----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Monarch O’ Morn Taras
Come soon, bring everything.
Part I
-Someone has to think things through-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
[https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPGpiXGsmf-eb7mqdNYzu9BU2OJjpuPZtgNDAoi6f5yD8umpA9hDLtKMLfCzEKWA-cN0ziMZkH_52B_QovK6993o0iLeTwbeZN4nQjzBf9CsebmlE3GWhZUx8cqPP-E9vn8JOmRLJstCQQrWRlgmpKdZxLB5Ty5ZC1VKwgm0c0EAahhyjlzIa3MHO/s1605/WETULL%208.jpg]
(Right click to open image fully)
-
“Black Peak?” Kirk asked Voron, disturbing Glen’s rest under the shade cast from the thick banana tree. His query and the commotion of the workers that were finishing up the custom docks final portion probably equally guilty for waking him up.
Damnit.
“No that’s the Navel, what you’re seeing poorly educated guard,” Voron replied in the ‘upper district’ Zilan haughty manner. “The Black Peak is deeper inside the gulf.”
Glen let out a grunt and grimaced. He also attempted to scratch his nose using his upper lip, but failed. A fat, hairy skinned Oldfly buzzing in front of his face extremely annoying and the culprit for the tickling. He raised his right arm high and smacked it once without opening his eyes. The sound of something heavy hitting the unsuspecting Atju on the head ending the conversation near him.
Oldfly’s reached the size of a medium brick with enough food around.
Glen sighed and opened his eyes.
“You’re alright there friend?” he asked the new slave Metu had brought in to take late Seeyu’s place.
“Just shook a bit sire,” Atju replied coolly, face covered with bug juice and pieces of insect flesh, not showing it. “Allow for a moment to clean myself up.”
“Sure,” Glen agreed and pushed himself upright. He squinted his eyes hard when he reached the edge of the newly built docks facing what everyone called Garth’s Gulf. Voron, Kirk and an anxious Vaelenn looking at a point in the distance. The judge sported a very lifelike wooden arm, painted very close to her natural skin and folded as if resting over her waist.
The joints on it are working, Glen thought impressed.
“Yep,” Voron said interrupting his rude gawking of the uncomfortable under his scrutiny judge. “There it is.”
“Ehm,” Kirk responded.
Glen turned his head towards the misty gulf, but found nothing popping out of the blue expanse.
“Judge Vaelenn?” he asked and the Zilan blinked unsure.
“I see the sails Arguen Garth,” she said politely.
“Well then,” Glen retorted and clasped his hands behind his back. “Let’s wait for it to show up for the rest of us normal people. Atju bring the spyglass from my saddle in the meantime.”
“Right away sire,” the cleaned up slave replied readily.
“Good lad,” Glen commented in his lordly manner and yawned once, his eyes on the soon to appear ship.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Four hours later, the heavy transport moored near the custom docks and his bearded Captain jumped out of the boat that had brought him ashore lithely. The thirty year old Lorian having one blue eye, the sclera on the other a dark crimson, almost black. He approached a seething and furiously walking up and down the narrow platform Glen, an easy smile on his salt-burned rugged face.
“Captain of the ‘Fat Libby’, Archibald ‘Birdeye’ Tidus at yer service,” the pirate said, left upper side of his mouth a healthy mix of gold and silver teeth, with a gold bridge set under them to hold everything together. “Reportin’ the circumnavigation of the Fingers and Crabs Talons finished milord.”
Glen blinked, used his right thumb to brush the sweat off his left brow and then sighed wearily, too tired to protest the Captain’s extremely cautious approach to the shore, what with so many people waiting n’ staring at the slow-moving ship like idiots and twiddling their thumbs.
“What’s with the eerie eye?” he asked him instead and the pirate frowned, then whistled seeing the disapproving look on Voron’s face.
“Got a splinter in it. Dottore wanted to take the eye out, but I didn’t, so I left it in,” Archibald explained and added trying to be as civil as possible. “Abrakas toes, mate ye should have ‘em ears checked.”
