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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 III
-Qodras-
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/7YDpWnPy/taras2.png]
The Monarch’s way, a numb Glen thought staring at the blank metal mask Nym had on. Is everyone really working for me? Or is this just a delusion? Do I really know what I’m doing here?
It’s a gift. Take the gift now and dispose of the gift-bearer later, the Wyvern’s Tongue whispered.
Its words swinging Glen the other way.
“What about Whisper Jinx?” Glen asked hoarsely and Nym tilted her head lightly, unable to conceal her surprise.
“Jinx…”
“The Gish is traveling with the Princess. Some other friends too. Neither her nor Sam would ever allow someone murdered before their eyes.”
Nym took a moment to reply. “The Gish… Hardir, you can have as many Gish as you desire. The wyvern can reach the isles in a day.” She finally pointed out and the tension following her words was palpable inside the mostly empty throne room.
Glen had clenched his right fist so hard the knuckles turned white. The veins in his neck bulging and half his face split in a barely controllable grimace of rage.
“THE GISH IS MY FRIEND!” He roared maniacally, lips pulled back to show the teeth –the gold one included- and spittle flying out of his snarling mouth. “A much better ally than you and more trustworthy!”
Eh, that isn’t exactly true but the sentiment is all fucking there.
Nym breathed out slowly, her chest constricted in the tight armoured leather half-corset she wore over her black coveralls and under the double weapons harness.
“This isn’t about the Gish,” she finally said through the mask returning his glare with a taunting look. “You wish the Princess spared.”
“It is about the Gish and I do want Lith left alone,” Glen retorted angrily. "Two things can be true at the same time."
“You know the princess,” Nym pointed out. “How?”
“It a big story,” Glen replied.
“Devious old Gish with a whore’s treacherous heart,” Nym hummed. “What other lies has he told me of you?”
She is talking about Flix. The Gish long dead from old age by now, and he probably took most of his secrets with him. No doubt he tossed a couple of lies my way as well.
His expression had hardened.
“You think yourself smart,” Glen hissed. “But live long enough and you’ll come up against someone smarter than you. A right mean motherfucker. Flix knew nothing of importance because none of you does girl.” He took a step forward but Nym held her ground. “You’ll question my wishes?”
“I merely strive to interpret them Hardir,” Nym rejoined with a taunt and a barely concealed chuckle. “Is there another plan in the works? Know that a ruler with a soft heart for his enemies shall not rule for long.”
Glen narrowed his eyes. “Suck a bag of dicks. You truly are not as bright as the tales sing and it makes sense. Know that a careless, outright murderous ruler shall find himself nailed on a long ‘n pointy iron stake even sooner than that. Folk fear of the potential actions over the actions themselves. Then you’ll probably get an instinctual reaction. You need balance and foresight else everyone will turn against you.” He paused finding his own words deeply profound.
Glen wished he could pat himself on the back repeatedly.
God damnit. I’m proud of you dude.
“What need has the Monarch of balance when his might can’t be questioned?”
“Only that questioned it has been -in the past,” Glen retorted now on fire.
“Foresight,” Nym murmured thoughtfully sounding equally shocked.
Ayup, you corner me and I become even more powerful than you can possibly imagine.
“When you have only two offered options to pick from, know that the truth is somewhere in the middle,” Glen replied and breathed out. “Assume both advising you are lying for their own reasons. The realm is full of ruffians.”
Fine it's three, if one counts the dagger.
“Who is the other advisor?” Nym queried curious.
You don’t give a rumored insane assassin her rivals’ names.
They might tend to follow their nature and clear the plaguing deck.
“Lith hasn’t made her intentions clear yet. Let’s give her the chance to prove she can be reasoned with. This way no one could point any fingers and our conscience will be clear.”
“Hardir has a conscience?”
“I’ve given you the reasons and my wishes,” Glen retorted warningly. “Message Din to get his skinny arse back here.”
“Hardir,” Nym argued. “The Princess might not be a danger now but she might be a danger down the line.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“I meant thirty-forty years in the future,” Nym elucidated and Glen just snickered harshly staring in her masked face.
“Open yer big Zilan ears Aenymriel,” he told her hoarsely. “For I’ll tell it only once. I’ll know what Lith would do the moment I see her.”
“The Monarch is clairvoyant?” Nym gasped more aroused than surprised and Glen tipped his head back and roared from the belly. His laughter reverberating inside the high-ceiling hall.
“The Monarch has plaguing good instincts,” he finally retorted raspingly eyeing her with suspicion. “Who killed the old King?” Glen added and Nym blinked her glowing indigo eyes once in alarm.
