-
> It is at times mentioned in jest that no one detested the Monarch of Morn Taras more, than the Barons of the ‘Wine Valleys’ in Flauegran and Atetalerso. They could forgive him meddling in the Bank’s business, assisting the rebel Princess of Kaltha, practicing slavery and dismiss the rumors of cannibalism.
>
> Overlook his dabbling in dark forbidden magic and the macabre. Remit his riding on a Wyvern to attack Jelin, even carousing with the vile Zilan and participating in their disturbing rituals, but him exporting the now famed rivaling ‘Goras Nectar’ to every city with a port, was simply indefensible. A sin no amount of coin, or blood, could wash off, or forgive. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as Baron Riveras eloquently put it.
>
> -
>
> Head Chef Saul Ferrero
>
> Complete History
>
> of the Realm’s Cuisine & Culinary delights
>
> -through the centuries
>
> (with recipes)
>
> 3rd Edition
>
> Chapter V
>
> Garth vs Riveras - The Wine Wars of 192-201
>
> Circa 212 NC
-
[https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXM-25eQTI1DBqzlON52L49DlEugOuPVv3-2NbH_g0z6VOg5gqupFfFVEuGpBtBBi8H3VVXn3yKZaq_ooSCCOZxSZmksvopHwzrhNEtcRbqV2JRpIJPfzT2jINYb2R84YgegkGCv-JTkYp5ZhGTVej1AeTePBCACEnyTyVMABMkgnWTOO3ejncn-hx/s1844/Wetull%20part%206.jpg]
(right click to open the image fully)
-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Monarch O’ Morn Taras
Bad news, wit the good
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
The air was cool inside the imposing central hall of Morn Taras and despite the many lightstone torches –twelve on the massive black-granite pillars, another three behind the raised pedestal that could fit several wagons side by side- a semi-darkness dominated the expansive unadorned place. The elongated hall -at least two hundred large strides in length from the entrance to the wall behind the strange flat pedestal, as many in width- was dominated by the two rows of polished black columns touching the ceiling above their heads, leading to the sharp steps at the base of the platform-like podium. The height of the hall that of a three story building, the ceiling and the upper portion of the massive columns –you needed three people to hug them fully- lost in darkness.
Glen paused before the stairs and stared up into the oppressive blackness, the light reflected off the polished granite surfaces drowned and inadequate.
“You run out of ligthstone?” He asked Voron tauntingly, the stiff Zilan architect standing next to him with his hands clasped behind his back.
“It adds to the mystery Hardir,” the haughty well-dressed male replied. “Since we don’t have color to appease your frugality, I used lights and shades as decoration.”
“You economized in other words, whilst using at the same time the space and material for three buildings?” Glen mocked him, not particular to his brand of humor.
“To build a castle,” Voron retorted. “On the base of what was to be a pyramid initially.”
Not on my plans friend.
He who holds the purse, picks the tune.
“Where’s the second floor?” Glen asked.
“That would be up one of the staircases at the sides, west and east.”
“Can’t see shite in this darkness,” Glen commented sourly and stared at the illuminated, columned corridor leading to the podium from the entrance.
“It is for effect, there’s amble space beyond the supports for the Council table and the scribes,” Voron explained. “Most Zilan I’ve consulted found no issues with the amount of illumination offered.”
Glen stared at him blankly.
“One sees only the Monarch in the distance, upon entering and nothing else,” Voron elucidated further. “He has to approach him slowly, passing six large columns per side, six in the west and six in the east representing the months in a year, evenly spaced and lined up. Upon reaching the pedestal where the Monarch’s three thrones will stand, he’ll kneel before the five steps representing the Five Gods.”
“Why three?”
“For the Old Gods that came first,” Voron explained and Glen thought about using one of Jinx’s kicks to the knee on him, his condescending tone getting on his nerves.
“Who says that?” He queried through his teeth.
“Ahm, the old texts?” Voron gave him a curious side glance. “Was this a human attempt at jesting Hardir?”
“Ain’t laughing, no attempt was made,” Glen informed him deathly serious. “I also see no throne, let alone three. Is it a clever illusion perchance?”