“You presume to speak of your better’s handsomer visage whilst naming your vessel, Fat Libby?” Voron hissed deeply affronted.
Archibald frowned, a gold stud on his left prominent eyebrow gleaming.
“Why, Libby was a fine wench,” he retorted a bit hurt. “I loved all of her.”
----------------------------------------
The hastily set up wooden buildings near Hardir’s Port, the newest expansion in Goras peninsula and its fourth official city-sized district, needed more done to them still, but Glen opted not to hold a meeting under the sun and everyone gathered in the biggest of the lot to hear Archibald’s tale of the month long trip.
“You could’ve made it sooner?” Glen asked when he finished and the Captain nodded. Leona wanted one of her crew to take control of the ships Princess Elsanne had ‘gifted’ them, but the noble Issir had recommended Captain Tidur, an experienced navigator serving with Van Fleet and Glen had agreed. Seeing as the man had managed to bring the small fleet to Sinya Goras safe, Glen found no reason to replace him. He gave him another task instead.
“I could, now that I know how to navigate the reefs and wher’ to use the oars. It’s not a night journey though,” Archibald replied. “The crew tends to light the lamps in the dark.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” Kirk asked him.
“Mermaids,” the pirate retorted. “Heard their singing, but they stayed away from the ship.”
“Hmm,” Glen murmured. “Can you make it all the way around to Greenwhale Peninsula?”
“That’s a lot of rocks sprouting out of the sea milord,” Archibald replied. “We might need one of yer friends aboard for that.”
“Pfft,’ Voron hissed. “He can’t make it laden with produce,” the Zilan said. “We should use a nimbler vessel to chart the waters, find the safest route first. Only then Garth, you can send a transport.”
“Can we build smaller ships here?” Glen asked him. Voron had the uncanny ability to get on his nerves with minimum effort.
“Why small?” Voron argued with a frown.
“I was thinking starting wit boats might be easier,” Glen replied, rapping his fingers on the rough table. “I could always use Eikenport to order another ship. I’m sending the other two transports fully laden with timber there. The pirates are very interested in this cargo.”
“Can they pay?” Kirk asked staring at the pirate Captain.
“Leona believes they can.”
“Eh, I wouldn’t trust her Garth,” Voron argued.
“There’s a potential source of revenue for them other than trading wit us,” Glen countered.
“Plundering?” Voron guessed with a smirk.
“That too,” Glen replied warningly.
“I expected a bigger city milord,” Archibald said after a tense moment of him eyeing the Zilan.
“You haven’t seen anything yet mate,” Glen deadpanned and got up from the crude chair he was sitting on. “I’ll ride back to Lake Taras. Voron you stay here and direct the workers. We need a dock for bigger ships.”
“I suggested a bigger one from the—”
He indeed had for long and hard risking a life-ending injury, but Glen wasn’t going to build another monstrosity afore he knew for certain that it was possible to use the sea route and this part of Goras.
“Get it done here, then ride back to Morn Taras posthaste,” he grunted cutting him off. “Finish my god darn castle!”
Lippy fuckin’ moron!
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen’s party reached Anfalon’s large walled military camp just before dawn, following the cleared and now rebuilt avenue-sized road connecting Taras Lake with Hardir’s Port. Most of Voron’s working crews and slave laborers already up and heading in long columns towards the plateau and Morn Taras Castle. They turned south at the lake’s shores and headed at a pleasant trot to the ‘Resort District’, another moniker for the central city built between the lake and the two huge ancient Gatetowers.
He left a tired Outlaw in the stables next to his villa and walked briskly to avoid bumping onto anyone and lose his chance to sleep for a couple of hours. As things usually went, Fikumin was already up and was talking with Iskay, a tired-looking Bing listening in from the entrance not really paying attention to the street.
“Milord,” Bing snapped at attention hearing them approach alarmed by Kirk’s warning whistle. “You’re up early… ahm back was my meaning.”
“Leave it,” Glen grunted with a glare. “You can’t save it. Kirk switch with him. What’s that you’re drinking Bing?”