“The killers have yet to reveal themselves,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “It’s a… challenging mystery. Not even seers have managed to untangle.”
“Bullshit,” Glen replied mockingly. “Seers can’t untangle their thighs from their legs trying to be vague and mysterious when the truth of any crime boils down to means and opportunity. Ah, and motive of course.”
“I shall revisit the details,” Nym assured him, not that Glen cared but it was useful to learn that she still did. Scratch her off that murder. “I’ll use the palace birds to message Din of the Monarch’s intentions.” She added and bowed her head.
Glen nodded and watched her walk away but called at her back before the assassin disappeared into the shades cast by the massive columns.
“You’ve been missing for a year Nym,” he noted hoarsely and Nym paused mid-stride. She turned around slowly to gaze at his somber face. A moment ticked away and then another. Every sound inside the hall intensified tenfold by its insane acoustics but the creature that had come inside with Nym remaining well-concealed. Was it an illusion? A repressed memory of horrors past? It could be.
But it also could not, Glen thought and Nym answered in a youthful emotional voice.
“I went home.”
“Where is home?” Glen queried calmly.
“Nureria.”
Ah.
“What’s left of Nureria then?” Glen asked although he’d seen the island from above with Sen almost two years back.
“More ashes than ruins,” Nym replied sadly. “But the echoes of past memories are still there.”
“What else?” Glen probed sternly.
“Trinkets thought lost.”
“Would the Monarch find use in them trinkets?”
Nym chuckled slowly understanding Glen’s self-serving logic. “It appears a Zilan in spirit stands on the throne after all,” she murmured slightly impressed. “And the Monarch just might.”
Find use of them was her meaning.
-
2nd of Imperial month Enna* 3401
(*Primus, One, First)
Taras, Goras Peninsula, Kingdom of Wetull
“Prodigious Caliph,” Samak, the Cofol former Slaver said upon returning near them atop his horse. Hesam, Hagen and Sir Alan Kirk waiting next to Glen’s mounted group. “Captain Horton’s men are at the main square. People have gathered.”
The masked Glen nodded, his garbs and armour soaked in the falling rain. He signed for them to follow after the turning his horse around Samak. They moved fast over the large paved road running west of Taras Lake and went past the gates of the camp housing the Phalanx when the latter was in the city.
Despite the downpour citizens and visitors immediately noticed the fancy armour almost all in Glen’s entourage had on. None fancier than the Monarch himself, what with the engraved in gold details, black sculpted Hoplite cuirass and the custom horned helm with the full mask, the latter sporting an ‘annoyed’ expression. People cheered a bit but mostly stared as it wasn’t common for Glen to ride through town. Several looking for the wyvern in the sky.
But this changed the more they penetrated the town’s center, or central District as the Zilan called it unwilling to consider Goras a collection of cities even after Glen had declared it a ‘principality’. The term taken (or stolen) from a Sam Mathews’ suggestion. At any rate, people turned more animated and Glen waved a couple of times to great success –granted, one time it was to get a fool with a cart out of his blasted way- but nevertheless it made their arrival at the tiled large square a bit of an event.
Captain Horton’s newly recruited batch of guards standing at attention and thoroughly soaked to the bone as they were already waiting there for a couple of hours. Horton saluted raising his arm in the Imperial manner and the guards roared behind him which finally started the numb crowd cheering properly.
“Well then,” Glen decided climbing down from Outlaw’s saddle to take his place on the raised small shaded platform before the soldiers where Fikumin already waited. “We brought a crowd out Alan.”
“Indeed milord,” Sir Kirk replied, his face also hidden behind the silver Rokae mask, the latter having that permanent solemn expression sculpted on.
Glen nodded, waved at the warmer crowd but he was getting pummeled by rain there so he cut it short and rushed the few steps at the side of the platform. He took his kept seat with another nod at the scowling Fikumin and accepted a cup of warm chamomile from Rimeros. Sir Alan and the rest standing next to the platform under the heavy rain due to the lack of space. This was a five by five large stand. The one used in the same spot for the Valimae Lilt five times that. The township and its small of stature but heavy of bone Mayor obviously much more frugal in these matters than the throne itself.
The resplendent in a bronze hoplite cuirass and gold epaulets Horton stepped forward and saluted again vigorously.
Fer crying out loud, Glen thought. While not getting any wetter he was heavily dripping down the chair and could feel the chill.
