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Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Sinya Goras
King beyond the Pale Mountains
The King beyond the Pale Mountains
Part II
-The stairs of Crimson Palace-
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/xY6n3dJB/Wetull-part-9-193-NC.jpg]
Wetull, 193 NC
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The doors of Suraer’s Hall were kept open to allow more citizens to attend. Glen had taken the throne between the Lord of Lo-Minas and his daughter Aelinole, but it was the old Zilan that was speaking to those gathered.
“We can’t predict the future,” Suraer said in the Imperial tongue, his reasoned manner difficult to argue against. “That’s what I believe. We catch a glimpse of it, but the inferences we might entice from that small revelation might be incorrect. Hardir is here and so is his wyvern. You’ve seen it, there’s no doubt on this matter. Laedan can attest to it. You also realize Lo-Minas is still standing and those of you from Abarat can attest for your city in a similar vein,” he paused to gather his thoughts and continued in that dignified steady voice. Had Glen being a horse he would have welcomed him on his saddle. Which was mildly disturbing a thought and there was a bit of ‘influence’ probably in play here as well. Hmm. “Instead of wiping everything out, Hardir decided to take the throne and start rebuilding.”
Suraer turned to Glen and he pushed forward on his seat.
“I don’t believe,” Glen said taking the thread as they had agreed. “The Seers had a natural disaster in mind, something so total and leveling,” he said in his less fluent Imperial. “But it happened. It brought the buildings down, earth got swallowed by water and the land turned to desert, or wilderness. I’ve used most of my fancy words for this bit,” he added with a smile the crowd received numbly, though someone chuckled abruptly before stopping seeing the others not as enthusiastic. “I’ll tell you what I said in Goras. Help me rebuild this land, connect the cities and open up trade. Get along, even when it is unpalatable and don’t cause me problems. It will work, or you will suffer. Don’t mess with me and mine, or you’ll see a version of Hardir that’s far from pleasant. I don’t do warnings well, but I’ve a punishing hand.”
“Hardir will climb the stairs of the Crimson Palace and sit on the throne,” Suraer added seeing Glen had worked himself into a mini frenzy and was trying to calm down scowling. “Those that wish to see it can come along. I’ll provide transportation. It’s ceremonial, a symbolic gesture to show he is here to rule and not punish. Let’s not give him reason to change his mind.”
Suraer is a great official, Glen decided. That he’s almost universally panned by the other Zilan officials goes to show how crooked they are. Glen fueling the problem by inserting more flawed individuals into the system.
I’ll take loyal to me, over an honest rebellious saint, he decided after pondering on it while Suraer talked. But care to keep the more straightforward to my side and that means Suraer stays, since he controls the knights.
Thank the allgods for sozzled daughters, wet loins and silver-tongued vagrants, Glen thought and stood up from the throne.
“I wish no fanfare,” Glen said although he wouldn’t mind some thrown his way. “No gifts,” again there was nothing wrong with the practice, “Or worshiping. Hard work, honesty and common sense can accomplish everything, with a bit of fun thrown in,” nothing of the above applied to him other than the fun part. “I’ve a council set up already in Goras and there is the Council of Twenty in Abarat as well,’ he paused to stare at the mostly unknown large eared creatures, a couple of comely ladies in the mix, but a couple of donkeys as well, in the Zilan ‘more-demanding’ standard. ‘But I will need some of you to participate as well. I’ll see the rest of you on the morrow and in the journey.”
He turned to Suraer as the crowd gave small nods, or bows, murmuring and slowly dispersed, most eager to catch a glimpse of the wyvern still resting in the yard.
“Where’s the ship guy?”
“Rybel,” Suraer rustled loudly and a Zilan stopped and turned around. Glen noticed a couple of fancy dressed Zilan had also stayed behind and were staring at him with eager eyes. The female wearing a blue, embroidered tunic and a blue tall hat made out of peacock feathers.
She looked like a very tall bird, the nose prominent though well shaped and not ruining her looks completely.
“Damn it,” Rybel said, the Zilan clad in a simple but nice leather jacket and cotton pants, also wore a large white hat on his head and had the rim lowered at the eyes.
“That him?” Glen asked and Rybel sighed.
“Serves me well for coming in the first place,” he griped.