“Sug ‘n Café Milord,” Bing replied and showed him his mug with the sinister black liquid.
“Good grief man,” Glen admonished him, having no idea what he was talking about. “Stop it, you look horrible!”
“It’s a tonic milord,” as if anyone will buy that, Glen thought. “Soletha suggested it,” Bing defended his weird drug habit, but Glen would have none of it.
“Bing I’ve turned a blind eye to yer transgressions in the past, but that’s the last time!” He blasted the worried guard, the fact that none was more into drugs than his nibs escaping him. “Pour it down by the entrance. Do it, don’t sulk. It’s for yer own good!”
“Aye Milord.”
“Is she still hiding inside perchance?” Glen asked. Soletha was nowhere to be seen.
“She went to visit Lymsiel lord Reeves,” a sad Bing replied. “She’s giving out lessons to the new healers.”
“She does?”
“Yes milord.”
“We have schools running?” Glen inquired, feeling blindsided by the revelation.
“Most strays are looking to complete training on their class Milord,” Bing explained. “Every artisan has taken apprentices. We do it the same way, but for the richer folk.”
That was true, Glen thought. He’d been educated himself in the fine art of stealing by Crafton. Eh, that’s fine I suppose, he decided, wondering if he should look about for any talented burglars himself to give out some pointers. Then again, we don’t need more crooks flooding the city.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Fikumin eyed Glen walking inside with a scowl, as the Monarch of Morn Taras brought some of the port’s sand with him leaving footprints on the Hall’s floor. Iskay bobbed her red head and rushed with a broom to clean after his mess.
Kirk opted to stand by the entrance himself to talk with Bing ‘about coffee beans and Soletha’s virility potions’ or something?
Hmm.
“Is Sen up yet?” Glen asked thoughtfully, afore collapsing on the chair across from the dwarf, his back hurting from all the riding.
“Ninan has brought her water for a bath,” Fikumin said moving a plate with fruits he had away from Glen’s reach.
Mmm.
“Maeriel up there?” he probed and filled a goblet with water.
“With Jinx.”
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
“Shite. Anything funny happened?”
“Maeriel is too professional for that Glen,” Fikumin retorted and placed a big stack of papers in front of him to carry on with his work. The dwarf had installed on a stand a smaller copy of the wall-map in Jinx’s house to make corrections on it, both adding and erasing stuff. Goras center and the mountain range it was built around was mostly a gulf now with a narrow strip of land left amidst the three crests protruding from the waters. Black Peak, Vermilion’s Peak and the Navel.
“Whisper isn’t,” Glen countered raising his brows suggestively. Fikumin grunted and shook his head.
Right.
“Angrein suggested we take his proposal for the armour,” Fikumin started.
“He was here again?”
“Earlier,” Fikumin showed him the gold and silver decorated goblets he used for paper weights. “Brought me some gifts.”
“Hmm. Why not use the same as the Hoplites?” He asked and glanced at Atju bringing him a bottle of wine and a new plate with a freshly cut assortment of local fruits. Glen got his pipe out to have a smoke after breakfast.
“We don’t have the steel for it,” Fikumin replied. “We are buying most of it and Zilan don’t enjoy digging inside mountains. Your best bet is to bring Folk from Brightos for that. It is how it was done.”
“That will take time.”
“This is why Angrein proposed we repurpose the old armour sets from the Temple. It’s scaled armour, like the Cataphracts have. Keep the better plate for Anfalon’s soldiers.”
“How many do we have to prepare? I can order more iron ingots from Eikenport.”
“You’ll pay premium for it. You can’t afford it,” Fikumin cautioned him. “Anyway I need around eight hundred sets and as many weapons at least. Swords, spears, axes and maces.”
“Anfalon cut more of them?” Glen groaned and reached for a slice of mango.
“After training them for a month. I split them up in two groups. Zilan in the first one, humans in the other. But I need to arm almost four hundred of them, or they’ll just spend time eating and drinking for free.”
“Can’t you give them to Voron?”