“Monarch,” Horton announced in a raspy voice, holding his helm under an armpit and red in the face. “Taras proudly announces two hundred more guards have joined the city’s army ranks.” An adjutant coming out of the packed lines of soldiers and booming in an even larger voice.
“The Guard salutes incomparable Arguen Garth!”
“AEU!” The young guards roared clearly mimicking the Phalanx but it got them a reaction out of the slowly gathering from the nearby markets crowd.
“Legendary Hardir O’ Fardor! The Aniculo Rokae.” The Adjutant rejoined gutturally.
“UUU!” The soldiers cried out under the now more interested and of mixed races crowd’s cheers of enthusiasm.
“The Great Lord of Morn Taras, the indisputable Monarch of all Wetull, the provinces and the fabled King beyond the Pale Mountains!”
“AEU! U! U!”
Glen stood up grinning and impressed at the praise thrown his way given the bad weather and the timing (it was still early in the morning, for him at least). It gave Horton the opportunity to approach to about four meters away and salute again.
“My liege, Principality of Goras’ recruiting class of 194,” Horton announced proudly and Glen went to acknowledge him and get it over with but Rimeros jumped down from the raised platform with a snort of derision. The Zilan official quickly rushed to the Lorian officer and whispered something in his ear which a troubled Glen watched intently from his custom throne.
“Eh, what year is that?” Horton queried, while the Monarch tried to hear the exchange.
“This one,” Rimeros explained. “Just do it again.” He added and turned to gesture reassuringly towards the grimacing behind the mask Glen.
“This is the class of ’94,” Horton insisted but Rimeros would have none of it. The Zilan stabbed his finger a couple of times on the Captain’s armoured chest and then returned to the platform where he crossed both arms over his chest.
Horton cleared his throat, face dripping water, everything on him really. The man was so soaked under the heavy rain falling, Glen feared he might drown himself whilst standing upright.
“My Liege, Central District’s class of the imperial year 3401.” The Captain and Commander of the Taras guard said amending his previous words. Glen all but groaned in frustration and the now also drenched Rimeros turned his dripping broad-brimmed hat to look at the angry Monarch.
“We count the year they start serving their commission and not the year they spent in school Hardir,” the Zilan explained patiently. "The Imperial year."
We got it my dude.
“I salute the Taras guard,” Glen replied in a toneless even voice whilst eyeing Rimeros warningly for pushing their idiotic, larger than life cities agenda when they couldn’t really field a big town yet.
He had no problem with the year.
The official repeated his words in a much larger, almost booming voice faking at ignorance.
“The Monarch salutes the Taras Guard!” Rimeros roared to a big round of applause from the soldiers and the battered by the elements large crowd.
Great, a miffed Glen decided slapping at the armrests of his chair to get up. Now let’s go back to dry our garbs and finish a plaguing warm plate of food!
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You know the day ahead might turn up funny, tricky, mysterious or completely fucked up when instead of riding hard back under a solid roof to take advantage of the weather turning for the better unexpectedly, someone offers to head on an excursion in the country.
Captain Horton blinked in shock, lips pursed tight and jaw clenched.
“The Monarch uses expletives frequently as a term of endearment,” Rimeros elucidated and the irritated Glen snorted. “Think naught of it.”
“We are all buffoons in someone’s eyes,” Glen retorted mockingly.
“It would mean a lot if the King was to come with the men. At least for a while sire,” Horton finally said still taken aback by Glen’s earlier outburst.
“To Nesande’s Temple?” Glen queried using a small towel Hagen had given him to gather the moisture under his chin and mask.
“A day’s march with a stop.” Horton elucidated.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Glen grunted shook at the lengthy detour and immediately raised a hand, palm open reassuringly. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but what the actual fuck Captain? Let the men rest!”
“It’s a tradition sire and we can make it greater today,” Horton insisted eloquently and Glen eyed the nearby bystanders listening in for his reaction. Never had the main square been so discreet than at this very moment it seemed. Glen was dead certain that there shall come a point when the square would stand even more silent, but that day was not today.
A whistling Luthos slithered and fell back down due to yesterday’s cast-off soap bar.
The god howled in a high-pitched girly tone for he’d gotten a foot of burned logwood up the arse.
“Tradition eh, baht… sheesh,” a cornered Glen muttered illegibly unable to form more than a single coherent word. “Right.”
Two words.
> The famous exchange written down for all posterity slightly changed in a granite plaque secured on the stone platform that became a permanent addition to the square a year later.
>
> As First Scribe Vulreon recalled despite not being present himself at the event.
