts to the towers. You should grab Soren and follow them there.”
“I planned to go anyway,” Mathews replied. He was a little taller than Glen and at least five years older. “See what I can find.”
Glen perked up at that.
“Ye think there’s stuff there?”
Loot worthy?
“You just killed a Hydra with your Wyvern,” Sam told him. “Aye, I do expect something crazy to pop up.”
Hmm.
“Where’s Soren?”
“With Soletha,” Sam replied. “Sour old girl, but the big guy makes her smile.”
That wasn’t how Glen saw it. The Zilan were needy creatures circling around him and his friends like vultures.
“Damn it, he should stay away from her,” Glen hissed. “They are sneaky and are not to be trusted.”
“Didn’t you just say, they are fine?” Mathews argued surprised.
“I can handle their trickery,” Glen explained puffing out. “Go and get him. See that she doesn’t know where you’re going.”
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No sooner had Glen returned to the mansion-like house, the angles on its roof ominous, a small crowd was waiting for him. Fikumin had put a large chair behind the table and climbed on top of it, a large parchment in his hands and a quill. Metu bowed deeply when he entered and several Zilan present followed his lead, Voron amongst them.
Glen cleared his throat a couple of times, the bitterness still there and winked at Phina who was ready to ask him something. The girl blushed and went to speak, but Maeriel put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.
The young girl pouted cutely.
Right.
He walked to his throne-like chair and sat down. Realizing he was standing too far away from the table and couldn’t see anything, he got up under the small crowd’s scrutiny and dragged it next to Fikumin, its legs making a screeching unpleasant noise. Glen noticed the dwarf was standing on top of his own chair so he could see over the table.
Glen sat down scrunching his nose, still sporting a piece of cloth stack in it to stop the bleeding. Metu approached him immediately and put a plate of fruits in front of him and a goblet. He then removed the cloth from his nose with an exclamation of disapproval and pushed Glen’s long and extremely wild hair back behind his ears with an ivory comb.
It was an ordeal.
“You have a mirror?” Glen asked him. “I don’t think you’ve parted them correctly.”
“Garth there’s people waiting for an audience,” Fikumin grunted, his skin red from high blood pressure. Glen sighed. The dwarf’s health was a mess.
“Didn’t we have one of those yesterday?”
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“It was two days ago,” Fikumin corrected him patiently, trying to keep their visitors waiting by the door and a good ten meters away, out of the loop.
Ah.
“Fetch a mirror Metu,” Glen said and took what looked like a short orange banana, peeled it off taking his time and then brought it to his mouth. The core a bright white underneath.
“Garth?” Fikumin hissed, while he chewed on the tasteless though soft fruit slowly. With a sigh Glen stared at the small group of Zilan waiting for him to decide.
“Voron?” He asked in passable ‘Street Imperial’ and the haughty Zilan stepped forward. “Did you come up with something?”
“Hardir O’ Fardor,” Voron replied in a much more refined accent. “I have indeed several ideas and a number of proposals—”
“One thing at a time,” Glen interrupted him rudely. “Now, do the rest of you have an appointment?”
A murmur was heard from the Zilan, a couple of protests thrown in.
“How do they get an appointment?” Aenymriel asked walking out of a corner Glen would’ve sworn was empty a minute ago. She walked slowly towards him, long legs making almost no sound and despite wearing a simple long tunic, Glen thought she’d milked the fuck out of that walk.
Aenymriel paused before his throne-like seat, hint of a smile on her lips and turned unhurriedly around to take a place right next to him and Fikumin. The dwarf snorted and glared at her.
“May I remain near you Hardir?” She susurrated sensing Fikumin’s disapproval and Glen smacked his lips, reached for another piece of that orange fruit and offered it to her. Aenymriel blinked once taken aback, but recovered quickly and took the oblong fruit with her long fingers. She brought it to her mouth under Glen’s encouragement and started eating it, skin and all.
Good grief, Glen thought hearing those teeth tearing at the fruit, the female’s indigo eyes staying on him ravenously.
