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Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Wetull
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
A day in Goras
Part II
-Blood Kin, chapter II-
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/k4ygkkx2/Taras-and-Goras-map.png]
Un-fuckin-believable!
Glen watched the two sweaty Lorians sipping at his wine having trouble breathing under the mask. Well, one of them sipped at it really… that would be the one with the smashed up face and bandaged arm. The Duke of Aegium apparently. Wherever in Luthos’ low-hanging balls that is!
First duke Glen had ever seen wearing old dirty clothes with plenty of manure smeared on them and the general looks of a vagrant that had recently been mugged by the side of the road.
The other dude just glugged the wine down either too thirsty and in urgent need for fluids or just another raging alcoholic stumbling upon a drink after a long dry spell.
Jinx was sort of like that so Glen low-key respected the habit.
Truth be told he couldn’t pay too much attention to them as his mind was on the missing wyvern’s egg.
The important stuff.
Talk about stepping into a bucket of rotting worms just out of bed, the foot slipping under the bed and then slam your forehead on the tiled floor.
That’ll knock the sleep out of yer system!
Or knock you out period.
Yeah.
Un-fuckin-believable.
That oblivious Ticu is running about with a gold egg in her arms thinking it’s hers or some shite, licking, rubbing or whatever the allhells Ticu do when they are in heat, Glen thought grinding his teeth and sweating like a drunk motherfucker since the darn mask felt tighter now than what it did when he had first put it on.
“It’s a fine wine your grace,” Doris commented finally as if he knew what he was talking about. “Not too sweet and with the right hint of bitter. A spicy quality in it, carnal dare I say. It’ll be a hit during Bacchanalia.”
Glen frowned not certain where the mugged fool was heading with this.
The fool’s partner blinked pursing his mouth. The man’s yellow collar had turned darker from over-sweating. He isn’t fat and it is a cool day so it must be the wine. They both had long tunics on and Lorian-type leather sandals.
“It has a certain character,” Laius added and Doris nodded in agreement.
“It’s named after my daughter,” Glen grunted, this over-analyzing not his kind of plate and Doris grimaced.
“Oh… gods. Apologies your excellency,” Laius blurted out.
“What for?”
“No reason,” Laius replied in a low voice.
Hmm.
“It sells,” Glen continued eyeing them both unsure. “So that’s what matters.”
“Ah yes,” Doris agreed in a friendly manner. “Aegium has its own wine.”
“What is it like?”
“Your wine is better my Lord,” Laius assured him and Glen stood back pleased. They were getting somewhere finally.
Good.
“Why does…” Glen started pausing to stare at Rimeros who had received a report from a Zilan courtier he’d brought in. “The Duke of Aegium want asylum… excuse me for a moment.” He said. “Grab a chair friends and have another goblet whilst I check on some stuff.”
“It’s really no…” Doris started saying with the ogling Laius pulling at his left sleeve to stop him from talking but it wasn’t important as the preoccupied Glen had already left them back and had walked away towards the two Zilan.
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Not long after Glen marched out of the citadel with Hagen hurrying after him. They stopped on the patio just after the entrance, the bare grounds needed some work done still and Glen looked at the sky. Uvrycres was circling over the castle grounds twirling one way and then the other.
“The Wyvern sire,” one of the Zilan Knights reported. Either Qildor’s friend Sontaer or Qildor himself. Their armours had similar insignia and you couldn’t tell them apart with the silver mask on.
“I see it Sir Sontaer.”
“It’s Sir Nyvorlas Hardir.”
Eh, there’s him also.
“I saw the… bird and thought it was him,” Glen admitted.
“Sontaer’s Widowbird has three feathers on its tail Hardir.” Nyvorlas elucidated on the differences of their crests. You needed Zilan eyes to spot them as they were the size of an eye patch.
For kids.
“Right. See to fix it up Nyvorlas.”
“I shall attempt it Hardir.”
Glen glanced at the sky. “How long has he been up there?”
“Half an hour Hardir.”
“Empty the yard so he could land.”
“Ehm, there’s sufficient room Hardir,” Sir Nyvorlas argued.
“Make the call mate,” Hagen counseled him. “The wyvern needs a lot of space.”
Uvrycres just flatly refused to work on his landings seeing nothing wrong in them.
“What he said,” Glen agreed with a nod and started adjusting the harness’ leather straps on his shoulders but stopped. “You know what? I’ll just wait for the saddle.”
“A saddle milord?” Hagen asked with a frown.
