>
>
> In the sacred lands of Wetull Eodrass rules above all other gods. This shall never change and no Wetull king shall ever sit the throne without the wyvern god’s approval or without one of the God’s offspring by their side.
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> (Words written on an alabaster wall-sized tablet inside the ruins of Nesande’s massive temple complex in Elauthin, known as Crimson Palace. The specific room called ‘The Hall of Dictums’.)
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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
Malantur O’ Furu*
The Wine Wars | Wyvern’s mercy
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*Archaic Imperial language variant (here the Cydonia Cazan jargon) -Lord (master) of Lies
-
Beyond the thick black smoke and the burning fires, rather easily visible through the collapsed parts of the ancient north-side walls and the destroyed barricades, one could still see the guts of the ravaged old Port. Mussel stood now mostly leveled from the walls to its docks with only parts of buildings still standing and piles of debris half-blocking its streets. Corpses were burning or could be seen blackened, fused into walls or broken up in smaller pieces next to armour and ruined weapons.
The roar of battle has subsided or turned distant as resistance waned and more Hoplites poured inside the town. The road to the port was now open as the defenders had been split into two unequal portions that were trapped west and east of Mussel at its gentle flat heights. Lyceron was fighting there attacking from the captured center and Captain Fane was doing the same attacking from the north. The noose around the mercenaries’ necks had tightened, their only hope of escape the darkness that was still hours away.
As usual that hope was naught but an illusion.
An illusion, a husky voice whispered in his ears escaping the Monarch’s fragmented dreams.
Come… visit my secret garden.
A scowling Glen jumped from the saddle, slid down Uvrycres’ scaly body and landed with a grunt on the ground just outside the destroyed barricades at the gates. He stared at the well-ordered Hoplite Files splitting up into their smaller subunit, the twenty-five soldiers Lohos, to enter the town and head after Lyceron’s men either west or east towards the larger cut off part of the town.
RRRRRREEEE
Glen glanced back at the complaining wyvern and crooked his mouth into a half smile. The mask covering his face mimicking the Monarch’s expression, the strange hard metal moving like liquid. ‘A simple illusion spell,’ Angrein had told him a year back. ‘A large part of magic is illusion but few master it. You need it though as a medium for the essence trapped inside the weapons to be able to express itself.’
‘What is trapped inside your mask?’ Glen had queried accepting the gift and burying the hatchet with the Imperial Blacksmith hybrid. ‘Blood Kin’ Angrein called his people although Glen knew only one other like him despite the Blacksmith’s assurances that more of them existed.
Inis Mir.
‘Nothing. The mask is empty but for this simple trickery,’ had been Angrein’s reply.
‘What of the dagger?’
‘Other than fragments of a wyvern’s soul and a witch’s magic,’ Angrein had replied looking at the exotic weapon. ‘There should be nothing else there Hardir.’
‘Hmm.’ Glen had retorted not fully accepting the Blacksmith’s explanation. Expert or not, the dagger wasn’t his work nor was he that familiar with witch artifacts as Angrein preferred to work with metal.
Glen’s expression had turned into a scowl, the wyvern licking at the tear on its left wing that was still mending. Glen had used a healing potion on it the other night, lathering the sheer red skin around the wound and stitching parts of it. Uvrycres would eventually fully heal himself but the bigger the damage, the longer it would take.
“Monarch,” a rough voice said interrupting his sullen ruminations as the sound of galloping horses approached from the north. Glen turned around to stare at the imposing Hoplite leader. The square-jawed Zilan warrior’s face hidden under the black helm with only its gleaming bluish eyes visible through the sinister vertical slits. “Tetrarch Folmaeras sire, 2nd Othrim. Reporting for duty,” Folmaeras saluted touching three fingers on his armour. Index, middle and ring finger, with the pinky touching the thumb behind the palm in the old Imperial salutation.
An old Zilan this, Glen thought and eyed the imposing warrior dressed in the intricately sculpted ancient armour. “Ulovir is here,” he finally said.
“He’s leading the 2nd inside Mussel Hardir. Resistance shall be crashed,” Folmaeras replied stiffly reminding Glen of Saevelos.
“What is your rank in the Phalanx?” Glen asked curious.
“I’m the sixth Hoplite sire.”
“Why stay under Ulovir? Taras and Lyceron are lower in the ranks.”