>
> ‘And the Monarch replied soberly sensing the gravity of the coming situation.’
>
> ‘This transition we ought to unleash. Right now.’
>
> Or something to that effect.
-
Two hours later
Towers region (Goras Peninsula Ancient Gates)
The main road to the junction leading to Nesande’s Temple complex, the port of Sinya Goras, the still developing Hardir’s Port and the old Favored Heights
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“That’s Hardir O’ Fardor! Damn!” A young Zilan called from a window of the ruined massive tower, stooping perilously over the forty meter drop. Glen slowed down Outlaw to wave his arm to the teenager and his vocal friends that almost shoved the reckless youth to his death in order to get a better look at the marching guards and Glen’s entourage.
“Where’s the lonely king?” A blue haired young Zilan girl with an angelic face asked curious.
Ah. You’re pretty though so it’s alright if you’re not too smart honey, a grinning Glen thought, always fair with others at least according to him and pointed at the crown on his head.
The sound of hard galloping coming from the front of the procession drawing his attention away from the screaming and waving back at him teenagers.
“Why,” Sir Alan Kirk noted shaking his helmed head. “That’s quite a dangerous undertaking sire. The whole wall might come down.”
It survived worse.
“They are born with the ability to scale heights like monkeys,” Glen replied a little distracted with the onrushing rider and the yells of the soldiers for him to slow down. The human Rokae Knight cleared his throat at the offensive metaphor Glen had casually used and one of the Zilan youths lost his balance with a scream of panic as if on cue. He slipped down a whole floor in the blink of an eye but caught the edge of another ruined window with a desperately flaying arm and miraculously managed to stop his fatal drop under the encouraging cheers of his watching friends.
Fuck’s sake, a shocked Glen thought.
“I can now see the likeness sire,” Sir Kirk croaked.
The rider reaching the front of the soldiers -they had blocked the road effectively- but just as Glen was about to head there himself, he heard another rider approaching from their rear and the direction of Taras.
A shiver of worry run up Glen’s spine and he stopped Outlaw abruptly. Hagen had ridden ahead to cut off the second rider and the arriving Cofol bowed anxiously at the watching the scene Glen. The King was drawn in two directions at the same time.
“Are you sure?” Captain Horton was heard saying to the first rider and Glen made to turn that way but Hagen brought the second rider close, so he couldn’t.
Luthos orangutan drunk his sour milk, Glen recited the known fable of his youth and pursed his mouth nervously.
“Illustrious Caliph, may you live forever. May your lordship have twelve wives like the months and ten kids. Five sons and five daughters for the gods of the small pantheon,” the Cofol official, one of Kamat-Fin’s men, said respectfully.
“Good grief,” Kirk commented from Glen’s side sounding impressed. “That’s quite a lot of work to pull through I reckon and upsettingly detailed.”
“Tell him the news ye slant-eyed cretin,” Hagen grunted, slowly absorbing more and more of the King’s mannerisms and not always for the better.
“Hagen don’t be a bigot in public. You scared the man for no reason. Your late friend Musa was a Cofol remember?” Glen scolded him.
“A half-breed milord. Half of him was Lorian?”
“Close enough and you didn’t get my meaning,” Glen spat and eyed the messenger annoyed, the commotion at the front of the marching column increasing and the Zilan kids pulling their friend up with loud yells using an old rope -not helping at all. The moment dragging unnecessarily. “Speak for the love of god, ye stupid fuck!” Glen exploded angrily glaring at the confused Cofol who snapped out of it to respond immediately.
“The wyvern,” the messenger declared with a croaking voice, his hands shaking. “Is gone merciful Caliph.”
Glen blinked, the sound of horses approaching from the other side increasing and then gulped down slowly, a tick appearing on the left side of his face.
“I saw the wyvern flying over the lake not an hour back,” Sir Alan Kirk corrected the messenger.
True. Glen had seen Uvrycres as well earlier.
“The other wyvern my lord,” the Cofol expounded.
Ah.
Shit.
Luthos male orangutan drunk his sour milk, got sick and grew himself a big pair of hairy tits.
He climbed on top of the cackling god and slapped him with them repeatedly.
“There’s no other wyvern,” the knight argued and Glen wanted to agree with him but flinched on the saddle instead, getting a neigh of protest from the startled Outlaw.
“Who told you that?” He grunted, just as Captain Horton arrived with what appeared to be a mounted Zilan soldier in Marine leather armour.
“Laedan messaged Kamat-Fin and Lord Kamat-Fin ordered me to find you Caliph.”