“I’m still negotiating with Metu for the gold,” Voron explained, crooking his mouth at Glen’s jest. “He’s very tightfisted for an ex-slave crook, raised scandalously above his station.”
Glen blinked in shock, not at the dig about Metu, but at the mention of more gold needed. “Luthos red painted nails, how expensive is the darn thing?”
“Eh, it’s the amount that needs to be melted Hardir. Enough to forge three thrones, one bigger than the others for Eodrass just to have our ducks in a row—”
Glen stopped him.
“Out of gold?” He asked just to be certain he wasn’t hallucinating.
“What else?”
“Ahm, wood?” Glen chanced only half-joking this time. “There’s plenty of good forest left. More far as the eye can see beyond the Temple. Cut that shite down!”
Voron glanced his way. “Is this another attempt at humor Hardir?” He asked truthfully.
No?
“Stone, ye have plenty of that too. I went past boulders for miles coming here. That’s an accident waiting to happen,” Glen hissed, scrunching his jaw.
“Yes, but we really should use something else—”
“Use marble for the tiles, leave the throne minimal… what the fuck was that word? You used it on ten reports and I’m rounding it up here!” Glen cut him off again.
“A stone throne,” Voron repeated sounding strangled. “Can we decorate it at least?”
“You need gold for that?”
“Bronze leaks and needs constant cleaning,” Voron retorted. “One of the thrones is for Lady Sen, you’ll have her foul her garbs?”
Whoa, right below the fuckin’ belt.
Ye plaguing cunt.
“Fine,” Glen yielded. “Is the second floor as big?”
“Yes. Same as the third. It’s a square, the base we are now standing upon,” Voron replied didactically and Glen sniffed some razz in his tone.
“Where am I sleeping?”
“That would be your quarters and Lady Sovereign’s bedroom.”
“So about nine stories worth of steps?”
Voron frowned.
“Depending how one’s measuring—”
“Let’s call it climbing on foot,” Glen cut him off. “You’ve set me up for a good ole trek, every fucking day I see.”
“I don’t understand, Hardir would have preferred to be crammed in a stone box instead?” Voron asked and shrugged his shoulders. “This is a minimalistic construction, more foreboding than grand, but we could always open more windows.”
There’s that plaguin’ word again, Glen thought sourly.
“There’re no windows?”
Are ye fucking kidding me?
“Only on the last floor,” Voron pasted a real estate agent’s toothy smile on his face. “A lovely view of the plateau and the valley underneath it, even the lake and as far as the old North Gates Towers fog permitting.”
Glen sighed and stared at his boots.
“Are they big enough?”
“Your Wyvern could get through them for a while,” Voron replied readily, adding after a brief pause. “Though I would advise against it. No furniture has been invented to take their weight yet.”
“Uhm. Well I’ll think about it,” Glen grunted and then sighed. “I must admit, I’m less than impressed friend. You need to step it up a bit here. For the coin you’re spending, I expected better, much sooner.”
“Rest assured that I shall strive to meet your lofty standards my lord,” Voron replied through his teeth.
Hah, that’s right.
The still unfinished castle was mighty impressive truth be told, but Glen didn’t want Voron knowing it, as he’d become even more insufferable than he already was.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen stepped outside the star shaped framework of the castle’s outer walls and took the reins of Outlaw from Kirk. He climbed on the saddle, sweat running down his face and covered in dust from walking through the building crews and all the construction material piled inside what would become the castle’s yard, hopefully while I have most of my teeth and I can piss standing up.
“What’s all these people?” Glen asked Kirk and the fighter blinked, the soft breeze blowing dirt in his eyes, afore replying.
“Slaves mostly. The ‘local’ Zilan are buying out every slaver that arrives from the Khanate,” Kirk reached for a cloth to wipe his face and Glen mimicked him doing the same. Outlaw snorted in annoyance at the fine grit coming from cutting all those large ancient walls boulders to manageable pieces and shook his mane, covering Glen in that fine powder again.
“You were saying?” Glen asked with a grimace, seeing the cloth turning black in his second attempt to remove the dirt from his face.
Luthos shriveled balls!
