>
> His mother was walking up and down the length of the narrow hall, a fierce look on her rosy face. Vacia was praying to her statues rocking back and forth on her feet nervously. The aged men of the Numbers warband gathered in a big group, the doors of the longhouse open and the cold wind blowing in. The scarred man’s footsteps still visible on the snowed doorstep just outside.
>
> Everyone still nervous minutes after he was gone.
>
> Roderick rarely saw them rattled in all the years he knew them. Or all the old warriors gathered in one place, even when they visited Kas. Four winners of the circle amongst them. Torcal MacCee, Adam ‘Jaws’ Hough, Ned O’ Farrell and even Logan ‘Gray’ Barret.
>
> “Red Faye,” Torcal rustled getting up, chainmail under his thick bear hides ringing. “Nothing coming out of his mouth can be trusted.”
>
> Logan grunted angrily at him.
>
> “We like Mad Wolf,” Ned added after Torcal sat down in his turn. His mother stopped and glared at him. She had her steel cuirass on and the red greaves and armbraces, over the hard leather shirt. Roderick had seen her getting them out of the trunk earlier as if she knew.
>
> “I’ve fought wit Mad Wolf back in eighty nine alongside you,” Faye reminded him hoarsely. “A year afore that and the years after it all the way to Krakenhall and back again. While Alana still breathed and well after she didn’t.”
>
> “That’s what I’m saying Red Faye,” Ned said and sat back down.
>
> “Steele fights with Juter in Rifjordal and what does Sam do?” She rumbled glaring at them.
>
> “The Duchess took Rockfort,” Adam protested and Logan turned to eye him with his cold eyes. “Sam lost face at a crucial point.”
>
> “If Steele beats Juter he’ll be the next Jarl,” his mother told him through her teeth. “If the Mad Wolf can’t understand that then that’s his problem. What I owed him I’ve repaid years ago to his father.”
>
> “Do we owe the Duchess?” He asked and she turned to look at him surprised. His sister gasped and started shaking whether from cold or fear he didn’t know. One didn’t talk back to Red Faye.
>
> His mother stared in his face fiercely for a moment and then walked to the open door, the wind blowing those thick locks of red hair away from her face.
>
> “In your father’s greatest need the Duchess came,” Faye told him raspingly staring into the Northern sky. “I care not about Zofia, but for that and because I won’t see the Painted God rule in Ludr, my decision is made. Is there a third reason Torcal? You were rather vocal afore a minute.”
>
> Torcal scrunched his pale wrinkled face this way and that, glanced at the frowned still standing Roderick, then answered her.
>
> “We have a score to settle wit Steele Red Faye going back decades,” the old warrior rustled and Logan banged his fist on the table getting up. He glared at the other men hard for one long moment and then turned around. Logan walked to the weapon stand and got his mother’s blades out. A straight double-edged sword and a slightly longer blade with an exotic design. Logan cracked the blade a bit out of its sheath and the sound of an otherworldly lament rang inside the longhouse.
>
> Then he snapped it close and tossed the swords to his mother one after the other. Reached over his back, found his old well-used sword and got it out. Glanced at Faye and she nodded solemnly. Logan turned around, flipping the blade in his hand and offered it to him handle first.
>
> Roderick reached and took it, feeling the soft leather at the grip and its weight.
>
> “I’m coming along?” He asked not expecting it and his mother tipped her head back and laughed freely, tears in her eyes.
>
> Logan frowned not expecting it perhaps.
>
> “No son you are not. You are a kingdom my love and this is a dispute between allies. Plus you can’t go to war afore stepping in the circle and you are not allowed to do that,” Red Faye had replied when she came about. “But you need a proper weapon to protect your sister just in case.”
>
> “What about Ralph?” He asked very disappointed.
>
> “Your brother is quite safe with Macrinus,” his mother reminded him still smiling. “Better be on yer best behavior whilst I’m gone.”