“Laedan promised to find me one.” Glen explained with a last peek at the ‘dancing’ wyvern. “I’ve been thinking lately Hagen that riding raw isn’t safe for people in my age group. You take a nasty fall and break something valuable… aye. Then you are fucked.”
“What age be that milord?” Hagen asked. He was older than Glen by three years.
“You know what? Forget I said that,” Glen sighed. “It just ain’t safe. I’ve a kid to raise.”
“Yes milord.”
Speaking of the princess…
“Anyone checked on Inis this morning?”
“Maeriel is out searching,” Hagen replied. “Lady Kilynia did though.”
“Hmm.” Glen murmured thoughtfully and stared at the disheveled bodyguard. Hagen had fallen asleep on a bench behind the throne last night. Glen had dispatched Hesam and Samak to aid with the search, which had forced Hagen to work all the shifts until he collapsed from tiredness.
He still looked dead-tired but there was no one else trustworthy enough to keep close.
Hagen blinked seeing Glen’s persistent silent stare behind the mask.
“Milord wants to use the horse,” the bodyguard finally said.
“Ayup,” Glen deadpanned. “So you get to race to the stables and bring it here friend. Chop-chop.”
The latter one of Flix’s favorite expressions. The thought of the old Gish a little sad given that he has probably kicked the bucket by now. Flix didn’t look like he had a year left in him and it was already three years later.
Hagen almost went to meet the late Gish in the great beyond, tripping himself up whilst climbing down the forty over a meter-wide steps Voron had installed at the base of the pyramid. Hagen plunged over ten of them with arms thrashing but landed on his feet right at the mid-way point of the stairs and despite faltering wildly for a long moment he managed to find his footing under the gawping horrified eyes of Glen and the gates sentinels.
“I’m fine sire!” A heavy breathing Hagen croaked whilst doubled over and grabbing at his shaking knees. The numb Glen nodded and then raised his arm to give him an encouraging thumbs up.
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The two of them rode out of Morn Taras following the wyvern that turned around and headed to the southeast over Taras Lake. Upon reaching the town they had to slow down due to the heavy traffic of that morning. Citizens and visitors were out perusing the market or strolling towards the shores. Glen brought Outlaw to a halt the moment they reached the lake road passing by the north side of the tiled main square and waited for the wyvern to reappear in the sky.
“You are alright there Hagen?” He asked the silent bodyguard turning on the saddle.
“Just a bit shaken milord,” Hagen replied. “That’s Sir Kirk riding here,” he added pointing with his arm at a group of riders that slowly navigated the crowd to approach the Monarch. A lot of locals had halted their businesses to gawk at Glen or draw the foreign travelers’ attention to him.
“Greetings Hardir! How is it hanging?” An inebriated Zilan called from one of the taverns’ tables, either an early starter or a very late patron from the previous night.
The latter expression the same Glen had famously used to greet the arriving Lord Suraer during the last Valimae Lilt. Since neither Glen nor Suraer were dancers of any import they then got to spend time imbibing liquor and wine on their stand and watch the foolishness unfolding in the company of Inis-Mir.
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> The visiting austere Lord Suraer had been quite taken by the coquettish, very playful that evening Wetull princess even allowing gilded Inis-Mir to watch the dancers from his shoulders at some point. The imperial table’s casual socializing closely monitored by the shamelessly eavesdropping many Zilan bystanders or visitors who craved to catch a glimpse of the mysterious ruler from up close. It had birthed a number of ‘phrases’ and ‘mannerisms’ heavily influenced by Arguen Garth’s supposed words or actions. For as the Monarch or his daughter behaved, thus Taras behaved also but for the dancing. The latter you had to see with your own eyes to believe it.
-
A frustrated Glen waved an arm to get the crowd moving out of their way and dozens of arms were raised to wave back at him mistaking his gesture. Captain Horton had to march a patrol inside the square to unblock their path and Sir Kirk found the opportunity to report on their search.
“There’s no sign of Assara sire,” Alan said in his muffled voice. “We have difficulty convincing people a Ticu is roaming the city.”
“Uvrycres found her,” Glen grunted and pointed at the wyvern circling over the distant east side of Taras Lake. He’d decreed that the place was off limits for all since the ‘thing’ had tried to killed them. The order helped by one of Kilynia’s suggestions who thought the spot ‘a natural habitat for endangered local bird species.’ It was a god darn impressive argument Glen had used with enthusiasm in his written diktat. That is Vulreon had, the Monarch just provided the words and the inspiration. While he could scribble a couple of sentences together and catch the general meaning of the intricate imperial script, working the quill gave Glen’s fingers the cramps. Now Inis, she could create every known hieroglyph with ease and make it pretty or add color to it. Her writings turning into small pictures.
