>
>
> RRREEEEE?
>
> EARRRRAU
>
> HAERRRRRE!!
>
> The Wyverns shrieks trumpeted loudly whilst competing for the available space outside the tiny island mausoleum. It’s been a while sweetheart, a tired Glen thought pulling the old dusty sheet away to unveil the tainted glassy surface of the sarcophagus with his working arm. Might have made a mess of a couple of things and some disturbing shit happened but it kind of worked out in the end. Not an easy task and profusely pricey. Hey, at the very least she’s alright. Aye. We made something special there and it was all you.
>
> He listened to Lussiel barking orders at the protesting wyverns through the gapping doors and grimaced but forced himself to stand up from the square marble stool next to the meter-high wall of the massive sculpted sarcophagus. The base covered in moss and smeared in mud where the flood had reached it.
>
> Got some things to do still, no one will know and she might not like. Hopefully you’ll understand that I was never going to bow out without clearing the deck of all them cretins.
>
> It may not be polite and you may still be mad for the other thing but it is what it is. I’m a greedy and lustful rogue deep down I guess. Also a selfish angry man and a bit of a cunt that doesn’t give a shit about anything but those I love. Because I have a heart. Hey, maybe you knew it all along.
>
> “Father,” a tensed Lussiel Inis-Mir whispered standing at the doors hesitantly not wanting to enter and Glen lightly tapped at the glass once in a gesture of farewell before walking towards her. Standing just a hair taller than her late mother already, the princess was a splendid sight that brought tears to his eyes.
>
> “You’ll return to Morn Taras,” Glen said raspingly trying to keep his voice steady.
>
> “Let me come with you please,” she pleaded and clasped his arm tightly. Glen couldn’t feel a thing there but the Monarch pretended that he did. He stared into her familiar eyes intently and then grinned at Lussiel’s sober expression. Glen raised his right hand and caught the side of her head. Kissed her lips and warm forehead softly.
>
> “Where I go only Uvrycres can reach blind and young girls should never chance a trek,” he lied without remorse since Glen was well beyond that. “But when it’s all over I’ll draw a map for you so you’ll know. Not near as good as your drawings for I don’t have yer talents baby, but good enough.”
>
> “You promise?”
>
> Glen had only kept one promise in his life to the people he loved. Keeping his daughter safe. It was a no-brainer.
>
> So he lied about that too.
>
> “Aye.”
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> The horrifically scarred Uvrycres, who had won the brief scrap for room against the other wyverns, turned its wagon-sized horned head towards the hobbling Monarch. Those rubicund eyes gazing into his soul with understanding.
>
> Black Eirkor buzzed in Glen’s ornate scabbard in protest for the upcoming delay and massive detour but the large Onyx Wyvern lowered its long neck to give him access to Laedan’s saddle.
>
> RRRRR
>
> Glen nodded. “Head north first. Way up there.” He ordered in a hoarse voice and glanced at Lussiel watching them from afar standing next to the majestic gold wyvern, the much smaller white Nigna snapping at Qodras heels in a surprise attack, slyly jumping out of the water. She had been exiled to the muddy beach and beyond from the other two. The larger beast trying to skewer the female wyvern with its stinger repeatedly after her attack failed.
>
> The Monarch grimaced and the man inside wept afore adding in a lower voice. “See if anyone there knows what happened to Vera Felusa*.”
>
> And my kid.
>
> Uvrycres raised his head when Glen climbed on the saddle and grabbed the reins, to let out a thunderous and roaring spell-enhanced shriek that blew the weak branches off of the nearby tropical trees, uprooted the grass and caused the ground to shake violently before silencing his mischievous kin.
>
> RRREEEEE-REE
>
>
>
> It went on and on while Uvrycres slowly extended his wings and then ended abruptly.
