----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Sinya Goras
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
The King beyond the Pale Mountains
Part III
-The Capricorn Pendant-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
image [https://i.postimg.cc/xY6n3dJB/Wetull-part-9-193-NC.jpg]
“All-Tylyal! Arguen Garth!”
“Minue Vala Arato!”
If it was only the one thing the Zilan knew how to do well, then that thing would be acoustics. It was directly connected to their tendency of building tall first, then wide for as long as possible. At some point stability and gravity started working against them and the designs tended to slant inwards, the roofs getting pointier. Glen wasn’t an architect, had no idea about buildings in general, unless it was a small dam in a creek, then he had a couple of thoughts on how to do it.
All his ideas involving tossing logs into the water, or variants of it.
Now acoustics he understood they were related to the internal volume available for the sound to spread about, bounce, or whatever the fuck Folen had told him about the temple. Since each floor was as high as twenty meters at the base, the makers of the structure painted themselves into a corner the higher they went and for the pointy part of the pyramid they were forced to settle for a modest eight meters for the throne Hall. The walls were slanted, cracked on the west side, the roof over that spot caved in a bit where the capstone had sunk, which made the roof crooked and less tall above Glen’s right shoulder.
The throne was made out of bronze and had been encased in a thick layer of pure gold at some point, but someone had taken a chisel on it and ripped most of the gold away, leaving a beaten up and creaking mess behind. Glen put a folded cloak over the sharp edges left on the seat afore he lowered his arse on it and still he could feel the sting.
“Hail to the Noble Keeper!”
“Foremost Divine Champion!”
Nothing hurt as much as the Crown of Horns though. A hefty Imperial steel piece for its base, finely polished and engraved to resemble folding dragon scales. A prominent red ruby right at the forehead, slotted in a white-silver carved lozenge-shaped frame. An outer ring of sharpened slick black and glass-like wyvern bones angling outwards, all six of them. Another three real and thicker horns, like those of a small wyvern -probably about a year old- secured on the front of the second inner ring and protruding upwards sharp as knives. How the crafters of the crown had gotten their hands on wyvern horns he didn’t know, but he intended to find out once the cheering part of the festivities was over.
The mostly black and silvery ominous piece of jewelry –other than the egg sized ruby Glen had attempted to pry away for academic reasons, but couldn’t in the time he had- was heavy as all-fucks and probably sturdy enough to block a blade to the cranium, or cave an opponent’s face in with a timely head-butt.
Those horns would shred him even if the head-butt isn’t timely, Glen mused raising his arm and all but giving a thumbs up to the ululating crowd that had packed the weakened floor of the temple’s King’s Hall.
He had three gestures prepared for the event and given he felt worn out from the brutal climb it was for the better. Fine, any event really. The common wave, which he settled for at Kilynia’s eager nodding. All them feathers dancing about over her ogling eyes making him dizzy.
The thumbs up and the middle finger.
“Hail to King Garth!” A Zilan yelled above everyone else, the voices reverberating on the walls and the tremendous acoustics that had all but knocked him out initially after Feyras had finished his interesting to start foreword, but quickly devolving into a fierce reprimand of the crowd present that understandably wasn’t well received from the weary climbers.
The heavy jeering didn’t deter the priest at all and he persisted for a grueling half-hour until his mouth dried up and paused to ask for water. Nobody volunteered, which gave Lord Suraer the chance he was looking for. He rushed to the front shoving the priest away and into the arms of two knights and called for the crowd to acknowledge the King’s Seat taken, which led the weary crowd to explode with enthusiasm marking the end of Feyras monologue.
None wearier than Glen, who had all but given up in the attempt to reach the Hall earlier, collapsing on the stairs breathing heavier than a pregnant mare, mouth hanging open and clasping at his sweaty collar to pry it open, but despite his efforts still not getting enough air into his lungs.
Twice he almost tumbled backwards for a death plunge down the granite steps, his only consolation the fact that he intended to grab as many of the Zilan following him and drag them along on the way down.
It was at times like these he could see reasoning in Gimoss’ insane behavior.
Murderous thoughts aside and given that no one wanted to climb up and help him, Glen could have honestly perished of a heart attack around step number five hundred and seventy nine and the whole thing turned into a catastrophe of epic proportions.