“The wyvern is gone,” Glen repeated, now everything revealed under a new context. “The egg hatched then?”
Are you fucking kidding me?
“It was a brief message my lord. I know nothing else,” the messenger replied. “Kamat-Fin just commented that they lost it?”
“They lost the wyvern,” Glen murmured and stared at the anxious face of Captain Valentine Horton. “Yes?” He asked politely despite seething inside.
“Apologies for the interruption my lord, but according to this lad,” Horton started. “There has been an attack on Mussel. The event is ongoing.”
Glen licked his lips, the weight of the helm hurting his skull. He turned to the mud-covered Zilan.
“What happened?”
“Ships came out of the mist and unloaded troops ashore with boats, near the port.” The Zilan Marine replied. “They got attacked by Ticu at the beaches but they threw them back and then assaulted the town. This was two days ago.”
“The Ticu started it?” Glen asked, thinking on where a small wyvern could have gone. How did it get out of the locked box? He wondered.
“Negative Hardir. They attacked our people. We had to retreat and fight them in the woods due to their numbers.”
“A big raid? Pirates?”
“Not pirates. Human soldiers,” the Zilan replied. “We need to send reinforcements.”
“Right.” A still processing the info Glen said and looked at Captain Horton. “Captain?”
“My men can march there in a week sire,” Horton replied.
“Hardir this is a big force. We have casualties and they have control of the port and most of the city.”
“The city is mostly a ruin,” Glen grunted and pursed his mouth. “Alan ride back to Taras now. Inform Kamat-Fin and Fikumin. I’ll be right behind you. Horton you’ll follow the Marine here back to Mussel. Give him a fresh horse. Do not engage but block the road and hold it. The local force there has already collapsed, but it’s unlikely they’ll move out of the port or stay more than a week for that matter. I’ll see to find you more support soon.”
“Yes sir,” Horton replied and saluted.
“Samak,” a concerned Glen said next. “You shall ride with them and keep me posted for any developments. Take Hesam with you.”
“Lord Garth,” Samak nodded and clicked his tongue loudly to get his horse moving.
“Where to milord?” Hagen asked Glen a long moment later. They had stayed behind while the army continued fast marching away.
“We need to find the god darn wyvern,” Glen retorted with a grimace, feeling the starts of a migraine coming at full force.
Too much disturbing shit is happening at the same time, he thought sourly. If this was a job, I would have aborted the whole fucking thing and come back another day.
-
3rd of Imperial month Enna 3401
Morn Taras (Tenebrous Castle)
Late night
“Where’s is he?” Glen barked at Sir Qildor and Sir Nyvorlas as he entered the main hall. “Laedan. Him,” he added seeing as the Rokae were slow to react to his query.
“The Denmaster retired to the stables Hardir.” Sir Nyvorlas answered.
“What is he…?” Glen stopped too frustrated to speak. “Why is he staying at the stables?”
“Sir Delmuth wouldn’t grant him stay in the palace,” Sir Qildor explained.
Glen stared at the well-illuminated and busy –for the late hour- hall.
“Laedan is staying here now?”
Why?
“To avoid going back and forth Hardir,” Sir Nyvorlas replied. “But Sir Delmuth had never liked the Denmaster enough to allow him to stay under the same roof.”
Fantastic. This shite again!
“He’s allowed to stay here. Just find him a room. It doesn’t have to be furnished for crying out loud!” Glen grunted trying to keep everything in perspective and not lash out.
“The Denmaster is allowed to stay,” Sir Nyvorlas repeated. “I shall inform the commander posthaste.”
“He fucking knows it! What you’ll do instead is go and get Laedan immediately and then bring him here,” Glen hissed angrily. “Is the wyvern found?” He asked Sir Qildor as Sir Nyvorlas walked out of the hall to fetch Laedan.
“The search for the unknown small gold wyvern was fruitless Hardir,” Sir Qildor replied dotting his I’s and crossing the T’s. “But still ongoing. With persistence even the desert fields bloom.”
What?
“Aha. I thought you’ll go for the ‘needle in a haystack’ proverb there for a moment.” Glen retorted mockingly.
“True. It’s not easy to locate it. This is a big castle.” Sir Qildor agreed casually not sensing Glen’s tone.
“Sure. But let’s just discuss it a bit more in a cultured manner heh? Are you serious? This is a fucking wyvern, they tend to rush on folk and bite their noses off!” Glen argued in a roaring voice snapping his jaw.
“Not all wyverns according to Laedan,” Sir Qildor countered maintaining his composure and added respectfully. “Hardir.”