“They are renting them to Voron for coin, which they then use to repair the old grape vine fields on the west shores of the Narrow Gulf from Sinya Goras port to the ‘Hills of the Favored’,” Kirk explained apparently very informed on the matter.
Glen eyed him suspiciously. “How do they get the slaves in the first place? Folk have given up coin and land in this kind of business,” in Glen’s case a castle of unknown value.
“We’re talking workers and low value slaves here milord. No Greenwhale Peninsula stuff,” Kirk replied and Glen frowned not liking what he was insinuating.
“You were doing fine friend,” he told him, his tone cautionary. “But talking about me and mine ain’t gonna win you any favors. Why, quite the contrary actually.”
“Milord I wasn’t… this was thoughtless of me, but I was trying to give example in quality and these people are sold cheap. I’m against the practice myself.”
“As I am undoubtingly,” Glen grunted.
“Of course milord.”
Glen smacked his lips. “Still they must worth something. These caravans come every other day it seems.”
“They do, with all the trouble in Merchant’s Triage they rerouted their… commodities here. The caravans just unload everyone and everything they bring for a future contract in ‘Goras wine’. We have over two thousand visitors staying in the Taras Lake District, as many in Sinya Goras, the rent market is booming,” Kirk said quickly dirty rivulets of sweat running down his tanned neck. “They prize it more than Flauegran is the word. That villain Folen is making a killing and his stuff is watered down straight from the lake.”
Glen frowned at the alarming detail.
I should talk to that felon again, see that he gives me the better stuff.
“Is Metu running this… enterprise?” he asked, almost using scheme out of habit.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Well, not exactly. There’s a big dispute between Soletha’s and Vaelenn’s people on who owns the acres, or where the border between them is.”
“How about the strays?”
“They have no mind for trade and coin milord,” Kirk replied. “The majority is flocking to Anfalon, or are even working with Voron in construction.”
Glen grunted, very surprised about the amount of stuff happening while he was enjoying Sen’s and his daughter’s company.
“Where are all these disputes talked about?” He asked casually and Kirk blinked unsure whether he was pulling his leg, which Glen wasn't.
“The Council milord. Castellan Metu holds meetings in his home, which is why we don’t get as many visitors lately.”
Wait a fuckin’ minute here.
“Metu has a home?” Glen asked with a grimace of bewilderment.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“Keep them outside!” Glen barked at Kirk and the muscular fighter stood guard at the door, while he rushed inside Metu’s renovated and lavish villa.
“Lord Garth,” Metu said alarmed. “How may I—?”
“YE ROTTEN CROOK!” Glen blasted him besides himself and grabbed the panicked ‘Castellan’ by the collar. Metu tried to escape Glen’s grip, but failed and went down in front of the heavy conference table, eyes bulging and face flustered.
“Please I can explain!” He croaked shaking and hugging Glen’s legs. “Spare the knife my lord!”
“What? Good grief…” Glen grunted and shoved him away putting a dirty boot on his shoulder. “Get a grip of yerself you idiot! Stand the fuck up!”
“Yes, my lord,” Metu sniffled and got up trying desperately to fix his messy hair. A large bald spot on the top of his head now visible. “Right away.”
“Right away my arse, ye better have an explanation why I’m learning about this just now,” Glen admonished him, glancing at the richly furbished hall and the freshly painted walls of the villa.
“I was going to convey to your Excellency all the details in our next meeting,” Metu explained quickly.
“That meeting has moved up!”
“It has?”
“Yes it’s right fuckin’ now!” Glen growled, spittle flying out of his mouth.
“Of course, yes… yes!” Metu exclaimed shook and cleared his throat. “We have an influx of people, merchants, travelers, archaeologists and adventures my lord—”
“I’m well aware!”
“Right, it was Hulanor who had the idea, he used Almas and Parisa his slaves… well it was bound to happen given the demand. I just set the standards—”
“STOP!” Glen barked putting an end to his blabbering. He’d no idea what the Cofol was talking about. “I don’t know any of these people!”
“Why that would be beneath your illustrious self to get involved—”
“Let my illustrious person decide for himself I say!” Glen yelled irate.