“You can stay,” Glen said loud enough for everyone to hear. “In the same way they can have an audience wit me. By being useful and contributing! You folk do that and I will listen to yer problems. Not today though, I’ll give ye this day to think about it.”
Glen had decided to put a stop to this foolishness, afore they managed to suck away all of his time with their boring incessant nagging.
Nip that shite in the bud.
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“How many workers?” Glen asked, his eyes on the silent Zilan female. Her short hair made her elongated ears appear even larger. The most striking feature she possessed was her large eyes. Sometimes they appeared darker, her stare ancient, even sinister. Others they were playful and innocent, as if she was a child wearing the skin of a mature woman.
Voron kept talking about his plan to rebuild this part of the city, with Fikumin looking at his drawings with a permanent scowl on his face. Metu brought another bottle of wine and poured some in Aenymriel’s goblet before serving Glen again. She brought it near her mouth and raised her eyes to stare at him, before tasting it.
“Peninsula small grapes,” She said licking her lips. “Cut early, an indulgence. I’ve had it before.”
“You’ve had this type of wine before?” Glen asked, looking at his goblet. Flix was right, they were messing with his head.
“This wine. This flavor,” She hushed and stared at Metu, the slave lowering his eyes apprehensively. “I remember.”
“Is it any good?” Glen asked to gauge her preferences. The former thief loved the Sopat wine.
Most wines.
“Mmm, I’m not a wine expert Hardir,” Aenymriel replied and placed her goblet on the table.
“You’re a Surveyor.”
My arse. Ye lying long-eared snake.
“You need to stop Rothomir,” She whispered.
“Why?”
“He’ll come for your Wyvern. Many will.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he’ll succeed,” Glen said and gulped down his wine.
“Why?” She returned his query.
“I think you know.”
“Hardir can’t be a Sinya Nore,” Aenymriel noted.
“Says who?” Glen retorted, not paying attention to the conversation Fikumin had with Voron.
She chuckled at his words. “Seers. Wise people.”
“Any of them alive?”
“Not all,” She replied.
“Your people are split between Phina’s villagers and those living here.”
“There’s also the Queen’s loyalists.”
“Is that what you are?” Glen asked her and she glanced at Fikumin. Glen realized Aenymriel was paying attention to the conversation the dwarf had with the Zilan architect.
“I keep my own Garth,” She replied.
Glen stooped forward over the table to glare at her. “You’re doing it again. Trying to glean information, leave innuendos. I don’t like that.”
“You prefer I call you Hardir? It’s just a title,” She taunted.
“What’s Abarat?” Glen asked not taking the bait.
“A fort near Nesande’s Garden.”
“Where’s that?”
“Far away.”
Glen grinned. “Let him come then.”
“Hmm.”
“Will you help? Or will you be a problem?” Glen asked with a grimace.
“I’m never the problem,” Aenymriel replied and got up. “But I can be a solution. What do you want done Hardir?”
Good grief, this race is plaguin’ insufferable and extra vain when not haughty.
“I want to know who’s with me and who is going to be a problem,” Glen replied.
“Will I learn of your plans?”
Glen didn’t have anything concrete yet.
And he wasn’t going to tell her anything.
“I told you what I want,” He reminded her.
“The Sorceress followers are loyal to her,” The enigmatic Zilan said. “Not to be trusted.”
“How do I win them over?” Glen asked her and she stood back surprised, probably expecting him to say something else. She breathed once deeply and then a naughty smile formed on her mouth.
“I guess, by winning her over Hardir,” Aenymriel replied.
The fuck does that mean?
“What else?” Glen asked.
“Why would I tell you more?”
“You want me to deal with this Rothomir dude. Why?”
“Will you?”
“Perhaps I will,” Glen dodged.
“Perhaps I’ll tell you more,” Aenymriel chuckled delighted at their banter, a hint of madness in it. Glen stood back and watched her gliding away towards the exit.
Fikumin’s grunt turning to a growl next to his ear.
“Yes?” Glen asked, very annoyed.
“We need at least a hundred workers,” Fikumin spat even more infuriated than him for some fucking reason.