“Come now Rybel,” Suraer advised him. “Be more accommodating lad.”
“Leave that shit for your horses,” Rybel retorted not falling for his charms.
“Mister Rybel… is this Lord Rybel?” Glen intervened diplomatically.
“Rybel will suffice,” Rybel said, less diplomatic though he softened it next. “I’m retired, hence the hat Hardir.”
“It’s a nice hat,” Glen pointed out with half a smile.
“It is.”
Wow, another punchable dude what the actual fuck!
“I want us to have a proper fleet up and running,” Glen continued with a small grimace. “The starts of it are there, but I want us to have the ability to make our own in the ports available.”
“You have ports open in Goras?” Rybel asked evenly.
“Two. One just west of the Narrow Gulf in Sinya Goras and the other across the Navel,” Glen replied.
“The first was a fishing port for tuna coming from the Shallow Sea. It got trapped in the warm waters there. You could construct a small boat in the place I suppose,” Rybel said not impressed. “The other you mentioned must be new. Have you repurposed one of Goras ports?”
“Nothing remains from the old ports. They were built around a volcano for some reason.”
“Good minerals-rich soil. Is Baltoris Port and naval yards naught but ruins as well?” Rybel probed.
That was also over one apparently.
Soil is probably excellent there as well.
Plenty of dead to fertilize it!
“They are. No facilities remain,” Suraer replied for the unable to answer Glen.
“I don’t see the means to create a fleet, what I saved is what you have Hardir,” Rybel replied.
“I have three more big transports and a Barque,” Glen countered, unwilling to back down. “Opened up trade with Eikenport already and we’re expanding towards Jelin through the use of Scaldingport.”
“Hmm,” Rybel thought about it for a moment. “Any facilities in that second port?”
“What’s wrong with Sinya Goras?” Glen asked. “Facilities we could build.”
“You don’t want your naval yard facing your enemies,” Rybel replied. “I assume the humans won’t take kindly to your rebuilding efforts.”
Glen stood back. “This is the kind of input I want from the man having the position,” he finally said.
“Well, since my answer is no,” Rybel argued. “I wish you luck finding him.”
“Rybel,” Suraer grunted, his patience tested. “You need to contribute.”
“I am,” Rybel retorted. “I’m looking to start a family.”
“You’ve have two already!” Suraer blasted him. “Three offspring from them! No one ever cracks two and those with a couple are few and numbered!”
“All gone sadly to the disaster. My mates and children,” Rybel replied. “But I’m hopeful to make more.”
“What’s this nonsense? Tarmiel is in Abarat! Very much breathing!”
“Ungrateful daughters are like a corpse. You can’t interact with them,” Rybel countered solemnly.
“You’ve seduced her childhood friend!” Suraer argued and Glen sighed, as he’d seen this before. The Zilan were completely self-centered and blind to their own faults. “She caught you in the vile act!”
“Pfft. The lass was eager to learn from an experienced lover and I straightened her keel proper,” Rybel rejoined unapologetic. “I’ve much more to give my Lords, but the empire is gone so I’ll just focus on my personal life.”
“It’s not,” Glen replied. “Think on it Rybel. A position might give you more opportunities to indulge in your passions.”
“Hardir is jesting of course and be glad he sees humor in your behavior,” a vexed Suraer intervened. “But having a responsibility, an opportunity to serve, is reward enough!”
Rybel’s eyes stayed on Glen a hint of surprise in them and the former thief raised his left brow knowingly. Rybel stood back not expecting the opening.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll consider it Hardir.”
“You have until the morrow,” Glen retorted sternly. “Lucrative positions have a tendency to be taken quite fast Mister Rybel.”
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He’ll accept, Glen thought as the old Master of Ships walked away fixing that large hat on his head and smiling at a couple of comely female citizens lingering inside the Hall. One of the fancier dressed hissing at him angry.
“Hardir O’ Fardor,” the bird lady said syrupy. She had approached him whilst he was distracted that lanky thin frame towering over him disconcertingly. The nose looking more and more like a beak.
There are tall women, Glen reasoned with a shiver and then there are creepy ostriches wearing feathery hats.
“Ehem,” Suraer said clearing his throat. “This is Kilynia and Rimeros, former advisors to the Queen.”