“It’s across the festival area my lord, the large villa at the corner with the rose garden,” Metu explained quickly. “We can go right now, if you’re so fervent about it. The pleasure house works… all hours I believe.”
Glen blinked, then stared at him blankly. Kirk, who was standing guard at the door preventing a scowling Vaelenn and Soletha to enter and start their meeting, poked his head inside wearing a fake unassuming expression on his face.
“What about the wine?” Glen murmured and glared at the guard.
“The wine?” Metu mumbled unsure. “Eh, I have…,” his shoulders dropped. “My Lord I have no idea what you’re talking about, please forgive me.”
“Soletha!” Glen barked and the youthful, but very mature in reality Zilan stepped inside.
“Hardir O’ Fardor,” she said with a bow of her elaborate blue head. “It is lovely you’ll grace our meeting.”
“It is,” Glen grunted and grimaced. Spared another hateful glare at a sweating and in visible discomfort Metu and added his voice hoarse from all the yelling. “Start the Council meeting Metu.”
“We have to wait for Master Fikumin,” Soletha corrected him pleasantly. She had a way about her, Glen thought afore realizing she was probably using some kind of soothing spell on him. Soletha smiled all friendly, the thin material of her tunic stretching over the swollen flesh mounts underneath and Glen shook his head to clear it, frustrated with himself.
“I need a goblet of wine and something to eat,” he croaked and walked to the head of the table to sit on the chair there. “Someone get that lazy dwarf here before I finish my meal.”
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“Garth,” Fikumin said standing next to him. “I believe this is the Shield’s chair,” he added calmly.
“Not when I’m present it isn’t, climb the one on my right hand, Metu can continue his fake sniffling on my left.”
Fikumin breathed in once and then proceeded with doing his thing. He failed the first time under the scrutiny of Glen and everyone else present, but managed it on the second attempt a little flushed.
“Right,” Glen said and refilled his goblet with wine to wash the taste of cheese from his mouth. “Now friends, you can do your thing, but first I’d like a report on the ‘grape vines’ affair.”
Vaelenn, a shoulder bare to showcase her adorned right arm, the other missing of course, stood up. “Will Hardir make a decision on the matter?” she asked him.
“Garth isn’t briefed on the situation,” Fikumin intervened with a scowl.
“It is very simple,” Soletha said. “We have the numbers and my people are situated in the port, where most merchants first disembark. We should have access to the land up to the old north walls at least.”
“You don’t have claims to any of these lands,” Vaelenn bristled. “You’ll take what’s not yours?”
Glen cleared his throat and eyed Voldomir, the priest wearing tattered garbs and carrying a worn out long staff, was half-asleep on his chair.
“Voldomir,” Glen said and the Zilan got out of his slumber.
“Umm,” he grunted and looked at the table a little surprised. “What is it this time?”
“Soletha and Vaelenn want to reach an agreement on the fields facing the Narrow Gulf,” Glen explained.
“They’ll never do,” Voldomir told him. “Better to let them fight it out, it’ll make for a good show.”
“Still,” Glen continued patiently. “We can’t solve this having the women punching each other in the face.”
“We are females,” both affronted Zilan corrected him.
Glen rolled his eyes.
“I don’t care,” he told them unsympathetically. “Anything else to add Voldomir?”
“Why not?” Voldomir grimaced and scratched his head. Found something in the mess and tossed it his mouth. Whatever it was, it went down fast. “They’ll love it.”
“You’re a priest,” Glen grunted. “Surely you don’t condone violence!”
Voldomir pointed at Soletha. “She’s the Moon’s Daughter disciple and a cannibal, when she’s not fasting. They’ll break every rule, it’s in their nature. Don’t frown girl, my staff has a long reach,” he told her and Vaelenn chuckled. Voldomir turned on her next. “You never served the temple, came to it by chance and tragedy. The land belongs to the Goddess, the wine is for her Temple, to be served at festivals.”
“Say we have an opportunity to make profit,” Glen intervened and Voldomir eyed him frustrated. “To further the spiritual services provided,” he added quickly. “But also help the city rebuilt and stand up to its enemies, would the Goddess allow the use of the land?”
“The land is what it is,” Voldomir replied with a shrug. “What we do with it is on us. The Goddess will pass her judgement in her own time to those benefiting from her nectar.”