“Ah,” Hagen grunted not happy with a visit to the place.
Glen wasn’t happy also but they needed to get the darn egg back.
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An hour later they had reached the woody area by the lake without encountering anyone for a while especially after they had left the town of Taras behind them. The wyvern had landed near the banks of the lake and was now busy whipping at the surface with its long tale very engrossed in the little game.
The terrain was relatively barren here, the rocky ground flattened and gleaming in the sun near the opening with no serious vegetation growing for a couple of hundred meters. Some of Kilynia’s birds were circling above their heads or attempted daring landings on the lake’s surface keeping away from the large wyvern.
“Wait here,’ Glen ordered Hagen and Sir Alan Kirk. “I’ll speak to the wyvern.”
“Aye milord,” the still sleepy Hagen murmured from the saddle.
“What is this place?” Kirk wondered whilst Glen walked towards the preoccupied with his game Uvrycres.
“I don’t want to remember it,” Hagen admitted sounding haunted and Glen paused to look back at the two men.
“There’s nothing to remember,” he warned the bodyguard and Hagen nodded sadly.
“Aye milord.”
Glen grimaced and reached the large wyvern, carefully stepping on the mud-covered slick glassy rock.
“Are you whistling?” He asked coming to stand two meters away not to get impaled by the scaly stinger that plunged in the waters abruptly at regular intervals.
‘It’s a summoning spell.’
“Summoning…” Glen murmured narrowing his eyes and the sharp stinger came back splashing water over him and Uvrycres, a hefty fish –probably a sturgeon- now nailed on it. “Are you fishing?”
Uvrycres turned his monstrous horned head around, black teeth crunching audibly at the fish and pieces of guts, flesh and bloody scales dropping. The wyvern brought the twenty kilos fish that still shuddered whilst skewered right behind its neck between them.
Then the wyvern burped and Glen almost threw up in his mouth. He raised his hand and removed the metal mask to avoid drowning in his own vomit.
“That’s disgusting,” he grunted.
‘Have you seen a Zilan eat?’
“Of course.”
‘Outside of your presence?’
Glen pursed his mouth and eyed the quiet waters of the lake. “Where is she?”
‘She swims here regularly. Usually sleeps in the mornings but she’ll come out soon for a snack. This is good food.’
Glen wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand. “Is the egg around?”
‘Mmm.’
“What does this mean? The humming?” Glen snapped in frustration turning to look at the grinning wyvern.
‘I told you it never left the city. City… eh, it’s a convoluted mess. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
“It was Voron’s plans mostly.” Glen deadpanned, promptly tossing Voron under the proverbial wagon’s wheels.
‘Why would you listen to an idiot? I can give you much better ideas.’
“Yeah, you can’t have Taras Uvry,” Glen argued with frown.
‘Why? It’s a nice flat space with water at the near. Lovely view of the mountains.’
“There are people living in it, houses we can’t demolish for no reason. You can stay in Morn Taras.”
‘I don’t like the roof. It’s difficult to land in the dark.’
Glen clenched his jaw.
“Uvry where is the egg?”
‘Around.’
Fuck’s sake, Glen cursed in frustration and noticed the stinger with the thrashing sturgeon now stood empty but for the gore dripping from it.
‘Hmm. Interesting,’ the wyvern murmured.
The both turned their heads back and saw Assara chomping at the dead fish with enthusiasm about five meters away.
“Milord,” Hagen was heard from further back having spotted the naked Ticu as well and Sir Kirk who had dismounted immediately unsheathed his sword to approach them.
“Stay back,” Glen ordered the knight and extended an arm to stop Uvrycres from leaping on the Ticu. With Glen standing so close to the wyvern, he was in danger of getting flattened or trampled under the large winged beast if it turned around.
“Dead food tastes bad,” the green-skinned Assara commented between huge bites, her eyes black like the fish’s. Nipples a darker green and soaked scales covering parts of her arms. Most of her legs to the meaty hips as well.
Stolen story; please report.
Whisper, what in Luthos’ hairy arsehole have you brought back girl?
“Listen… friend,” Glen started and made a forward step, eyes peeled on the Ticu. Assara swallowed and took another colossal bite that split the sturgeon in two pieces. The heavy fish appearing huge in her thin arms but she kept a hold on both pieces with ease. “I want the egg back.”