Taras was 12th but an ‘old vicious dog’ according to his tutor Lord Onas and the talented Lyceron 17th. The tenacious young Hoplite had challenged through the years a lot of veterans to a test of skill to rise up the ranks but he reluctantly realized that cracking the top fifteen was nigh impossible. Lyceron had gained a cracked jaw, a smashed face and a broken arm from the experience though.
So there’s that, Glen thought with a small grin the mask kept from showing.
“I’ve served with the 2nd since I took the oath sire,” Folmaeras replied in the same gruff manner but with a touch of added passion. “Couldn’t bring myself to leave it or leave Ulovir on his own. He’s my friend.”
Glen nodded. His friend had decided to avoid speaking to the Monarch. Eh, maybe it was nothing. “Is the fight over?” He asked returning his attention to the burning buildings. The fire had started in the middle of the town and had spread outwards, cutting off the defenders from retreating and splitting their forces.
“The docks are freed,” Folmaeras replied. “Not much to find there. The hindmost areas were cut off and thoroughly engulfed in the firestorm Hardir. No survivors.”
“Were they engineers?”
“Injured and medics mostly. Some civilians. Most of the engineers were killed on the towers by the wyvern.”
Glen grimaced. “Proceed.”
“There’s resistance at the heights but they have nowhere to go.” Folmaeras continued with his report just as Sir Alan Kirk and the Zilan Rokae arrived bringing a cloud of dust along that was added to the smokes coming from the burning town.
“My Lord Garth!” Kirk saluted sharply. “The flats are cleared sire. The enemy tries to flee through the jungle.”
“Will they?” Glen queried gruffly.
“Those in the west might make it some way but we’ve notified the guard at Sentinel’s Tower and those heading there are in for a nasty surprise if they make it.”
Glen nodded.
“Not a good jungle this,” he murmured looking at the woods outside Mussel east and west. “Right?”
“The Ticu nest at the Fingers Hardir. Historically,” Folmaeras agreed. “Best not to disturb them.”
“I have an agreement with their Matriarch,” Glen replied evenly. “And her… daughter living in my palace.”
Folmaeras stood back impressed. “The Monarch can of course have his choice of partners however exotic—”
“As a guest,” Glen interrupted him dryly but the stout Hoplite added indifferently having regained his footing.
“…or exotic guests.”
“Right then,” Glen grunted and puffed out audibly. “I’ll need a horse Alan. Saddled preferably.”
“Take mine my Lord,” the knight replied but before he could get off the saddle one of the Rokae, Sir Nuvian (Sen’s old royal guard) brought forward an unmounted horse for Glen.
“I’ll enter the city myself,” Glen informed them with a glance at Uvrycres to stay put. He climbed on the saddle with a grimace as his maimed leg had been worn-out trying to keep himself on the wyvern and turned his cunning amber eyes on the stoic Folmaeras. “Why didn’t Anfalon send the 2nd Othrim immediately?”
“The Lord Commander decreed the 3rd needed its feet wet Hardir,” the Hoplite replied evenly.
“Why risk it?”
“The 3rd would have perished but not failed Monarch,” Folmaeras replied in the same absolute tone with a small pause afore adding. “Whilst giving enough time for the 2nd to arrive. No other option was there for Lyceron. This is the Phalanx. The lad knows this and Saevelos would have made certain to remind him even if he didn’t.”
“What do you think of Saevelos?”
“He’s the fifth Hoplite,” Folmaeras replied dispassionately.
Glen smacked his lips a little annoyed by the dearth of info or gossip and gave the Hoplite a curt nod. “Sir Alan with me.” He ordered. “Where is Hagen?”
“He’s with the mage my lord.”
“Has he recovered at all?”
“Well the lad’s awake and so is the young witch. I reckon Berthas will have to stay off of his feet for a while longer though sire,” Sir Kirk replied haughtily and gestured for the rest of the Rokae to return to the field and assist their flanks. “I’ll stay with the Monarch.”
Glen clicked his tongue and the large warhorse started galloping away missing the rest of the knight’s words. He wanted to finish the deal in Mussel and return to Morn Taras near his daughter. War was never a pleasurable activity to him or a priority. The men bringing this ugly conflict into his back yard naught but highway thugs and unworthy of his mercy.
-
>
>
> On the 22th of the month Primus, the year of the Imperial Calendar 3401, the Monarch liberated Mussel.