Glen didn’t die, but pushed on sweating and cursing the aforementioned Zilan architects mothers, sisters and more marginal family members, using many a colorful epithets and some ingenious curses.
“Long may he reign!” Another Zilan screamed hoarsely, the cheering going on and on, the Crown slowly piercing his scalp and sinking into his head, the rim pressing hard over his brows forcing him to squint his eyes to keep them open.
What is this shite?
Good grief!
“A hundred cheers!” A younger Zilan yelled jumping up and down, several of those standing near him nodding and urging the rest for another round of applause.
“One!” A comely female cheered. “All Hail Arguen Garth O’ Nielek Aniculo!”
“Two!” A thick browed fancy dressed male said next, the crowd clapping and screaming. “Hail to the Wyvern King!”
Feet thudding down and rattling the floor.
It was about to turn into a dance.
Or a riot.
“THREE!” Another screamed.
Oh, for slovenly fuck’s sake! Glen thought seeing where this was going and stood up abruptly, the crown dropping a bit on his forehead.
“Friends…” he croaked pushing the crown back, cutting his finger on a sharp edge. “MY FRIENDS!” He bellowed when no one appeared to listen to him and the crowd thankfully stopped their cheering, but for a couple that kept on for a little while longer. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but Kilynia has prepared a short toast to mark the occasion.”
“A TOAST!”
“Yes,” Glen said with a grin. “Let’s have some wine, but I’ll partake in a bit of water as well,” he added to a loud round of applause.
Kilynia waved to the helpers she had tasked to bring the plates with goblets forward and everyone reached for a cup eagerly, giving Glen a few minutes to gather his thoughts.
“Your Majesty,” Lord Suraer said not half a minute later. Ugh. “I hereby release Sir Delmuth to you. The Rokae shall protect the King of Wetull, if the King so wishes.”
“Ahm,” Glen started, then cleaned his dry throat and reached for a cup Atju had brought him. He couldn’t refuse him. “Of course dear Lord Suraer,” he said. “The King welcomes Sir Delmuth,” Glen nodded at the mask wearing Knight, who placed a gloved right hand over his heart.
“It’s an honor to serve the Monarch!” Delmuth boomed. His lungs trained to be heard over loud galloping. “The Rokae shall never leave your side Arguen Garth!”
“Let’s keep the spacing sensible for starters,” Glen retorted. “Work from there Sir Delmuth,” the last thing he wanted was a bunch of marching armoured and mask-wearing brutes following him around.
“Sensible spacing shall be maintained your Highness,” Delmuth agreed and saluted again.
That’s right, Glen thought and sipped from his cup.
“Hear, hear,” a Zilan said from across the room and raised his glass, everyone mimicking him. “To the Monarch!”
Glen nodded and went to drink again with a warning stare to the eager Zilan not to do it again, but Suraer waved for Aelinole to approach and stopped him. The fit female made the small trip –over ten meters separated the crowd from the throne- but was stopped two meters before she reached her father and the grimacing Glen by a burly Rokae.
“Sir Maderas,” Aelinole said reproachfully to the armoured knight. “We grew up together.”
“Apologies Lady Aelinole,” Maderas replied.
That was it. He didn’t say anything else, nor did he move out of her way.
“My good knight, let her approach. I’m sure Lady Aelinole won’t shoot me in the face wit her bow,” Glen ordered and Maderas turned his solemn mask his way alarmed.
Shit. Dis came out wrong.
“Is this the Monarch’s wish?”
Not really, but I thought it funny at the moment.
“I’d like to hear the noble Lady,” Glen elucidated instead. The knight nodded and stepped away.
Hah.
“Arguen Garth,” Aelinole started and raised her glass. “I toast to your good health. Here is to a thousand more good summers and twice as many winters. May your reign bring everlasting glory to the empire and endless agony to its enemies!”
The crowd cheered at her words, Aelinole was favored by the Lo-Minas heavy presence, but for the adventurers who glanced at each other unsure. Folen was nowhere to be seen.
Glen was more troubled he couldn’t get the full benefit of her wish, than what probably had been Lord Suraer’s prepared toast to palate his countrymen afore the big reveal.
“Allow me to introduce my son Berthas,” Aelinole said tensely and waved for the young hooded Zilan to approach. Berthas stepped forward, the crowd’s noise coming to a stop immediately. Glen gestured for Sir Delmuth to allow him to come near his mother. “We hope he’ll find a way to train his skills fully now that the empire’s roads and laws are open to all citizens.”