Assara blinked and the wyvern slowly turned around. Standing as he was so close to the water and on glassy rocky terrain basically, Uvrycres’ claws and heavy limbs made a lot of noise despite his efforts to be quiet. The leathery wings gathering around its body sounding like a ship’s sails slapping at the masts.
Glen took another large step forward getting between the wyvern and the aloof Ticu.
“The gold egg,” the Monarch elucidated since he didn’t know if the Ticu had more gathered for whatever reason. “It’s not food.”
Assara dropped the leftover pieces of fish down one after the other, her black alien eyes had no irises but there was some allure in the creature Glen had to begrudgingly admit. She was very pretty if one could set aside some of the disturbing details as an astounded Hagen pointed out from afar.
“That’s a lot of green tit milord.”
Glen all but rolled his eyes.
“Bad wyvern,” Assara hissed and Uvrycres growled behind Glen.
“Stand back!” Glen snapped and took another step forward coming almost face to face with the Ticu. “Where is the egg Assara? It doesn’t belong to you.”
Assara blinked and reached with a bloody hand to touch his face. Glen tensed up, right hand dropping to his sword handle instinctively but his gut told him to remain still.
Her fingers felt slicky to the touch. Like the skin of a fish in a sense. Cold and creepy but also curious.
“Not yours,” the Ticu sang and Glen felt a tingling running up his cheek to the ear. “He knows,” she whispered and retracted her fingers, the strange feeling gone.
Glen licked his lips slowly and the Ticu turned into a lovely girl in front of him. The scales dissolving into her skin, face mellowing up and the color turning from the sickly green to a pale white.
“Goddess’ goodness,” Hagen gasped very impressed or aroused.
“You don’t have it,” Glen grunted, a tick appearing on the side of his face. It replaced the strange tingling. “What in the allhells is going on here?” He bellowed tipping his head back in righteous frustration and the Ticu clacked her teeth scared and leaped six meters away turning back into a mermaid thingy.
“Sire!” Sir Kirk shouted as he’d approached while Glen was talking with Assara. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” Glen snapped and extended his arms outwards and away from his weapons. The left hand still holding Naos’ metal mask. “Who took the egg Assara? I just want to know,” he asked the staring at them warily Ticu.
Uvrycres’ scales rustled behind him, the wyvern raising on its powerful hind legs menacingly and its oppressive aura expanding out. The hairs on Glen’s arms and nape raised and heavy static electricity crackling all about them. Glen clenched his jaw and hissed through snarling teeth without leaving sight of the Ticu. “Stand down gods damn it!”
Or what? The Wyvern retorted aggressively looming behind him.
“Assara?” A tensed Glen asked hoarsely and the Ticu rapidly blinked her soulless eyes twice afore replying.
“The youngling.”
> A daughter thou shall have, the crazy Seer had told him many years back in Merchant’s Triage. But it shall be only half yours.
Glen marched through the doors of his hall and headed for a side door that would you have allowed him to use the second staircase but Rimeros tackled the sober Monarch just before the narrower set of steps.
“I’m in the middle of something,” Glen rustled pushing the startled at his response Zilan palace official out of his path.
“Hardir,” Rimeros called to his back. “What about the Lorians?”
Glen paused with a hand resting at the stone rails. “What about them?”
“They are still inside the main hall.”
Right. He’d forgotten about them.
“Keep them there. Feed them.”
“Ehm… for how long Hardir?”
“I don’t know. However long it takes. Can’t you handle it?” Glen grunted very frustrated. Rimeros bowed his head.
“I shall make certain they don’t leave the room Hardir.” He assured the already moving up the stairs Glen.
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The wild-eyed Glen marched down the west side corridor, reached the half floor that showed part of the illuminated throne room ten meters underneath it and headed for the other side of the Castle where their bedrooms were located.
Kilynia stopped talking with Sir Qildor, the senior Rokae was on a break between shifts with Sir Nuvian guarding the princess’ door now that Maeriel was busy searching for the gold egg. She turned to speak but Glen mumbled something incoherent through the mask and rushed past them.
Sir Nuvian nodded at the Monarch but got no response at all as Glen cracked the door open and went inside Inis-Mir’s lavish bedroom. It was basically two rooms connected, a boudoir leading to a big bedchamber. Her quarters connected with Sen’s that were located on the northeast corner of the citadel, with Glen’s also linked personal quarters built on the other corner, the southeast.