“What?” Glen frowned and looked at the scribbling Voron. The Zilan had the tip of his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth looking like a… well, moron. “Why in Luthos balls do we need that many? I asked for a simple wall build. A way to control access to the Eternal Springs!”
“A wall is useless unmanned Hardir,” Voron explained.
“Are ye a general?”
“Goddess grace upon me, of course not!” Voron protested.
“Served in the army perchance?”
“Do I look like a soldier?” The Zilan laughed nervously.
“Then how the fuck do ye know what is and isn’t viable?” Glen blasted him.
“Garth we need to see this through,” Fikumin insisted.
Glen blinked, his expression blank. “See what through Dwarf?”
“The Castle Garth,” Fikumin grunted. “We’ve been talking about it for two hours.”
Ah.
“I wasn’t… well, can you brief me on the details?” Glen asked.
“Garth you were listening this whole time, even nodding,” Fikumin said.
Fuck.
Glen reached for his waist and sure enough the dagger wasn’t there. He got up frustrated and walked towards the door pausing at the last moment seeing the dagger stabbed on the granite casing. He got it out, not an easy thing and glared at the empty square in silence.
“Garth? What’s the matter?” Fikumin asked from the table.
I’ve no clue what just happened, Glen thought. But I know who done it.
Glen sighed and strolled back grinding his teeth.
“Run the details through me again,” He told them.
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Glen could see the road through the Yew Forest from atop the plateau. Listen to the waterfalls constant rumpus far to the east behind a wall of tall trees and turning his head back, track the road to where it cut the rock and followed the slope down. The ancient path was built in the wall of the steep incline facing the lake and descended for almost two kilometers towards the misty waters.
“Secure the slopes,” Glen repeated. Voron frowned and stared at his drawings.
“A wall with four sides,” Fikumin replied. “Incorporating the northwest approach to the Peninsula, but also securing the path leading towards Goras ruins.”
“What about the sea?” Voron asked raising his head.
Glen whipped his head around and glared at him.
“What did I say? One fuckin’ proposal at a time!”
“It’s in the same plan—”
“No it isn’t!”
Fikumin cleared his throat. “You have the space needed, the position on the heights is ideal, wood of excellent quality, abundance of stone, there’s fresh water at the near and the castle will guard a natural choke point. If someone doesn’t control the castle, then that someone wouldn’t reach the lake.”
Glen rubbed his face hard, then his eyes, turning the white there a dark irritated red.
“You want us to dig for stone?” He asked Fikumin, stunned at the amount of work these two buffoons had dropped on his lap.
Suddenly he was back at Hellfort’s Pass pickaxing boulders.
For fuck’s sake!
“There’s cut stone galore down the slopes and near the towers Garth,” Fikumin replied readily, always enthusiastic and ready to deal with rocks of any kind.
Digging as well.
That was another favorite.
“The granite? Those boulders must weight a ton! These pieces are too big,” Glen reminded him with a sigh. “The big chunks of rock need to be rolled up the steep road to the plateau and then what? Turn what was a wall in the valley afore the towers into a castle up the slopes?”
“Yes,” Fikumin replied, not grasping the absurdity of their plan.
“Well,” Voron intervened and Glen stared him warningly. “We can work on the material, split it in half, round up the corners—”
Glen raised a hand and cut him off.
“Let me stop ye right there,” He said crooking his mouth. “There would be no roundin’, we don’t have the manpower to indulge ye at this point Mvoron.”
“It’s Voron your grace.”
“You’ve almost earned that M, friend,” Glen cautioned him.
“Of course, Hardir,” Voron replied chastised.
Glen turned to Fikumin. “A hundred workers.”
“At the minimum. Twenty heavy-duty wagons, twice that in tools,” The dwarf replied. “I’ve written to Lon to prepare a huge caravan. Or a ship.”
“Who is going to pay for that?” Glen asked him and Voron frowned. “Any ideas ye… mister Voron?”
“Slave labor is very cheap Hardir and historically preferable on Eplas,” Voron said and Fikumin ogled his eyes at him shocked.
“You have slaves to spare?” Glen countered.