>
> A moment later the Onyx Wyvern leaped high towards the skies, its large distant shadow covering the small islet momentarily and Duath Erin I Menel** flew away…
-
* Esoteric Archaic Imperial (extinct Cydonia Cazan Witch Tongue), here it translates -Vera (personal, my own) Felusa (endearing term for Sorceress)
** Dwarfish Tongue (Common Imperial jargon), here it translates – Shadow in the sky.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Wetull
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
Duath Erin I Menel
Cracked
Part II
-Opposing counsels-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Glen placed the old dagger on the table next to the bed and span it once on the polished surface. The princess bedchamber seemed too silent and empty without Inis-Mir’s presence. The princess was visiting sick Nefertiti –the camel- in the stables and this event had completely emptied the royal quarters in a sense. Or emptied the floor enough for him to smuggle Laedan in her bedroom. His amber eyes stayed on the slowly coming to a stop exotic dagger afore they returned on the silent half-paralyzed and skeptical face of Laedan. The Denmaster carrying several more injuries on his ascetic body.
“Umm… I see,” Laedan murmured examining the cracked gold egg. He brought his ear near the scaled outer shell and listened for long. Another half-face grimace and a full grunt later Laedan pulled back and stared at the broken piece of eggshell in his palm unsure.
“How long?” Glen asked impatiently.
You want to be on top of these plaguing things.
“Two weeks,” Laedan replied. “That’s in a controlled environment and kept in relative heat throughout. You know the procedure.”
“I sort of hatched it on the road. Granted I was in the middle of the desert at the time.”
“Aha,” Laedan said soaking an index finger in his mouth then rubbing at the inner side of the broken piece hard only to lick at the finger again with a scowl. Once again he listened to the large gold egg placing his right ear on the scaled surface. “Eh. It’s like this then.”
“That’s your expert opinion?” Glen grunted mockingly.
“Three out of ten wyvern eggs hatch,” Laedan informed him rolling the broken piece of eggshell in his fingers. “The rest we bury under the ashes and sand around the Den’s altar. Of the three that make it through the fire, a couple the witches tended to euthanize young, keeping only the best of the bunch.”
“Which were?”
“The smaller ones. The more docile.”
“Why?” Glen asked looking at the glowing in the torches’ light wyvern’s egg.
“You know each beast is different.” Laedan retorted. “Oh, I forgot you lucked into the position.”
Glen knew Laedan always tossed an insult his way in private so he let it slide. Glen had already crippled the man and any more punishment would be counterproductive at this junction.
“Turlas was a gold one allegedly.”
“The King wanted him. They are rare.”
“Will it hatch?”
“I can’t hear it moving. It might mean the egg is damaged or that it’s hiding,” Laedan replied.
“You say we might have overcooked the wyvern? Gods damn it man! I thought you knew what you were doing!”
Laedan shrugged his shoulders and then patted at his belt. “I could give it a couple of blows with pick and hammer right at the crack. See if I can prop it open.”
“My daughter might think we killed it if she founds it smashed. What then? Can we… sort of glue the pieces back together?”
“No. And she wouldn’t be wrong in a sense Hardir,” Laedan replied shaking his head and Glen puffed out a little bit more frustrated.
Take a step back. Give it time afore reacting.
“You were close with Baltoris,” he finally said changing the subject.
“On the periphery of the court but I’ve spoken to her in the Den on many occasions.” Laedan replied. “We weren’t close. The Queen was a stern lady.”
“What about the Rokae?” Glen asked. Sir Delmuth was standing guard at the door leading to the corridor.
“She had her own guard,” Laedan replied. “Wanted nothing to do with them.”
“Sir Delmuth?” Glen asked the silently watching them masked knight.
“Queen Baltoris dismissed her father’s guards,” the Zilan replied rigidly. “She blamed them partially for the assassination.”
Glen would have blamed them way more than that.
“You served under King Ninthalor?”
“Lord Sulynor of Rain-Minas,” Delmuth replied. “Him she blamed even more. She gave control of the Rokae to Lord Suraer of Lo-Minas and formed the Queen’s Guard under Velanoris.”
Glen narrowed his eyes, the name vaguely familiar but the memory buried too far into the past.
“The Aniculo Rokae basically,” Laedan elucidated. “Balaer was always at her side.”
Glen grimaced angrily and glared at the smirking Laedan.
“Balaer was Nenderu’s rider, took over after fair Elenaris perished in the war.” Sir Delmuth added a further clarification. “He carried Endariel the last time I saw him.”
“And Velanoris carried Nether-scourge famously. The Queen’s gifts.”
“You are talking of named swords.” Glen noted.