“Voron has enough crews Garth,” Fikumin replied. “They are building an extension to Anfalon’s Camp.”
“I noticed. That shite has the size of the Lake,” Glen murmured. “Speaking of fresh dung, what’s with all the turds in the streets?”
“The flock of sheep we bought comes through Taras to head to the Temple grounds to graze.”
“Fuck’s sake!” Glen protested. “Stop that Fiku, we’ve enough turds around to bring in more!”
“Ahm, I’ll look into it,” Fikumin replied. “Leona wants to see you. She came by earlier and raised a hell of a ruckus. Apparently you two-timed her on a deal?”
“How did you get her to leave?” Glen asked and eyed Folen arriving whistling at a pensive Bing. The guard’s mood improved dramatically for some reason and he stood up straighter.
“I told her about Folen’s pleasure house.”
“Arguen Garth,” Folen said before Glen could learn more. “Your streets are filled with shit. The citizens are concerned. It’s not a rumor, people are speaking openly about it.”
“I’m working on it!” Glen grunted and glared his way. “You’ve left Leona alone? She’ll come here and pester me about the ships for crying out loud! Dude, I rather open my veins than listen to her drivel, I’m fuckin’ serious here!”
Folen frowned, a ruby earring on his ear, where he had a silver loop yesterday.
“The pirate cunt is busy Garth,” he said and Fikumin glared at him. Glen who’d no problem with his language with the girls upstairs shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Proceed,” he told him.
“She’s imbibing in my wine with the same gusto she’s digging between the daughter’s fit thighs,” Folen continued assuming a professional air. “Shall I demonstrate what I’ve witnessed? I’ve dabbled in mimes with moderate success,” the doors of his brothel hadn’t been installed, or needed. Glen had heard both versions of the story.
“That won’t be necessary,” Fikumin admonished him and Glen frowned, himself not as disinterested in hearing more about it. “Finish up Folen. I have real work to tend to.”
“Well, I don’t see her coming by with the amount of wine she’s glugged down Hardir,” Folen said and clasped his hands behind his back. “I need to grasp at this opportunity to ask for an increase in my budget—”
That was as far as he went with it. Glen had unsheathed his dagger and stabbed it on the table, Fikumin scowling seeing the damage done on the lacquered wood.
“No,” Glen told Folen just in case he didn’t get the message.
“The girls are moving about bare-arsed Garth, the boys too,” Folen reminded him. “It’s the chilly season.”
“It’s a brothel,” Glen retorted. “Why, you’ll make a killin’ friend,” he added warningly.
“Or the girls and boys will revolt,” Folen replied unwilling to let go and whistled a tune to get him to see reason.
“Whatever it is you’re trying to do ain’t working on me,” Glen grunted and flipped the dagger in his hand. “Or you’re bad at it. Unless you’re looking for a smack on the nose, then it does work. Why, the urge to punch ye is increasing steadily.”
“The Lord Treasurer and Castellan of Morn Taras master,” Atju announced interrupting their staring contest. “Metu, the Glorious.”
Huh?
Metu kept adding titles to himself, but this was ridiculous.
Glen eyed the slave not amused. “Has he added the moniker himself?”
“He has, oh prodigious Garth,” Atju praised Glen whilst ratting Metu out skillfully.
“I see,” Glen replied. “Thank you friend.”
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“Metu once again I’ve started working afore you,” Glen admonished the frowning Castellan among other things. “What do you have there?”
“A missive from Kalac Garth,” Metu replied, the combed part on his oiled head leaving a bit of a bald spot at the top despite his best efforts to hide it.
“You’re taking it to Anfalon?” Glen asked sheathing the dagger much to the nervous Cofol’s relief.
“I made a copy of it. It’s for you Garth. The original is probably in Anfalon’s hands by now.”
“Hmm. What does it say?”
“Come soon. Bring everything,” Metu replied and Glen waited for a moment afore realizing that there was nothing more coming. “Tarn wrote a second one right after. Kalac is between the canal and Eroshin River,” Metu added seeing Glen was staring at him blankly.
Fikumin got up and walked to his map.
