> Villains, the Realm’s biggest fools and fiends,
>
> Lovingly joined at the hip
>
> Ever circling around.
>
> Drip… drip, drip.
>
> There are shades watching ye sleep
>
> -
>
> Rogues, dark synagogues and vile priests,
>
> Rot and bones shield death’s flagship
>
> Ever circling around.
>
> Drip… drip, drip.
>
> Yours are the trades, thine what ye reap
>
> -
>
>
>
> The Circle
>
> Rather creepy Ancient Zilan lullaby
>
> Unknown date
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen
Mister Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Villains, fools and fiends
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“Hale be thou, Hardir O’ Fardor,” Soletha sang in the dialect everyone coming to contact with him was slowly adopting. A variation of the Common spoken on Jelin with lots of fancy, but needless words and the Street Imperial Glen used. She had a warm smile added to her greeting for the Nord standing next to him. “Likewise Gentle Soren.”
Glen frowned at the term, almost losing track of his thought process, but recovered quickly, being as he was under pressure. Vaelenn was running out of time, as despite patching her up, the Horselords couldn’t offer her any more assistance and the priestess had lost too much blood. That she was still alive as Sam Mathews had put it, was a fuckin’ miracle.
He told the priestess so. In the weird multi-god pantheon of the Zilan, Soletha celebrated Aelrindel, of Edlenn. The Moon’s Daughter. With Vaelenn being the Caretaker and First Priestess of Nesande’s Moon Temple, the two female Zilan basically believed in the same thing. At least they used to, until a Queen had cut the Old Ways practitioners away from the priesthood.
It was complicated as fuck.
Soletha pressed her lips tight and crossed her arms over her chest. The Zilan, well into her fourth century, was older than Maeriel apparently, but nowhere near as old as Anfalon. Another mind-boggling weirdness. She didn’t look a day over thirty five and this mostly due to the soft wrinkles around her old eyes and the darker skin there.
“The Wyvern did the right thing,” She finally said. “Vaelenn deserves her fate.”
“The Wyvern left her alive and I want her saved,” Glen countered soberly.
“Give her a healing potion,” Soletha retorted.
“What we have available isn’t apparently the good stuff,” Glen said. “Everyone suggested you Soletha.”
“Vaelenn was the overseer of the Queen’s laws Hardir,” Soletha argued. “Exiled and killed many of us for centuries. We’re still living outside the city.”
“There’s not much city left. Trust me you’ve gotten the better part of the deal,” Glen replied. “I need you to do this Soletha.”
“Will the Old Ways be returned?”
Oh, for crying out loud.
“You’ve mistaken my words for a request priestess?” Glen asked, his tone hardening.
“It was only a query Hardir,” Soletha said with a deep bow of her head. “I will do as you asked.”
“Time is of the fuckin’ essence,” Glen growled. She grimaced and nodded for Alan Kirk, one of the two guards that had followed them from Eikenport, to lead her away. Glen frowned and signed for Enoch Bing to go after them. He started heading towards his villa at the side of the lake where they had brought Vaelenn, with Soren following after him.
“Lovely girl,” Soren commented, his red beard flowing down his chest. Glen threw him a sideways glance surprised.
“You know she’s way older than you right?”
Glen had no idea how old Soren was and he’d never asked him, but he assumed the Northman was around thirty.
“What do you mean?” Soren asked, his eyes on the Zilan priestess walking some meters in front of them after the guards.
“Ah, she’s like old as dirt,” Glen replied.
“Lith was old as well,” Soren noted. “Jinx told me that.”
“Well, she wasn’t as… never mind just be careful,” Glen advised him and Soren guffawed, a pat on the shoulder almost sending a surprised Glen crashing down. He had to use some serious acrobatics to regain his footing.
“Wow,” Soren said not expecting it. “Ye are not as heavy as I remembered.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Glen cursed and glared at the smiling giant. “Don’t do this afore warning me. As a matter of plaguin’ fact, don’t do this at all.”
“Jinx does it all the time, it’s a friendly tap,” Soren explained.
“See now she’s lying,” Glen explained with a grimace of pain, as he tried to lift his numb left arm. “Whisper kicks and punches to lash out, but she’s small so it don’t much matter.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Soren agreed. “Why be careful?”
“They use spells, or something to get what they want,” Glen explained to him and Soren started laughing hard, whilst raising his spade like hand for another friendly pat, but Glen moved nimbly away from him in time.