“Hardir is correct,” Sir Delmuth replied. “Three swords Isil O’ Mecatan made for the Sibyls Coven. Nether-scourge, Endariel and Eirkor. Sintoriela helped him through the process.”
“Any of the swords around?” Glen asked hopefully.
“Not that I know Hardir,” Delmuth replied. “I assume they are either lost or looted.”
Double Ayup.
“Was Balaer or Velanoris the princess father?” Glen asked out of the blue. “With Baltoris ‘sleeping in the barracks’ or whatever the fuck that nonsense means and the unlikelihood a lowly Hoplite could have made it through the Aniculo Rokae in order to bed the Queen, it’s a legitimate fucking query gents!”
“Could be,” Laedan finally said. “Balaer was elevated from a priest right Delmuth?”
“I won’t engage in lewd gossip Laedan,” the knight replied stiffly. “I may have my grievances with the late Queen, but she’s still a Queen and I’m not.”
“I wouldn’t mistake you for a Queen Delmuth,” Laedan chuckled at the clearly discomforted knight.
Ha-ha.
It was a good one. Delmuth had stepped into a pile of shit with that last part.
“Where is Lord Sulynor now?” Glen asked. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t believe anyone knows. He was part of the exiles. Escaped pretty early in the purge. This is a very old story Hardir.” Sir Delmuth replied. “Its official start is at 2090 IC but really it begun earlier in 2007 IC when the king and Queen were murdered.”
“The second date is?” Glen probed thoughtfully.
“Priestess Edlenn’s accident,” Sir Delmuth replied and Laedan snorted loudly. “The investigation produced no definitive clues of foul play Laedan.”
“Sure, when the killer does the investigating he rarely points a finger to himself. It was definitely a murder. Don’t be a stone plinth Delmuth,” Laedan retorted.
“Lord Suraer was thorough,” Delmuth growled through the silver mask, while Glen tried to remember the shawl-covered witch (the murdered Edlenn’s daughter) but failing for the most part.
That bitch was an old fucking turd with a great pair of legs.
He took a deep breath as the memory of the Prince’s consort riding her horse returned in full force. Like that strange jolt to his system. Then Glen added in his mind.
And toes… for the mileage.
“Suraer searched from Lo-Minas and had no idea of what was going on in the palace,” Laedan argued in the meantime wiping a tear from his half-closed eye. “The rumors in Goras were different.”
“That’s enough Laedan. We’ll leave it at that,” Glen intervened seeing as the Denmaster while brave he couldn’t take any more punishment and Delmuth could deliver quite a lot of that.
The Denmaster pursed his mouth.
“You need to keep the egg if this doesn’t work,” Laedan said after a tense moment returning him the broken gold piece.
“The reason for it?”
“This shit makes great potions.” Laedan replied pointing at the eggshell. “The whole of the wyvern really. Which is why the witches kept them to make stuff, like your dagger.”
“You’ve seen it before?” Glen asked him.
“I’m not sure,” Laedan replied. “Why?”
“No reason,” Glen retorted. “Lock the box afore you leave and I expect you here every day to check on the egg.”
“Can I have a closed carriage to use to go back and forth to the city? The weather is terrible and it rains every day,” Laedan asked and added in the usual Zilan condescending manner. “Oh, feted Hardir?”
“Wake up very early in the morning,” Glen countered with his usual smug or more like shit-eating leer. “So you can ride here with the returning Rokae night patrol. They keep a horse or two in reserve.”
----------------------------------------
Half an hour later Glen exited the Citadel’s gates with Hagen and Rimeros following after him. He wanted to walk across the yard and reach the stables but found Fikumin’s entourage waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. The dwarf moving fast to cut the Monarch’s path.
“Rimeros,” Glen grunted. “Does Lord Shield have an appointment?”
“He has requested one Hardir.”
“Didn’t I say to move it later?”
“I believe you thought he’d left and just nodded your grace thinking he won’t arrive until the afternoon. But the Lord Shield has slept here.”
Glen made a grimace that was between a teeth-clench and a voiceless snarl, the mask he had on remaining blank unable to translate it into a viable expression.
“Fiku,” Glen started but the dwarf grabbed his arm to pull him aside from his men.