“Ahm right,” Glen said and rapped his fingers on the table. “Well then, the land will be split in half, cultivated by both Districts and a percentage paid in produce to the High Priest and the city.”
“The city?” Soletha queried with a frown.
“That would be me,” Glen elucidated and Voldomir started chuckling.
“Produce?” Fikumin asked writing down on an open scroll.
“Wine,” Glen told him. “I have no way of storing wagons laden wit grapes,” he added and then glared at the smirking Priest. “Is this amusing to ye Voldomir?”
“I was wrong Hardir, this is actually hilarious,” the priest told him. “But the temple shall accept both wine and fresh grapes, along with foodstuff from the city for your percentage in a per week basis.”
Why you son of a wayward goat…
“Foodstuff?”
“Cheese, meat, a jug of milk. Nothing untoward,” Voldomir explained. “I heard we have flocks of sheep now. By the way, you may need to have a ready stock of meat available soon, or the animals to produce it,” he added. “I talked with Laedan about reopening the den.”
“The Wyvern feeds away from the city Voldomir,” Glen reminded him, seeing the expression on the faces of those present sobering up.
“This Wyvern does,” the old High Priest agreed.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen lit the engraved pipe and sucked the aromatic smoke with a grimace of pleasure. Once one learned the technique, redleaf helped his mind relax and work around his problems. Helped with the dreams as well via knocking him out cold if he overdo it, which being true to himself, he did frequently.
“What are you counting?” he murmured half asleep, hearing Fikumin still poring over his notes of the meeting, scribbling here and there annoyingly.
“I need a scribe,” Fikumin hissed and Glen opened a hazy eye to glance at him.
“What about Fina?”
The girl worked for free basically.
“I need a professional. You can’t expect a young girl sitting through these meetings every day,” Fikumin said with a scowl looking at the numbers.
“Well, she’s not that young. Got plenty of suitors in the festival. Plus she's bright as fuck, look at how fast she learned to write!”
“For a Zilan she is and she didn’t mate with anyone. You’re hallucinating,” Fikumin explained. “Lithoniela was very young as well and she is over two hundred years older.”
“Damn, I had forgotten that part. You just can't tell right?”
“You need to cut down on the drugs a bit Garth,” Fikumin cautioned.
“Says who?” Glen asked and raised his head from the table with a frown.
What his head was doing there, he’d no idea.
Fikumin sighed, then reached for a fork, found the biggest piece of yellow cheese on the disk and brought it to his mouth. A gulp and it was gone down his gullet. Whoa, Glen thought a little numbed and smacked his lips.
“We don’t have the bottles for it to make profit. Selling it in barrels like rum isn’t a good strategy and it will allow scum like Folen to lower the quality,” Fikumin said and refilled his goblet, afore sending the lavish bottle to slide his way. “We are reusing the old ones in small numbers, but in order to make more, we need to import them, or bring someone here to take over. The Trade Guild can look for artisans, but it will take time and the Zilan are notoriously difficult to agree on a design.”
“Right? Haha,” Glen guffawed and poured himself another goblet of wine as well.
“They are also extremely competitive, twice as prideful and they’ll strive to produce as much as possible to outshine one another. How are you going to transport it?”
“The caravans can do it via the desert route,” Glen told him.
“You need something faster.”
“I’ll fix this, relax friend. Who makes the best crystals?” Glen asked curious.
“The best?” Fikumin groaned and rubbed his face hard. “Naossis Seat has the best artisans. What you have there,” he pointed at the engraved narrow neck glass bottle, “is centuries old and clearly their craftsmanship, made for the Zilan Queen.”
“The wine is that old?” Glen frowned.
“You didn’t think they made it now right? You can tell the newer stuff. Voldomir has dungeons filled with goods in the temple. Especially wine.”
“I see.”
The colors are truly vibrant for being inside, he thought.
“I don’t think you are. In order to bring an artisan here, we need to have an established presence on the continents. Trade rights, contracts and offices.”
“Fuck all that. We do it like the pirates. Where is this Naossis tit?” Glen burped and it woke him up a bit.