An edgy Glen puffed his cheeks out, jaw crackling, teeth hurting to the molars and then removed the mask from his face to breathe more easily. The mask was covered in mud and dirt from the road but Glen was likewise drenched in mire anyway from boots to collar.
So it came as no surprise at all.
“Did you check with the princess?” He asked somberly.
“The princess is removed from her quarters and staying at yours Hardir,” Sir Qildor replied. “How is the princess to know of the wyvern’s whereabouts?”
How do you think?
“The egg was locked inside a metal box,” Glen retorted.
“A wyvern can get out of all places.”
If the Zilan Rokae tossed another deep-meaning bullshit at him, Glen was prepared to kick the tall Zilan in the nuts.
Full force and with the muddy boot pointing.
“Not unless it knows a crap ton about lock-picking,” Glen grunted. “Somebody got it out.”
My precious did.
“The Princess… it makes no sense,” Sir Qildor gasped unable to fathom why Glen would go there.
The Monarch sighed. “My quarters?”
“Yes Hardir.”
Glen nodded. “Keep Laedan around. Hagen, you come with me,” he added and marched towards the stairs.
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Iskay saw him come through the door and waved the half-breed Memphes away, golden bracelets jingling and his bedroom smelling of cinnamon and bergamot orange oils with a touch of lavender.
“Lord Garth has returned early,” Iskay said and bowed her red head, the dark-blond Memphes doing the same. We’re talking skillful deep genuflections here, bending at the waist, forehead touching the carpet and tits popping in and out of their low cut tops. Good grief! They were dressed in similar outfits, with Memphes taking the white variant to Iskay’s preferred green and purple.
“Girls,” Glen said hoarsely a little self-conscious for being the dirtiest person in the room both allegorically and literally. “Is Inis-Mir sleeping?”
“Aye she is. Very peacefully. Oh, auspicious ‘n handsome Caliph O’ Wetull,” Memphes gushed in her thick Cofol slave accent. Best usage of the Caliph moniker today by a fucking mile, Glen thought eyeing the slave-girl intently.
“She’s faking it,” he said hoarsely and Memphes nodded as if in agreement. “I’ll need a change of clothes,” Glen added contemplating whether he should take a moment afore visiting his daughter to get to know the new slave girl better.
Can’t have a bunch of unknowns wandering about in the plaguing premises, pocketing stuff and eavesdropping on our business!
“I’ll have them ready and fix the large couch also,” Iskay intervened with a coy smile. “Just use the narrow brown carpet to reach her Garth.”
“Mm,” Glen raised a thick grey brow tauntingly at the slipup.
“Our Lord Garth,” Iskay rectified her mistake huskily and bowed deeply at the waist again.
Fleshy goodness shan’t be contained by flimsy garbs.
“Right,” a slightly-aroused Glen murmured. He then started towards the large completely covered under thick mosquito nets bed that was located ten meters away at the other side of the bedroom. Two strides later he paused to gaze at the flushed Iskay’s painted face. “It’s a large couch. One would go as far as to call it a roomy divan.” He told her simply and she nodded.
“Large enough for a willing Memphes as well my Lord Garth?” A perceptive Iskay asked in a low voice. Glen grimaced and replied whilst maintaining his haughty professionalism, much as Caliphs, Monarchs and comparable noble folk do this world over when presented with similar dilemmas.
Always keeping his words short and precise to avoid any misunderstandings.
“Absolutely.”
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Glen pulled the curtains back bringing light into the concealed four meter wide oaken bed. Inis-Mir didn’t stir at all, fully covered under two red sheets.
“Sweetheart,” Glen teased her.
“Are they gone?” Inis-Mir asked from under the sheets.
“Not yet,” Glen replied with a smile of relief. “You’re thinking of sneaking out of the room?”
“Maeriel is still searching the gardens and I got stuck with them,” Inis-Mir whispered and peeked at the tall Monarch standing over her. “They talk of funny stuff.” She added clandestinely and Glen frowned.
“Like… eh, hmm… tickling them toes?”
What are you talking about you imbecile? He admonished himself very frustrated.
“Cave mushrooms and wine does that?” Inis-Mir asked curious and got her disheveled head out of the sheets.
“Depends on the mushrooms,” Glen replied afore he could control himself. Fuck. “Ehem, having said that… where is Qodras daughter?”
“Hiding.”
“Aha. Where?” Glen asked a little surprised she answered him so directly. Half-proud and half-disappointed to be exact.