“What is his talent?” Glen asked. He was supposed to gloss over this part, but Glen thought it was better to get everything out of the way, than revisit the matter of his ‘reforms’ later.
Aelinole licked her lips and stared at her solemn father.
“Answer the King’s query child,” Lord Suraer rustled.
“He’s skilled in the Magic Arts great Monarch,” Aelinole replied tensely and the crowd gasped unsure.
“Great,” Glen retorted to the crowd’s astonishment. “Nothing wrong in that. I’ve allowed the practice in Goras,” he stared at the hooded Berthas next. “We don’t hide our face from the King lad,” Glen cautioned him, because that’s what Monarchs do.
Lords do it as well and knights, but Monarchs do it more.
Probably.
Berthas removed his hood and bowed. “Apologies Arguen Garth. Please forgive me.”
“Yer forgiven,” Glen replied with a smile, the stunned crowd staring at the half-breed in horrified disbelief. Berthas only lacked a bit in the ears and he had that blond and purple hair. So Glen couldn’t see what the big deal was. Personally he’d mistaken him for a normal Zilan initially. Someone collapsed on the ground creating a ruckus of epic proportions and Glen glanced that way to find a pale Folen sprawled under an overturned table.
Hmm. You didn’t know then.
Guess you got conned as well.
“Now,” he continued with a roll of his eyes at what had been obvious to him since the start. The real mystery here is why go after Aelinole, if Darunia was available? Unless the comely Healer wasn’t as easy to dupe as the fierce Ranger. Then again Lord Suraer’s daughter is equally impressive and perhaps old Ebenezer had really fallen for her. Um, nah…“Let’s allow Kilynia—”
“Arguen Gath,” Roran grunted cutting him off, silver details on the Hoplite’s helmet making him stand out from his many colleagues coalescing around him. “This can’t be glossed over!”
“Roran,” Glen said pushing back on his throne, not sure if the Zilan had a looser court protocol. Or a debate hour? Is that what it is? “You know I allow magic practitioners in Goras yes?”
“I was talking of the half-breed!” Roran rustled sounding strangled, but managing to add in the end. “Great Monarch.”
“The King knows his name Roran!” Aelinole snapped at him hurt.
“Was this your ploy? I don’t recognize you,” Roran replied bitterly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Glen intervened staring at the fuming Hoplite. “I did. I’ve also forgiven his sins,” Glen continued and Feyras frowned, but then shrugged his shoulders and finished off his wine. Aelinole had stood back upset. “The lad shall serve the realm with a clean slate.”
“A… clean slate?” Roran croaked not believing his ears.
“A new beginning,” Glen elucidated calmly and gave his goblet to Atju. “A new king can do that, am I wrong?”
“No, Arguen Garth you are not,” Roran replied.
“Let us celebrate,” Glen continued. “Allow the past to die friend. See to a different future.”
Roran stepped back and crossed his arms over his muscled cuirass.
It’ll do, Glen decided. The man just got punched in the gut. He’ll hopefully recover, though it may take time.
Aenymriel had appeared near the shaking Folen in the meantime and helped him to his feet. A wild haired Zilan shading her, clad in a dark cloak.
Glen had seen him afore.
Varg.
Where the fuck had ye disappeared all these months?
“The King has spoken,” Lord Suraer announced for all to hear, the old Zilan appearing rejuvenated, much more than his daughter who stared at the silent crowd with worrying eyes. “Let no one stray from his words,” he continued and gestured for another round of wine to be served.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen spent his day on the throne, where he received one after the other the Zilan that had made the journey with him. They talked of the long years of uncertainty and their old lives they now had built anew. Missing, or long dead kin. Lovers, husbands, wives, mates, kids and friends. Even slaves, or pets. Some reminisced of the old empire’s laws and the customs, with Glen leaving it vague whether he’ll reinstate, abolish, or keep them.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
His head hurt, mostly due to the crown, but also from the effort to keep it diplomatic and pleasant. To not ruin the moment. Because despite some hiccups it was a pleasant day and most enjoyed Lord Suraer’s wine, trying to know their liege. At some point they made their way down the great pyramid to visit some of its famous Halls in large merry groups.