----------------------------------------
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Fikumin Flintfoot
Lord Governor of Goras
Monarch’s Shield
First Seat in the King’s Permanent Council
The Monarch’s celebration
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Bodmulir Blunthorn used to say a folk finds his way in the end, or dies thinking he has. Fikumin had left his mountain up north behind to see the world and its wonders. He’d seen some of the realm and witnessed enough of its wonders. Some of the latter he still remembered with a sadness in his heart and perhaps a question mark for the innocent soul he’d buried on a remote slope half a continent away.
Others he’d come to know on a personal level, from the willowy Zilan that had taken a path away from them and the annoying Gish, to the simplicity that was the big-hearted giant Soren. There’s your adventuring crew master Fikumin, he told himself pushing back on the carriage’s leather couch.
Their leader an aloof one, un-learned for a noble scion, uncouth for a knight and prone to criminal thoughts for a hero of old. But also capable and smart, more charming than annoying. Worse kings than him have sat on thrones throughout history.
None of them others had a Wyvern, unless he’d been a Zilan.
Glenavon could make a difference.
If he is kept on a straight noble path and avoids emotional turmoil, or trauma he never handles too well. The latter a deep concern for the worried dwarf.
“Hardir O’ Fardor,” Theron Gravelbrow rustled sitting on the couch across from him. A dwarf from the city of Glorfalc which meant ‘Golden Cleft’ deep in the Nor Maze Heights, bringing him news from Brightos and Rodos Gondobar, the biggest dwarf city in the North, near the human city of Fenford Burg but on the other side of the frozen Iron Valley. Which was where Fikumin had come from.
That coming fall it would be twenty years since he’d left.
“Uhm,” Fikumin nodded with his head, eyes half-closed lost in his thoughts and the carriage traveling fast on the tiled road transporting them to Taras.
“But you knew since the start eh?” Theron insisted stooping forward over his knees, the couch too big for him.
“I didn’t,” Fikumin admitted furrowing his thick brows. “The princess of Wetull favored him and I was inclined to listen.”
“How was she?”
“Tall, very young.”
“I fear tall women,” Theron decided with a grimace. “But I can keep an open mind.”
“The princess is well out of your league Gravelbrow,” Fikumin retorted.
“I wasn’t talking about her highness Lord Flintfoot. Lots of forest spirits in Wetull you’ve said earlier,” Theron argued with a leer. “Perhaps the titles have gotten into your head.”
“Responsibilities are given to those that can shoulder the load,” Fikumin countered.
“There is talk about that,” Theron returned to their previous topic. “Thersin Bonearm and Dorad Onyxminer brought the Crafters Guild’s proposal for a contract with the humans. They have already agreed themselves with a war leader named Lucius Bloody Tiger. For three mines. THREE! Across the open Kas valley. Dwarves are digging there in the open Lord Fikumin!”
“Calm yourself down,” Fikumin grunted. “You need a king’s seal of approval for anything. Bonearm could find himself out of a contract when real authority steps in. Perhaps even in personal danger of reprisals.”
“The Jarl of all Northmen went to war with him. Supports his claim. This Lucius talked him into agreeing to open the borders. Folk are buying property in Kas!”
Fikumin stood back, hands crossed over his chest and the sound of the horses drawing their carriage a distant symphony in the background.
“On what throne?”
“Regia’s hence the tiger part,” Theron replied and laughed pulling at his long black beard with a stubby hand.
“Regia has a king. Bonearm is leading folk astray.”
“Bonearm has a dream to sell and folk love trading and gold. Digging anywhere they want!”
“That would never be an option,” Fikumin stopped him. “Blunthorn should put a stop to that.”
“Blunthorn fears his days are numbered.”
“What would Glorfalc vote for?”
“Everyone hears whispers of the Zilan coming back under new management,” Theron replied. “The world belongs to the first Folk and the spirits of the woods. The humans would have to back down!”
Dangerous musings have gotten in my brethren’s heads, he thought.
“Have you ever met a real Gish? They are Folk as well. They can’t lead anything and I’m not talking about a country here. Just a mere household or a carriage. How about a Ticu? How about we let them run things! Hah! Such words mean nothing Gravelbrow! But they can bring doom to all mountain folk. Working with the sun walkers, or the humans was always a bloody affair. They like to unload their problems on us,” he added gravely.