“I’ll never lie to you,” Inis-Mir said perceptively and Glen stooped to pinch her cute nose lightly with two fingers.
“Each day the cute liar’s nose grows,” he warned her with a smile. “Why not come forward immediately?”
“Nobody was intelligent enough to ask?” Inis-Mir pouted and then covered her head with the sheet again. “I’m so tired! I’d like to sleep now daddy.”
You little minx… Glen thought and let out a deep sigh.
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The princess’ bedchamber stood empty and guarded by Sir Nuvian, who was talking with a rugged Laedan. The half-paralyzed face of the Denmaster now matching his healthy part.
“Hardir,” Laedan said seeing him strolling confidently towards the closed door. “They are clever things. Always plotting something or other. They’ll only appear when they are sure of themselves.”
“The wyvern never left the room,” Glen said casually.
Laedan smacked his lips.
“Is this… your professional opinion?” He asked tauntingly. Laedan just couldn’t help himself.
“Who told you the box was empty?”
“The… slave? The one with the painted blond hair.”
Ah. Thus the mystery is solved. But one won’t begrudge himself searching between them legs to be absolutely certain of this fact.
“Who told her?”
“The Princess?” Laedan blinked once troubled. “I checked the box myself and the room.”
“She hid him somewhere easy to get out of later,” Glen explained. “The Princess wants to ensure her wyvern survives yer brutal methods.”
“My methods… Hardir, oh for Naossis hefty buttocks!” Laedan cursed and slapped his numb face once, twice. “Give me a spear,” he ordered Sir Nuvian who let out a grunt but remained still. “Seriously? You conceited son of a Catapir! Small-dick and proboscis for nose hidden under the mask—”
The smack delivered by the Rokae with the staff of his spear caught Laedan on the side of the neck and sent him to crash on the wall, right past the amused Glen.
“Get him to his room,” Glen ordered calmly and stepped over the trying to get up Denmaster to enter the Princess bedchamber.
“Argh… fucking masked cretin caught me unawares… wait, I have a room in the palace?” The groaning Laedan protested behind him and Glen shook his head not really surprised Laedan didn’t know. The Rokae had forgotten mentioning the detail to the annoying Zilan again.
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image [https://i.postimg.cc/Y9C6rR6W/Qodras-3.jpg]
Leave, a dooming voice said ominously.
Glen stopped just inside the large girly bedroom, hands resting on his waist and stared about him in silence. Several stools and carpets were moved or upturned. A number of fragrance bottles, oils and soaps, plus other stuff the princess used, even toys -were hurled about haphazardly.
The usually orderly place now quite the mess.
This is your last warning, the voice said in a slow, drawn out baritone and authoritative tone.
Glen got the dagger out and flipped it in his hand expertly.
“Last time I faced a wyvern yer size,” Glen started tiredly. “I hurled him out of an abandoned customs building in Lebesos. Went over a crossdressing Gish and landed on a possessed zombie or a cutthroat. This part I sort of forgot. True story though. Ayup.”
He heard the creature moving under the furniture quickly. Small feet tip-tapping on the soft carpet to relocate and deliver another warning message.
“Uvrycres attacked me first chance he got,” Glen continued with a smile and rubbed his face with the free hand. “Kept trying for a while.”
EARU
Qodras grunted, a nice silk cloth covering a small table by the east wall slowly moving dragging glasses and paint vials towards the edge. Glen moved lithely and grabbed the cover to prevent a catastrophe. He pulled it back and got blinded momentarily by a blast of brilliant gold light. Qodras using the opportunity to run away on its tiny hind legs like a chicken with a small tail.
Every part of the wyvern shielded with minute gold scales but for the undersides of its front limbs and diaphanous wings that had a light blue-green hue. The twin horns on its forehead showcasing that it was a male of its species and the rubicund eyes glowing more gold than red as it looked back at Glen whilst running away as fast as it could.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Glen counted in his head and then extended his left arm, index finger pointing at the approaching door leading to the next room. Sen’s locked bedchamber. The comically sprinting looking behind his back Qodras gave Glen a snarly, smug grin seeing as he had opened up the distance between them and then got plastered on the sturdy bronze-reinforced ironwood door with a loud bone-breaking bang.
The small wyvern got knocked out cold at the snap of one’s fingers.
Splash.
“Hah.” Glen blurted out a chuckle trying to hold it in but failing. “Ha-hah-ha! Haha! He-he-huh-hah-ha!” Almost doubling over when the dam finally broke and the chuckle turned into a roaring monkey’s-resembling laughter.