“There’s no magic Glen,” Soren said shaking his head.
“What? Of course there is! Ye were knocked out twice since we came here for crying out loud!”
“When?” Soren asked nigh perturbed.
Glen sighed. “I guess you don’t remember it.”
“Remember what?”
Glen raised his arms high, the left still feeling sore.
“Let us talk of this no more,” He said giving up.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“Who burned the wound?” Soletha asked and Glen pointed at a scowling Tarn. The Horselord grunted.
“We stopped the bleeding,” He spat in defense of his curative practices. “Good for horse and man.”
Glen wasn’t as sure about it, but kept a neutral face.
“You did well,” Soletha said and touched the Horselord’s hand softly. Tarn relaxed his stance and smiled. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “The arm is lost forever. Her vessel will never be whole again,” She added looking at Glen knowingly.
“I don’t care,” Glen replied. Vaelenn wasn’t a horse to put her down. “Will she survive?”
“The potion will help her, but she needs to feed when she wakes up,” Soletha explained.
Ah.
“No,” Glen replied sternly. “She can have soup and biscuits.”
“Then she’ll be weak for a long time,” Soletha countered.
“I can live wit that. Where did you get that potion?”
“I made it Hardir, the recipe—”
Glen stopped her. “Can you make more?”
The Priestess stood back. “I shall need blood and ingredients. So it will take some time.”
“What blood?” Glen snapped angry.
“My own,” Soletha explained with a small smile. “As I said, it takes time Hardir.”
Right.
“I want the road cleared,” Glen told her. “I will send some of my people to start work in your village. I intent to make a port there, another on the west side of the peninsula.”
“The Narrow Gulf is always plagued by fog Hardir,” Soletha explained. “It spills into our… village.”
“We’ll put a light on it,” Glen replied. “You will help make it work Soletha.”
“Where will my people live then Hardir?” She asked him. “You’ve given the lake to Maeriel’s strays, the city to Vaelenn. If you take the village from us and our port—”
Glen stopped her with a wave of his hand. “I intent to use your port. You will not be forced out of your homes, nor will you lose access to this lake. Clear the road, improve it if you can. I will talk with Voron. Help is on the way. And Soletha,” He added. “This is a new city, your people can come and go in here, if you behave. Strays, Queen’s own and Exiles, all is welcomed in new Goras.”
Soletha narrowed her expressive eyes and nodded.
“My people shall… behave, Hardir O’ Fardor,” She said satisfied.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen collapsed on his chair, the massive hall depressingly bare of furniture, but for the table Fikumin had appropriated and was now using. He stared at the high ceiling, painted like the night sky, the stars clearly visible and sighed.
“Have you been at the Springs lately?”
“It’s a two days trip Garth,” Fikumin replied reproachfully.
Not wit yer short stubby legs it ain’t.
“Twas my meaning Fikumin. Someone needs to check on Voron.”
“Sam Mathews can handle that.”
“I just wanted a plaguin’ wall built,” Glen complained. “We don’t have the manpower to undertake this kind of project.”
“He’s ambitious,” Fikumin agreed. “Very talented.”
“I don’t give a dry shite. And frankly the man’s an idiot. No wonder he was unemployed. When they ask you to build a wall, ye don’t design a castle! Good grief,” Glen puffed his cheeks out frustrated. “Metu!” He bellowed.
“He’s helping out in the kitchen,” Fikumin said.
“I bet he does!”
“How is Vaelenn?” The dwarf asked him patiently.
The priestess had awakened three days after Soletha had administered her ‘potion’ but hadn’t uttered a single word a full week later. Given the traumatic experience, Glen wasn’t certain she would. Nimra the scout for instance, had still not gotten out of his gloominess after witnessing Laedan devouring his friend. Disturbing shit can fuck people up, he decided.
“Same. Better hopefully,” He murmured and stared at the scowling dwarf. “What’s the matter?”
“Letting the Wyvern loose is a problem Garth.”
“Uvrycres up and flies wherever the fuck he wants. What do you want me to do about it?”
“It’s your Wyvern.”
Glen grimaced and stood up.
“Where are you going?” Fikumin asked him.
“I’m going to talk to the Denmaster,” Glen growled, not likening being interrogated alike a common thug.
“Where will you find one?” The dwarf asked and put his scroll down.