“I came to ask for your assistance. You helped Brightos out of their mountain, opened Goras to the Folk,” Theron grunted. “We don’t need the Guild’s deals slaving us to their interests I agree. Bonearm isn’t the Jarl of the mountain Folk!”
“THERE’S NO JARL OF THE FOLK! Never has been for thousands of years!” Fikumin blasted him jumping up from his couch irate. “No dwarf shall decree what each city would do. What of the South then? Don’t they have a say? What you speak of needs blood spilt on the rock to make happen. I’ll see no more folk perish.”
“Better to fight than let the Guild take over and talk for all!” Gravelbrow roared. “If Snowguard was still breathing—”
“Snowguard was a fictional dwarf in a plaguing story!” Fikumin blasted him and it pained him to admit it, as he’d grown up reading an Adventurer’s Tale.
“My mother knew him! Saw his statue in Brightos. Tallest dwarf that ever lived!” Theron grunted and jumped down from the couch himself, the wooden floor rattling at his considerable weight.
Fikumin had seen the statue as well, wasn’t that delusional to believe it was on scale.
“Where was she from?”
“Eth Bennoth,” Theron replied. “Was still there when they cut him down in eighty two and the news reached them. The mountains cried!”
“Had Dubrot Snowguard really proposed for someone to step forward and speak for all the Folk?” Fikumin asked not expecting it. Theron was much older than him apparently.
Obviously he’s lived an easier life than you, he thought sourly.
“He meant himself. The south backed his claim as it was expected, the most famous dwarf, a legitimate adventurer, his name in human books! The war drums sounded in the caves of the Four Sisters Mounts! But alas not all saw it the same way.”
“Dwarfs had him killed?”
“Heh, who knows? His claim died with him.”
“No one will support the Crafters.”
“If Blunthorn kicks the bucket and Rodos Gondobar aligns with the dwarfs of Fenford Burg, Glorfalc would have to agree despite many of us not wanting so much power in the hands of Bonearm. The Guild should not dictate policy and what Bonearm did, is taking sides in a conflict that could affect us to that I agree with you. You see the bigger picture, which is why I came to you. You’ve travelled as far as Snowguard Fikumin. The King of Wetull has you govern in his absence!”
“That’s not quite true. What of the South cities?”
Theron shrugged his shoulders. “The dwarves there have a long memory,” he replied. “What of Brightos?”
“You came from there. You tell me,” Fikumin dodged an answer, the letter from Brightos burning his pocket.
“Mmm,” Theron stared outside the window of their carriage. “Everything you’ve told me, I agree with. If we let some greedy merchant, a human warlord, or a Northern Jarl always dictate our future, then we’ll wake up as slaves one day Flintfoot, or worse. We’re one crazy bastard away from extermination and unlike our southern brethren, the humans know where our cities are back home.”
“Jarl David was always kind to the mountain Folk.”
“What of the next one? His daughter rules in Krakenhall now out of her father’s yoke. Will she allow her children to bow afore a new Jarl? Will the next one agree with the old Jarl’s policies? Bonearm wins back home and we’ll have tethered ourselves to one or the other, assuming a third claimant don’t pop out of allhells depths!”
“I’ll speak to the Monarch, if opportunity arises,” Fikumin rustled through his teeth, seeing Taras landmarks appearing out of their window.
“A good moment is around the corner you told me.”
“Aye. A grand celebration after a trying period,” Fikumin had replied and walked out of the door the moment it opened for him.
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Fikumin rode with his escort of guards to Glen’s old estate he’d commandeered after the Monarch had moved his family to Morn Taras. Castellan Metu was waiting for him at the door and rushed his way immediately with the Commander of the City Guards Valentine Horton and Phinariel his assistant in tow.
“Master Fikumin!” Phinariel gushed all flushed in youthful exuberance.
“Lord Shield, there are a mountain of papers waiting for your approval,” Metu said and Horton who got ambushed by the other two just greeted him with a curt short word.
“Milord.”
“Give me a moment,” Fikumin told them and stepped inside the spacious dark hall. “Open a window and find me a plate with something to fill my stomach.”