He followed Suraer and Berthas to the Seers Floor, some of its rooms on the west side badly damaged and exposed to the elements for centuries impossible to visit. The young Zilan stayed close to his grandfather in what was probably a rare treat for him, but insisted on entering the ‘Dialogues’ room, despite the damaged wall giving them a view of the river and the battlements at the distance. The gates and a corner of the walls still standing and looking capable to defend against an attack over the river.
“What’s beyond Bemere?” Glen asked whilst Berthas attempted to read a partially destroyed epigraph, the engraved inscription depicting the words of the First Seer, Sintoriela. Who apparently was Aelrindel’s –the witch that had married Prince Sahand- grandmother, the detail amusing to Glen.
Ena was a crazy bitch, he had commented and Suraer had frowned, but said nothing. Whether he knew that she was dead, alive, or simply having a different opinion, Glen didn’t know. Lord Suraer was like that.
“If you travel west at some point the costal road splits,” Suraer replied to his present query. “Head straight to Rain-Minas or south across the narrow peninsula they call the Witch’s Dagger,” Glen narrowed his eyes at that. “As far as Kallister’s Tower.”
“Who was that?”
“The Traveler was one of the first wizards,” Berthas replied, a learned lad apparently. When you don’t have friends you read, if you are rich. If you’re not, you go out to steal yer next meal. Suraer stood back to listen proudly, especially after seeing Glen focusing on his kin’s words. “Sintoriela learned much from him and she birthed the Coven of Witches in Cydonia Cazan, they then brought to Wetull proper.”
“So whatchamacallit was from there?” Glen asked with a nod, stepping away from the opening as the crack on the floor –reaching to the middle of the room- didn’t appear safe.
“Sintoriela? She was from Nureria, but grew up in Isildor.”
“The dude,” Glen countered.
“Probably from Cyran,” Suraer helped. “But he journeyed across the Unknown Ocean for centuries and returned to the isles, ahm… when was it?” he asked Berthas.
“Six centuries before Ninthalor’s ascension,” Berthas replied eagerly.
Or the First Era, Glen translated.
“That the tall statue behind the throne?” Glen asked.
The looters had taken the strongbox and broken the King’s arms in the attempt much to the despair of some of the Zilan, but for Feyras who outright laughed at the old king’s expense. ‘A brusque lustful man with no time for praying, a knack for endless wars, a cunt in mouth and cock in arse,’ he commented over the protestations of a couple of old heads that knew Lith’s grandfather and Lord Suraer, the conversation turning violent quickly, glasses tossed at Feyras and the priest retaliating with a couple of timely swings of his staff. The general brawl stopping when Delmuth confiscated the dangerous weapon from the fuming priest and earned himself a place ‘in Oras hells, just like his horse-pleasuring mother.’
Glen was surprised Feyras hadn’t being sent back to his temple, or outright knifed in the kidneys and dropped in the lakes as fodder to the local fauna, but Suraer explained to him that most priests had refused to leave their temples and had perished. Banning one of the last remaining ‘holy men’ seemed harsh. Glen told them Voldomir had made it and this surprisingly calmed Feyras down, as the two were good friends.
Knowing both of them, Glen wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t knock their teeth out in their ‘friendly’ meetings.
“Yes,” Suraer replied.
“You’re hitting four millennia here,” Glen warned him.
“Kallister and Sintoriela, some of the older ones, where of the first races. Zilan have their differences as well,” Suraer explained, paused unsure whether to speak and added. “Like the Mori-Zilan, or Aenymriel’s creature.”
“Varg?”
“Him.”
“So, he’s different how?”
“Perhaps you should ask her,” Suraer asked. “I’ll take a Gish over him.”
Glen went to comment, himself favoring the Gish, but then remembered the Zilan had ambiguous definitions on what the ‘favoring’ part meant –ranging from sexual preference, to a culinary treat- and decided not to go there. Gimoss had the same problem as well, only he wasn’t vague about it.
“What’s over the Unknown Ocean?” He asked instead.
“Hah,” Suraer guffawed and pointed at a part of the inscription. “There’s the old girl Olonelis mentioned,” he said shaking his head. “Our girls were really good friends in their youths,” he added and glanced at Berthas. “Actually Darunia is still without a mate. Hmm.”