“The strays can work the rock Hardir.”
Glen stared at him for a long moment.
“This wasn’t your idea,” He finally said and stopped Voron before he could answer. “If you want to put your people to work, then I’ll oblige you until I bring in more workers. I want everyone from the coast to report here before the end of the week, else I’ll go and drag them here myself.”
“This is outrageous! You must be jesting,” Voron protested.
“I’m not,” Glen replied and smirked maniacally. “I was going to have Sopat foot the bill, but ye gave me a fantastic idea. As a reward for letting ye freaks stay in my land, ye get to work to build me a wall.”
“And a Castle,” Fikumin elucidated, adding to alleviate the insult. “When he says freaks, he’s speaking in the abstract about certain activities and ideas. Not your peoples.”
No I’m not, Glen thought. Are ye fuckin’ patronize me dwarf?
“Your land?” Voron managed to say with a deep frown, then flinched seeing Glen’s murderous glare and bowed deeply. “I will notify the others.”
“You will also notify Phina’s people,” Glen told Fikumin out of the blue. The dwarf recoiled and frowned so much, his brows turned into a continuous thick line. Fikumin appeared shook. “Give them a rest after they arrive, then a shovel and send them up the slope. We might need more tools. Angrein can work on that, he can use his people for it. Wipe that off yer face friend. Rules apply to all.”
But me, since I make them.
Else I would be an idiot, which I’m not.
Glen belched loudly to get the bland fruit taste out of his mouth. He’d gulped down two plates, although he didn’t care for the taste.
He was just hungry.
“You’ll make them work for you to keep their land,” Fikumin said and Glen breathed once deep, the air on the plateau not as humid afore answering.
“Come out of it dwarf. You’re reading too much into it. I’m just trying to save coin here.”
Fikumin grunted not believing him, although what Glen had said was true for the most part. Of course in typical form, what Fikumin had suggested, or feared was true also. Glen despite his gripes with the exotic lands surrounding them, loved every inch of it.
In his thief’s eye, or adventurer’s greedy heart, what Glen had discovered first was his by right.
His loot.
His land.
Above them Uvrycres broke out of the clouds and dived over the high tree line, opening his large leathery wings wide to cut the momentum. The ever growing Wyvern landed sending material in a five meter radius, be it grit and black soil. Soft earth and rotten braches. His claw-shaped hind legs plowing at the ground.
Uvrycres turned his onyx scaled and horned head around to examine their diverse group thoughtfully and then his burgundy dragon eyes stayed on Glen who was still cleaning up his clothes from the rubbish the Wyvern had hurled on them with his landing.
“You might want to go ‘n help yer friends!” Uvrycres growled, showing gleaming black teeth the size of knives. “The priests want to murder them!”
Luthos shaved balls caught in a bear trap.
“Where?” Glen asked, his hand on the grip of his ancient dagger. Fikumin and Voron took a couple of steps back. The dwarf had to take twice the steps the Zilan took, not to stay behind.
“Huh? Near the lake! The whatchamacallits morons and those Horselords thugs!”
“The lake?” Glen glanced back towards the springs.
“Not that lake ye fool! The other one!”
Hmm.
“Cultists?” He chanced.
“They are all fanatics to me,” Uvrycres admitted and smacked his dark mauve lips. “I might have gone overboard wit one of them, but he did try to cast a spell on me! Sneaky catfucker!”
Glen narrowed his eyes.
“What did you do?” He hissed.
Uvrycres stood back and twitched his gathered wings once, more than a head taller than Glen now.
“Say your food jumped out of the plate and slapped yer face,” The Wyvern started looking at him knowingly. “Calling ye names ‘n leaving innuendos!” He blasted in the climax, the latter a blatant lie.
Glen licked his dry lips.
“Garth?” Fikumin asked fearfully. “What does it want?”
“Fetch the horses,” Glen replied with a grimace. “Uvrycres might have eaten the locals.”
“One local!” Uvrycres protested thunderously, nigh incensed at the mistreatment, the last part coming out as an earth-shaking shriek. “He was a blasphemous cunt!”