-
Glen returned Captain Fane’s salute and walked towards the rows of prisoners that had slowly gathered at their camp, six kilometers outside Mussel, after marching after the 3rd Othrim to avoid the still smoking city. Ulovir had stayed in Mussel to secure the port and root out any survivors. Cryptae Hagan had also stayed back and would join them later. Ran-Sahor’s riders were still roaming the edges of the jungle to pick up anyone trying to escape the Zilan rangers that had been tasked with clearing the west flank going as far south as the slopes and the 3rd Finger.
Glen had enough reports read or brought to his attention to last him a year or have him graduate one of Jelin’s academies of war and logistics.
He nodded at Lyceron and Saevelos standing outside the ranks of the Hoplites, offering a small smile to the Tetrarch Diryel who he remembered fondly. For her friend, the Hoplite Tetrarch Eldar Glen didn’t much care about. Diryel had mourned the loss of Hobor very vocally and her lament had affected Glen who had come to understand more the heightened Zilan range of emotions. Their hate, their joy, their love and their sorrow. He’d first witnessed it with Priestess Soletha’s heart-breaking cries for the tragic loss of her daughter. Lithoniela afore her. Back then he couldn’t understand it fully.
Now he could. A long-living species is also susceptible to grief for a sudden loss. The fear of continuing on their journey without their loved ones equally sharp as in humans or perhaps even more pronounced given the length of the journey in front of them.
Once you experience true loss, then everything becomes clearer. Glen decided and eyed the rows of dejected prisoners. Both old and fresh.
“A count?” He asked Sir Alan Kirk and the tired knight checked his scrolls afore replying. They had both been up all night visiting different parts of the city as fighting winded down.
“Three hundred forty five my lord.”
“Officers?”
“A Grimani and Calla from the Band of Silver. Sixty survivors overall.”
“Uhm.”
“We got nothing for the Owls sire. Four survivors only.”
“What’s their story?” Glen asked speaking to Kirk in Imperial but keeping his eyes on the prisoners.
“Part of the command escaped west under Bo Saxon. An Issir ranger,” Kirk replied. “They might have had help from the warship. Once the fleet is here we’ll go out looking for them.”
Lord Rybel’s first batch of four warships had sailed out of Hardir’s Port with the naval architect and engineer onboard.
Glen grimaced but said nothing.
“279 prisoners from the 333 my lord. Some rangers under Cerra. He surrendered after we asked Captain Gravina to write an order for them. The Captain had asked for terms earlier.”
“Is he in charge?”
“Yes sir. Along with Cerra, a Turbot and that Ferrero character.”
The scribe.
Glen stared at the separate group of officers. Grimani being the better dressed but in most rough condition. Gravina coming a close second. The captain’s armour was covered in soot and dried up gore.
Saul Ferrero had a forlorn expression on his face. Matched by sergeant Calla’s. Turbot appeared nervous as all hells, his eyes on the wyvern that stood about twenty meters behind Glen’s entourage.
“What’s the deal with Turbot?”
“He’s an engineer from Cediorum sire,” Kirk replied looking at his quickly scribbled notes with the names, ranks and positions.
Son of a sneaky goat, Glen thought narrowing his eyes.
RRRRR
“You,” he grunted pointing an accusing finger at the ogling engineer. “Step forward.”
“The man is a low-ranking engineer my lord,” Gravina intervened. “I speak for the 333.”
Glen eyed the officer solemnly. “I don’t give a fuck,” he grunted in Common and Gravina’s jaw clenched tightly not expecting the rebuke. “Are ye deaf mister cunt?” He growled at the nervous Turbot that gulped down, his face turning pale.
“It’s Master Leonard Turbot milord,” he croaked visibly scared for his life. “I’ve a wife and a daughter back home.”
Glen nodded. “I’ve a daughter too. She lost her mother,” he told him harshly. “Now she is all alone back in Morn Taras because her father is trying to deal with you cocksuckers!”
“Apologies—”
“Enough!” Glen cut him off abruptly. “What’s this? You didn’t step on me fuckin’ foot during some feast or other. Miserable plaguing donkeys came ‘n stabbed me between them ribs with a foot long blade! A bolt yay big! Tried to kill my wyvern! Argh!” Glen let out a roaring tirade tipping his head back and getting all-worked up. He felt his blood boiling, the veins taut as wires and his fingers clenched tightly into a fist. Had Turbot dared to approach another meter Glen would have punched him in the mouth.