Rimeros bowed abruptly, the attempt shocking to his back probably and he managed to almost fold himself in two in front of an astounded Glen. Kilynia approached even more taking the opportunity and clasped a speechless Glen’s right hand, eagerly rubbing it on her forehead with warm hands.
Good grief!
“Ahm,” he started unsure as Rimeros unfurled himself, the tall Zilan managing to find his footing after his dangerous gymnastics. “What is it you can actually do lady Kilynia?”
“Anything,” she replied readily. Glen blinked and retrieved his hand from hers. She resisted him for a tense moment. “I know the inner palace needs inside and out,” she added ambiguously.
“I’ve a man for that. His name is Atju…”
“Bless ye,” Kilynia offered.
“A Cofol,” Glen continued. “A lovely wife and her servants, I don’t need another.”
“I know the peripheral court needs inside and out,” Kilynia countered.
“The position is covered.”
“I can take on difficult tasks, like festival arrangements, or rituals,” she continued desperately.
“Can you work under a dwarf?” Glen asked.
“I haven’t tried it, but I’m willing to explore,” Kilynia retorted and Suraer blinked unsure on her meaning. Glen frowned much more versed in double talk and then nodded.
Rimeros made to approach, but Glen stopped him. “You do that shite again from where ye standing now, you are nailing me with that bony forehead between the eyes,” he explained to him warningly. “You’re hired.”
“I am?” Rimeros asked not expecting it. “In what capacity?”
“You’ll work with Metu…” he stopped him afore wrong conclusions were drawn. “It’s a Cofol slave name. Former slave. He kept the name. You’ll work under him.”
“ATONE!” A loud garish voice came from the yard along a general commotion and noise. “BEG FOR FORGIVENESS!”
“Ah,” Suraer commented a little disappointed. “I really hoped the priest had left us.”
Glen had the sense he meant permanently.
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“ATONE!” The lanky Zilan bellowed waving his staff around threateningly to the crowd gathered to watch Uvrycres resting in the sun. “DROP TO YER KNEES AND PRAY!”
The priest wore a long dark blue tunic that had seen better days and well-worn sandals. He had a pointy head with badly cut short hair and wild, unforgiving silver eyes. If Kilynia resembled a bird, he looked like a vulture, the heavy pendant hanging from his neck, a solid gold piece carved into the shape of a three-horned wyvern.
“ATONE!” He yelled and rushed a small group of Zilan that run away from him, the priest swinging his staff but missing them. “DROP TO YER KNEES AFORE THE WYVERN!” Feyras admonished them.
“Can someone calm him down?” Glen asked furrowing his brow.
“LEAVE OFFERINGS!”
“Laedan,” Suraer ordered the scowling Denmaster. “Do something!”
“I’m not qualified to handle him. Beasts, Wyverns and Hydras that’s it,” Laedan griped circling the priest to reach the wyvern. “He’s going to have us all killed.”
“There’s no need for alarm,” Glen assured the worried crowd, just as Uvrycres stirred and got up on his four legs.
“Shite,” Marlo cursed immediately worried and jumped from where he was sitting near the stairs. “Grab that axe Jingo!”
“Where’s the food?” Feyras grunted and moved on the Denmaster. “Where are the offerings? Have we fallen so low?”
“Feyras,” Suraer growled. “Get out of the sun, you’re embarrassing us!”
Feyras turned to glare at him. “SHAME ON YOU LORD SURAER!” He bellowed. “Where is the temple? Where is the Den? Six stables you’ve built. SIX! YOU GREEDY HORSE-LOVER!”
“Enough!” Glen barked and jumped between them as a couple of knights were advancing on the furious priest to protect Lord Suraer. “Stand back!” he warned them. “The wyvern doesn’t like being cornered like that!”
“Hardir! IT’S YOU!” Feyras bellowed and pointed at Glen with a triumphant leer. “YOU ARE ALL DOOMED FOOLS!”
Shite.
“Feyras,” Glen started and stepped closer to him, the priest relaxing his face to his words.
“I’ve never strayed milord,” the Zilan said very moved that he knew him by name. Glen hadn’t heard of the crazy bastard before that day, but decided not to comment. “Kept the faith strong in me, but alas couldn’t convince them. I’m afraid nine out of ten are beyond salvation. Best to wipe the slate clean and start anew.”