“Keep this private,” Fikumin rustled.
“We’re basically in the blasted yard,” Glen hissed and freed his arm. “Assaulting a noble person are we?”
“Garth, this is serious.” Fikumin stopped him austerely.
Stolen novel; please report.
Well, people have been executed for less my foolish friend.
“Fine. I’m still working on a plan.” Glen replied with a sigh.
“Lithoniela is a Princess. The previous Queen’s daughter,” the dwarf rustled. “You can’t expect to sweep it under the rag. You believe people won’t notice?”
“Most have had no interaction with her,” Glen said annoyed. “I’m interviewing the court.”
“Whatever they thought of her or her mother, a Princess of Wetull needs to be acknowledged at the minimum.”
“That’s as high as I can go. Minimum. I fucking built this shit Fiku. Stone atop stone and still work on it,” Glen argued. “Not to mention I’ve lost too much already. Lith made her choice when she went away with that murdering scumbag.”
“You’re alive because she sent me to find you and lured the assassin away,” Fikumin countered hoarsely. “Disrespecting her would rub people the wrong way. Don’t do your usual crap.”
“Inis-Mir is a Princess of Wetull,” Glen retorted his face hardening. “If you think I’ll bow down to Lith’s condescending nonsense you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“You liked her a lot back then.”
“A kid fresh out of a village led around by a spell-casting Zilan Elderborn,” Glen reminded him. “Emerson showed me what true allies do Fiku and how far one goes to protect those he likes.”
“Emerson is dead,” Fikumin grunted narrowing his eyes. “His child and widow locked in your castle. Is this what the knight wanted?”
Glen stood back and stared at the others present. Phinariel and Berthas were there as well. The scribe looking prettier with each passing season. No acrimonious stuff on her face just tasty sweetness. Phina blushed into a smile and bowed her head. It’s the fucking charms at work, he reminded himself and shook his head to return to the conversation.
“His son is safe.” He finally said to the scowling dwarf. “Troy agrees.”
“Troy is driven by different reasons,” Fikumin retorted. “The Taras guards arrested him yesterday for public drunkenness, indecent exposure and assaulting a foreign dignitary. Six people were injured.”
Glen stared at Rimeros for more details.
“It was in yesterday’s agenda but Hardir ended the meeting early. The merchant’s wife wanted to see the ‘Titan’s mighty rod’ and he obliged her. Apparently she had to comment and it rubbed people the wrong way. They were all drunk sir, it was a feast in the Cofol neighborhood.”
“Release the Gladiator. He probably slept it off by now,” Glen ordered. “Stop veering off subject Fiku.”
“That was you Garth. You talk of Emerson, brought up Troy, but what does Ziba-Ra want though?” The dwarf grunted with a grimace. “Whose opinion should be your concern?”
“We were talking about Lith.” Glen reminded him.
“A Princess is a Princess,” Fikumin said and clasped his hands behind his bulky back. “Optics matter. Deal with it clumsily and you’ll create a problem the wyvern won’t be able to solve.”
“I have the Council’s and the people’s favor.”
“You need the Zilan more than you need the people,” Fikumin replied stiffly. “Such is the society you inherited and did very little to change it.”
“Was that a bad thing?” Glen asked sarcastically.
Fikumin snorted. “Perhaps not but these are the problems you’ll need to face now. A noble ruler can’t be petty or uncultured.”
“I’ll never put Lith over Inis-Mir Fiku. Not in a million fucking years, not with a blade on my neck,” Glen warned angrily but breathed out to calm himself down and added. “But she can stay in Morn Taras if she behaves.”
“You expect to enforce your rules on an Elderborn? The Queen’s daughter?”
“The late Queen’s daughter this, the late Sibyl’s kin that and old Onas’ many living bastards. This might never end. I don’t give a fuck! I enforce rules on them every plaguing day because I’m the god darn Monarch. I made this work. I made the ruins livable again!” Glen grunted raspingly getting all worked up. “She’ll just have to swallow it for the good of her people and play along without too much pouting or else. Much older Zilan than her have spoken on the matter. It is over. I didn’t lose my wife to gift the kingdom to Lith dwarf and take it from our own blasted child!”