The man didn’t but Gravina made another attempt.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Lord Garth I’ll take responsibility for the men—”
Glen stopped him with an angry gesture. “Did you plan it? This atrocity?”
Gravina blinked. “I’m a simple officer milord. The decision was made from far more important men than myself. Allow me to remind you that yer rash actions caused this response. Smuggling goods into foreign markets, disregarding Jelin laws and selling wine when you’re not allowed to.”
“So you’ll not take responsibility for your men then?” Glen mocked him. “You started strong then lost yourself in legalities and gobbledygook all of a sudden.”
“What? I don’t believe your lordship understands—”
Glen stopped him with a loud snicker. “Oh, this lordship understands plenty.” He told the discomforted officer of the 333 company. “You talk of your men but you’re just mercenaries. Fight for this side today, the other on the morrow. With no regard for any laws if your pocket is filled with coin. You talk of Jelin laws but here you stand in Wetull over eight hundred kilometers from Eplas which is that way,” Glen pointed an arm to the north. “And three thousand kilometers from Jelin? More from Lesia I’m sure. You look to appear civilized yet here you are attacking foreign citizen unprovoked and slaughtering natives with abandon!”
“Lord Garth! Sir!” Gravina protested with several of the other officers murmuring as well. “You are out of line! We committed no atrocities—”
“You butchered Ticu,” Glen cut him off midsentence. “For no reason.”
“Ticu…” Gravina croaked not believing his ears.
“You killed Goras citizens,” Glen continued harshly. “Destroyed Mussel and caused my person great harm. I have no regard for your laws, I don’t care about Jelin and I’ll sell whatever I want, anyplace I desire. Even so, I killed no one mister Gravina to make it happen. Trade shouldn’t turn into a war but stay free and decided by the local markets. Your lot decided to make it a war just the same. Having said that don’t believe you have me fooled even for a minute. The 333 is not here to deliver justice, you are not here to right wrongs or enforce laws. You cunts are here to take me out and install a puppet cunt in my place. Take what’s mine and enjoy it yourselves, sell it for coin, drink it and fuck it for pleasure. All Jelin laws or sensibilities be damned!”
Captain Gravina stood back with a look of worry at the other Captain Lancelot Grimani. The Lorian had pursed his mouth tightly listening to the Monarch’s words. “Lord Garth,” Gravina tried again. “I surrendered my command in the spirit of noble warfare—”
“You’re not an army mister Gravina,” Glen just wouldn’t let him finish a single sentence. “We’ve established that. Even if you were, this attack is unprovoked. A bloody raid. Senseless and grotesque. It caused great damage, ruined a city. LOOK AT IT!” Glen growled pointing at the distant but still smoking Mussel. Well, the town port was a ruin to begin with but still it wasn’t as damaged afore and it wasn’t burned for sure.
“Your wyvern—”
RRRRREEEEE
Uvrycres had approached behind Glen shoving Zilan and Taras’ guards aside, narrowly trampling Hagen under its legs. The out of shape bodyguard jumping away with a panicked yelp and making another sprightly roll on the ground just to be safe.
“Let me tell you about Wetull law,” Glen said raspingly, breaking the awkward silence from the wyvern’s angry intervention. “Actions have consequences. You take something from the scales… you need to put something back to balance them again. There is no middle ground.”
“The men have surrendered! Only savages talk this way!” Gravina protested looking very tense with the way the conversation was going.
“Captain,” a grim faced Grimani said from his spot. “The victor dictates the manner of compensation. Those that drop their shields hold no bargaining chip.”
“We’re not in blasted Andatelia Grimani fer crying out loud!” Gravina blasted his fellow officer irate turning red in the face. They are from different companies but still. Glen stared at the roughed up but nicely-dressed officer. A younger man of around thirty years with a stocky built, a square face and short blond hair.
“I voted to fight to the last alike Trevisan’s Peltasts.” Grimani continued.
“You parochial son of a bitch,” Gravina cursed him. “Yer brother just married into the Borginas! Your family shall survive! What about the men?”
“To go into battle is to cast the die of fate and challenge the gods,” Grimani replied in a fatalistic manner. “We fought on ancient land, we shall be judged from ancient law in defeat. My legend is secure in the eyes of the gods Gravina for I have stood against a wyvern and the Phalanx without fear. I lost, aye. There’s no shame in that.”
