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Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Monarch O’ Morn Taras
The Monarch’s Council
Part I
-Master of songs-
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The white gold tooth Angrein had sculpted for him the other day, had a pleasant gleam on it and Glen raised his upper lip more to gaze at it in the mirror. That small matter aside, you couldn’t tell it from a real one, he thought pleased.
Other than the fact of course that this one worth’s two gold coins.
“No teeth,” Sen warned their daughter and the baby girl paused her sucking to stare at her mother awed. “She has your mouth,” Sen-Iv commented and Glen grinned showing her two full rows of teeth again. “A good thing,” she added with a chuckle.
That’s right, he thought.
Seeyu cutting him off afore he’d time to give her a ‘proper’ demonstration.
“Master Garth, the Council has assembled.”
“Lead the way,” Glen retorted. “Girls,” he announced to a smiling Sen and her slaves. “I have business to attend to.”
“Should I send Iskay with refreshments?” She probed moving Inis-Mir to her other breast. Damn. “Wine?” Sen added huskily, wiping an engorged nipple from the spillage and bringing the finger to her lips to lick it clean.
“Absolutely,” Glen croaked and rushed after Seeyu whilst he still could, his cock pointing the way.
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Fikumin had dark circles under his eyes and was clad in short black robes, a dagger on his belt. Metu was sitting across from him reading from a pile of scrolls and the two Zilan females Soletha and Vaelenn had taken chairs next to the dwarf and his Castellan, leaving the other two spots for Anfalon and Voldomir. The High Priest’s robes had dried mud down the right side and pieces of grass long dead, which easily made him again the worst dressed person inside his hall.
Glen took his spot, the chair’s back leaving little room to sit properly, or made for a smaller person and cleared his throat a couple of times, afore testing the growth under his chin with three fingers.
“Is everyone appraised… that the word Fikumin?” He asked with a glance at the ever scowling dwarf. “Right, as I said, is everyone appraised wit what happened at Eikenport?”
“I understand we’ve lost some supporters Hardir,” Vaelenn said. She’d a long empty sleeve down her missing arm today, giving the illusion it was still there, just hidden.
“Friends, close associates… that’s people working for me. I have business in Eikenport,” Glen explained.
“Why would Hardir need business in Eikenport?” Soletha asked not to appear uninterested in the topic.
“To make profit,” Glen replied patiently and made room for Seeyu to place a plate in front of him. Mostly fruit in it, with cuts of yellow cheese varieties and a silver goblet of wine Angrein had made for him the other day. Part of a set of three, for him, Sen and Inis-Mir ‘when’s she becomes of age’, as the blacksmith had put it. Sen had found him incredibly interesting, which was something unto itself, since she generally was very restrained around Zilan.
Then again, Angrein was human.
Probably.
“Anyways,” he continued interrupting the murmurs of those present. “We need its port, especially now we might have the ships available to move large quantities of material to Lon. We also have an agreement with Kaltha’s Princess and the pirates helping her. That in itself gives us advantage the other kingdoms don’t have. Neither Kaltha, nor Regia and Lesia.”
“Kaltha’s Princess,” Vaelenn said dismissively.
“You don’t think having the pirates on her side is important?” Glen queried.
Voldomir snorted.
“With all the respect Hardir,” Soletha intervened her voice soothing. “There’s no Kaltha, not in name as that was what Reinut’s navigator was called and no kingdom, since the pirates had no business there in the first place. As for the Lorians they’ll split up eventually, their lords have grander ambitions than their station, which frankly is more base than noble.”
“Haha,” Voldomir chuckled, just as Aenymriel came inside, apparently going past Kirk and Bing that recoiled when she opened the door behind them. The Zilan with the boyish short hair, wore a full body sort of jumpsuit made of soft whale leather, the close necked top attached on her pants with oiled thick leather cords.
Anfalon frowned when she paused to examine those present, afore bowing to Glen effortlessly.
“Hardir,” she whispered. “May I stay?”
“Sure,” Glen said and realized that other than Anfalon the rest didn’t appear to react to her entrance. Voldomir exempted, as the High Priest was still chuckling both hands clasped on his weathered staff. He turned towards his Council again, fingers rapping on the table. “Most of the realm disagree,” he told them. “With yer assessment. Let us say they outnumber us heavily. There’s a Kaltha and two Lorian Kingdoms for a couple of centuries now and the pirates have enough ships to spare some as gravy in a deal, which is what this Princess of Kaltha managed to get them to agree to.”
“She’s Reinut’s kin,” Anfalon grunted.