Too fucking ambitious man, Glen thought. Best to start with Folen’s sister, or mother. Work his way up the ladder sort of speak.
“Galith is somewhere south of the Plague Isles, but no one knows for sure,” Berthas replied, some color on his cheeks now. “Mistland is huge they say.”
“They don’t know,” Suraer interrupted him. “Kallister claimed he found two more continents, or a very big one. Several huge islands and the land where the Wyverns came.”
“What about the Issirs?” Glen asked.
“The pirates?”
Foul-mouthed lads that kicked yer arse. Aye.
“No one knew about them,” Suraer replied. “Then again, Sinya Nora came from somewhere as well.”
“They have?”
“The Northmen were always on Jelin, as were the Cofols on Eplas. Then came the Lorians with their iron and steel. Thick-boned and cunning. With their solemn language and their roads, they pushed them back. They gobbled up a whole continent and forced us to clean our act to put them in their place. We owe them that I suppose.”
“You could work as a history professor Lord Suraer,” Glen said raising his brow and the Lord of Lo-Minas tapped his blue temple with an index finger and smiled.
“I’ve a good memory,” he replied. “But no patience for people. You’ll take Berthas to Goras with you?”
“Aelinole would not like it.”
“She can’t teach him. The lad is hopeless with a bow and I have a couple of smart horses that can use a blade better than him… don’t pout, so some respect to the King Berthas!” he grunted seeing the young Zilan’s reaction. “She’s holding him back.”
Glen grimaced. “A mother should have a say,” he finally said. “But I’ll consider it.”
“Can I ask something about Jelin?” Berthas queried and Suraer glared at him.
“He’s dead,” he admonished him harshly. “Trust me it is better than the alternative son.”
Glen frowned, but decided to stay out of this family problem.
Having learned nothing of value from the visit, but bits and pieces, he nevertheless filed away to use if the opportunity arose in the future, Glen returned to the throne room, already sick and tired of the endless stairs of the massive pyramid.
----------------------------------------
The place rocking with the Zilan rendition of the songs he’d heard on Valimae Lilt, probably the original versions. Folen thumbing his lute along the band that had followed them from Lo-Minas. The music and the Zilan dancing wildly paused abruptly when Glen entered followed by a slew of knights and a weirded out Kirk and Glen stared at them for a long moment afore saying in a clear lordly voice.
“As ye were friends.”
With that significant personal contribution the festivities continued. Kilynia had planned out the short variant, which run for thirty days into the new year (of the New Calendar), which Glen thought was absurd, but hadn’t the strength to argue and Suraer footing the bill alleviated his concerns on the expenses.
For being a parsimonious race, the Zilan loved spending another person’s coin with gusto.
So he walked through the jumping around crowd, his eyes on the weakened floor, a wrinkle on his forehead deepening and the Crown of Horns slowly doing permanent damage to his cranium.
“You can remove it,” Nym whispered when he collapsed on the throne, waving and smiling at the twisting and rolling on the floor citizens of his kingdom.
Some of the gymnastics extremely risky.
Madness.
“I’m afraid the skin will come off as well. The scalp still attached on it,” Glen admitted.
“I can try. I’ve a surgeon’s hand,” Nym offered and he looked into her indigo eyes for a moment.
“Was it a joke?”
“It’s the truth,” Nym replied, but then chuckled like a very young kid, which was very creepy and added. “I’ve had some of Suraer’s wine.”
“A new experience?”
“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully. “I’m really a humorous soul Hardir.”
“Most drunk people are. Wait… eh, no they are not,” Glen decided remembering Tom Spencer smacking him on the head with a bronze carafe, the injury not justifying the two coppers the drunk had in his purse. He slowly removed the crown. Glen kept it in his hands unsure, the darn thing’s horns cutting like his dagger’s blade… which was probably not unusual seeing as they were made out of the same material.
“Where did they find the wyvern bones?”
“Not all wyverns reach maturity,” Nym replied. “Sometimes in the wild they fall prey to other predators.”
“I can see that happening, but as usual you sort of dodged.”
“I admit not knowing the crown’s history,” Nym said with a pout. She had a red ribbon on her hair that day and a red belt at the waist of her white tunic.
“I like the ribbon and the belt,” Glen told her and the assassin smiled, then made a small twirl raising her hands.
There’s still a bit of woman in her for sure.