“Where are you from?” Glen asked the sober officer.
“Conium Castle Lord Garth,” Grimani replied raspingly.
“Where in Luthos cock is that?”
“Well over three thousand miles away but it makes no difference right here and now. Our fate is in your hands,” Grimani had made a play there with Glen’s earlier words. The man is paying attention, Glen thought pursing his mouth.
“The 3rd Othrim is aggrieved,” Glen announced to a loud murmur from the younger Hoplites of the unit watching the exchange. “Who speaks for the 3rd?”
Lyceron took a step forward. There was commotion in the ranks with several Hoplites wanting Diryel to speak for the unit. Saevelos turned around and barked for the soldiers to behave. Glen was uncertain on the reason why, although he suspected it.
Hobor, you big dog you.
“The 3rd avenged its losses Hardir,” Lyceron declared loudly. “We have won the field.”
“Mmm,” Glen stared at the scowling female Hoplite leader. “The ancient law offers the victor compensation. Mussel needs rebuilding…” Glen paused seeing several younger Hoplites stirring in anger and urging Diryel to step forward. “Lyceron, what is the matter?”
“Hardir, the 3rd has spoken,” a frustrated Lyceron replied exchanging a look with the stone-faced Saevelos.
“The Phalanx fights under Imperial creed Hardir,” Sir Nuvian said in Glen’s ear. “Any of its members can demand compensation as they are valued citizens that have given up personal ambitions to serve the empire. Hobor was Diryel’s partner. It’s a personal loss.”
Glen nodded as he’d that figured out given the female’s reaction during the funeral. Diryel had Hobor buried under a big tree like a Zilan and had cut her blue hair short in grief. The old heads of the unit –there weren’t many of them mainly the stoic Saevelos and a couple of others- stayed quiet. Lyceron followed their example but the majority appeared to be rather agitated.
“I won’t challenge Lyceron,” Diryel declared raspingly whilst looking at Glen with pleading eyes. “Or Hardir’s decision.”
Eh. Gods damn it.
“Hobor was a noble leader,” Glen said with a weary sigh now forced to address the issue. “He fell fighting alongside his men as is the way and now rests under the tree of life in perpetuity. His deeds shall be remembered fondly for he never hesitated in the face of danger. However…” He paused with a grimace, his mind racing back to Soletha’s rage against Pelleas and his zealots’ years back. “If someone believes the scales to be at an imbalance then I’ll allow this to be remedied.”
Captain Fane took a step forward. “King Garth,” the human officer said. He was now leading Taras’ guards. “We grieve for Captain Horton as well but the matter is resolved.”
Well, Horton’s wife and child might disagree.
Glen stared at Lyceron and then at the pensive Grimani.
“Lord Anfalon has given command of the unit to me,” Lyceron said tensely. “I have spoken. But I will accept any challenge to my decision.”
“The decision lies with the Monarch,” Saevelos retorted in a matter-of-fact tone. “Even in the Lord Commander’s presence. The Phalanx serves the throne.”
“You’ll challenge me Saevelos?” Lyceron grunted.
“I passed on that for different reasons,” Saevelos replied evenly. “No challenge required when the Monarch has spoken. To dwell on it is to sow dissent Lyceron. To act decidedly is to restore order.”
Lyceron grimaced, jaw clenching under his helm.
Saevelos stared at Glen instead as the murmurs quieted down. A crowd of over a thousand humans and Zilan stood in eerie anticipation. Glen didn’t want Grimani executed. His straightforwardness reminded him of Emerson. That old world dignity present in some of his countrymen but not everyone. Remnants of a much harsher era but in a bizarre sense, also much fairer.
Where would a Monarch stand on this matter though?
Saevelos gave a slight nod at the drawn out silent response from the conflicted Glen and moved away from the formation of Hoplites. One of the veterans tossed him a spear which the ancient Hoplite snatched with ease, his long strides quickening with a sudden burst of energy.
One.
Two.
Then he hurled the spear snapping his arm. The long weapon screamed through the air, travelled the ten meters separating him from the prisoners and skewered Captain Gravina right through the chest. The leafed tip bursting out of the officer’s back with a sharp thudding and tearing sound under the gasps of horror from the onlookers.