“We have one locked upstairs,” Glen replied and eyed the dangerous staircase. “Kirk!” He barked and the guard standing at the doorless entrance popped his head in. We need to fix that, Glen thought. The windows too. This can’t be safe.
“Sire?” The former Raoz guard said.
He was a mercenary soldier of the Gallant Dogs now.
“Run upstairs and bring Laedan down,” He ordered. Glen paused seeing the man walking briskly across the hall to fetch the prisoner and added. “Watch your step Kirk. Take your time.”
“I will sire,” Kirk replied.
“Laedan?” Fikumin asked sounding incredulous.
“It came as a shock to me too,” Glen deadpanned.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
The former thief glanced at the frowning dwarf and Fikumin grunted, reached at the table’s leg and grabbed a short-shafted pickaxe. He then approached Glen, shuffling his short legs, boots thudding down, as despite appearances the dwarf was as heavy-boned as they come.
“Where did ye get that?” Glen asked.
“It’s a tool,” Fikumin replied, eyeing the scarred Zilan Kirk had dropped onto Glen’s fancy chair.
“Has Angrein found anything else in the Towers?”
“No gold,” Fikumin replied perceptively.
Well, fuck you too.
“Any fancy weapons I should know about eh?”
“It’s a weapon,” Fikumin explained showing him the pickaxe. “And a tool for digging.”
Nothing would ever be more valuable was his meaning.
“Blubbering buffoons,” Laedan spat, saliva running down the paralyzed side of his face. “Small time thieves and thugs—”
Glen backhanded him without warning, snapping his head to the side and almost toppling the tied up Zilan prisoner from the chair.
He was going for an ‘Emerson sharp cuff on the ear’, but gotten a lot of face there.
“I can put a pair of gauntlets on,” He warned him, rubbing at his hurting hand. “Bulky metal things.”
Laedan spat a bloody splotch between his legs and snorted.
“Why not kill me outright?”
“I have a hungry Wyvern,” Glen retorted. “Have to economize on food.”
“You think that’ll scare me?” Laedan hissed.
“It got yer people plenty scared,” Glen countered. Fikumin turned his head around and glared at Kirk standing by the entrance.
“Stand outside,” he told him. “Don’t let anyone in.”
“Civilians, merchants and artists,” Laedan said dismissively. “A stray kid that lived in the woods and exiles starving for legitimacy.”
Ah, Phina. Ye got to stop being so curious girl.
“Anfalon is nothing of all that,” Glen said, crossing his arms on his chest.
Laedan grunted. “A soldier will never challenge command. You tricked him.”
“It’s your fucking prophecy.”
“You don’t control the Wyvern,” Laedan argued. “Hah, you are a crook, a scam artist. What happened to Vaelenn?”
“She’s recovering.”
“Nonsense. How did you do it?”
“Soletha healed her blood and kept her spirit in her body,” Glen replied. “It was more convoluted than that but I’m givin’ ye the abbreviated version.”
“What did you promise Soletha?”
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Nothing. Enough. What does it matter?” Glen asked. “I can make it work.”
Laedan shook his head. “Vaelenn would never take them back.”
“Nobody’s taking anyone, anywhere,” Glen spat. “Vaelenn owes her life to Soletha. I will let them work it out themselves. What will she do with you though? You’ve broken plenty of laws, the way I see it.”
Laedan raised the working side of his mouth into a snarl.
“I don’t care.”
“There are a lot of angry folk pressuring me to have you executed,” Glen warned him.
“Maybe you should do it. I deserve the punishment.”
Hmm.
“You don’t care about helping, yet you killed my man to avenge yer neighbor, whom you didn’t like.”
“I should have killed you instead,” Laedan told him. “For letting the Wyvern loose over Goras.”
“I didn’t.”
“Where’s the Wyvern now?”
Glen had no idea. “The mountains?” He chanced.
“What’s in the mountains Hardir?” Laedan asked. “What are the high places?”
Glen licked the front of his teeth. “I don’t know.”
“Aye,” Laedan said and set his eyes on Fikumin. “You are far away from home young Folk.”
Fikumin grunted in response.
“Can you help me with the Wyvern?” Glen asked him.
“Why would I do that?” came Laedan’s response. “You’ve nothing to offer me.”
“I could commute your sentence,” Glen said.