“That’s strange,” he murmured.
Glen sobered up immediately.
“What is it Fiku?”
“He went beyond the bridges.”
Glen got up and approached him. “With the full party? Why? And how? The second bridge was destroyed.”
“Probably used the main one,” Fikumin said. “Forced to use everyone for some reason.”
Hmm.
“It was left unguarded?” Glen asked thoughtfully staring at the confusing map.
Of course where roads and travel stops were depicted jungle reigned now.
“Apparently.”
Ah, enticing enough to lure him closer, or a fuckin’ accident turned to opportunity, he thought. “That’s a problem.”
“You think they cut him off?” Fikumin asked.
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t he have seen them coming across the Canal?”
“Not if they rolled down from the Snake Mount at his rear,” Kalac’s retreat was threatened in that case, even if he managed to return to the right side of the river. “He had the mobility to lose them. This means he either lost the horses, or he has… I don’t know injured? I don’t like this Fiku.”
“Glen!” Jinx yelled from the top of the stairs.
“Whisper I’m busy,” Glen replied.
“What happened to Kalac?” Maeriel asked following after her.
Darn big eared creatures, Glen cursed inwardly frustrated.
“There’s no need for alarm,” he assured the couple, but it was a poor execution.
“Fuck,” Jinx grunted, her face paling. “How bad is it?”
“Whisper! Don’t twist things up,” Glen growled glancing at the worried Maeriel.
“Oh my goddess!” Jinx gasped in horror. “Are they dead?”
The female ranger narrowed her eyes, probably thinking of her pupils.
Fuck’s sake Whisper, Glen glared at her furious, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
“I’ll straighten everything out!” He blasted the scowling Gish. “Maeriel you can have the day off. Thank you for yer service.”
“Glen we can help,” Jinx told him, but he would have none of it.
“Whisper, the situation is under firm control. I’m all over it,” Glen told her clenching his jaw. “Take yer girlfriend for a stroll by the lake.”
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
“How fucked are they?” Glen asked Fikumin the moment they were away.
“If they managed to cut them off and they have casualties, then their only way to retreat is towards the Eodrass Temple grounds. But the place’s too far and completely abandoned for centuries. They will also be moving away from the road and Goras.”
Kalac wouldn’t willingly shove himself deeper in the trap.
No.
“The Cultists would have blocked the road anyway,” Folen said. “They could hide in the caves for a bit I suppose.”
“Tarn’s message says otherwise,” Glen grunted. “Kalac wants us to help him out because he fears he might not make it out at all. He can’t make it for whatever reason. Horselords don’t get worried easily.”
“It could be a trap Glen,” Fikumin noted.
Of course it is a plaguin’ trap!
“Would Kalac talk?” Glen asked.
If he got captured was his meaning.
“Someone would even if he stayed silent and the Cultists will execute the rangers for sure,” Fikumin argued. “Probably kill them all.”
Yeah, Glen feared that. “Rothomir could be near.”
“Would he know about Kalac’s party? I don’t know,” Fikumin replied and there was commotion at the door.
“I can’t sweep it under the rug,” Glen murmured. “Maeriel won’t accept it and Whisper will be livid at the suggestion.”
“We can’t make it in time to Eroshin,” Fikumin said. “Not before Rothomir reinforces whatever he has there, assuming it’s more than Cultists.”
Glen felt an ulcer starting in his stomach on top of the migraine. He puffed out to give himself time, but Anfalon clad in his Hoplite armour burst inside his hall and marched straight to their table almost trampling the diving away in panic Atju under his boots.
For slovenly fuck’s sake!
“Hardir,” Anfalon boomed, voice reverberating inside the walls of his hall. “Give the order. The men are ready to leave in an hour. We’ll be there in a month, if we make no stops and give it our all.”
Eh.
You perhaps. Everyone else would be dead long afore that.
“Hardir?” Anfalon queried eying him under his heavy helm. The motherfucker looks huge and is fit as fuck, but only horses can keep up with him, Glen thought with a frown and pressed a finger on the persistent throbbing to relieve some of the pressure and avoid an aneurysm.