“I’ll go to the kitchen,” Phinariel offered and sprinted nimbly down the other way of the hall afore he could reply, her short skirt blowing over her long legs.
“By the Maker’s Stones!” Theron grunted ogling his thick-browed eyes. “The length is unnatural!”
“Ahm, greetings mister…” Metu said unsure.
“Gravelbrow! Theron,” Theron barked in a friendly manner glaring at the taller Cofol.
“A fitting surname,” Metu commented, raising a painted finely trimmed brow himself. “You’ll be staying with the Lord Shield?”
“What does he mean?” Theron asked suspiciously and reached for the steel war-hammer on his back.
“He’ll be staying here,” Fikumin intervened to save Metu’s brains from getting splattered all over the lacquered tiles.
“Atju is with the Monarch,” Metu explained.
“We can manage without help,” Fikumin assured him.
“Is there wine in this unsteady building?” Theron asked looking about the tall walls and the ceiling.
“Bring whatever you have at the desk,” Fikumin ordered Metu. “When is the meeting with Lord Garth?”
“Ehm, I haven’t had the time to arrange for one Lord Shield.”
“I asked for it two weeks ago!”
“Hah! You should spend less time painting your toes Metu!” Theron roared with a broad smile.
Fikumin sighed. “You’ve talked to Lord Garth?”
“I get more done talking to that wall!”
Metu is at his breaking point it appears.
“Still you do report to him for the love of Luthos?”
“Every day,” Metu hissed. “He’s under a lot of stress.”
“Lady Sovereign is better?”
“He doesn’t talk about it.”
“I see. The princess?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“Never brings it up.”
“Uhm. Yet the celebration involves them yes?”
“Of course. It is handled by the Zilan of Morn Taras.”
“Be specific,” Fikumin eyed him sternly.
“Kilynia and Rimeros. Two advisors he brought from Lo-Minas,” Metu retorted.
“I shall meet with them.”
“Good luck my Lord.”
“Mister Metu, there’s no luck involved in our work. Trust me to know Luthos better than you. What you need is persistence and a plan to break through to him.”
“Any ideas?”
“Start with something he’s likely to be interested in. In other words, learn to listen and forget about what you knew,” Fikumin replied tiredly and stared at the chair. “Where is my step?”
“Servants took it. I’ll find it,” Metu groaned not believing what he was tasked with.
“I’ll manage,” Fikumin grunted. “But see to it Metu.”
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“What do you mean, Rokae have taken over security?” Fikumin asked Commander Horton over the sounds of the snoring Theron. The dwarf had collapsed on a couch after eating and drinking for three people.
“Zilan under Sir Delmuth and a detachment of Hoplites guard the Castle.”
“Was this Anfalon’s idea?”
“Anfalon actually suggested the opposite. He wants the Hoplites to guard the Monarch on campaign as it was the tradition. Lord Garth split the duties between the two. The Knights guard the citadel and the Hoplites the Castle itself. An Othrim. He also switched two guards Hagen and Razo Musa to his personal detail under Alan Kirk.”
“I know Alan Kirk,” Fikumin replied. “He’s with Glenavon… eh, Lord Garth since Rida. Why the changes? He doesn’t trust the Goras Guard?”
“The matter of Lady Jinx has soured him to them I believe.”
“His wife…” Fikumin stopped to calm himself down. “Lady Sen-Iv had the final say to that and Jinx had maimed an official, not to mention stealing a valuable bird.”
“I think he wanted us to allow Lady Jinx free reign on the matter.”
“Over his wife? What if word got out? We all feared the worst in the middle of a campaign. Is there something we don’t know?”
“I deal with security not gossip. Here is a fact milord. Razo Musa is dead. Not a day after he got reassigned. We got no body but a letter from Morn Taras informing us of his demise.”
Fikumin stood back shocked.
“How did this happen?”
Horton pursed his mouth and grunted. “I have no idea milord.”
“Who was with him?”
“Lord Garth, a Zilan named Berthas from Lo-Minas, Soletha and his brother Hagen.”
“Where was this? When?”
“At the falls, on the northeast side of the lake. The day after he returned.”