“Exactly,” Glen agreed, although he hadn’t even considered that may had been the reason.
“It appears most others support her brother,” Soletha said and it was unfortunate how much the news had spread, Glen thought.
“The mercenaries did, but they were stopped,” Glen replied. “Which leaves the city in her hands sort of, until the Khan reacts.”
“How far is the Horselord?” Anfalon asked eyeing the sweating Metu suspiciously. “I assume Hardir wants to intervene in the succession. Install a puppet perhaps on the throne?”
“Aww my,” Aenymriel purred impressed. “That was very cunning great Anfalon,” she told him and Vaelenn glared her way not pleased.
“I’m channeling Hardir’s wishes,” Anfalon retorted. “I’m sure you have something more sinister in mind and I wanted to preemptively put a halt to your schemes.”
Aenymriel puckered her mouth unhappy and Soletha stood up trying to appear unbothered, but failing.
“Why is she in the Council?”
“I don’t believe she is,” Fikumin responded with a scowl.
“An elderborn can sit in Council sessions,” Anfalon snapped at her, an elderborn himself –as all those that had been born in the First Era were called. Glen had learned that very recently, the lines between the Zilan castes sometimes difficult to discern for outsiders- and Soletha paled afore returning to her seat. “Especially after receiving Hardir’s permission,” the rigid hoplite leader added, eyeing the blank faced Aenymriel warningly.
The tension rising inside the room, until Voldomir’s staff hit the table with an abrupt clang. The priest had fallen asleep and lost hold of it, the sound breaking the stalemate.
“While it’s a thought,” Glen started after puffing out. “I don’t want to get involved with Kaltha’s problems, but I want to secure both Eplas and Jelin are open to us from land or sea. We need their markets and their coin, but we don’t need their wars.”
“Kaltha is attacking near Altarin and there are forces marching towards Tyeusfort,” Fikumin expounded on the state of affairs. “The herd caravans coming from Blacksheep reported that the intersection was crawling with soldiers, cavalry and supply wagons. Both Cofols and Issirs. That’s sixty kilometers from Tyeusfort and the river Felmond.”
“They are blocking Lon’s access to the desert roads. This is a mess we need to fix, or find another way to regain access to the Peninsula. Obviously the peaceful merchants there are hurting the most with the situation,” Glen added.
“The ‘Four Sisters’ used their gold to fuel their games and their ‘expeditions’ to acquire more slaves Hardir. That a Horselord brought them down eventually sounds like fate to me,” Vaelenn argued. “Why help them?”
“I’m married to the Peninsula,” Glen retorted, his tone cautionary. “Love doing business wit them and have probably a fortune in real estate in the darn place. I don’t give a shite about the past. I want a trade route open for the Sopats.”
“Eh, on that note,” Fikumin murmured, to give him time to calm down and Glen took the time, chewing on a piece of spiced cheese with whole peppers in it and glugging down a goblet of wine, when his tongue flamed up out of the blue. “Metu, have you found a bigger map?”
A deeply flushed and sweating Glen turned to Metu, whilst refilling his cup quickly, everyone appearing alarmed at his bout of sudden heavy coughing, but for Voldomir who opted to taste the ‘very’ spicy cheese himself.
“I haven’t found the one you requested Lord Fikumin.”
“Jinx’s… ahem,” Glen tried to say, his eyes tearing up, wine in his nose and a lung leaping for his throat. “…place has… ahem… darnit… ahem,” Aenymriel touched his shoulder and offered him a small open vial. Glen looked at her, Anfalon moving as fast as the female, but making way more noise, putting a heavy hand on her wrist with a grunt.
“What is this?” he asked her warningly.
Glen stared in her youthful face unsure.
Aenymriel sighed and had some for herself.
“Boiled rat fat mostly,” she explained with a small grimace. “Tastes very unpleasant, but stops the cough and removes burning. People rarely consume the hardened wax wrap of the cheese, as it absorbs all the oils with time, but he did. That was a lethal dose of ‘ghost peppers’ Anfalon.”
Glen grabbed the vial and glugged it down fast, the oily substance soothing his hoarse throat immediately. He had to drink another cup of wine to wash away the stomach-turning aftertaste.
“Jinx has a detailed map in her place,” he managed to say two minutes later, with his voice coming out an octave lower than usual and his collar drenched in sweat. “So we’ll move this session there.”
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The Goras Council marched across the street, with passersby stopping to stare at them curious and stopped afore Jinx’s villa, the freshly painted white door having the imprints of three sets of hands on it. A Zilan’s, a Gish’s and a monkey’s.