Gravina gurgled in total shock and dropped to his knees, blood spurting out of the wound and down his chin from his gasping mouth. Saevelos marched the rest of the distance, stooped lightly to yank the spear out in a demonstration of extreme strength and after raising it high punched it into the dying Gravina’s skull killing him instantly.
“The scales,” Saevelos announced turning to look at Diryel but also speaking to the rest of the Hoplites. “Have been balanced.”
I want the engineer, Uvrycres announced with a shriek just as Glen was about to declare the matter over since Saevelos had guessed the Monarch’s wishes correctly.
“The 3rd is satisfied,” Glen agreed while the Hoplite returned near his ranks under the furious glare of Lyceron. “Mussel shall use your services,” he continued looking at the mercenary prisoners. “In order to rebuild itself. Other related projects might need yer attention,” Glen added vaguely.
“For how long?” Someone yelled but the protests calmed down immediately as the unwilling to stand down wyvern moved past Glen to approach the prisoners letting our sharp growls.
A pale-faced Saul Ferrero blinked wanting to speak. Glen decided to give him the opportunity and the scribe finally got the words out.
“Forced labor is always tied to a specific place your highness,” the man croaked through nervously clenched teeth, his eyes on the towering wyvern.
“Mussel is a big place,” Glen replied. Part of an even bigger city since technically it wasn’t a town in Zilan law. Why, the whole of Goras was naught but a single city. “But when work is finished, you shall go free mister Ferrero and write all about it.”
“Gratitude Monarch,” Saul replied with a bow of his head and returned to his spot making a gesture of relief to the others watching them.
“What about the rest of us?” Grimani asked Glen perceptively.
“The matter is decided,” Glen replied. “But for one minor detail. The wyvern feels aggrieved as well.”
INJURED! Uvrycres trumpeted angrily. GIVE ME THE RUFFIAN!
No.
“There will be no more killing,” Glen continued over the Wyvern’s angry shrieks. Uvrycres made a twirl on its four limbs to glare at the Monarch. Rubicund eyes glowing in frustration. I’m not in agreement, the wyvern warned. They don’t get to walk away! Glen noticed the plural there. “But something must be given of equal value.” He added getting frustrated himself.
Uh? This motherfucker has no wings! Uvrycres roared and turned around to stare at the shaking Turbot.
“Hagen go grab the engineer,” Glen ordered stiffly.
“Milord?” Hagen gasped a little disturbed.
“Sir Nuvian,” Glen growled. “Cease that man!”
“Hardir,” Nuvian grunted sounding strangled through his metal mask. “A Rokae is not an executioner. Give him a weapon and I shall fight him to the death!”
Oh, swallow Luthos’ swollen shit-covered prick! Glen thought irritated and eyed the paused Saevelos. The Hoplite turned around and marched towards the prisoners again, sidestepping to avoid Uvrycres’ angry stinger that had started lashing out forcing the agitated crowd to retreat.
Saevelos grabbed Turbot and forced him to his knees with ease. Using his right hand he snatched the engineer’s right arm and pulled it away from his body.
Hey, it was the other arm! Uvrycres growled with a smirk in the spirit of fairness.
“Saevelos,” Glen intervened stopping the Hoplite. “The left… ehem, if you please my good man.”
Gasps of horror erupted from the prisoners and several humans tried to assault the Zilan that had his back turned to them but Uvrycres burst forward abruptly to scatter the crowd. A Lorian caught by a swing of the long tail was thrashed to the ground with a yelp of pain, blood covering his face and torn sternum.
RRRRRRREEE!
RREEE
RRRRRRR
Uvrycres roared and snapped his jaws audibly.
“Stop this madness!” Someone yelled desperately as the wyvern turned to approach the flaying Turbot. Saevelos steely grip was holding his left arm now, holding it extended above the elbow, despite the man trying to escape the taller Zilan. Saevelos wrapped his other arm around Turbot’s neck and pressed until the man’s responses weakened.
“King Garth, I plead for mercy to the surrendered sire! In the spirit of the Five!” Fane intervened to help out the miserable prisoner. He took a couple of courageous steps forward but got almost trampled under the hooves of the arriving Ran-Sahor’s desert mount. The Cofol leader assessed the situation and then forced the Taras Captain back riding his horse against him.