“Garth,” A surprised at his outburst Fikumin said hoarsely but in a calmer manner. “What are you talking about? I never suggested you give up the throne. I spoke of offering respect to the previous royal line.”
Glen pursed his mouth, a severe tick forcing his right to close completely but it was covered by the stoic mask.
“I’ll consider yer suggestions,” he managed to say in a kingly voice.
----------------------------------------
“Monarch,” Berthas said when they returned to the others.
“The Monarch is busy,” Rimeros interrupted him.
“Eh. What is it Berthas?” Glen grunted staring at Fikumin talking with Phina some meters away.
“I was thinking we should look into expanding the kingdom’s pool of magic Monarch,” the young mage blurted out.
“Speak clearly,” the distracted with the previous talk Glen retorted. “Where is this pool located?”
“I was… a metaphor sire. If I’m allowed to take more than one pupil then perhaps a school can be created—”
“A magic school wit a pool,” Glen corrected him patiently. This was a ludicrous idea but Berthas had been helpful in the past and a Lord’s –also an ally’s- kin.
“No pool but a training ground for those with skill that have nowhere to turn to,” a desperate Berthas continued trying to get the words out.
“No room for a training ground in Taras.”
“I was thinking of Nesande’s Garden.”
“That’s in Abarat and we can’t exactly start cutting down sacred trees friend.”
“I wasn’t being clear enough. A small place to house the classes was my meaning.”
Aha.
“You need to work on yer presentation Berthas. A small building in Taras is still one building too many. People are dying to pay big sums for every inch of space there.”
“It’s why I suggested… perhaps the Monarch could fund—?”
“Stop it right there,” Glen cut him off midsentence. “How about Hardir’s Port? Huh?”
Berthas stood back confused. “Eh. What’s there?”
Pretty much nothing.
“A bank soon. The naval yards. Big warehouses. Space.” Glen replied meaningfully. “And a school of magic. Um. A small one next to the Bank’s building. Right Rimeros?”
“It’s an excellent use of empty real estate Hardir,” Rimeros agreed.
“Your grace,” Berthas tried to intervene but Glen could see it clearly in his mind now and waved his protests off.
“This could help us justify the added security. Drive away some of the crime in the ruined city that is nearby. Give us points with Soletha’s crowd.” He continued. “But can you teach those gifted kids Berthas?”
“Can’t we consider the Garden? It’s a natural and rich environment?”
“An excursion once a year for those that are very skilled,” Glen haggled. “Stay in Abarat or the woods if ye feel adventurous. Ayup. Why would you want to relocate to Abarat anyway? Phina is right here.”
“We…”
“Don’t be a fool.” Glen warned him preemptively.
“Monarch this is a private matter,” Berthas croaked a little embarrassed.
“Wait, is it the fabled ‘must have an offspring to be the real thing’ bullshit? That’s an antiquated custom nobody sane buys into shit for brains. I don’t. Soletha doesn’t seem to mind also ha-ha,” Glen elucidated with a grin and a wink.
“The priestess had one already.” Berthas responded rigidly.
She would have bedded Soren even if she hadn’t! Maeriel, Folen’s girls… too many examples to count!
Glen rolled his eyes. “Just keep trying…” he paused to stare in Berthas flushed face suspiciously. “You said you have a pupil.”
“She’s very talented,” Berthas assured him. “Monarch.”
“Does she have big tits?” Glen asked going full Whisper Jinx on him and it was obvious the conversation have gone way off course for the young mage. Fikumin and Phina had stopped chatting now.
It was always a big risk talking with Glen.
Still probably safer than talking with Whisper.
“I haven’t noticed,” a cornered Berthas said defensively.
“Forget fool. You are a stone-cold idiot,” Glen retorted not believing him and puffed out a little disappointed. Maybe it’s his mother. Reinforcing the blood or whatever… oh well. “Rimeros see you assist Berthas with his faculty of magic cunts.”
“I apologize for giving the wrong—” Berthas tried to say but Glen stopped him raising his hand.
“Go away,” he told the young mage solemnly and watched him returning to the troubled Fikumin and worrying Phinariel stooped like an old man. At least the fool looks the part, Glen thought.
Which could also be said about Glen of course.
Eh.