It also sported a heavy duty iron chain, complete with a large padlock fastened on it and apparently locked. Metu cleared his throat seeing everyone staring at the barred entrance blankly and offered his two cents on their predicament.
“Ahm, Lady Jinx is away on that mission my lord.”
Glen wiped his face with a hand and glared at the fidgety Cofol.
“I’m aware,” he grunted and checked to see if anyone was smirking other than Voldomir that is, who had his mouth full of cheese and could barely breathe. “I also have a spare key.”
“You do?” Fikumin asked, but seeing Glen’s expression turned it into a grunt of agreement. “Of course. It makes sense given yer close friendship my Lord.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Right,” Glen said and reached for his satchel. “Now everyone stand back a couple of steps. More. Move it Voldomir. Fuck’s sake, ye need to swallow afore yer teeth fall off! You too, Metu. Move back, don’t pout. Kirk and Bing stand behind me whilst I unlock it.”
He turned around and got his lockpicks out, found the one most likely to work with the type of padlock Jinx had installed –very annoyingly- and went to work. Paused to remove a small piece of toothpick the sneaky Gish had inserted in the lock, with a tiny set of pliers and caught Fikumin standing next to his knee and watching him closely.
“Alix’s had left me his stuff,” he explained whilst working the right picks into the mechanism. “Showed me the ropes a bit, but I don’t want them getting any ideas.”
Fikumin nodded that gigantic head and mess of hair moving up and down.
“Alix was a professional thief with years of experience,” the dwarf commented, with Glen nodding him along. “It would take more than a few lessons to learn the trade Glen. Plus firsthand experience and natural skill,” Fikumin added, just as the grinning Monarch of Morn Taras popped the lock open in seconds.
“Well… would ye look at that, haha! Parted faster than a port harlot’s legs,” Glen howled to sell it. “Luthos is by yer side dwarf.”
“It appears he is,” Fikumin noted stiffly. “Gods move in mysterious ways milord.”
“That they do my friend,” Glen agreed and unfastened the chain. He cracked the door open next and then waved for the large group to follow him inside. “Always eager to offer helping hand to the righteous,” Glen added and walked inside Jinx’s place.
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“Nobody pockets anything. We are not crooks,” Glen warned them austerely, most of those present frowning at the suggestion, whilst he quickly perused the sparse furniture in the large hall for any valuables himself. Another locked door blocking the way to the bedroom. A large box next to a table across the wall with a map of the continents.
“The map is here my lord,” Metu said unsure and Glen turned towards them annoyed.
“I’m not blind Metu,” he admonished the blinking Cofol. “Remove that darn phallus from the table so we can sit down and not stare at it,” he ordered him. Metu nodded and walked to retrieve the offending item, Soletha and Vaelenn perking up intrigued. They turned around and walked after the Cofol, Glen watching them amused.
“It’s a rather faithful representation,” Soletha commented casually, Metu watching them alarmed, the large wooden phallus in hand.
“There’s some skill there,” Vaelenn yielded.
“I’m not sure about the material, or the size,” Soletha argued scholastically.
“There was this artisan in Elauthin,” Vaelenn reminisced with her rival nodding. “Used ehem… rubber I think? It made it more pliable.”
“Mmm,” Soletha agreed, seeing her point. “Much more pleasant to the touch, I was told,” She glanced at those present with a rare blush. “Your words ring true Vaelenn,” she added quickly.
Glen and everyone else present exchanged glances unsure how to intervene. Voldomir, who’d managed to gulp down all that spicy cheese, started chuckling.
“Yer not exactly helping,” Glen grunted, very frustrated.
“These two haven’t agreed on anything for centuries Hardir,” Voldomir explained very amused in contrast. “I suggest you leave them to it and continue with the meeting.”
Glen rolled his eyes, breathed once deep and then spotted Aenymriel’s disinterested face. The Zilan shrugged her shoulders to his voiceless query. “I’m partial in flesh Hardir,” she purred and showed him her long nimble fingers. “And hand worked clay.”
Luthos stumbled on a pile of fresh turds, Glen thought with a snort and marched to the map frustrated.
Face planted himself in it and got shite up his nose.
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“What do you mean the reefs are unnavigable?” Glen grunted when his proposal was universally frowned upon. “They said the same about Goras jungle, or the pale mountains and I cleared them both.”
“With armed adventurers, a wyvern and plenty of luck involved,” Fikumin said. “They have a valid point Garth and these uncharted reef-plagued waters are extra dangerous for the ships. Captains rightly avoid them.”