“Turn me into a slave is your meaning. I knew the Queen and respected her wishes, even when she was wrong. I don’t know you and I don’t trust a word coming out of your mouth. Everything about you screams scoundrel and I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
“I can live with that, will you help?” Glen replied.
“Where did you get that dagger?”
“Found it.”
“It was in Elauthin and the golden city is no more,” Laedan spat.
“You assume it’s the same.”
“Nah, you’re lying. Everything will come crashing down on you,” Laedan rustled. “Better to kill me now, than to watch you destroy what’s left of our world. Have your man toss me to your Wyvern.”
“Why would he do that?” Aenymriel chuckled walking towards them. Glen snapped his head back, saw the two guards by the door talking and then glanced at a frowning Fikumin. That is, frowning even more than before.
Laedan narrowed his working eye unsure. The Zilan wore black soft leather pants and shirt, same material fancy boots this time. Her look androgynous, but for the swelling of her small breasts and comely face.
“Ah, villains, fools and fiends, joined at the hip,” Laedan muttered what sounded like an ominous stanza and pushed back on the chair, when she stopped next to Fikumin, towering over him. The tied up Zilan looked at Glen and shook his head.
“What?” Glen asked a little weirded out with her slipping through his guards like that. He’d reason to be suspicious of her since the very beginning and what had happened with Alix, but kept it to himself not to disturb the others. “I can kill you right here and move on.”
“You could,” Laedan said, but he was more guarded now. “Better do it right away.”
“Or he could send you in the circle,” Aenymriel said with a toothy unnerving grin. “So you can die a tiny bit every day. Drip by drip, your soul eaten away. Some lasted decades.”
Uh?
“Where’s that—?”
“The Wyvern needs a nest built,” Laedan croaked, cutting him off.
Right.
Glen opened his mouth to ask if a house would suffice, but Laedan continued seemingly very motivated all of sudden.
“A high rise, where no one ventures near. Somewhere to make more.”
“More of what?” Glen asked his mouth dry. He felt soft breath on his ear, smelled sandalwood and glanced sideways at Aenymriel, but the female Zilan was staring at Laedan with her indigo eyes dilated, pleased as a cat that had just cornered a fat canary.
Laedan looked like he’d aged a couple of decades in a couple of moments.
“A Wyvern shouldn’t be allowed to reign alone Hardir,” The Denmaster replied hoarsely. “Absolute power, corrupts absolutely.”
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen stared at the rows upon rows of Zilan coming down the ancient Imperial road. Anfalon’s strays were more than a hundred after all. At least a couple of thousand had followed the Imperial Hoplite on the return trip, several young kids amongst them. Families and solitary semi-wild creatures that had come out of the woods. Everyone coming to new Goras to see the ‘Tamer of Monsters’ in the flesh and gaze at his Wyvern.
Behind him Voron and his group of artisans were mapping the ground, marked the trees to be cut despite the resistance from Soletha and her people. More and more opted to help carry the material up the slopes and at the edge of the plateau overlooking the lake. Glen had made one addition to Voron’s quite detailed drawings. It wasn’t a drawing since Glen couldn’t draw to save his life but a request. He wanted a square tower built at the center of the large castle, shaped like a scaled-pyramid, Voron had set out to raise. Right at its top and above everything else. A hollow structure with high walls that offered absolutely nothing to them and it wasn’t supposed to.
> In that fortified space sweet Uvrycres was to stay after it was finished. Master Voron wanted to create the cranes and machines afore starting construction and in this timeline, the Wyvern’s Tower would be the last thing built on what was to become ‘Morn Taras’ in the old court Imperial. The Tenebrous Castle grounds.
>
> Voron thought it would take him five years to finish using three thousand workers and artisans. Six months in, the workers had swollen to ten thousand, especially after the first ships started arriving at the expanding docks at Sinya Goras, bringing in people and loading tons upon tons of excellent quality timber to bring back to Eikenport.
>
> The ancient port city decades after its rebuilding efforts had started was suddenly flooded with materials coming from the nearby sea route, without having to cross the Great Desert. The trickle turned into a deluge. The castle of Dia that had been cut off from the rest of Eplas saw numerous caravans coming down the ever expanding jungle road from Merchant’s Triage and was able to breathe again.
>
> Once the word was out that you could travel to Wetull, it was impossible to keep people out. Adventurers and guards were needed to work the dangerous caravan route. Ships and sailors to sail the sea route. Unemployed workers, refugees from the ravaged mainland and slave merchants, suddenly found employment and opportunities.