“There’s nothing there Horton.”
“Still isn’t milord, but the Wyvern leveled the forest and burned the ground. We barely stopped the flames afore the hunting logs. In the middle of the night.”
“What was the Monarch doing there?” Fikumin asked.
“Nobody knows.”
“Is Aenymriel around?”
“Haven’t seen her. She’s probably with the last of the army.”
“Jinx?”
“Lady Jinx hasn’t returned to her estate.”
“Metu,” Fikumin said at the returning with his step stool Castellan. “What have we learned about Lady Sen’s condition?”
“Other than that she lost the baby?”
“Aye,” Fikumin grunted.
“She’s unwell.”
“You have people in the Palace?”
“The Kitchen Lord Shield. I know the slaves there.”
“He’s still having slaves in the palace?”
“You expect Lady Sen-Iv to run out?” Metu asked a little surprised. “The Sopat have built a small town near their mines at the Opal Mountains and the Levai River for their crews. The last time I was in Levai Mines as they call it, a mere teenager, it had over twenty thousand slaves living there. The village, not Lai Zel-Ka.”
“Anything else of note?” Fikumin grunted and stared at the stack of papers in front of him.
“The Princess painted her hair red.”
“The… you mean her mother. Seriously, the child? Why? How old is she now? Is this a… ritual or something they favor in the Peninsula?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I haven’t the courage to ask directly. It will be wise to pretend we see nothing out of the ordinary during the festivities,” Metu replied. “What about the transports?” He asked to change the subject.
“I asked for compensation from the Bank of Trust. The ships were operating under lease from them. The Wine Barons have no port of their own. We could agree on how to split the market, but they don’t seem to take us seriously.”
“Lord Garth want us to retaliate.”
“As in ask the pirates to raid Lesia ships? I have reports that we had an incident already,” Fikumin murmured and then seeing Metu’s expression paused. “What? Are you serious? He said that?”
“He did Lord Shield. The Marquette is lost by the way and Captain Vale sails a Galleass in its stead.”
“What is that?”
“I have no idea. But it’s a huge warship according to witnesses,” Metu replied. Fikumin glanced at Horton and he shrugged his broad shoulders, himself an infantry man through and through.
“Get me a horse, or a carriage,” he decided. “I’m going to Morn Taras.”
“He won’t let you in without an appointment.”
Fikumin glared at him frustrated. “Have you lost your mind? I’m the Lord Shield!”
His roar had woken up Theron and stopped his snoring.
“That’s the finest tunnel I’ve ever seen in a hundred years,” the still sleepy dwarf commended staring at the mirrors on the ceiling. “Excellent work master Flintfoot. I salute you.”
“You’re inside a Zilan building,” Fikumin informed him with a grunt and turned to Horton. “Keep him here. Get my orders to the City Guard. I know the plan is for everyone to go to Morn Taras but still we need to keep the city and the port safe. That means no more fires in the middle of the night.”
“By the Maker’s steel rod!” A shocked Theron gasped getting up, wild hair and beard a tangled mess. “You’re god darn right Flintfoot! Hah-ha!”
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The solemn white-silver mask of the clad in the intricate engraved armour Zilan stared at him in deafening silence, towering over the frustrated dwarf.
“I’d like to see Lord Garth,” he repeated louder this time.
He turned to the Hoplite that had escorted him to the entrance of the Citadel. Morn Taras’ towers still haven’t finished construction and much of the yard’s internal buildings, but the main structure was almost complete.
“Lyceron what is this?”
“That’s Nuvian,” Lyceron started and the Rokae snorted angry glaring at him. “Eh, Qildor. Apologies for the mix up sir Qildor. I can’t tell you apart with the mask on, but that guttural rumble helped,” Lyceron jested but the solemn Rokae didn’t appear sympathetic to his humor. “Lord Suraer runs a tight ship… stable, eh. Not a funny bone on them hence the look.”
“The Monarch is busy,” Qildor informed them in a hollow voice. “Come back after the festival.”
“Are you serious?” Fikumin roared. “Get me Alan Kirk.”
“For what purpose?”