“Eh,” Glen stalled and puffed his cheeks out.
Hurl a fireball? Uvrycres suggested.
No.
The priest makes good points.
He doesn’t. The priest is nuts.
Crazy people can raise good points, yes? Uvrycres argued.
No.
I’m not as convinced and willing to hear more, the wyvern countered and eyed Laedan approaching with a couple of bloody pieces of meat in hand.
These portions are a joke, he added uncertain.
“Mmm,” Feyras hummed and raised his arms in prayer. “Mmmm.”
You’re well fed.
“MMMMM,” Feyras increased his chanting waving his staff at the smirking wyvern.
Laedan whipped his scarred face around furious. “Stop it you blasted zealot!” He tossed the meat to Uvrycres and then nimbly rolled away.
“That’s it. The final insult,” Feyras decided and eyed the numb crowd. “Milord unleash the Wyvern! We did all we could!”
RRRRRRRRRRRRREE
Uvrycres shrieked dragging it on purpose and the panicked crowd bolted down the stairs, a Zilan stumbling and catapulting to the bottom in a fatal plunge. His head literally disappeared inside his torso, the splattering sound horrifying but drown out from the loud screams. Feyras urging with arms and cries the wyvern after them.
“ACCEPT YER FATE!” The priest bellowed using his staff to trip a Zilan female and bringing another that went to help her on his knees with a brutal whack on the head. ‘THERE, START WITH THESE TWO!”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“That’s it Feyras,” Suraer grunted and reached for his sword. “You went too far this time!”
“Leave,” Glen told Uvrycres and the Wyvern turned to glare at him. “Fly away.”
I could eat the priest, the wyvern suggested. Although he makes the most sense on this platform.
It’s a yard upon a roof top and no he’s not, Glen retorted.
“Hardir,” the priest said cleaning his staff from the blood. “I will help, but we must work quickly before the rot dripping from those unbelievers spreads!”
“I will convert them back!” Glen snapped his voice a hiss and Uvrycres scoffed and opened his wings to fly away.
“They are beyond salvation!”
“Are you willing to believe?” Glen questioned the shocked female that was holding the unresponsive bloody Zilan in her arms.
“I am,” she agreed eagerly. “With all my heart.”
“There,” Glen grunted scrunching his jaw. “Now, lower that darn staff Feyras!”
Early last month of Fall 192 NC
Over Shaelor River,
Road cutting through Aqueduct and Geese Feet
Seventy kilometers from Vasati River
Outlaw was busy chewing on the lush grass covering the valley on both sides of the cracked and repaired in several spots road. The heavy meter long granite tiles at its edges still visible and the cobblestone holding up despite years of abandonment and water damage. A kilometer to their south the arcs of the massive aqueduct were casting long shadows on the terrain, the light rain that had come in the night giving the ground a darker color.
Glen’s eyes following the elongated ruins until they disappeared into the vapors to the west.
“The Naval Yards,” Suraer informed him, a month of riding rejuvenating for the old knight. In contrast Glen had started losing his youthful eagerness after years of traversing Eplas. If it wasn’t for his hatred of the deep waters, he’d have risked the journey on a ship. “Right between the Gymnasium and the merchant warehouses district. Elauthin across from it, but you needed to sail from the main port to dock there.”
“City center was an island?” Glen asked and eyed Aelinole returning with Wylinor from scouting up ahead.
“There was a bridge over the canal, but yes. Though initially it was a small peninsula before they opened the canal entrance,” Suraer replied. “Behind the port stands the Crimson Palace and on a good day you could see the island’s mountain tops from its roof despite them being kilometers away. And at their edges one could even spot Nureria.”
Nym’s home.
At least afore they kicked her out.
“Not everyone has yer eyesight,” Glen murmured.
“You have a spyglass and there was one there, a big one for the tourists,” Suraer replied.
“Did the water really reach the city from so far away?” Glen asked turning to stare at the arched construction again.
“It did. It had the breadth of a small river hanging overhead, almost five meters deep and it filled seven water tanks up on the plateau afore it poured inside the port again.”
“I can’t believe everything is just gone,” Glen said and clicked his tongue to get his horse moving again. Wylinor had given them the sign the road to the bridge was clear.