And she’s probably using those charms right now.
“Gratitude Lord of Morn Taras. Do you want to know what people say?” Nym replied ceremoniously with a smile.
“Sure,” Glen retorted with a half grin.
“I guess you’re sort of our King beyond the Pale Mountains now,” Nym whispered in his ear.
“People say that?” Glen queried raising a brow.
“Eh… I do,” she replied looking into his eyes. “How will the king spend his evening?”
“I’m thinking of staying on the terrace. Speak to the Wyvern,” Glen replied as diplomatically as he could. Intended or not, right or wrong, you don’t outright and publicly reject an offer from a master assassin so close to yer neck.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
The night had come over Baltoris Port. The moonlight shining on the ruins and the massive partially lit and loud pyramid. The Zilan still partying inside the King’s Hall with no sign of slowing down and knowing them, they wouldn’t until the wine run out.
Glen walked to the edge of the large open terrace and stared at the distance towards the south. The Six Peak Isles chain unseen, but earlier he’d spotted Nureria through the powerful spyglass the pyramid had near its top. ‘Viewing Lenses’, the Zilan called it. As everything they built it was the size of a horse. Nym had turned silent after that and retired into her shadows. Everyone has personal demons to deal with, Glen thought.
He heard Kirk standing near the entrance to the King’s Hall, but keeping his distance and the slow voices of the knights talking with his bodyguard. The breeze coming from the distant sea warm, despite the season being mid-winter, but he hadn’t really experienced cold in years. A large shade covered the moons for a moment, the wyvern turning for its final approach and probably having already spotted him.
He reached for the dagger and got it out. The black glass-like talon sharpened and straightened out with magic. Had Lith not told him what it was, Glen would have never figured it out. He thought of the young Princess of Wetull, the last time he’d seen her not pleasant for both of them because of Larn and Glen’s narrower view of things. He thought of Emerson stranded in the Peninsula doing the Sopat’s bidding. An acceptable expense, Lon had told him. Considering the stakes. What the Sopat were planning difficult to fathom and Glen had long decided to bring the old knight back at the first chance.
He’ll put some sense into this mess, he decided. Plus I owe him a ‘sparring’ now that I know which end of the sword goes where. Not to mention I need to give him the blade back. I can find another weapon and he might need it the most.
Where were you? He asked the silently landing large Wyvern. Uvrycres extending his reddish sheer leather wings, now at more than four meters each, to break the momentum and then dropping on all four legs to approach. He did it in a clunky manner, elongated scaly body moving right and left, the wings sweeping the tiles and the claws heard scratching stone clearly.
Over the Reefs, the Wyvern hissed and clacked his jaws, sharp black teeth snapping. The smell of brimstone reaching him and the beast’s breath scalding hot. Done some light hunting.
Over the waters?
Over the ground. Twas a roast.
Anything of interest?
Food.
Glen nodded and stepped back to absorb the head bump that came a moment later. Still it was bruising.
Yer head, is like a boulder.
RRRRREEEH?
Uvrycres protested and eyed with those large burgundy eyes the stirring nervously knights at the doors.
“It’s surreal,” Glen murmured putting a hand on the hard scaly foreleg, the skin cool to the touch and slick as polished marble. “I’m the king of Wetull,” he told the large predator and Uvrycres’ long neck twisted around, the neck now as thick as a horse’s back. “It’s just dawned on me.”
Glen shivered and puffed his cheeks out, good growth covering them after weeks on the road. The hairs hard as nails and thick. Manly. “Thing is if I remove the bronze throne, they’ll probably riot and that shite ain’t worth the trouble, haha!” he shook his head and stared at the terrifying face of the Wyvern looking at him. The head touched the tiles, but it was almost at his eyesight now. “Damn. How big are ye going to get?”
Big?
You grow… until you’re the biggest. It is how it goes.
“Yeah, it’s not the same for everyone else mate,” Glen retorted. “What’s with the silent pauses?”
Uvrycres unfurled his right wing, extending his foreleg, or arm in the process. The four talons opening, the long three outwards and the shorter sideways. The glint of white-gold catching Glen’s eye.
“What’s this?” Glen asked curious and made to take the jewelry the wyvern kept at arm’s length.
I was late, Uvrycres replied pensively with a guttural growl.
Glen licked his dry lips and then stared at the gleaming familiar pendant again.