>
>
>
>
>
> A mysterious figure had risen out of the ruins was the word. Either a Zilan, a man, or even a half-breed, nobody knew for sure but some called him Hardir O’ Fardor. He had many names. Hardir wanted to build a New Goras out of the carcass of the old. A city beyond the Pale Mountains, deep into the ancient jungles and the relics of the old Empire.
Phina squeaked delighted and sprinted the remained distance to embrace a smiling and quite tanned Lymsiel. The two former strays touched their foreheads holding hands for a moment before the large crowd of onlookers. Phina then turned around all flushed and attempted to hug the taller Anfalon, but the Hoplite pushed an arm out and stopped her. Despite her efforts to push through she failed and Anfalon removed his helm, then patted her head a couple of times to calm her down.
“Hardir,” Anfalon said, staring at the worker crews Voron had set up. “You are building a wall.”
“The old one was a ruin,” Glen replied. “That’s a lot you brought with you.”
“People saw the Wyvern,” Anfalon explained. “When I arrived, I realized I couldn’t turn them away.”
“How do we feed them?”
Anfalon frowned. “They can feed themselves plenty well on their own.”
Glen couldn’t, not that well, or at all.
His stomach protested as if on cue.
“Can I trust them to not create problems and stay near the lake?” He said after clearing his throat to mask the sound.
“Maeriel shall take care of that, or Sylvar,” He pointed at an unassuming poorly dressed Zilan with terrified eyes. Glen stared at Phina and the girl stepped forward and gave him an orange-colored oval-shaped fruit that looked a lot but wasn’t an orange.
“Ahm,” Glen said taken by surprise. “Fine. We need the men to help out.”
“Plenty of females can help as well Hardir,” Anfalon grunted.
Glen blinked, but kept his composure. “Sure. Have them report to Voron. I hope they can swing a pickaxe.”
“Lyceron,” Anfalon barked and a tall wiry Zilan stepped forward. “This clueless fool asked to become a Hoplite Hardir.”
“Uhm,” Glen nodded unsure how to handle this.
“Even if there was a modicum of skill present he can’t, since there’s no command anymore and the unit has disbanded,” Anfalon explained to him, getting visibly frustrated. “Diryel, Zamylon, Phivaris!” He barked and a female and two males stepped forward as well. “They want the same thing.”
Glen stared at the pretty Zilan with the short tunic. Diryel raised a cobalt-purple brow and grinned, until Anfalon’s mighty yap put a stop to that.
“DIRYEL! Behave yourself!”
“Apologies,” She quickly muttered, her large sage and silvery eyes blinking once chastised.
“I want none of that foolishness. That’s strike number two girl!”
Right.
“Ahm,” Glen said and Anfalon whipped his head on him.
“Yes Hardir?”
“Are they any good?”
“No. They are not.”
“Can you expand on that some?” Glen probed with a nervous smile.
Anfalon thought about it some.
“No. I cannot.”
“Can they learn?” Glen asked going another way.
“Only rocks remain unchanged through life Hardir,” The Hoplite spat and eyed the approaching Voron. “And some people.”
“What do they need?”
Anfalon stood back. “You’ll start giving out professions Hardir? You’ll need a system for that and teachers willing to waste their time on them!”
“To those talented enough, or willing to work at it yes. A system can be put in place Anfalon.”
“These are strays,” Anfalon argued and Glen looked at the crowd gathered around them, but keeping a respectful distance whilst they talked.
“Not anymore,” Glen said, his voice rising to cover the noise coming from the field workshops. “I welcome you to Goras. Consider yourselves citizens henceforth. You’ll be judged by yer personal skills here and not your lineage. Respect me and mine that is all I ask of you. Do not betray my trust and Hardir shall always take care of you.”
The crowd murmured and Lymsiel touched Sylvar’s arm to snap him out of his reverie. The Zilan recovered with a frown and immediately kneeled, everyone following his example soon after. Glen took the opportunity to take a large bite out of Phina’s gift, teeth tearing at the soft flesh of the fruit.
“Eh,” Voron said standing next to him, hands clasped behind his back, looking smug and troubled at the same time. “We are going to need more tools sire.”
Glen nodded his mouth packed with flavorful fruit, some spillage running down the corners of his lips.
