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Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Monarch O’ Morn Taras
The Monarch’s Council
Part II
-A matter of sentiment-
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The fully geared hoplites stood in rows of ten per, polished black helms gleaming every time the sun popped out of the clouds. A black Thorax, the characteristic muscled hoplite cuirass Glen had first seen on Anfalon and the round -also black- shields with cuts for the spear called the Aspis, arranged one next to the other, a red two horned Wyvern’s head painted on the shields and armour glaring at him. The men’s stilled eyes, their faces hidden behind the sinister helms, staring forward almost as ominously.
It was a mighty impressive spectacle.
Glen cleared his throat, his esophagus feeling leathery after he’d almost burned it to a crisp eating Seeyu’s exotic Cofol cheese and glanced out the corner of his eye the most impressive Hoplite of them all, the wyvern on his new Thorax an engraved silver exemplifying the difference.
Not that Anfalon needed it to stand out.
“They look… brawny, well-trained,” he commented and Anfalon snorted.
“Best of the bunch unfortunately,” the rigid Zilan replied taking his words as a jest.
“What happened to the rest of them?” Glen probed unsure, fearing the worst.
“They didn’t make it.”
“Surely they live still,” Glen blinked in shock. “How many are we talking about?”
“One in four,” Anfalon elucidated gruffly. “Be it injury, or weakness. I ordered them to leave the barracks afore nightfall.”
Ah.
“Good grief. Where will they go? And how many do you have here?” Glen asked him licking his dry lips.
“A hundred. Half an Othrim.”
“Ah, can we use those you cut in another unit? They have received training already,” Glen insisted. “Four hundred warriors, even mediocre ones, is nothing to scoff at.”
“They are not mediocre, not all of them,” Anfalon explained. “They just don’t have the mental capabilities to become a Hoplite. They fear death too much.”
Don’t we all?
“I was thinking of making another unit, less…”
“Like guards?” Anfalon probed.
“Rangers?”
“A ranger needs good tracking skills, to be adept in clandestine warfare and a good grasp of the bow and arrow.”
“You don’t have that?”
Anfalon grimaced taking affront at his query.
“Of course I do. They don’t.”
Glen breathed once deeply, a wrinkle on his forehead deepening.
“How many have it from those cut?” He asked the scowling Anfalon, the field they were standing on completely level and well-trotted from the men standing at attention for about half an hour now.
“You’ll get a quarter of them that can use a bow and move silently with some competence. Maeriel has received the training required from Faelar. None better than him. Fortunately she didn’t follow him in exile. Now she’ll have to inspect them herself, but I don’t think I’m mistaken,” Anfalon grimaced, smacked the hoplite helm he was holding in his hands and wore it over his head.
“When will the next bunch be evaluated?” Glen asked him.
“A month and I’ll have a hundred more,” Anfalon replied stiffly. “You’ll also have more letdowns to work with. A main Othrim is what I’m aiming for. Two hundred would be enough to take the bridge,” he added. “But you’ll need more to assault Abarat and I caution against killing Imperial citizens. You don’t need to Hardir.”
“Lord Rothomir won’t give up Anfalon.”
The Hoplite stared at him silently for a moment.
“He’ll have to Hardir. You assumed the Monarchy, filled the void, a challenger nowhere to be seen. He has no other choice.”
“What if he is stubborn?”
Anfalon grunted. “Rothomir is young, but he isn’t a fool, nor is he that young. Someone spurred him to action and he presumed the road was clear. It isn’t, I’ve a better claim than him, so does Aenymriel. But you Hardir, have the Wyvern’s blessing. It cannot be disputed.”
“I see,” Glen replied nodding his head. “Who had the idea you think?”
“Palace officials, some of them are still around it seems,” Anfalon retorted and glared at the warriors, their talk over. “This pitiful excuse of an Othrim shall run full sprint to Morn Taras and be back afore the first light! No stops, no sleep!” He bellowed. “I’ll give ye five minutes of head start. The first hoplite I catch, I punch in the face! MOVE YOU LAZY TRASH!”