His daughter was in the antechamber, standing before a large canvas with a painting brush in her small hand. Inis had a red short tunic on, her tiny feet sunk into the thick yellow carpet and those rich claret hair gathered at the top of her head. She was adding color to a pencil drawing that showed a gorgeous meadow leading to a marble-adorned water spring in its background. A woman resting on the short bench afore it in the distance, but clearly visible. At the foreground a couple walked towards the lonely woman. They had their backs turned and the second female, standing tall and with long hair reaching her tailbone, was holding the male’s right arm leaning on him intimately as they strolled.
A peaceful scene that meant nothing to Glen and couldn’t understand what it represented. He walked near the quiet girl but stopped to remove his Horned Crown helm and place it on a short cabinet. Glen rubbed his forehead with two gloved fingers and then smacked his lips annoyed with the girl ignoring him.
“I’m busy,” Inis-Mir said without turning to greet him and Glen stared at the back of her nicely-combed head irritated.
“What are you fashioning there?” The Monarch grunted scrunching his mouth this way and that. “What is this?”
“Just a scene of things to be,” Inis-Mir explained solemnly and tapped with the thin brush at the lonely woman waiting by the water-spring. “That’s mum.” Glen grimaced, a severe tick marring the Monarch’s tanned face and he let out a strained gasp not expecting her answer. “This is you I think daddy and the other woman.” Inis-Mir added and turned to look at him with those opal irises, turning opaque but filled with red and orange reflections that sparkled in the light coming from the two massive secured with iron bars windows. More red in there than gold or Sen’s white.
Rubicund.
Her words a punch to the gut.
“Stupid dreams mean nothing,” Glen rustled hoarsely. “We talked of this afore.”
“It’s not a dream,” Inis-Mir argued. “And it’s not mine.”
Glen clenched his jaw and reached with his arm over the girl’s head to grab the canvas upper left corner. He ripped it off the stand and then crumbled it in his hands angrily. With a grunt he tossed it inside the fireplace. The still warm night coals started smoking, the paper unfolding and the characters in it blackening and dissolving even before a small flame erupted to consume the painting.
“Enough wit all the foolishness!” He told her and Inis-Mir’s pretty face flushed red. “You are not to speak about any of this with anyone. Nor spread gossip on your father girl.” He warned the seething princess.
“You’re bedding mother’s slave,” Inis-Mir hissed accusingly. “It’s not gossip if it’s true.”
Glen stood back shocked at her tone. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he rustled raspingly through his teeth.
“Is this why you didn’t help mum?” She spat not backing down. “You had another? How could—?” A furious Glen’s hand had grabbed the girl’s tunic flared collar in a clenched fist cutting her words short but he immediately let go of the thin fabric and backed away.
Inis-Mir didn’t. She followed after him and leaped on her father in a manic assault. Glen grabbed her small waist but the girl repeatedly smacked him in the face with both hands whilst screaming incoherently. Glen walked towards a divan receiving blows to the face from the small hands that had a lot of strength behind them. He tossed the screaming girl on it and used both arms to secure her flaying limbs, overpowering the reeling princess.
“For the love of gods,” Glen grunted hoarsely. “Please stop. I love you more than anything in the world.”
“What about mum?” Inis cried out in impotent frustration, tears welling in her eyes.
“Your mother is dead,” a dark-faced Glen croaked harshly and got off of her to step back a couple of feet. “You don’t know… how much it hurts to hear this from your lips. You have no idea what we had or what it felt losing her. Ah, curse it all to hells.” He muttered and glanced at the thankfully closed door behind him.
Glen heard Inis-Mir getting up from the divan but didn’t look at her. He rubbed his flushed face, feeling some of the blows still and puffed out trying to recover his wits.
“Grown up people try to fill a void, not replace what’s missing.” He finally said. “You just can’t do it. Don’t ever attempt it.”
“You don’t believe that,” she said sniffling.
Yeah.
“I don’t. But I’m flawed Inis, you are better than me.” Glen replied. “You take after yer mother and she was a different person.”
“I take after you!” Inis retorted with a stubborn pout and wiped her swollen eyes. “You’re the King of all Kings. What you want, you take. I’ve wyvern’s blood. Nothing is beyond my reach.”
Glen pursed his mouth and walked near her. He knelt in front of the shaking princess’ small frame and took her small quivering hands in his. “Some things I can’t do and not for lack of trying baby girl. Same goes for you or Uvry. You’re too smart not to know that. What is it you want?”
Inis-Mir furrowed her painted brows but remained silent.
“Where is the egg?” A tired Glen asked her softly. “How did you pull it off darling?”
“People see what they want to see,” she replied with a deep sigh. Glen hugged her waist gently. He then lifted the princess up with ease and secured her in his arms. “He told me which steps to take.”
“Who did?” Glen asked calmly.