“Has anyone attempted a crossing?” Glen insisted glaring at the colored map. Jinx had used her finger to paint a heart in white around the Sinking Isles. It didn’t make the isolated mounds of land more appealing.
“Nor he shall whilst carrying cargo worth a fortune my lord,” Metu replied pensively from across the room.
“What about this canyon here?” Glen tried another way, not liking his defeatism. “Under Desert Minor, why… wait a minute. Is this a giant island?”
“Wetull is just a name,” Anfalon elucidated. “It means the islands beyond. The islands being Goras, Elauthin and Cydonia.”
“Goras is part of a continent,” Glen corrected him. “Eplas.”
“Eplas and Jelin are what the humans called their islands,” Anfalon explained and pointed at the painted wall. “Continents,” he yielded.
“Beyond what?” Glen asked with a frown.
“Mithtull,” Voldomir replied, a bit of color on his cheeks. The fact he was standing upright a miracle according to Glen’s assessment of the amount of cheese he’d consumed. “The land of Mist, or Mistland as scribled here. Kallister paraphrased. He did it a lot.”
“Right,” Glen grunted, making a note of the name. “This Serpent Canal goes all the way to Lorsan Gulf, but one could disembark near the Sandalwood Forest, then cut straight across to reach our peninsula.”
“Eh, captains avoided the Torn Earth and Serpent Canal was navigable only from Quiceran’s port in the Lorsan Gulf,” Voldomir said. “Not the other way around.”
“Why?”
“It’s a dangerous long journey over deep waters. Desert on one side, sharp rocks on the other, with no way to land until you reach deep in the narrow canal through Wyvern roaming lands and waters,” Anfalon said and eyed the two females that had returned from their animated discussion with Metu in tow.
“There’s only one Wyvern,” Glen argued. “Rather friendly,” he added unconvincingly.
The looks on everyone’s faces telling.
“Snake Mount is between the canal and Goras,” Soletha said.
“We’ll deal wit the cultists.”
“It’s also close to Abarat and Lord Rothomir,” Aenymriel reminded him and Glen gave her a stern stare.
“We’ll deal wit that motherfucker too.”
“You want to bring a ship, through the Torn Earth, into Serpent’s Canal,” Alfalon summed it up. “Land at Eroshin River’s knee, travel near its west bank and take one of the bridges still standing there hopefully to avoid Snake Mount. Pelleas will probably have guards at Ninthalor’s stone bridge.”
“How soon can we have a demonstration of the unit’s capabilities Anfalon?”
Anfalon clenched his jaw. “No better exercise than toughening it out in the field Hardir.”
“Soon then. We take the bridge and control the road from Goras to Serpent’s Canal,” Glen agreed looking at the map with a satisfied smirk. “We have a fucking trade route open to…” he glanced at Metu confused, the names of the cities there escaping him and not exactly rolling off one’s tongue.
“Ahm, the Four Sisters,” Metu blurted out and Glen thought that was as good a moniker as any.
“The Four Sisters trade route,” he repeated and stared at Aenymriel. “The meeting is over.”
“We haven’t—” Fikumin started, but he cut him off raising his hand.
“I have, but ye can continue in Metu’s place,” Glen told him impatiently. “I want a report on what was discussed Fikumin.”
Glen returned to the map as one after the other left to continue their discussion. Aenymriel who had stayed behind, raised a cobalt brow when Glen lit his pipe.
“Flix truly liked you… Glen,” Nym said, her expression changing.
“Ye didn’t leave.”
“You wanted me to stay.”
Glen smacked his lips and blew smoke out trying to create a circle but failing. Gods darnit.
“I want information,” he told her and Nym nodded crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“Give a fool power and he’ll do the work for you,” Nym replied.
“Not you?” Glen probed a little surprised.
“I already have the power Glen,” Nym said with a small smile. “It will raise eyebrows and I don’t like been talked about in the open.”
“Who could do the work?” Glen asked her.
“Mmm, I think you have someone in mind already,” Nym purred. “Din will make sure everything runs smoothly.”
Yep, this is a smart one, he thought. She needs constant watching…
“You intent to travel?”
“Openly being around people makes me anxious,” Nym said ambiguously and stared at their shadows, elongated from the light coming in through the open door. Glen looked at them as well and when he returned his eyes on Nym, the female Zilan wasn’t there. He frowned glanced back at the wall and Nym’s lingering shade gave him a teasing curtsy, afore it dissolved into nothingness.
…other than the troubling fact, she can do that apparently.