All the mounted tension of the day released.
Glen kept chuckling to himself after he got out of the room and locked the door behind him carefully. The mirthful Monarch returned Sir Nuvian’s salute and strolled back to his bedchamber this time taking care not to make any noise. He stood near the distant large couch, as already mentioned a spacious divan-type monstrosity that occupied a corner of the room and got rid of his clothes making a neat pile on the soft carpet. Dropped the weapons on the pile.
He then found a good spot on the west corner of the divan to rest his back on, raising first one leg and then the other. Glen let out a deep sigh, the fifteen meters away Inis-Mir probably soundly asleep by now and tied his hands at the nape. His eyes closed, mind wandering on how to help his daughter bond and train the wyvern safely in the years to come.
The bad weather outside giving way to a chilly but sans the downpour Goras night. The divan creaked and moved next to him, a soft breath reaching his sensitive ears. Glen cracked his amber eyes open when fingers touched the Monarch’s hairy sternum nosily, long nails teasing the skin following his chiseled abs down to the awakening phallus.
The at least three gold and silver bracelets-wearing Memphes smiled invitingly afore her painted-blue fingers closed around the King’s ever-hardening fleshy rod.
“Permission to go second indomitable Caliph?” The slave girl asked huskily, her eyes sparkling with a strange hardness in them.
“Why…?”
Second, Glen wanted to ask but then Iskay’s familiar naked body filled his vision as she stepped forward out of the semi-darkness. The freedwoman mounted the seated Monarch without hesitation, well-oiled thighs parked on each side within easy-access of his daring hands. And then her swollen sex engulfed Glen’s engorged cock in a fiery but wet grip that turned into a velvet but very tight and intimate embrace.
The over-stimulated Glen attempted to let out a moan but Iskay’s nimble ring-adorned hand snapped forward and sealed his half-opened mouth, pushing the startled Monarch back on the divan as if she was riding a real horse. When Iskay’s hand retreated Memphes’ flower-tasting mouth took its place.
So Glen was kept silent throughout the whole affair.
For the most part.
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“Daddy?”
Limitless, slovenly fucks! Glen gasped in horrified shock and recoiled in panic afore remembering that this was not the morning after, but some mornings after that.
Eh.
“Eh,” the Monarch croaked and tried to find his bearings. There’s the divan, now empty. The pillow, kick that away, and the sheet covering the private parts. Thank God for no morning wood tenting the fabric. Awkward. Inis-Mir had jumped on the divan next to him and stretched her shorter legs like Glen had on the adjusted footrest—without reaching it—toes painted white, calves and ring-adorned toenails wiggling as they strained to make the distance.
“I’m so short. I may be a Gish. Oh, the horror!” She complained melodramatically, and Glen breathed out, still feeling a bit rattled. Inis had woken him in the midst of a good dream. The kind where you replay the best parts without sound or much explanation.
“You’re tall for yer years,” Glen assured her and noticed Rimeros was standing all the way across the room at the open doorway stoically.
“Am I pretty though?” Inis-Mir asked pouting.
“The prettiest,” Glen murmured his eyes on the Zilan official. “You wanted something,” he told his troubled daughter and she sighed deeply before hugging his chest.
“Stupid merchants.” Inis-Mir let out a muffled hiss, and Glen stood up to glare at Rimeros.
“What is she talking about?” He grunted, clenching his jaw.
A mere fucking day of respite in lewdness and freedom. One! Then ye get immediately pummeled in the face repeatedly wit a plaguing oar!
Naah… Damnit all to Oras Hells! He protested even more histrionically than Inis-Mir.
“Horton’s force got attacked the second day, just before he made camp. About seven kilometers from Mussel Hardir,” a rigid Rimeros reported, interrupting Glen’s internal turmoil. He paused to make sure the gawking in utter bafflement Glen didn’t have a stroke and added after the Monarch blinked in stunned silence ensuring he was still functioning. “By an overwhelming force.”
Well, fuck you too.
“Where in all the squealing goblins have they come from?” A numb Glen croaked getting up. He immediately tossed the sheet covering his private parts over the screaming Inis-Mir thus preventing her from staring at his naked arse.
Glen wasn’t a prudish character but this was his god-darn daughter.
He could be the most narrow-minded person in the whole realm as far as she was concerned.
“Some ships have marks on them. A number sire.” Rimeros replied whilst Glen got into a pair of pants quickly. “Three hundred and thirty three.”
333.
And at first, the number meant absolutely nothing to the scowling Monarch.