----------------------------------------
A month later
----------------------------------------
Fikumin stopped reading and glared at him. Glen had pushed the dwarf’s scrolls aside and was digging into his steak with enthusiasm. Metu standing next to him, to refill his goblet with wine.
“We have to find another table,” Glen said, between bites. “This is ridiculous.”
“There’s a great demand master Garth,” Metu explained. “You could order a search and strip some from the nearby villas.”
“That sounds a lot like stealing,” Glen noticed, not necessarily against the idea.
“It’s your lands sire.”
Yeah.
“Anfalon wants a field cleared of trees next to the lake,” Fikumin grunted always angry about something or other. “Maeriel asks you to force Angrein to work on leather armour as well.”
“Ah, sure. Why don’t you do it?”
“Angrein’s workshop has orders from Anfalon pending and he refused to even consider the request.”
“Can someone else take that on? Why does Maeriel want a new armour? She looks fine in it and in that vein, I should get one first since I’ve ruined the one I have.”
“It’s for Elaniel her student.”
“Right. Well, it’s one set, can’t she work without it?”
“She can’t hunt in her tunic. It’s dangerous.”
“Come on now, she’s exaggerating dwarf. I suspect they’re fucking more than hunting most of the time.”
“A student is forbidden to have an affair with his teacher and Maeriel is with Jinx. You know that. It’s customary for a Ranger, or any student to receive his first set of weapons when they graduate Garth.”
“Who’s paying for that?” Glen probed washing his mouth with the wine.
“Their service will pay for it,” Fikumin explained.
“Is she ready?”
“Garth this needs addressing.”
“Give me a solution dwarf, you are good at this,” Glen groaned in frustration.
“Vycaris petitioned to move his workshop here.”
“Vaelenn is okay with it?”
“It’s a matter of demand, not much use for his skills in the old city.”
“There you have it then,” Glen decided. “Get on top of this Fikumin.”
“You can’t expect me to tackle everything by myself!”
“Get an assistant,” Glen suggested. “Phina is a curious lass. Always willing to help.”
“What are you going to do?” The dwarf asked him scowling, his long beard dancing under his chin.
“Was thinking of checking the old city some,” Glen admitted. “It’s pretty boring around here.”
“How about working a bit then?”
“Friend, yer humor is getting worse by the day,” Glen warned him.
“You are needed here Garth.”
Glen puffed his cheeks out and stared at the bare hall. “Metu, are there any furniture about?”
“Ehm, the moment carpenters arrive I shall place an order, but I expect master Ron-Iv will have the ship loaded.”
Hopefully not wit pillows.
“Will they make it through the fog?” Glen asked.
“They will look for the light,” Metu explained. “Cut west before the Talons.”
“Good, good,” Glen nodded with his head. “Any problems?”
“You need to talk to Voron,” Fikumin reminded him. “Keep the children from the heavier jobs. He’s a callous, thick-skinned buffoon that cares only for his building.”
Yep, Glen had him figured out since the start.
“He does that eh?” Glen sighed. “I’ll talk wit him.”
The former thief pushed himself up and stared at the mess he’d made on the table. He eyed Metu and the slave gave him a reassuring smile, so Glen nodded relieved he’d taken care of that too and went to find his horse.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
The hooded skinny, hard-faced Zilan was wrapped in a black cloak, but Glen caught a glimpse of that expensive black leather armour underneath it. If he didn’t know better Glen would have thought the stranger was waiting for him at the entrance of the spacious building they had turned into stables.
“Do I know you?” Glen asked him, noticing the harness and the blades the male Zilan carried on him.
“We’ve never met Hardir,” The Zilan replied with that singing accent of the Old Tongue, his mouth shaded by the hood. “But our paths have crossed.”
Glen was pretty sure they hadn’t.
“Is that yer horse?” He asked pointing at a worn out mount next to Outlaw.
“You don’t truly own animals Hardir.”
Ah. Another philosopher, part-timing as a killer.
“You’re waiting for me?”
“I was asked to report to you.”
“Who asked you?” Glen probed looking about them, his hand on the pommel of his sword.
“There is no need for that,” The stranger said. “She will explain.”
Glen frowned, smelled sandalwood again and glanced sideways alarmed. Sure enough Aenymriel was standing there, her eyes gleaming in the shade coming from the large building.
“Dear Din,” She whispered and her voice traveled inside the stables, disturbing the animals. “What news of Abarat?” Each word sounding different, as if coming from another person.