Glen waited a bit after Anfalon had sprinted in full gear after the trotting hoplites and then asked Kirk who was watching, standing a couple of meters behind him, with a frown on his face. “Any humans made it in the unit?”
“A fucking Nord. Big motherfucker, excuse my language milord,” Kirk grunted. “A completely illiterate lump of meat named Hobor from Willard,” he added. “Wherever the fuck that is."
“Bigger than Soren?” Glen queried.
Kirk frowned, then shook his head. “No one is bigger than the big fella milord,” he added crooking his mouth. “Between us, most people think his father was a giant.”
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The strong heat from the burning furnaces smacked you in the face just standing at the entrance of Angrein’s workshop. The villa rebuilt to accommodate his needs and the yard turned into a busy workplace. The number of artisans and blacksmiths working inside staggering.
Angrein saw Glen standing at the large entrance, whilst wiping his face and walked towards him, muscular arms blackened despite the effort he made to clean some of it away with a dirty towel.
“Angrein I’m impressed with the number of people you have here,” Glen admitted after they had greeted each other.
“I won’t turn down anyone looking for his calling,” Angrein explained, dirty leather apron burned at spots. “The woods provided little opportunity to learn a skill other than hunting, or gathering.”
“Are they skilled?”
“Some are. Of course not everyone is an artist Garth,” Angrein replied. “Though not much skill is required to make a horseshoe, or a decent tool.”
Glen nodded. “I was told you have my armour finished,” he told him and Angrein nodded. “Sen will also like your company. She intends to visit the Garden of Statues later,” Glen grimaced. “Zilan make her nervous.”
“I shall make the time for Lady Sovereign,” Angrein replied readily. “Ah, by the way I have something made for her and Inis-Mir. We talked about it the other day,” he made a gesture and one of the assistants run towards them, a small box in hand.
“You didn’t have to,” Glen started, but Angrien shrugged his shoulders.
“Lady Sen-Iv has excellent taste and a practical mind,” Angrein said. “A rare occurrence. Who do you have working on the statues? Eilven?”
“Him. Vaelenn suggested him.”
Angrein nodded accepting the small box and sending the young Zilan assistant away. “Eilven is good. Very skilled. Hyper-realistic in technique, he was ‘pushed’ aside for centuries. The Queen favored a more robust brush, just like her father.”
“I see. Well, he made Marcus pretty close to what I described,” Glen said. “And Alix is a dead ringer for the annoying bastard,” The Zilan sculptor had finished the statue a couple of days earlier, the result stunning, as if someone had poured gold over the small smirking Gish thief. Watching Alix’s smug face coming to life, arms crossed over his chest and brow raised tauntingly, had hit him hard.
“It’s the memory, not the statue that holds value to us,” Angrein said seeing his expression. He opened the box and got a gold pendant out. Shaped like an oblong egg, or a scarab, a side having flames engraved on it, the other a rising sun, it had two small ears on one side. Angrein turned one of them carefully and like a scarab’s wing one part of the ovule opened up, revealing a cut orange firestone encased inside.
“Whoa,” Glen murmured. Sen had long talked about the value of using the magic stones on everyday jewelry. Angrein nodded and closed it turning the small pedal the other way. He then opened the other wing and a bright light flashed out illuminating their faces. “Haha, now that’s useful,” Glen agreed with a nod. “A bit expensive for the regular adventurer though right?”
“Perhaps, but not for Inis-Mir,” Angrein replied. “I’ve fashioned a thin steel chain for it, coated in pure gold to match it, but it isn’t yet ready.”
“Thank you,” Glen told him truthfully. “It’s a lovely pendant.”
“It’s just a useful piece of ornament Garth,” Angrein said. “The fact that it’s a gift Lady Sen commissioned for your daughter is what gives it the most value.”
Glen couldn’t argue with his reasoning.
“Let me show you the armour,” Angrein told him after Glen returned the stunning pendant to him.
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“Why carve the wyvern’s head in gold?” Glen asked holding the finely shaped cuirass in his hands.
“The First Hallowed has it in silver, but this is the Monarch’s armour,” Angrein explained. “The rims on the helm depicting it without standing out too much.”