“There will be no disputing the great Caliph’s commands!” Sahor roared as more of his men rode next to him.
Uvrycres had stooped over the sobbing Turbot, his mouth opening like a large deep well and slowly closing around the extended arm. The gleaming black scales covered wyvern had managed to maintain a sinister smirk, mauve lips pulled back to reveal dagger sized, black-glass like sharp teeth. More of the arm disappeared inside the cavernous mouth until it reached close to the shoulder joint.
“The Five don’t rule in Goras! They never will!” A seriously peeved Glen declared in a loud voice to silence the dissent that was about to erupt from all sides. He reached deep in Imperial lore for this. “Only one kind of mercy these sacred lands provide, only one rule they shall ever recognize! Those that aspire to dispute this set-in-stone dictum,” Glen growled feeling the wyvern’s ravenous thoughts overwhelming his senses in blistering waves. “Shan’t have the privilege to savor any rewards whatsoever but they shall face the wyvern’s judgement.”
A hair-raising guttural growl and Uvrycres’ jaws snapped shut abruptly. A simple yank of its massive scaly head and it separated the screaming Turbot’s arm from his body. Blood gushed out of the wound and the crowd watched in dismay as the still smirking wyvern briefly chomped at the bones and flesh with enthusiasm afore it swallowed everything down.
“Dear Saevelos,” Glen grunted hoarsely and the stone-faced Hoplite raised his helmed head. “The Monarch absolves you of yer father’s sins. You shall serve the throne directly henceforth.”
Saevelos stood up releasing the bleeding out unresponsive Turbot. Medics from both camps rushed to provide assistance to the injured engineer and the veteran Hoplite stepped out of their way. He stilled his cold eyes on Glen’s face and gave a simple sharp nod of agreement with his head.
-
A day after some of the prisoners departed for Taras, with the majority remaining in the camp to help clear and rebuild the facilities at Mussel, Glen who had remained behind with his entourage watched as the first of Lord Rybel’s –Wetull’s master of ships- massive galleasses entered the ruined and still smoking in several places port.
With all its long oars out the warship approached aiming to moor moving gracefully over the gentle waves. Its large decks painted red and black, the exotic triangular now gathered sails a dark crimson -like the color of the palace back in Elauthin. The Imperial sigil, the horned wyvern’s head sculpted at its bow. The menacing jaws open and a lightstone torch secured inside the polished bronze interior of the mouth to show the way at night. A rarely excited Rybel waved triumphantly at the Monarch when he spotted him –Glen was watching from the destroyed but cleared out docks. The naval engineer was excited he’d managed to complete the ship’s maiden journey successfully.
“A Royal bird brought a message from Tenebrous Castle sire,” Sir Alan Kirk informed Glen in his unruffled manner, after coming to stand next to the helmetless Monarch.
Alan could deliver the best or worst news without ever changing his tone.
It was a plaguing skill.
“My daughter?” Glen asked feeling a tang of worry.
“Nay my Lord,” the loyal human knight replied. “It is from Lord Fikumin. I’m uncertain whether it’s important or not but it’s sealed with royal wax and for the King’s eyes only. So I reckon it is.”
Important was his meaning.
Glen licked his lips thoughtfully and sensed the warm breeze coming from the open seas changing its motion subtly. But you could tell. It came alive and danced around the silently contemplating Monarch touching him like a soft caress. Tiny tendrils shaping into long graceful fingers, whispers spoken in forgotten archaic Imperial reciting a young boy’s dream and sometime in the past, behind a long sheer white fishnet veil, two striking azure-colored eyes with glowing silver spots turned their majestic gaze on the poorly-dressed young knight perturbed.
As if the scene was a deep surprise to her as well.
As if she had expected someone else.
The latest addition to the dream sequence disturbing and unexpected.
“Anfalon is in Taras then?” Glen asked hoarsely feeling nervous all of a sudden and a little uneasy with the persistent memory of that old affair inside Oakenfalls pyramid. Or its connection to the siege of Rida and the late Prince Sahand’s long dead consort.
“Aye, he arrived yesterday my lord,” Sir Kirk replied and Glen kept his eyes on the emotionless Saevelos that stood tall a meter from him next to the shorter and less muscular, still nervous since yesterday’s events Hagen.