“The volcano in Elauthin was underwater,” Suraer explained. “It broke the port’s bottom and sucked most of the island into its depths. The explosion sent back so much material and water that there are stories of people stepping on still moving squids, octopuses and deep water fish right where we are Hardir.”
“And the waves wrecked Cydonia,” Glen said.
“It wiped out the flatlands, leaving only the peaks behind,” Suraer replied with a grimace. “Some valued the mountain air and survived, I suppose, but Cydonia was an island chain like no other, half of it build over water. Its population probably the best of our species. The birthplace of the Seers.”
“The land of the Mori-Zilan also,” Glen pointed out.
“Feyras thinks everyone not believing in Eodrass is an Infidel,” Suraer retorted. “His views are parochial, but the Coal Isle had a high number of non-conforming to the norm folk coming out of it.”
“Wait, if Eodrass wasn’t the god of choice there, nor Abrakas and I’m guessing the Goddess had its most influence on the mainland, then to whom did these Zilan adhere to?”
“The Gnome god Luthos. In their perverse view of the Realm,” Suraer replied with a frown. “All in life is chance, naught but a cruel joke. Only way to fix the mess is to constantly change things and redistribute the fragments until you have a match.”
“Do they?” Glen asked curious. “Ever have a match?”
“Who knows? Haven’t seen one in ages,” Suraer retorted with a shrug. “Word is Galadriel’s Watch and Coal Isle were hit the worst. No one’s left there probably. Trust me more worthy souls were lost during that time Hardir.”
To you perhaps Lord Suraer, Glen thought, but he didn’t pursue the matter further seeing as Suraer’s face had darkened at the memories. To someone else, those folk were family.
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The moment they went over the ancient arched stone bridge, the columned and shaded archway echoing the sounds of their horses over the running river and reached the other side of Vasati River two weeks later, a striking dark peak was highlighted by the setting sun. It protruded out of the flat terrain, the fertile land between Vasati and Bemere Rivers once thoroughly built over now left to the elements. Much higher than any structure near it, well over the still standing remnants of the old fortifications near the west port gates and the only building retaining most of its initial shape.
This pyramid was even bigger than the one in Rida. Made out of the same iron-rich rock, it had a golden point, or capstone at its top that had cracked and now stood slightly slanted, but other than that it was whole.
“The west side has significant damage,” Rybel explained, the Zilan had joined their group. Everyone making the journey on horseback, with some of the Hoplites getting teased from the knights for their poor riding skills. Feyras was by far the worst rider of the large caravan. With as many as twenty camels, thirty mules and two hundred and twenty horses making the trip, Glen thought they qualified. In the end they had to tie the priest on a camel to secure him and there was an eagerness in restraining him, especially after he started offering the better of their supplies to the Wyvern. “Some of the rooms and internal halls ruined beyond salvation,” the newly minted Master of Ships of… Glen’s council added.
He needed to come up with a better name.
The ‘also master of all-ports, seas and fleets’ that Rybel had added himself, Glen had summarily removed from the title despite his protests.
“Any looting?” Glen asked casually.
“Some stuff water, or air can’t dislodge,” Rybel replied knowingly. “But a pickaxe, or a pry bar can.”
Glen nodded.
“Ye think Ebenezer reached as far?”
“Yep, but he was mostly interested in gold, magic artifacts and rubies,” Rybel commented. “Allegedly.”
“I don’t know him, nor have any relation,” Glen defended himself. “Actually he’s mostly described as an adventurer these days back on Jelin.”
“Haha, goodness me,” Rybel guffawed almost chocking himself. “Well, it’s like pirates and buccaneers in a sense. They could be different, but most of the world will only seem them one way.”
“Hmm,” Glen murmured and climbed down from Outlaw. “Damnit, I think my back is split in two.”
“Not used to riding Hardir?” Rybel probed with a smile and jumped down, immediately fixing the hat on his head. Glen suspected the Zilan probably tried to hide a balding spot there.
“On the contrary,” Glen rustled curtly. “I’ve done too much of it mister Rybel.”
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But it was the climbing part he hated the most.