“Qodras.”
Of course he did.
Glen nodded and kissed the top of her red head.
“It was a spell?” He asked looking about the room for the gold egg but couldn’t locate it.
“A misdirection charm,” she replied with a sniffle.
Great.
“Did it hurt?”
“Not really. It’s pretty easy to use.”
“You’ll never do it again,” Glen told her sternly. “No magic. Ever. It’s dangerous.”
“Not for me. It isn’t,” Inis argued.
“I mean it girl. No magic,” Glen warned. “Where is it now?”
“You want the egg destroyed,” Inis cried and added pleadingly. “Please daddy. It’s mine. This wouldn’t have happened but you threatened it.”
Glen remembered Uvrycres’ hostile reaction earlier that day and frowned. “Wyverns are not to be trusted fully Inis. I’ve met wyverns that are right vicious.”
“That’s what Qodras said about you.” She sniffled in his neck. “He said you’ll kill him because of me.”
“He was right,” Glen retorted soberly. “You know why baby girl? Because I don’t want the wyvern to harm you. Anyone tries I’ll wipe them off the face of this realm.”
“Qodras is mine,” Inis countered stubbornly. “If you harm the wyvern you’ll hurt me father.”
Glen puffed out exasperated. “Where is the egg sweetheart? That’s enough fooling around.” He asked again and the princess blew a hot breath in his neck mimicking Glen’s reaction afore replying apprehensively.
“I gave it to Feyras and he brought it to Laedan. It’s inside the Den.”
-
Early evening
4th of Nonus 3400 IC
The Den
Goras
The last time Glen had wandered inside the Den Raro’s mother and immediate family had tried to eat him. The incident had cost him a couple of toes in his left foot and a slight limp when he wasn’t wearing Angrein’s special boots. Nothing much had changed inside the dark place. Other than it wasn’t as dark anymore or chilly. A tremendous heat emanated from the now reopened back entrance (the main one next to Nesande’s Temple had collapsed along most of the buildings and shrines above it) and the expansive underground construction was well lit with hundreds of lightstone torches.
The heat coming from a triangular lake of fire that was lit before the granite figure of Eodrass. The God crudely depicted as a resting wyvern as big as a house, the worn out stone having many cracks on its surface. The surface blackened and covered with soot.
The sound of loud chanting and drums reaching Glen and his entourage as they marched towards the lightshow after crossing the vast empty halls that had been cleared out the previous years.
Laedan spotted them approaching first. The drenched in sweat and dirty Denmaster rushed to speak with the sober Monarch that had stopped in his turn to watch the unfolding ceremony. Inis-Mir was standing next to him clasping at a frowned Maeriel’s hand, with Sir Kirk and Hagen standing behind them. Glen could see the gold egg on its stone altar right in the middle of the triangle. The dug out sides filled with burning coal and several of Feyras acolytes navigating the three fiery routes towards the altar to pour more oil into the gap around it. The temperature making Glen’s eyes hurt and the leaping flames right at the ‘eye’ making the gold egg disappear momentarily or shining so bright one could spot the darker scales on it project strangely colored shadows on the walls.
“Hardir,” a worn-out Laedan said with a grimace of pain. “We’ve been trying since morning.” Seeing Glen’s expression –the Monarch hadn’t put his mask on in his haste to depart from Morn Taras- the Denmaster glanced at the wide-eyed princess briefly and then pursed his crooked mouth. “What do you want to do?”
“What is the procedure?” Glen asked raspingly watching the prostrated Feyras get up frustrated to direct another disciple towards the center of the fiery inferno. The Zilan loaded with a heavy jug of oil rushing the twenty meters narrow path quickly as the temperature from the burning coals must have felt like he was navigating a furnace.
“We keep pouring oil in the center well to keep it filled and burning. At the same time we shovel coal in the pits around it to maintain the temperature and jumpstart the hatching process.”
“What about the chanting or the incessant drumming that blasts at my ears?” Glen asked and the Denmaster shrugged his shoulders.
“It helps the younglings relax.”
“Does it? Help them?” Glen queried.
“The priests think so Hardir,” Laedan replied with another glance at the princess. “This might not work. Usually we have a crack forming afore the day is over. The day is over.”