“Uhm,” Glen murmured. “Will it stop a bolt?” he jested.
“A small one,” Angrein replied seriously. “I council against testing it afore a siege engine, or a Scorpio. The heavy bolt might not go through, say three out of four times, but the impact will pulverize your sternum Garth, four out of four.”
Glen blinked. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied all serious.
“Haha,” Angrein guffawed mistaking his words again. “Yep, only a mature Wyvern’s scales can do that, though the whole impact force applied on the test subject conundrum remains. It is a wonderful concept though.”
“Anyone made one of those?”
“Isil Mehtar O’ Mecatan,” Angrein replied solemnly. “My tutor.”
“That the one that made Anfalon’s weapons?”
Stolen novel; please report.
“The same.”
“Right. I’m guessing not much material for that,” Glen added.
Angrein sighed. “A Wyvern’s hide is hard to come by. Not impossible, as weather won’t eat at it, or time. Everyone in the business is on the lookout for it and the bones,” he explained and pointed at the dagger, Glen had taken with him that day.
“The witch had access to Gimoss’ carcass,” Glen revealed and Angrein stood back, those strange reddish irises glowing.
“I find that hard to believe,” the Imperial Blacksmith said. “Gods don’t die.”
“Trust me, this one kind of did,” Glen told him. “But the real story is even harder to palate and twice as obnoxious.”
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Folen, big lute strapped on his back, clad in an expensive claret longcoat with silver buttons and same colored boots, was waiting for him at the entrance of his villa, when he returned. Glen jumped from the saddle, tossed Outlaw’s reins to Kirk and walked towards the frowning Zilan. Folen had combed his cobalt hair back behind his ears and used enough oil on them to keep everything in place.
“Folen,” Glen said with a glance at Fikumin standing defensively inside the open entrance, his pickaxe in hand. “Do we have a meeting?”
“I just wanted to make a preliminary report Hardir and meet the Council, but the latter was impossible to accomplish. I was threatened with bodily harm, if I entered the premises,” Folen replied and a scowling Fikumin snorted.
“Are you serious?”
Ah.
Bing left with Sen-Iv and Angrein to visit the Garden earlier.
“Fiku, mister Folen will join us,” Glen told him. He’d forgotten to inform anyone of the new member to their ‘team’.
“The bard?”
“Music helps me think,” Folen explained.
“Not as a bard,” Glen elucidated with a glare to the tidied up Zilan.
“A bartender?” The dwarf chanced.
“He will be our Master of Secrets,” Glen grunted not liking his tone. “Sniff out info on stuff and seeing as he’s a local, provide us wit rare insight on the criminal elements plaguin’ Goras.”
Fikumin sighed and pulled at his rich beard with stubby fingers.
“We have criminal elements in Goras?” he finally asked Folen.
“No major gang has formed yet, but we do have a ring of smugglers,” the Zilan replied.
“What are they smuggling?” Glen asked curious clasping his hands behind his back.
“Lightstones,” Folen smacked his dark red lips, big eyes the color of warm copper. Glen realized the Zilan had stage makeup on. “The merchants are dying to get their hands on them for cheap.”
What in the slovenly fuck!
“Put a stop to it,” Glen ordered him immediately with a frustrated growl. “Whatever it takes, crash those fuckers Felon.”
“Foleen,” Folen corrected him, with extra emphasis in the vowels.
“Whatever,” Glen retorted abruptly.
“I’ll need manpower and funds in order to run a good counter-smuggling operation,” Folen explained and glanced at the scowling dwarf.
“Fiku will get ye the coin,” Glen said and turned to look at his friend. “A large number of warriors will join us as a defense force,” he informed him. “They are trained and we’ll arm them. Use them to create a city watch, after Maeriel has her picks for the rangers. See that the better fighters are kept to man Morn Taras guard.”
“I’ll see you get a couple of warriors,” Fikumin told Folen, who stopped him raising a hand.
“I’d like a skilled torturer right away, or absent that someone good with heavy pliers,” he told him. “I’ll use the girls in the meantime for muscle.”
Glen rubbed his forehead with three fingers and then glanced at the frowning Fikumin.