“Naossis Seat is a mountain village in Valeria,” Fikumin explained patiently. “But they won’t enter a city that disrespects their goddess Garth.”
“Well,” Glen replied clearing his throat. “Didn’t Metu just told me about a ‘pleasure house’? I’m sure it will suffice dwarf. Cheer up, we are going to make a fortune out of this shite. Ah, speaking of shit, there he is, the big turd himself,” he frowned seeing the returning Cofol official’s face. “Fuck is wrong wit you?” Glen asked him.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen’s mouth tasted like old leather. He scrunched his jaw one way, then the other, afore trying to read the calligraphic Common again without success. Not as refined as Sen’s, but still with their distinct aura and beauty. A female hand had scribbled this, he thought and frowned. He glanced at the expecting Metu, the man’s pale face unnerving.
“Who’s it from?” Glen asked and put the scroll down, Fikumin grabbing it with a frustrated hiss.
“Eikenport,” Metu replied and Glen sobered up.
“Ten days old,” Fikumin added reading it through.
“I’m aware,” Glen grunted, not to appear completely illiterate.
“Anne Burton apparently is safe,” Fikumin continued his frown deepening.
“Another bit of good news,” Glen commented slowly, witnessing the dwarf deflating before his very eyes. Fuck, I knew it.
Metu let out a miserable deep sigh and Glen thought about smashing the expensive bottle on his head. He grunted at the slow-walking dwarf instead.
“Read us the bad news, friend.”
Respected Garth of New Goras, Anne Burton aka the Princess of Kaltha, started in her fine lettering.
> It is with a heavy heart I write this, to express my profound gratitude for thine men’s sacrifices in order to ensure my survival. Having witnessed their conduct firsthand, I feel comfortable to call them heroes first, friends a close second. Whatever their circumstances might have been, or their low standing in life, to my person they stand as the noblest of the realm’s knights, each worthy of a statue in their honor.
>
> There’s no monetary compensation one can offer thee for this kind of loss, nor something more I could provide thee due to my own miserable condition at this inopportune moment. I offer a hand of friendship though, along with an apology for the inconvenience I’ve brought upon thine subjects. Also a promise that as long as I draw breath I shan’t forget it and the buccaneers that serve me will forever be thine allies. Eikenport shall always be open for the Monarch of New Goras.
>
> As a final gesture and the least I could do to show my appreciation, I shall transfer to thine Captain the ownership of three large galleons we have captured in the port. They will fly your true colors good sire, as soon as you reveal them.
>
> I’m deeply sorry for your loss,
>
>
>
> With outmost respect,
>
>
>
> Anne Burton,
>
> Third week, of the third month, the Fall of 190 NC,
>
> Eikenport.
Glen cleared his throat and watched the miserable Fikumin poring over the second missive Metu had handed him.
“Is that Stiles?” he asked the Cofol official and he shook his head sadly.
Damn.
“That’s Captain Martel my lord.”
Glen licked his dry lips. Martel was one of the burly men Marcus had hand-picked to operate the Scorpios at the gates of Rida. “What is Martel…?” he sighed and rubbed his hand on his numb face, all the effects of the drug gone. “Who signed the seal?”
Fikumin stumbled down from his chair and walked to the door in pensive silence.
“Crafton I believe,” Metu replied. “I could barely make out the letters.”
“Ottis?” he asked hopefully.
Metu shook his head. Glen glanced at the silently sobbing Fikumin his mood worsening by the second.
Fuck’s sake.
“Keep a lid on it,” he ordered a pale-faced Metu standing up. “Not one word of this escapes, get Anfalon on the task. Now Metu!” Glen barked, his blood boiling, snapping the Cofol to attention.
Oh boy, he thought and reaching for the goblet downed its contents in a go, making the ulcer forming in his stomach worse.
He needed time to process it, think of a way to break the news to his friends and Jinx, but Glen had no time at all. By the time he made it to his villa the details had leaked to associates and family, mainly in the port of Sinya Goras, as most Cofol merchants living there had contacts in Eikenport.
The utter failure to contain the bad news led to the creation -among others- of the influential position under the moniker Master of Secrets in the Council of Goras.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/
& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/