“Where did ye get this?” He croaked and reaching snatched it away from him. The chain clinging on his ring when he closed his fist on it. The Capricorn ornament dangling like a pendulum under his hand.
Left.
Right.
The count silent.
The witch had it on her, Uvrycres said and Glen stood back feeling the extended wing touching his shoulders. The Wyvern had covered him completely with its body. The large head rising slightly off the ground, the eyelids opening and closing rapidly.
No, he thought immediately.
“When…?” Glen gasped hoarsely. “How did she...?”
He’d lost it in the battle at Unscaled Overhang near Eroshin River.
A ranger took it probably. Or that sneaky Arachne.
“Why give it to the witch?” Glen snapped angry.
The Wyvern breathed out, its eyes glowing a fierce red.
Ah, no allgods darnit! Glen cursed, his hands shaking and feeling panic creeping up on him.
What’s done is done, Uvrycres rustled and Glen exploded, his teeth clenched in a maniacal snarl.
“THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?”
You know.
“No,” Glen hissed and shoved his large scaly snout away. “NO! NO I DON’T!” He placed the pendant on his forehead and closed his eyes trying to breathe and failing. “Why didn’t ye tell me? You had it all this time! WHY?”
You can’t turn back time. You pick a thread and you follow it to its bitter end, the wyvern replied. But you can lose the opportunity to rule, in the attempt.
What is this bullshit!
“I could have made it back!”
It wouldn’t matter. This happened long ago.
Glen couldn’t accept that. “They would have told me if something happened to her. They would. No,” he turned around feverishly. “I need to leave immediately. It’s… fuck. FUCK! It’ll be months afore I return! CURSE YE! LUTHOS YOU BASTARD! CURSE YE ALL TO HELLS!” He roared and started pushing and shoving the wyvern to free himself. “LET ME GO! I SWEAR TO ALLGODS,” he snarled, eyes ogling desperately. “I’ll cut you! I mean it!”
The spell was cast before you reached Abarat Glen, Uvrycres rustled and opened his wings, then retracted them to allow him to move. It was too late already.
Glen felt his knees weaken and a sharp pain in his chest almost send him to the tiles.
Is that the Crown of Horns? The Wyvern asked staring at the crown he had sort of shoved into his old satchel.
What? Glen scrunched his stressed face this way and that.
“Who the hell cares?”
It’s done then?
“I don’t give a darn about the festivities!” Glen blasted him and the knights perked up, their solemn inhuman silver masks turning their way. “Fuck it. I’m getting on that blasted horse.”
You don’t have to.
You’re Hardir O’ Fardor.
Aniculo Rokae.
“Buddy, I’m under a lot of pressure here and I’ve months of journey ahead of me!” Glen warned and turned to walk away, the wyvern’s forearm returning, a talon grasping at his shoulder sharp as a dagger. “Get that claw off of me!” A wild eyed Glen growled twisting around, his hand dropping to his sword.
Uvrycres kept it there, his burgundy pools of light blinking once afore adding.
We could be there in a day.
And they did.
> Sam stared at the ‘young’ Gish’s familiar red-rimmed eyes. The round face, even in the absence of a nose as beautiful as he remembered it. Though she was much older now than what her sister had been and much closer to his age. It made his heart bleed at the cast aside memories of his youth and he had to clench his lined mouth hard to keep the tears in.
>
> “What happened next?” Linx asked him curious folding her shapely legs under her lissome body and reaching stole some of the wine from his untouched cup. She poured it in hers and returned it casually. 'You take what you need, but allow the same unto others,' Jinx used to say when in her cups. Which was frequent. 'No reason holding on to stuff. I did it, it's pointless. Ayup. No one leaves this realm alive.'
>
> The hour late, the drunk patrons slowly leaving the place and the music ending with a final beat of the drum.
>
> “He disappeared. One moment he was standing there in front of them and the next he was gone,” he rustled and Linx stopped drinking to look at him. Her scent intoxicating. Eh, you weren’t lucky then on these matters and you’re too old now to still have hope, he admonished himself. “The king left that night and returned to Goras.”
>
> “What, he jumped? On his horse?” Linx queried and touched his calloused hand with hers. Then seeing his face, she added with a small gasp.
>
> “Oh… Shit.”
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/
& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/