“Would that be a problem?” Folen queried seeing their discomfort.
“I’ll look into it,” Fikumin grunted and turned to Glen a little frustrated. “The Council won’t like having a dwarf controlling a small army inside the districts.”
I don’t care.
“You’re my Shield Fiku. I frankly don’t trust anyone else. You’re the noblest of us all,” Glen told him and he meant most of it. “Soletha will handle agriculture and trade, Voldomir won’t touch anything but religion and Anfalon is the same with military affairs, since he practically lives in the barracks. Metu I trust with finances because he is scared shitless of me and I don’t mind him skimming a bit off the top. I just need to find something for Vaelenn to keep the old guard happy.”
“Make her a judiciary,” Folen offered. “But you don’t need to worry about Vaelenn. She listens to Laedan, they all do. As long as you control him, the ‘favored’ won’t budge.”
“The Denmaster?” Glen asked not expecting this piece of info.
“A member of the old palace,” Folen explained. “His position holds weight still for the citizens. They had rallied around him after the disaster.”
Vaelenn had lost an arm demanding Glen released the maimed official when they had first met. Seeing he was a practicing cannibal and a killer, Glen had kept him locked up until very recently, but still he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without a guard following him around, or leaving the city. Laedan was busy at work to restore the Wyvern’s Den under Nesande’s Temple.
“I see,” he commented, giving a frowning Fikumin a knowing stare. His pick had justified part of his small salary. Having said that… “What kind of budget are we talking about?” He asked Folen and the Zilan assumed a troubled expression immediately, his shoulders shagging.
Fuck.
Ye piece of shite!
“Alas Hardir,” Folen started sadly. “I have to start from scratch here. Then there is Mother and Sister.”
“Ehm, who are they?” Fikumin queried unsure.
“The waitresses from ‘Bard wit no name’ fuck’s sake, seriously?” Glen grunted.
“Their stage names Hardir. The girls have talent, but circumstances have forced them to dabble at lesser, even frowned upon jobs,” Folen explained.
“Circumstances and you,” Glen grunted.
“As their manager, I only want what’s best for them.”
“Spying and torturing people is a step in the right direction?” Glen mocked him.
Folen sighed. “Regrettably Hardir,” he replied with fake humility, just as the sound of a horse galloping their way was heard. “It is.”
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Bing stopped his horse and jumped down, pausing to allow the dust to clear out a bit, afore addressing those present and busy cleaning their clothes irritated after his abrupt entrance.
“Lord Reeves,” he started, but stopped and cleared his throat, correcting himself. “Garth I meant.”
“Go on,” Glen grunted sourly.
“Lady Sen told me to report Captain Jinx has arrived at Nesande’s Temple.”
You need to break the news to her first, was his wife’s timely warning.
“I’ll head out there immediately,” Glen murmured, afore barking. “Kirk! Bring the horse around!”
“I have to go and smooth things out,” he told Fikumin.
“There’s no way to do that Garth,” Fikumin admonished him.
Gods darn it.
“Listen Fiku,” Glen started, but paused to collect himself. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”
“They died Garth.”
“They did,” Glen grunted, his mood taking a hit. He smacked his lips and stared at Kirk bringing up the horses, then at the bystanders watching them per usual. Every Hardir appearance holding their interest. Glen forced a smile on his mouth and turned to the scowling dwarf. “I won’t forget to honor anyone. Norec has a place—”
“A dwarf’s place is under his mountain,” Fikumin stopped him. “His statue made of solid rock and dwarven hands.”
“Of course,” Glen hissed. “I wasn’t trying to insult his memory. You fuckin’ know that!”
Fikumin nodded and placed his pickaxe over his shoulder. “Jinx isn’t stupid, don’t insult her as well. He’s more valuable to you than I ever will be. She can understand yer way of thinking, even put it right, I can’t.”
“I know that,” Glen replied stiffly.
“Uhm,” the dwarf grunted and walked away.
“Should I come along?” Folen asked a moment later, Glen still staring frustrated at the entrance to his villa.
“Can you ride?” Glen asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“Had I horse, I could,” Folen replied modestly.