“I have the whole day planned,” Kilynia said eagerly touching his elbow, until Glen removed it and extending his left arm shoved her away a couple of meters. The Zilan gasped, but smiled all pearly teeth and sharp fangs, then halved the distance again alike a hungry chicken, until Glen put his right hand on the pommel of his sword stopping her advance for good.
“I think we ought to check if the King’s Hall is safe first,” Suraer argued and stared at the almost three hundred meter tall pyramid. The massive structure’s shade so thick on that side, the place was dark despite this being a sunny morning.
“The day part is concerning,” Glen said and Folen frowned seeing Roran approach and stepped behind Sam Mathews.
“That’s about seven hundred steps to the top,” Rimeros elucidated. “But you only need to reach the penultimate balcony Hardir.”
“That’s not shaving that much,” Glen griped and stared at Lord Suraer. “I’ll have Kirk following and the priest. We don’t need to drag this out…” seeing everyone’s blank stares he added. “I’ll sit on the throne, if one is present and that’s it.”
“There’s a ceremony following,” Kilynia started looking at her papers. She even had sketches drawn of little people with names over their heads and a diagram of the Hall.
“Assuming it’s safe,” Glen corrected her. “That Hall is high up there and there’s a big hole right underneath it. We don’t want to put weight on them floors.”
“A King enters the Hall alone with Eodrass!” Feyras blasted them. “All other stuff is meaningless.”
“I don’t see a god anywhere near,” Glen retorted. “And Uvrycres is a big body to have walk on a cracked floor on top of everyone else!”
“His priest will suffice Hardir,” Feyras argued. “These people haven’t prayed in years!”
“I pray diligently Hardir,” Rimeros lied and bowed deeply, Glen grimacing at the abuse his spine must’ve suffered. Feyras violently smacked him once with his staff for the obvious lie and send him sprawling on the ground with a groan.
Probably causing even more damage.
“Right,” Glen said clearing his throat whilst a knight helped a pained Rimeros up on rubbery legs. “Let’s use this day to put everything in place and I’ll make the decision later on how we’ll handle this.”
“What about a crown?” Aelinole asked and Roran turned to look at her intently. The Hoplite still had his helm on.
Dude, Glen thought. You’re going to wish you’d stayed in Abarat.
“There was a strongbox in Ninthalor’s hands,” Kilynia started. “The statue,” she answered Glen’s query.
“Go on from the strongbox part,” Glen urged her firmly, the matter interesting.
“If it’s there we could use the crown of horns,” she added quickly.
“It’s a ceremonial offering,” Suraer admonished her. “You’ll plunder the king’s gift to the temple?”
“The old horse is right for once,” Feyras agreed and reaching slapped Kilynia across the face for her insolence. “Leave now and don’t return afore you’ve prayed for six hours,” he told the stunned official. “I’m lenient since you were well meaning. Next time I’ll put a nail through your tongue.”
Fuck’s sake!
“How do we know…?” Glen growled, trying to contain his anger and failing. Living with so many Zilan at the near had pushed him at the end of his wits. “The crown is still there?”
“Who would dare steal the first king’s gift?” Suraer asked, seeming horrified at the thought and Glen stared at him numbly for a moment. Folen heard humming and whistling behind Sam to soothe the rising tempers and divert attention to someone else.
His bard skills being as they were really poor having the exact opposite effect.
Glen sighed and turned his attention on the many stairs and then the strangely columned road they were standing in the middle off that led away from them. The road extending towards the ruins of a large building, many of its columns knocked down, the marble tiles cracked and even broken to pieces. Their color a deep pink, almost red.
“Hardir?” Suraer asked seeing him walking to one side of the road and stooping over a collapsed column. Its surface covered with moss and dirt, the golden details on it ruined and difficult to decipher now, but in its heyday it would have been quite the sight. A red road, leading to the red pyramid. Both the road and the pyramid gleaming with touches of gold. At times engraved adornments, or gold-paint on the sides bordering the long stairs. When the sun reached the top and doused this facade with its light, the sight must have been wondrous.
He’d also seen it in a dream years ago. Glen could barely remember the dream now, but he remembered the pyramid. Its halls and its frescos.
How?
“I’ve never been here afore in my life,” Glen said numbly and a little spooked. “But I have seen it.”
“The god’s dreams penetrate our psyche,” Feyras recited fervently from memory, eyes wild and if one was being honest to himself, filled with insanity. “Steer us along the right path.”