“Can I go get him?” Lyceron asked.
“Not without permission.”
“Open the god darn door!” Fikumin grunted. “That’s an order Sir Qildor! I’m a member of the Council and the Monarch’s Shield!”
The doors opened behind the Rokae and a tall Zilan, also wearing an elaborate armor and that ridiculous mask stepped outside.
“Lord Fikumin?”
“Aye,” Fikumin grunted irate. “No other dwarf serves in the blasted administration!”
“Hmm,” the second Rokae murmured and stared at the grinning Lyceron. “The disheveled Hoplite stays. Lord Shield, you may come inside.”
“What? Hey, can I come in also? Come on!” Lyceron probed while Fikumin marched fuming pushing aside the tall knights. “I want to see the little princess.”
“You’ll never see the princess if you stay on this behavior,” Sir Delmuth informed him austerely. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Wow, what’s with the unfriendly attitude? A handsome face needs no mask—” Lyceron was heard protesting afore Delmuth slammed the doors closed.
Fikumin paused to orientate himself, as the massive long hall leading to the black polished granite throne platform was shockingly spacious. The black massive columns right and left poorly lit and the general atmosphere an oppressive semi-darkness that left the illuminated with several lightstone staffs throne at the distance shine ominously.
“I want no escort,” he grunted at the silent Rokae and Sir Delmuth replied unemotionally.
“None will be provided.”
Luthos give patience, Fikumin prayed inwardly and started down the long hall.
----------------------------------------
A disturbingly tall Zilan female with a long neck and a face resembling that of an exotic bird’s, wearing a multicolored dress with many layers of lace rushed to meet Fikumin the moment he emerged from the darkness.
“Who is this short person?” she screamed, at least that was what Fikumin thought until he realized it was her natural voice. When she got a little excited that is.
“Lady Kilynia?” he chanced looking at the unknown Zilan female.
“Yes? Who am I speaking to?”
“Lord Shield, Fikumin Flintfoot,” he replied mustering all his patience, but quickly running out. He looked behind her at the black throne and the sitting sideways with his legs on the armrest King of Wetull. “You think this is funny my Lord?” Fikumin asked.
“Not really,” Glen replied. “Kilynia leave us.”
“Celebrated Monarch, the mountain Folk are devious creatures,” Kilynia said and glanced at him apologetically. “You know it’s the accepted reality.”
“Not where I’m from,” Fikumin grunted.
“Leave us,” Glen repeated sternly.
They watched her walk away frustrated for a few moments and disappear inside the dark hall.
Fikumin then turned and approached the stairs leading to the throne. “Are you going to come down of it?”
Glen pointed at a rare lit column. A table was visible behind it. “Meet you there. Everything we say on the podium is heard down the hall. Voron’s special design. I would have changed him, but the damage is done.”
Fikumin walked to the table murmuring under his breath and pulling at his beard with a hand. Climbed on the chair with difficulty and went to grasp for a goblet and a bottle of Goras wine, but realized he couldn’t. Glen reached him a moment later and got the bottle. Opened it with his teeth, spat the cork on table and poured them two goblets of red wine.
“What’s the matter with you?” Fikumin asked grabbing at the goblet. “Have you lost your mind?”
“My son is dead,” Glen replied taking a sip from his wine. His voice calm but his demeanor tensed. “Sen is unwell to put it mildly.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but this… what are you doing Glenavon?”
“Jinx tried to warn me, you locked her up instead.”
“It was Sen’s order, I couldn’t overrule it.”
“You could have informed me.”
“You were months away.”
“I had the means to return.”
“And do what? Prevent a bad pregnancy? Glenavon, this… it happened and no one believed you could come back in time. What about the campaign?”
Glen sat on the edge of the table and stared at the dark hall for a moment. “Lord Suraer wasn’t going to fight. Rothomir caused as much damage as he could of course. But the campaign was pointless, given the loss.”
“You don’t believe that. You sit on a throne,” Fikumin paused and then placed the goblet on the table. “What is going on Glenavon? You were like that when you found out about Lithoniela.”
“Like what?”
“Rattled. Angry…”
“I should be happy? Celebrate?”