“Bing, give him your mare,” Glen spat, seeing where this was going. “Stay and guard the house. Start by closing the darn doors!”
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Eilven wasn’t around, the doors of the Garden still under construction and only part of the road paved with cut white marble. Glen jumped from the saddle, Sen’s guarded face allowing for a small smile in greeting as he approached the small group. Maeriel and the other adventurers busy by the sides of the private road covering what appeared to be a hole under a large cinnamon tree.
Not all adventurers were back.
This wasn’t a hole in the ground.
What in Luthos name?
“Whisper,” he started seeing Sam’s grave expression. The Gish glanced his way in pensive silence. “There has been a development,” Glen said sensing something was horribly amiss. Where’s Elaniel? “What the fuck is going on here?” he grunted seeing Jinx wiping her eyes.
“We found out what happened,” Jinx said and walked in his arms. “It didn’t go very well,” she murmured into his chest.
Glen glared at Sam Mathews. The adventurer returned his glare with one of his own and then stared at the gloomy faced Maeriel. The ranger seemed worn out. Everyone appeared dead tired, but this was something more.
“An accident?” he asked, mouth touching the top of Jinx’s pink head.
“Ticu,” the Gish whispered.
The what?
Glen blinked unsure.
“Come again?” he probed.
“They’ve taken over the port,” she told him. “We run on to them. Lost Elaniel and Cole before working out an agreement, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
Glen stood back alarmed, a tick appearing on the left side of his face so severe, his eye closed completely, as if he just had a stroke.
Fuck’s sake.
“Glen,” Sen-Iv said softly seeing him turning red, his face distorting. “It is better we return to the temple.”
“Mmm,” Glen murmured grinding his teeth.
“I’ll stay,” Jinx told him. “For a little while longer. You don’t mind we placed her in yer garden right?”
What?
“Of course not,” Glen croaked too emotional to speak intelligently. Extremely angry all of a sudden.
“I knew ye wouldn’t,” Jinx told him and touched his face comfortingly.
“Uhm, Whisper I…” Glen worked his jaw, trying to find the words, but failed and just grunted in frustration.
The Gish wiped her face with both hands and stood back. “It’s a lovely place you’ve made here Glen. So they all can be together and keep each other company.”
“I don’t intent to put anymore statues in here,” Glen blurted out, his chest hurting and blind from his left eye.
Jinx sniffled and bobbed her head. “Sen told me about Ottis. Stiles and Norec as well,” she revealed in a forlorn manner, the former thief hated seeing. “The Gallant Dogs did good right?”
Glen grimaced, his mouth dry. “Over and beyond,” he croaked.
The Jinx sighed and glanced at Elaniel’s tree sadly. “Ye put me by the entrance, if me time comes,” she told him seriously. “So I can peek sneakily on those coming here first,” Jinx added with a restrained smile and turned around to go towards them.
“That ain’t gonna plaguin’ happen,” Glen grunted at her small back. “Ye hear me? Gods darn it Whisper. I rather see everyone else perish first,” the Monarch of Morn Taras added seething under his breath, but while genuine in his sentiment…
He didn’t.
> The Third Era, while it never reached the heights of those that had come before it, brought forth a wave of artistry and sentimentality that had been lost during the Second. It wasn’t in construction and there was much of that, or in Wetull’s military might that also saw a resurgence. Neither in trade and the economy, despite the kingdom soon topping that list comfortably especially after the introduction of the Gilded Bank after 193 NC. It was that specific hyper-realistic style that dominated the arts and public works in Synia Goras originally, before it spread out to both continents that made it stand out. Life like statues and paintings. Intricate carved jewelry and tools.
>
> While it was during the first Monarch’s reign that it was birthed, those living in booming Wetull and the travelers returning to the continents called it by another moniker. A play of words to celebrate its creator and perhaps distance themselves –most times unsuccessfully- from their troubled past.
>
>
>
>
>
> -
>
> Vidal De Andrade
>
> Prologue in the famed archaeologist life’s work,
>
> The Rise of Elven Architecture
>
> -A Primer-
>
> Circa 229 NC
-
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