Glen blinked and gave a small nod, his face darkening.
He’d asked a god about it and the God had refused it was him. Blamed Luthos instead. The problem in this being that Luthos only played games and the dream was more like a memory.
Which left a disconcerting option open as to the culprit being someone else.
The worst part of the latter being Glen had no idea who that person was. A faint presence lurking near him since the very start.
“Bring me yer suggestions,” he decided and gulped down, his mouth bitter. “Someone find me a bottle of wine. I’ll rest for a bit and I suggest you start building a camp friends. It might get chilly in the night.”
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“Kirk,” Glen ordered an hour later. “Find Folen.”
“Aye milord,” Kirk replied and left him alone. Glen stared at the weeds covering the ruins, parts of walls several stories high still standing. The large boulevards tiled with large stone bricks still holding the wilderness back at places, but a large portion of the buildings near Bemere River were overrun. The temple complex built on a rise gently sloping towards the river’s banks and the port. At some point the sea was further away than it was now.
Glen removed his left glove and stared at his stiff hand. The skin had returned its color for the most part months after the fight with the witch, but he always lost some feeling to it for days.
Unsustainable.
I need to find a way to secure this plaguing thing, without creating anymore trouble for myself. It is impossible not to lose control of these creatures unless I turn brutal, or become another Baltoris. What would make it past their craziness? Restore the fate?
A common foe? Even if it isn’t there?
What vanity would unite them all?
The hazy horizon and the distant waters of the port that split the old capital in two and allowed it to grow out in seemingly never-ending concentric half circles, each part shaped like a piece of cake, now lost to time. The Gymnasium, Baltoris Port, the Crimson Palace, the Aqueduct fields and the Canal district where the port had its entrance. Elauthin was a country and a city, much like Goras had been. Only the Zilan would have built something so gargantuan and so fragile at the same time.
A taunting cry to the heavens. We’re here now and we rule this land.
Feet firmly set upon volcanoes.
Madness.
God darn corpse and stupid bag of gold.
That’s as far as I’m willing to run. The Realm’s edges.
You brought this on yourselves.
It’s time I push all you motherfuckers back.
“Milord,” Kirk said. Glen hadn’t heard him approaching. “I’ve brought Folen.”
“I ask permission to return to Goras. I fear for my safety Hardir,” Folen started immediately, Glen stopping him with an impatient wave.
“Where is it?” He asked, his tone threatening.
Folen stood back. “I wouldn’t know.”
His body language screaming that he did.
“Bet that you do,” Glen argued. “It’s not in the box that’s scrupulously looted already, or I’ve a third eye on my forehead,” he grimaced keeping his pair of amber eyes on the former guide among many other things. “Would he had brought it with him on Jelin? Too much of a taunt back in those days, even today. A commoner wearing a crown, right Kirk?”
“Outrageous milord,” the soldier agreed, himself blind to the irony.
“He had to have left it somewhere near to slip by the Zilan as well. It’s one thing to carry loot in a bag, but a crown?” Glen continued. “Where is it mister Folen? The pyramid? In another room?”
Folen smacked his lips and stared at the rest of the Zilan spread about the old temple complex in groups and examining what was left with curiosity. A couple of them sad, some amused and few interested in one detail or other they remembered, or had heard described differently.
“You’ll never find it,” Folen replied and puffed out. “He hid things without us knowing.”
Glen followed the old columned road to the other end and the remnants of the large estate.
“What’s left of the old royal quarters?” He asked casually remembering the bedroom in his dream and Folen gawked his eyes in shock. “Snap out of it,” Glen admonished him. “And help out. Contribute friend, or I’m dropping yer arse in the Hoplite camp. You’ve followed that dastardly crook, a half breed or not, you’re still a Zilan and can see things humans can’t. Ebenezer was raised with humans, had a field day running circles around them. But this part he would have never learned. Dealing with his own.”
“He hadn’t,” Folen agreed, a little impressed. “But the place has turned into rubble—”
Glen stopped him raising a hand, his extended fingers kept close. “It’s under the floor in one of the corners. Find me the crown mister Folen and I’ll keep the Hoplite away.”
“There’s a rumor,” Folen started, sweat darkening his collar. “Lady Aelinole spends the night with a man. It has the brute vexed to no end.”