“You are hosting a celebration for all of Goras.”
“I have to,” Glen replied bitterly. “I need to do something pleasant.”
“I understand.”
“No you don’t,” Glen argued and stood up. He grimaced and walked a couple of meters, before coming back to stare at him feverishly.
“I have lost people as well Glenavon,” Fikumin told him. “It’s not easy. It never is. It won’t go away, but you can’t allow it to consume you. No one is to blame.”
“A witch did it. Someone is always to blame,” Glen murmured. “I shouldn’t… eh, very few people know. But no one can offer me help on this.”
“Does Jinx know?”
“I can’t tell her. She’ll get upset and it affects me. But she suspects something is off. I’m afraid she’s going to figure it out and then it’ll be difficult.”
Fikumin stared at his goblet. “Jinx would never betray a secret, not if it hurts you.”
“It’ll be difficult for her to pretend. Her grief is loud and in the open,” Glen murmured. “But we have a deal me and her. Two kids from the isles would never betray each other, I know that.”
“What happened to Razo Musa?” Fikumin asked evenly.
“The curse just wouldn’t die,” Glen said with a deep weary sigh. “Fucking old bitch, I should have leveled that village. Never gone inside that square.”
“What village?” Fikumin asked. “I haven’t read the report yet.”
“I’m holding it back,” Glen replied. “It needs work. Snakeville.”
“That’s a name that won’t bring in many tourists,” Fikumin jested.
“Yeah, plaguing place,” Glen agreed. “A horror show from Pelleas.”
“The Witch was there?”
“A fucking Sibyl. A half-dead deranged sorceress they plucked out of a fucking tomb!” Glen grunted breathing heavy. “I walked in there. Amidst their graves.”
“The tomb?”
“To find her, stop her,” he explained.
“You knew?”
“I suspected… eh, all along something didn’t sit well wit me,” Glen murmured. “But I didn’t know. Didn’t want to believe she’ll go there. Who does that?”
“What did she do?” Fikumin asked calmly and reached for his goblet. He needed something for his dry mouth. He noticed a series of stands further behind the table half hidden in the semi-darkness. Many paintings from Eilven’s skillful hand, judging by the realism and the quality of the colors. Some unfinished, but others already in their expensive gold and silver frames. All had the same subject. A single person depicted in them.
Fikumin turned his attention on Glen’s words with his heart heavy.
“A curse Soletha believes. Berthas… a young mage, tried to lift it, but it fucked him up. Killed Razo.”
“That happened afterwards. What of the baby?”
“It killed… made a monster of it.”
Eventually magic would touch them. It was what Fikumin feared the most. Yes the wyvern was on their side, but magic fought against them in the past. Magic. He remembered Grogoceq years back dissolve in thin air, heard the sound of hammers smashing flesh and bones to make sure his constructs remained dead. His stomach turned and Fikumin felt sick.
“It was horrible,” Glen murmured sounding haunted. “I see it in my sleep and she… I can’t bridge… balance what she feels for it with my disgust and fear. Sen wishes… to mourn what was taken from her and I don’t want to even remember it. How do I explain it? Then… eh,” he stopped clenching his jaw.
“Then what?” Fikumin croaked trying to gather his wits. “Sen will recover right?”
“Soletha does all she can. It’s a powerful curse Fiku,” Glen croaked. “Way out of everyone’s league.”
Fikumin nodded. “So you changed security. Put the Zilan around the palace to stop the word from spreading. How bad is she?”
“Nobody that is aware can tell me whether she’ll recover or not. They just don’t know and I can’t exactly ask around openly. She reaches a point, like someone struggling up a steep slope and then tumbles back down. One day,” Glen said with difficulty. “She might not have the power to get up and try again. What am I to do then?”
You’ll mourn. Then you’ll move on, for your daughter.
But Glen wasn’t ready to hear that yet.
“How many know of it?” He asked him instead.
“You and me. Berthas. Soletha. Some of her people, but not the whole story so it’s not the same. Voldomir.”
“The priest.”
“Uhm.”
“Does she know?”
“She learned,” Glen said. “From Angrein.”