“Milord,” Hagen said pointing at the yard. “I believe the princess’ entourage is returning. Do you still wish to visit the stables?”
Glen stared at the cloudy sky over their heads with a frown.
“Have Maeriel bring her to the throne room afore they head upstairs,” he decided and turned around to climb up the stairs leading to the Citadel’s entrance. If it was one thing Voron had nailed building the castle was making darn sure everyone living in it enjoyed a good cardio every-single-fucking day just to move about.
-
Later that evening
22nd day of Imperial Minge (eleventh month) of 3400 IC
3rd Era
Morn Taras central hall (Long Hall)
Support column number six on the east wing
Part of the Throne Room
“Ah,” Troy said stretching his chiseled arms back looking at the intricately carved and then gold-painted details on the massive column’s black surface. “That’s a real person?”
“A murderous Zilan witch,” Glen said soberly from his chair working a half-finished goblet of wine in his hands.
“Elevating?”
“Artistic license. Not that far from the truth,” Glen replied and stared at the large map still left open on the table.
“Your mood is shot. Put the mask back on, yer looking like a sad horse,” Troy noticed returning to refill his. “Right Hagen?”
“I can’t drink on duty nor partake in jests on milord’s expense,” Hagen replied sadly all serious and the gladiator blinked afore letting out a roaring laughter that reverberated inside the mostly dark hall’s cold walls.
“Duty? What do you do? Guard him? Why? Ha-ha-ha! Ergh…” He croaked, started coughing turning all red in the face and then spat down some of the wine while snorting to get the rest out of his nose. Not all of it wine. “…mother of oiled arses! That’s a proper cavity cleansing!”
“Alright, no more alcohol for him,” Glen ordered the smirking Hagen who nodded in agreement.
“Bah, I’m fine. Tried to talk and swallow at the same moment like an Ani Ta-Ne harlot. Get it? Ha-ha!” He stared at the thoughtful clean shaven Glen curious. “What were you looking at there?”
“This is Regia,” Glen replied tracing a finger on the commissioned map’s surface. “The west coast bordering Scaldingport after Krakentrap Straits and then the south part, all the way across to Lesia. Here,” he glanced at the frowning chiton-wearing gladiator. “Rybel can have four ships finished before the summer. You heard Luvon.”
“That the Bank guy? Penny-pinching motherfucker,” Troy commented and glugged down the rest of his wine but when he went to get the bottle to refill it Hagen took it away from him. “Give it back mate. Or we’ll have a problem.”
“Stop with the buffoonery. And you’re correct. That’s him,” Glen answered and signed for Hagen to keep the bottle away from Troy. “Concentrate Troy.”
“I think your man wants to fight me,” Troy noted with a grimace. “Better to get it out of his system right now.”
What?
“You just got out of prison damn it,” Glen grunted and slammed his fist on the table.
“What prison? That was a villa. Large windows and good food. Are you kidding me? Try living in a hole under the Pits. Then we can talk.”
“You think Goras is lacking deep dark places to toss yer arse in?” Glen retorted angrily.
Troy rubbed his face. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ve a kingdom to run.”
“Mate, just fuck them all. This thing runs itself anyway.”
“That’s not how it goes Troy,” Glen replied with a tired sigh. “Someone must hold the reins.”
“Ziba-Ra thinks you’ll never let her go,” Troy said after a long moment. “That your realm is a pretty prison. She wants to get Ballard’s boy back home.”
“Let her go to Lesia. Why? Are Lorians there safer to live with?”
“Ballard’s words got into her head.”
“The man’s name was Emerson. Ballard is just a plaguing place!” Glen snapped and planted his finger on a point at the map. “Right there. A world away. She’ll take the risk? Across a war-torn continent?”
“Word is, the war is over in Regia,” Troy noticed sobering up.
“Regia is a place full of regulations and laws. Lesia is worse. I’ve lived in the isles so I know Kaltha’s justice as well. All three kingdoms are bigoted to their core. Emerson was the outlier and they had kicked him out.”
“No they hadn’t,” Troy cut him off and Glen grimaced that nervous tick returning.