“Lord Rothomir knows mistress,” Din replied and Glen felt a vein throbbing on his left temple. “I couldn’t find the messenger.”
“Pelleas survived?” Aenymriel asked casually, her eyes on a frowning Glen that had turned to glare at her.
“Not for long, if you wish it.”
“Does Hardir wish it?” She asked him with an unsettling chuckle and Glen’s mind jumped to the recent past.
> “We’re explorers,” Glen said quickly, a merchant’s smile on his lips.
>
> “Killing a Zilan on Imperial ground is a capital offense,” The warrior continued disregarding his words. “What is your plea?”
>
> “He was a murderer,” Flix said and walked next to Glen.
>
> “On your word Gish? Who granted you right to be an executioner?”
>
> “I’m a member of the Circle,” Flix explained.
>
> “Which makes you a murderer and a deceiver by trade. Is this Nym’s doing?”
> “Be mindful of the shades,” was Flix’s final warning some time later, face hidden under the veil of his hat. “And when you hear of the last King’s fate, ask what happened to Elas sister.”
“How did the old King die?” Glen asked and Aenymriel narrowed her exotic eyes a little surprised.
“The king was murdered by his jealous wife. She then killed herself,” She replied. “Almost a thousand years ago.”
“What’s the real story?”
“This was a loving couple of three.”
Glen frowned not sure what she meant.
“Ah, the old sentimental Gish,” Aenymriel purred as if she could read his thoughts. She was still chuckling elated. “I could forgive him that, I suppose. Or perhaps I shouldn’t. Hmm.”
Nothing but a moniker.
“Nym,” Glen murmured and eyed the silent watching them Din.
“Glen,” Nym taunted still smiling.
Fucking conniving bitch.
“How soon can we expect this Rothomir dude?” Glen grunted, not wanting to risk a confrontation if it was possible.
“He’ll try to learn more, but he won’t move immediately,” Nym replied.
“Why?”
“You have a Wyvern,” She said simply. “For now.”
“Is that a plaguin’ threat?” Glen growled, knowing they had him sort of cornered in the stables.
Nym sighed and pursed her lips. “Time won’t always be on your side Hardir,” She finally said. “If you die today let’s say, or on the morrow. The Wyvern will continue without your guidance. This is the worst scenario. We must avoid it whatever the cost.”
“What had Laedan spooked?” Glen asked. “What’s the—?”
“Leave the past and look to the future,” She said cutting him afore he could finish. “It was thought impossible you’d make it here, but you did.”
“I had help,” Glen replied and stood back. “Friends.”
“Then your friends are in danger as well,” Nym replied, chilling his blood. “Din will remain close to you. He has no tongue, but you’ll hear him if it’s needed.”
It took Glen a moment to figure out what she meant.
“What about you?” He croaked and Nym chuckled, her voice that of a small child, not sound of mind.
“This was fun,” she said and a shadow started coiling at her feet, a part of it pooling like black oil under her boots. She sunk in it abruptly and Glen recoiled with a gasp. One moment Nym was standing in front of him and the next she had melted away.
> He had many names and a design no one could even fathom back then. Be it chance, skill, or divine intervention no other man could do it. It was because he was so relatable and unassuming that made him so popular. Anything that worked, he would use. No shame, or standing, no race, or caste mattered to his eyes. All you have to do was bend the knee and walk the roads he carved out of the jungle. He talked of a port in those days, but made two of them inside a year. He spoke of a city at the start and the one that would rule over it. Complained about the lack of simple things like furniture and cheese. Used a plain old chair for a throne in the beginning, but all of us could see there was a king sitting on it.
>
>
>
> Phinariel, the Boorish Poet,
>
> Royal Scribe,
>
> Member of the Queen’s Council
>
> in
>
> King’s Anabasis
>
> (Sinya Goras)
>
> Chapter I
>
> (Hardir O’ Fardor)
>
> -Arguen Garth, O’ Nielek Aniculo-
>
> Celebrated in the Austere Cofol of the Four Old Sisters as,
>
> Noble Ruler, of Onyx Wyvern.
>
> Referred to as,
>
> Ruthless Monarch of Tenebrous Castle, in both Jelin & Eplas,
>
> But commonly known as the King beyond the Pale Mountains.)
>
> -
>
> Entered into the Royal Library,
>
> In 210 NC,
>
> Circa 3416 IC –consolidated- (3rd Era)