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Three hours later Glen grabbed a stool under the pavilion’s shade, weirdly called ‘Bard with no name’ in Common, the pretty young Zilan behind the counter ready to serve him pausing, when she heard Folen’s voice.
“I’ll take over sweet mother,” Folen said and glided next to his youthful ‘parent’. “See to Sarya will you?”
“Sarya being yer sister, I reckon?” Glen queried mockingly, glancing at the long-legged Zilan waitress and ‘Luthoris’ snorted afore walking away sporting an even shorter dress than her.
“That would’ve been nigh awkward last night,” Folen admitted, recoiling seeing Glen’s frown and clearing his throat switched subjects quickly. “A glass of excellent ‘Goras Nectar' to smooth spirits and wet the appetite?”
“Two things,” Glen told him placing both his arms on the table with a glare at Kirk that had nodded instinctively. “First you can’t use the moniker, serving whatever it is you have there.”
“I’ve stepped on the grapes myself, felt the juices running down my feet Hardir,” Folen protested civilly. “If this is not Goras wine, then I don’t know what is.”
“Thus it shall remain, you not knowing and this not being ‘Goras Nectar’,” Glen retorted not convinced. “The image was disturbing by the way.”
“May I offer rum?” Folen tried again.
“Second,” Glen continued with a warning stare. “The lake’s shores are mine and I don’t need a crook operating near the resort.”
“I’ll have a cup,” Kirk said respectfully, when he finished.
“It’s a service, a memorial to your fight with the Hydra and a spot for its visitors to rest avoiding the sun boiling their brains Hardir,” he poured Kirk a cup of rum and slid it his way, afore returning to an amused Glen. “You’ll shut us down? I have enemies Hardir working against me, but think of my mother and poor Sarya.”
Glen sighed and scratched his neck with a finger, looked behind Folen at the various bottles there. “You have anything legitimate?”
“Not for free,” Folen admitted. “I haven’t.”
Glen smacked his lips, whilst Kirk paused sipping at his rum with a frown.
“Pour one cup for me,” he told him and got his leather purse out. Glen loosened the thin cords, the gleam of gold catching the Zilan’s eye. “That’s not yer real mother right?” Glen said taking a gold coin out of the pile.
“This is a difficult query Hardir. I think I’ll pass,” Folen said and opened an engraved old bottle. He filled Glen’s goblet to the brim and gathered the excess that dribbled on the counter with a finger not to waste it.
“I don’t need a tavern-keeper, or his ‘mother’,” Glen explained taking a small sip of the wine. He stood back stunned. “The difference is shocking,” he told the blank-faced Zilan. “Wit what ye are serving.”
“It’s the water Hardir,” Folen admitted. “A Hydra died in it. Leaves an aftertaste.”
Fuck’s sake.
“I don’t need this as I said,” Glen continued, unsure whether to laugh, or punch him in the face.
“You need a bard though,” Folen guessed, pointing at his lute hanging behind the counter.
Wrongly.
Glen stared at him a little numb.
“No,” he finally said unsympathetically.
“Uhm,” Folen nodded and glanced at the patrons enjoying the lake’s tranquil noon. “What is it Hardir needs then?”
“Information,” Glen repeated what he’d told Aenymriel earlier, crooking his mouth. “As in more for me, less for others.”
“It sounds like a job for a man of clandestine action, perhaps military? I’m better with a song Hardir.”
Eh, no yer not.
“I don’t trust them for this spot and the best candidate skill-wise while untrustworthy, refused to accept,” Glen explained. “Yer a close second given the filth available.”
“Is this an audition?” Folen asked unsure not offended and Glen sighed. He stretched his back out, the Zilan waitress listening in to their talk smiling like a cat caught wit an unresponsive canary in jaws, having slid to his other elbow and pretending to clean the counter with a towel.
Glen snorted, raised his left arm high and downed it abruptly smacking the Zilan right at the buttocks. She jumped over the counter with a yelp, which was an athletic feat unto itself that delighted the patrons, Glen’s hand imprinted on the pale flesh clearly.
“The previous time was the audition,” the Monarch of Morn Taras explained, leering at the scowling female. “This is the interview part felon, Foleen, or whatever you wanna call it.”
“What kind of part?” Folen asked, reaching for a large vase with ointment, which he tossed casually to a seething Sarya.
“That’s not the right answer,” Glen told him and got up leaving most of his wine untouched.
“Ah,” Folen said and nodded, afore offering a small curtsy. “Hardir,” he added, with a smirking Glen adding, a hint of razz in his voice.
“Welcome to the Council, Master of Songs.”
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