“Lithoniela O’ Baltoris,” Glen said raspingly and Saevelos’ eyes showed a flicker of emotion. “Has arrived in Taras.” The Monarch added soberly. “I reckon we need to get this party moving gentlemen. I’ll have to speak briefly to Rybel first and unfortunately you’ll have to suffer the return trip without Uvry and myself as this can’t be delayed.”
-
> At the end of the grieving King’s Solitude, a period that he’d made few appearances in court and lived a rather secluded life despite the gossip, the Mussel crisis erupted. Humans came to Goras planning to violently break the Wyvern’s rule over Wetull and cease full command of its peoples. Much as they have always done to these days those ruling over the human kingdoms are beset by life’s baser needs. Greed and envy of another’s fortunes. The noble King was forced to deal with the invaders personally and foil their plans. Human stubbornness persisted, their pride making them unwilling to admit they were beaten for many years. It forced the King’s hand. Hardened his heart as more and more attempts were made against him and his loyal allies.
>
> To cry foul on what it is done unto the worst representatives of your own species when you yourself don’t perceive whole groups of Folk and peoples as more than animals, is hypocrisy’s highest pinnacle.
>
> The Realm didn’t want another Wetull King that’s the bottom line. Never did. Didn’t want to share. They preferred us all dead and a tragic old tale to tell their children. They didn’t want to find common ground with Arguen Garth nor leave us any space to breathe, grow or a seat at their table. As all young kingdoms, the humans were brass and prideful. Duplicitous and cunning. I stand today shocked at the violence that stubbornness birthed and although my life along my purpose has changed through the years, I can’t look back to those that offered a generous hand to a stray and find fault in their actions.
>
> Not when I see the level of human treachery rear its ugly head again and again decades after. Where is the word of praise for what Wetull had to sacrifice? Kings rule today because Garth existed. Ask the Aken. Where is the hymns to those not with us anymore? If Garth was a harsh king with an evil monster for a pet and another monster for a daughter then perhaps that’s what was needed of them to face the struggles and raise a sturdy wall where the Realm’s enemies were crashed against. While the humans wallowed into their infighting or looking for ways to enjoy the empire’s or the realm’s riches without paying any price, Garth and those loyal to him were willing to do what was needed to save us all.
>
> Never such towering figures will grace the realm with their magnificent presence again. To not have them anymore leaves a gap no amount of words can fill. The Third Eras’ heroes are burned into my memories and I shall speak of them for as long as I have voice.
>
> With the invaders defeated and the danger subverted, Arguen Garth returned to Morn Taras with Uvrycres ahead of the 3rd Othrim and the army. Although we didn’t know it yet and some even today celebrate the event at a different later date, on the 2nd month of 3401 IC during a mild winter, in the third year of the noble Monarch’s rule and the fifth year into the legendary times of Hardir O’ Fardor, the Princess of Wetull’s 2nd Era, then third in line for the throne, Lithoniela O’ Baltoris returned to Goras. With her as I already mentioned came another and much more important figure that was to unite the empire’s fragments once more.
>
> Shrewdness needed its times of passion.
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> Realism needed its share of feverish dreams.
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> Vagueness needed its moments of clarity.
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> Thriftiness needed its touch of flourish.
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> It made us whole.
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> Ushering a new Era of unparalleled glory, valor and I guess as my dear spouse frequently gripes in exaggeration ‘utterly debauched monkeyshines ‘n a heavy dose of utter madness.’
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Events recorded in the first months of winter, the year of the Imperial Calendar 3401 of the Third Era, three years into Arguen Garth’s reign by
>
>
>
> Phinariel O’ Glorfalc,
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> ‘The Boorish Poet’
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> Jarlinde of all the Folk,
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> Mistress of Glorfalc, Warden of Rodos Gondobar & the Nor Maze Peaks of the Far North.
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> Former Royal Scribe, Advisor & permanent member of the Queen’s Council,
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> in Monarch’s Solitude*
>
> (Final paragraph)
>
> Entered into the royal library with a royal decree in 210 NC,
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> Circa 3416 IC (3rd Era)
>
>
>
>
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> *Lady Phinariel’s lengthy manuscripts and poems were gathered in five hefty tomes named -King’s Anabasis, A Monarch’s Solitude, the Moon’s return, Desolation and Apotheosis (the latter known as the King’s Heritors) also contained several songs and a long lament inspired by the Song of Dawn, an earlier psalm the shrewd poet favored immensely.
>
>