“Trust me,” Glen retorted curtly. “Truth will vex him even more. Bring me the crown Folen and I’ll allow you to return to Goras whilst you still can.”
Kirk watched the frustrated Zilan leaving, the ruins of the estate over a kilometer away and then turned to a thoughtful Glen that had reached for his spyglass.
“The view is better from the top Milord,” Kirk told him and Glen nodded.
“Anyone back down from it?”
“Wylinor, but found most working halls empty.”
“I bet you lots of ‘adventurers’ made it here,” Glen commented wryly. “But left it out of their memoirs.”
You can’t get rid of looters. They are like cockroaches, ever waiting under furniture, or watching with greedy eyes from a corner.
Eh.
“I don’t believe Framtond wrote the tales,” Kirk argued.
“If you don’t see that these tales are ‘massaged’ to create a narrative friend, then you’ve let the heart fool yer mind and eyes,” Glen countered.
No thief will ever tell you where the gold is buried, unless you start cutting parts out of him and there’s no better way to scare suitors away than a haunted tale of unreachable lands and monsters lurking in the shadows.
The night went by with a couple of minor incidents, a fifteen meters long monster of a crocodile venturing out of the river to feed on a mule and the Zilan sleeping on it being the highlight and his family of equally large scaly predators patrolling one of the river approaches to look for him after the monster failed to return, being the other.
Apparently the beasts’ part of the tale was real.
> A determined Arguen Garth, O’ Nielek Aniculo, climbed the long stairs of Crimson Palace ahead of a long procession of faithful Zilan and humans. He ascended with dignity without pauses wearing the old Horned Crown. At the entrance he turned around and stared back at those following after him.
>
> Lord Suraer of Lo-Minas and Eodrass cruel Priest Feyras, the commander of the Royal Rokae Sir Delmuth, brave Aelinole and the giant Soren, who had come from a land North of Jelin. Aenymriel of mythical Nureria where Elas had lived and perished, famed Roran the Second Leader of the Phalanx then and a slew of notable officials. Some of them still in the Council today. The Master of Ships Rybel, Vulreon the First Scribe and industrious Kilynia. The lute-carrying Folen, the Master of Silence and Sir Kirk of Goras that never strayed far from Garth in the years I’ve known him. Noble Sam Mathews and his band of adventurers. The trusted Ranger Wylinor and of course majestic Uvrycres, the Onyx Wyvern. The latter had landed on the gold capstone atop the pyramid and roared for long to scare the dark spirits away.
>
> The bright sun cast its light over the stairs and the gilded decorations. The brilliance blinding and the red fading on the walls of the pyramid like old blood. Those watching from bellow say that Garth dissolved into the golden light for a moment and the next time they saw him inside the King’s Hall, he was sitting on the old cracked throne.
>
> Feyras chanted of the empire’s return and lamented of past glories, but those watching the human occupying the throne say it felt that the Monarch had his mind elsewhere. While this could be just memories changing with hindsight, a day into the traditional month-long celebration Arguen Garth would decide to return to Goras sort of proving their assumptions correct. Whatever the case may have been for his supposedly sour mood and it’s not important to mention here, on the ides of the first month of winter, the year of the Imperial Calendar 3398, the official beginning of the Third Era came to be and the King ‘beyond the Pale Mountains’ assumed the throne of Wetull.
>
> The Onyx Wyvern’s reign had thus begun.
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Phinariel, the Boorish Poet,
>
> Royal Scribe,
>
> Member of the Queen’s Council
>
> in
>
> King’s Anabasis
>
> -Arguen Garth, O’ Nielek Aniculo-
>
> Celebrated in the Austere Cofol of the Four Old Sisters as,
>
> Noble Ruler, of Onyx Wyvern.
>
> Referred to as,
>
> Ruthless Lord of Tenebrous Castle (Morn Taras) in both Jelin & Eplas,
>
> But commonly known as the King beyond the Pale Mountains.
>
> Chapter IV
>
> (Crimson Palace & a Crown of Horns)
>
> -Epilogue-
>
> -
>
> Entered into the Royal Library,
>
> In 210 NC,
>
> Circa 3416 IC –consolidated- (3rd Era)
>
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
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