“It isn’t,” Inis-Mir interrupted him and the disciple returning as fast as he could from the center burning well burst into flames spontaneously afore he could clear the final two meters. The hapless and in appalling pain Zilan immediately started screaming, the priests chanting louder at Feyras’ insistence and the drums thudding at a fierce crescendo as if to cover the noise. The disciple managed to make it out of the open incinerator, pieces of melting flesh falling from his burning body, fat turning to oil and igniting a fiery path behind him and then his legs snapped. The disciple collapsed on the ground but kept screaming gutturally and thrashing about whilst losing more body parts, cheeks hollowing out, eyeballs turning to liquid, until his pressured from the internal vapors skull exploded succumbing to the tremendous heat.
Luthos sat on a plaguing crooked spike! What manner of disturbing bullshit is this? A shocked Glen thought at the horrific sight and went to cover Inis’ eyes but Maeriel had beat him to it despite the girl’s loud protests.
“Welp, this had gone pretty well up until now,” Laedan commented with a grimace, half his face responding to it.
“Tell them to stop,” a dour-looking Glen ordered. “That’s enough.”
“We can’t stop now Hardir,” Laedan argued stiffly. “It either hatches or the fire kills it.”
“Bring it out,” Inis snapped heatedly stepping forward to glare at the sweating Denmaster. Laedan looked sick and Glen wasn’t feeling much better as he could barely breathe with all the fumes emanating from the pits. The loud ruckus raised from the psalms and beating drums echoed inside the cavernous structure and made Glen’s ears hurt.
The ringing maddening.
“Princess, it’s probably fused to the rock by now. I’ll need a pickaxe,” Laedan protested with a croak.
“Do it. Give him the tool,” Inis insisted and looked at the frowning Glen.
The Monarch puffed out trying to think of how to tackle this situation. There are no fucking instructions on these blasted matters, Glen thought quite furious for getting shoved into another difficult situation.
You’d think someone would have gotten these matters figured out already, left a manual of sorts back for those coming after him so they would know what to fucking do!
Then again someone probably had and it was now lost or was gathering dust and rat dung somewhere in Elas Library.
“Daddy?” Inis-Mir pleaded. Eyes opened wide and lips quivering on her sweet face. Glen groaned and pulled at his hair with both hands in despair.
“Fuck’s sake,” Laedan grumbled realizing where the Monarch was leaning and sucked a lung-full of air in.
“Work as fast as you can,” Glen counseled him which was a bit of lame an advice at that moment and the Denmaster rolled his sole working eye to the white murmuring under his breath. With a last grimace of frustration he turned around and marched towards the burning pits and the gold egg.
“Poras!” He yelled to one of his pupils that was about ten meters away. “Grab that pickaxe and the sledgehammer!”
“What now?” His disheveled very-tired pupil croaked snapping a shaven head his way, long ears raising straight up.
“We’re getting the egg out!”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I have. Listening to him,” Laedan deadpanned angrily and gave a hard kick to a yelling Feyras that had rushed to stop him sending the priest sprawling on the ground.
“Cease the Denmaster!” A seething Feyras cried out to warn his chanting disciples and got up producing a long dagger from his robes.
“STAND DOWN FEYRAS!” Glen roared to be heard over the sound of the drums and the stupendous noise finally stopped. Behind him Sir Kirk and Hagen had gotten their swords out.
The High Priest of Eodrass stared at the sober Monarch with disbelieving eyes.
“Hardir,” Feyras grunted, his voice cracking. “The Wyvern.”
“We’re trying to save it Feyras,” Glen informed him hoarsely and added in a grave tone. “But that doesn’t mean I’m about to spare your crazy lot.”
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Laedan did make it out of the center of the glowing triangular inferno, the thirty meters long and ten wide ‘beds’ of burning coals releasing smoke that created a cloud inside the expansive but ultimately enclosed underground structure. The covered in soot Denmaster’s leather garbs were smoking, all remaining hair burned off of his skull and part of his left arm on fire. He made it through walking spastically away from the fiery altar and stumbled to safety losing control of the smoking blanket he’d covered the gold egg with. It dropped on the ground and rolled towards Glen who was watching from ten meters away, releasing vapors and reflecting the many lights in hues of gold and red.
The Monarch grimaced and moved to help the injured Denmaster with a glance at Poras that had fused by the side of altar and was burning like a torch after succumbing to the flames. The pickaxe burning along with him wedged in the side of the stone altar. A groaning Laedan slapped the half-melted skin on his arm to put the fire out, crooked mouth clenched and eyes blurry. Glen gave him a healing potion and the Denmaster poured some directly on the wound afore glugging the rest of it down with closed eyes.
The next moment opening them both upset.
“Don’t touch the egg!” He warned raspingly. Glen turned his head around and saw that Inis-Mir had slipped away from the distracted Maeriel to approach the sweltering gold egg.