“Bing close the darn doors! Fuck’s sake this is not a lettuce store! No one enters without my say so,” Glen barked. “Kirk run upstairs and keep Sen and the girls away! Atju clear the fuckin’ table. Leave the wine!” He took a deep-deep intake and added hoarsely. “I want to hear numbers and the semblance of a bloody plan afore I go anywhere!”
“We can’t lose time,” Anfalon cautioned him.
“Use the Wyvern,” Folen suggested and Glen flinched. Uvrycres could kill everything probably, but this needed a surgical strike and not rushing in with a sledgehammer, or a fireball.
“On our own kin?” Anfalon grunted and turned to face the former bard, who took a precautionary step back whistling a mellow tune to calm him down.
Anfalon didn’t appear to mellow up at all.
“Who cares about the Cultists?” Folen argued respectfully, going another way.
“Rothomir is no cultist unskilled bard!” Anfalon blasted him.
“Uvrycres can’t discriminate in the heat of battle,” Glen explained remembering the fight with the Hydra and the wyvern blowing up Folen’s beach tavern. “He may harm friends and foes alike.”
“There are Elderbloods with Rothomir as well,” Anfalon rustled. “We can’t turn the Wyvern on them Hardir. We should fight them in the field. May the best one wins.”
Yeah, I’m not that noble to risk that too friend, Glen thought and stood back puffing his cheeks out, the pressure getting to him. Push comes to shove, Rothomir burns along the rest of them.
“Someone bring me the numbers,” Glen said with a sigh. “Anfalon, you start. What does Abarat have available?”
“A five hundred strong guard,” Anfalon replied. “Every castle had a similar contingent of troops.”
“Anything else?”
“Could he have secured troops from Lo-Minas?” Folen asked.
“Unlikely,” Anfalon spat.
“What’s that?” Glen probed.
“The Queen’s stables,” Folen replied readily. “If they are left standing. They are the nearest place he could find help.”
“When you say stables?” Glen asked him perturbed and Folen blinked afore replying.
“What the name says Garth. Picture the Sinya Goras and Taras Lake districts together as you call them. Nothing to worry about sort of speak.”
Glen blinked in shock, feeling extra worried despite his assurance.
“If the Rokae are involved, we might want to ask Angrein to make us some caltrops,” Anfalon said thoughtfully. “But no such rumor has reached us.”
“Rokae?” Glen croaked not liking the sound of that.
“Zilan knights,” Folen elucidated. “A ceremonial unit mostly. The Cataphracts took over for them ages ago, but the empire kept them around for sentimental reasons. Like chariots, they are a thing of the distant past.”
Not if they are stationed in Lo-Minas, he thought. They aren’t.
Luthos stepped on his unwashed cock. Up and gave himself cockrot, Glen murmured under his breath and found a chair to sit down.
“Hardir?” Anfalon probed him, eager to start heading towards Kalac’s last known position.
“Give me a moment mate. Someone has to think things through,” Glen grunted livid. “Go get your Hoplites ready. Fikumin, empty the warehouses with Angrein. Arm everyone with anything we have.”
The semblance of a plan forming in his mind.
“Everyone Garth?” Fikumin replied.
“Kalac said everything, so yeah. Not the time to be frugal. I want every horse in all districts brought here. Strip the caravans and tell Sam to hire everyone that can lift a long knife. I’ll eat the cost,” Glen replied and glared his way. “Folen sent a bird to Voron. Tell him to drop the repairs on the port and rush to get ‘Fat Libby’ ready to sail as soon as possible.”
Glen stood up and walked to the map again. Unsheathed the witch’s dagger and placed its tip on Hardir’s Port, then cut a line across the gulf to Eodrass’ Temple ruins.
How long? He asked the Wyvern’s Tongue and the dagger answered him with a sinister hiss.
Less than a week, faster if the gulf is navigable.
Is it? Glen asked, everyone watching him thinking he was probably mulling things over.
He was.
Yes.
-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------