“The Blacksmith,” Fikumin said and he stared at his goblet. This didn’t make sense. “I understand the priest Glenavon. Why would you tell him though?”
Glen looked at him over the table.
“It doesn’t… do dwarves deal with elixirs?”
“You know we do. But Soletha makes excellent potions. I’m an amateur compared to her,” Fikumin replied.
“Ever heard of the Saereg?”
“No. What does it do? That sounds like a Zilan word. Write it down.”
Glen searched his pockets and gave him a small scroll with a female Zilan’s intricate script on it.
“It looks like the word for blood, with the letter ‘a’ added. What does it stand for? They use this marking for potions. It’s an alchemist’s codex more I’d say than a wizard’s. They just use a different name. Most times made up.”
Glen got his dagger out and tossed it on the table. Fikumin stared at the vicious magical weapon apprehensively. He touched it with a finger, felt it cold under his skin. The surface glassy, but it was made out of Wyvern’s talon.
Fikumin knew that.
Ah.
“Aniculo sereg,” he murmured. “Dragon blood. No dwarf has walked down those paths Glenavon. Very few Zilan also. Is it a cure? You can’t break a curse with a potion, but I could be mistaken.”
“You could partially,” Glen replied and puffed his cheeks out. “But you need to fortify yourself afore the curse is cast.”
“Glen you have a Wyvern you can talk to,” Fikumin said tiredly not liking the roads his despair was leading him. Unless there was something else going on and Glen was keeping it from everyone. “If its blood can break the curse, he’d know. Or I hope he would.”
“I asked,” Glen murmured.
“You didn’t like the answer.”
“No,” Glen said with a grimace. “I didn’t.”
Fikumin climbed down from the chair. “I need to see you in a Council meeting,” he told him. “Find the time, but we can leave it for after the celebration, unless you can do it.”
“Emerson fights for the Sopat in the Peninsula,” Glen said evenly. “Put that in your agenda. We might have to help out.”
Fikumin furrowed his brows unsure, but then nodded. Went to walk away but paused. “You don’t mean… you are talking of materiel, foodstuff and so forth right?”
“Let’s discuss it in the meeting,” Glen stopped him.
“Right,” Fikumin said and turned to head for the exit, but stopped a couple of strides later and turned around to look at Glen. He was standing at the edge of the table again and had a strange expression on his face.
Fikumin hadn’t seen it afore.
“Glenavon,” he started, but Glen stopped him raising a hand, as if he knew in advance what Fikumin was going to ask. Expecting it, or fearing it.
“Don’t,” the Lord of Morn Taras urged him sternly. “That’s enough Fiku. Walk away now.”
Fikumin had nodded and walked out of the Citadel’s Hall for real this time, his query left unvoiced.
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Metu who had stayed with the Hoplites at the castle’s external west gates saw his troubled face and started huffing and puffing all stressed out.
“He fired you?”
“No he didn’t,” Fikumin replied and climbed the few stairs to get inside the carriage. He banged a fist on the wall for the driver to get them going.
Metu sat opposite him and looked nervously at his nicely ironed orange robes. The Cofol’s fashion sense rather exotic even in Goras.
“Learned anything?” He asked finally ten minutes later.
“I want to speak to Angrein, the Blacksmith,” Fikumin replied. “Arrange it without raising suspicion. Use one of our own people to do it.”
“What about?”
Fikumin eyed him austerely. “You don’t need to know,” he said in a warning tone. “I mean it Metu. Not a word to anyone.”
“As you wish, my Lord Shield,” Metu replied dutifully and bowed his head. “Is the monarch’s celebration still on for tomorrow?”
The meaning quite different from what he’d originally envisioned.
“It is,” Fikumin replied gruffly and stared in the Castellan’s painted face with dark demanding eyes. “Metu if this gets out I’ll know it came from you. This is the only warning you’ll get. I’m a North Mountain dwarf, we mean what we say and we’re unforgiving. Broke into pieces the skull of a sweet girl I really liked once, because there was no other way. Used an old war-hammer to do it. I still have that weapon. Don’t force me to use it again.”
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