“I was trying to preserve the old man’s memory,” he told Troy hoarsely. “Emerson cut down his sister’s lover. Right or wrong he did break her heart and then tried to make amends. He was a melancholic, very harsh but just man haunted by the past and his austere dead father’s ghost. His world was as cruel as Wetull or the Peninsula make no mistake about it. The last two Regia kings have been murdered for even less of a reason. The second one whilst fighting his own brother.”
“There are no slaves on Jelin,” Troy noted evenly. “Seeing them around is what scares Ziba-Ra the most.”
“Eah,” Glen grunted and crossed both arms on his chest. “She hasn’t seen the really scary things yet. I thought you liked it here.”
“I do. But I like her the most.” Troy admitted hoarsely. “And she knows it. She wants me to get them out.”
“Say you do.” Glen said. “Will she stay with you afterwards?”
“I don’t think she will. We both know it. Ziba gripes that keeping her here works in my favor.”
“Life is full of compromises and disappointment. You’ll never know the future and you’re a fool if you believe you do,” Glen replied raspingly. “She isn’t going anywhere for her own good. Lesia is located to the arse-end of nowhere. I doubt it’s this ‘cozy’ place she imagines it to be. Does she believe Emerson’s sister would be sweet on her? There’s no friendly place for a former slave and a kid that might be an heir to a lofty title. I know that part well. And I won’t risk it.”
No one said anything for a while. “What are you going to do with four ships?” Troy asked pushing his thick blond hair back.
“Escort a small flotilla of cargo ships to Regia,” Glen replied looking at the map. “Unload them while everyone stares at the warships to a friendly lord’s waiting fleet near one of the big ports. Get paid and make the return trip.”
“Why not Scaldingport?”
“Borders are a problem to cross with our kind of product. We need to unload it directly to a like-minded distributor. Get it off our hands. Plus Kaltha might not survive the Khan.”
“He’s stuck right now.”
“He’ll crush them one after the other eventually unless a miracle happens. A series of miracles. Kalac always said you can’t beat the Horselords without killing them all for they won’t stop fighting. Unless you deploy a wyvern I suppose. Which will do it. Aye, anyway it’s a matter of will. I’ve seen that crazy fuck fight a Hydra wit one arm. A prince charge Uvrycres in his chariot. Do the Khan’s enemies have his resolve?”
“Do you trust this Lord?”
“I don’t trust anyone but he’ll pay a ton of coin in advance. He can make as much profit as he wants afterwards,” Glen replied thoughtfully. “All I care is for our wine to reach their tables. Then the people shall demand more.”
“It’s a good wine mate.”
“It’s just wine,” Glen retorted. “But the mystique surrounding the blue-haired folk is impossible for humans to resist. As you well know.”
Troy shook his head. “Lord Wyvern, I’m not a good example. I’ll fuck anything. Gish, humans, dwarfs, Zilan and your Ticu. Might have done a dude in Fu De-Gar once. But he was pretty as a maiden and dressed as one. My drive is insatiable.”
“Keep yer rotten cock hidden while in the palace,” Glen grunted with a grimace of disgust. “Maybe that’s what made Ziba pick the old man and not you. What good is the Titan of Novesium if you have to share him with half the known realm like the cheapest of harlots? Have you ever thought of that?”
Troy stood back a little troubled. “You’ll preach restraint? You bed yer wife’s slave. Can she even deny you?”
“She’s free, you stupid son of a bitch and I never touched her while my wife lived,” Glen replied pursing his mouth. “And unlike you, I can do whatever the hell I want now. I’m a widower and I don’t have to walk on eggshells to gain a woman’s affection. I just don’t care either way.”
“I don’t believe you mate. You are a greedy motherfucker in all things. What about the little princess?”
Glen smacked his lips and then rubbed at his nape tiredly. “You sure are always ready for a fight Troy. Fuck’s sake. It’s late.” Troy raised his brow mockingly. “Aye, I don’t want to displease Inis-Mir that’s true. Are you satisfied? Or do we have to roll about on them tiles like a couple of drunken idiots until I beat some sense into yer thick skull?”
Troy grinned a beefy idiot’s smile proving his point.
“You fucking read my mind! Wow. We’re alike mate. See?”
Luthos turned around and closed the door hard on his face.