“Inis!” A scared Glen yelled and jumped up. “Stay away!”
“He cries,” the captivated Inis droned and a collective gasp came out of the Zilan standing nearby. Hagen and Sir Kirk glanced at each other unsure but then moved in unison to grab the princess. Inis twirled away from them and reached the large egg before the two men could recover. She grabbed it with both arms to carry it with her and this time everyone present gasped in horrified astonishment witnessing the miracle.
It lasted about a second and it could have been two at the most and then Maeriel kicked the egg out of the desperately screaming princess’ hands. The fiercely red skin on her limbs swelling and popping as it boiled and then dropped off of her. Inis’ otherworldly shrieks of mind-numbing pain reverberating inside the ancient Den. They felt like sharp dagger wounds to Glen’s aching heart.
-
> There’s an apocryphal story about Princess Lussiel Inis-Mir circulating in Taras and the rest of Goras where she’d spent most of her time growing up. When the initial attempt to hatch her wyvern failed, the princess walked through the fire and retrieved that strange gold egg. She held it in her arms and brought it to safety sparing the young wyvern the fate of its kin that were then still buried under the burning coals in the Den’s ditches after they’d failed to hatch properly. While the palace allows the rumor spread today none of those present at the time that are still breathing have either confirmed or denied it but for Troy. The Titan of Novesium has confined to this writer that King Garth told him this was ‘right close to what really happened.’
-
Four hours later they had returned to Morn Taras. A wild ride through the easier to navigate at this time quiet but not fully sleeping town. They had brought the injured princess to bed as quickly as they could. Soletha had arrived an hour later with her pupil, a Zilan female named Mylael and they worked diligently to clean the injuries Inis had sustained. The healers cut the burned skin and flesh away, applied thick salves on the princess’ arms and wrapped them in boiled aloe and eucalyptus leaves soaked in potions.
“She’ll mend. The pain shall serve as valuable lesson,” a restrained Soletha reported to a solemn-faced Glen that sat on the small divan watching the healers work with hawkish eyes and his naked sword resting on his legs. “There’s no one here that wishes her harm Hardir.”
“What about the scars?” Glen rustled and turned hearing the heavy footsteps of the big Nord coming down the corridor. Soren came through the door, stooping to protect his head and paused unsure at the sight of Glen and the healer talking.
The two of them had a strained relationship for over a year.
“She’ll heal for she’s young. The princess has been cut before but it left her no serious mark,” Soletha replied and glanced at the tall Northman. She extended her left arm with a small smile and Soren took it in his protectively, thick calloused fingers swallowing the healer’s hand up to the wrist. “It reminds me of him.”
“Small girl is tough,” Soren agreed and then smiled broadly afore grabbing Glen’s shoulder with the other hand. “Tougher than you,” the massive Nord taunted and shook the scowling Monarch once afore releasing him. A flailing Glen almost went soaring backwards over the divan but the potentially lethal scare snapped him out of his gloomy stupor.
“Fer crying out loud!” Glen grunted the flood of adrenalin waking him up for good and punched the Nord’s hard-leather armour.
Would’ve been better if he’d tried to punch a stone wall.
Soren looked at the impact point perturbed and then pulled the chuckling old healer into his gigantic embrace, using the free hand to feel up her bottom.
“You big horny truncheon you. Not here!” A blushing Soletha half-shrieked half-purred and Glen sighed deeply at the amount of disturbing info he’d just learned about them afore glancing at the finally sleeping exhausted Inis-Mir.
“Our princess shall recover great Monarch,” Mylael assured him with a bow. “I’ll stay the night,” she paused to stare at one of the windows. “And the coming days.”
Glen stared a little surprised for a moment at the dawn’s light painting the fading night red and then he remembered the two Lorians he’d abandoned inside the throne room earlier that morning.
About fifteen hours’ worth of time.
Shit. I hope someone remembered to feed them.
With a last glance at his daughter the Monarch walked past the half-fighting half-snuggling weird couple and walked outside. Soren always had luck with the rarest girls, he thought. Sir Nuvian’s eyes stayed on his face and Glen informed him that the worst was behind them which visibly comforted the Zilan knight.
A moment after the worn-out from the demanding day king -that was almost over- had exited the sleeping princess’ bedroom, leaving his friend and the healers behind, at a far corner of the massive bedchamber inside a sturdy iron box Feyras had stolen from Voldomir’s temple –according to the latter’s accusation- the intricate scales on the golden egg’s top side cracked and an almost diaphanous, large but thin gilded piece of shell dropped to its bottom.
No one would notice it for days.