“No. Dude you’re a…” …bloated buffoon. Glen groaned in exasperation. “Fine. Yes. Like two peas in a blasted pod,” he yielded to get the beaming gladiator off of his back and Troy friendly-punched him abruptly on the chest pleased they had finally come to an agreement.
By Luthos will it was good Glen still had his cuirass on.
----------------------------------------
Hagen snored loudly, now collapsed on the armchair and Glen pressed his tired eyes closed. The lightstones had this strong white light that made your eyes hurt after a while and of course due to Voron’s aversion to windows one had to climb a lot of stairs to see the sun during the day.
Or step outside the Citadel.
Glen pushed back on his own chair, the creaking concealed by Hagen’s snoring and the sound of wood burning in the fireplace behind his throne. The raised stage-like square hiding the fireplace in its turn. The Monarch turned his head around and stared across the long table at the seemingly endless row of black columns –only the first pair seen clearly from where he was, the rest, only partially due to the small lights and separated in turn by large blotches of darkness- and the extended dark Hall leading to the entrance. Due to most of the personnel retiring by now, scribes and most servants included, the Morn Taras Central Hall was deserted but for the knights at the entrance.
Despite its opulence at the illuminated spots and around the throne or Glen’s conference table, the hall felt like a tomb. Chilly, dark and mostly silent. Everything standing still and the long shadows that were cast by the disappearing towards the distant ceiling -twenty meters in circumference- columns thick and motionless.
But for one.
Glen narrowed his eyes and the elusive shade spilled from one column to another, dissolved and reappeared over the illuminated areas ever approaching.
Thirty meters.
Then twenty.
Fifteen and it stopped behind the last of the great columns leading to the throne stage that was behind Glen’s back. A lithe black-clad figure got out of the darkness. A dark metallic mask with no features visible but for the eye-slits that allowed the pair of indigo-colored eyes to glow as she approached.
Nym in her tight leather ‘field-outfit’ looked like a black panther, a little twitchier perhaps and more heavily armed. All scabbards and sheaths encased in soft black cloth or silk not to make any noise.
And she was completely silent for a while, until she stopped two meters away from the watching Monarch and the sound of something moving rapidly was heard inside the echoing hall.
Like many thin sticks tapping at the tiles.
Or the ceiling.
Glen’s nervous tick reappeared twice as violent and he had to grab the armrest not to flinch at the disturbingly familiar sound that had raised every hair on his nape.
And even a few he didn’t know they were there.
“Echoes are so annoying,” Nym commented as an ogle-eyed Glen listened to locate the direction of the weird phenomenon. “But are just that. In the end.”
Girl you just can’t do the reassuring part at all.
“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?” Glen croaked and stood up almost jumping out of the chair to look behind him. “Where’s that sneaky mute motherfucker?”
“Where he’s needed. Which leaves me fixing his mess,” Nym replied mysteriously and took a step forward only for Glen to stop her with a curt gesture. “We had a surprise visit. A shocking twist. He-he. Do you like surprises Hardir?”
A grimacing Glen opened and closed his fist glaring her way. “It depends.”
Nym nodded and for a moment she watched the snoring Hagen sleeping on the armchair with a cat’s interest.
“Would Hardir seek to alleviate the stress of having to deal with this new development?” She finally asked in a soft child’s voice.
If you wish their journey interrupted, Anfalon had written and now his meaning became clearer to Glen. Because Zilan were always capable of thinking way ahead and frequently did.
This was Anfalon letting Glen know there was another option available or within the Monarch’s power. Glen gulped down and stared at the masked female assassin.
“You would do that?” He croaked, feeling sick in his stomach. “You served her mother.”
“I always serve the Monarch,” Nym replied mirthfully. “But the Monarch is the one making the decisions. To help us gain valuable time and polish Hardir’s directives, I’ve preemptively dispatched Din to Jungle Fort.”
A disturbed Glen took a step back. “You’re serious.”
“You are as well. You welcomed Nym as a friend. I can be your loyal, secret servant if you wish. Always ready to please and solve your problems. Out of sight. Out of mind. Away and in silence.” Nym purred knowingly and there was plenty of hidden meaning in there as well. “A protective Circle of Light to cast all shadows and perils out of the Monarch’s way.”