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Glen
The Celestial Opal of Lai Zel-Ka
Part I
-A merchant's offer-
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The priest moaned again, a pitiful cry of misery that strained Glen’s nerves and he was already at the end of his wits due to the leather saddle, that worthless scoundrel had offered with the horses, for a good chunk of his coin. Wrongly set and thin as a whore’s tunic, it allowed the horse’s bones to dig through it and attack his nether parts, every fuckin’ step.
It’s probably not even a real saddle, he thought glancing back towards the pained Qanuq with hate filled eyes. The man’s constant moaning reminding him of what they had done. The memory sickening and guilt ridden.
“Can someone make him stop?” He hissed out of the corner of his mouth and Stiles riding next to him nodded in understanding and pulled at the reins to turn his mare.
What had that fool understood though?
“Wait!” Glen snapped, stopping his own mount. “Where are ye going?”
Stiles cleared his throat, the rest of their group stopping their horses curious. None more relieved, than the injured Qanuq.
“To do milord’s bidding,” His manservant replied, looking shifty as all hells.
Glen snorted, not likening the look on the dwarfs’ faces. Marcus could care less it seemed.
He had it up to his eyes, with all that holier than thou attitude, these short big nosed creatures had.
“I don’t believe you’ve understood me, Stiles.”
“Ye want him to stop,” Stiles droned. “Milord.”
Yes.
“I want the man treated, if possible.”
“Some call it treatment, milord,” The former pirate replied, faking sadness and pointed at his dagger. “Even humane.”
“I don’t want him killed, Stiles,” Glen explained louder, looking at the frowning duo of dwarfs. “Can’t we do something, to alleviate his pain?”
“Ain’t no treatment, going to put ‘em toes back,” Marcus mused, after thinking it through.
“Of course, I wasn’t talking about…” He cleared his throat, searching for the word. “… Re-attaching his toes, Decanus—”
“Marcus will suffice, milord.”
“Yes,” Glen puffed out, frustrated at the interruption, the sun over their heads blinding and hot enough, to remind him of the Free Isles summer. “Surely something can be done.”
“There’s a salve,” Fikumin started and Glen turned to him.
“Go on.”
“I need to get in a cave.”
Glen stared at the mountain range extending on their left side and to the East. They had the steppe on their right and they were heading straight South and the desert, following the spine of the mountain visible in the distance.
It was far away.
“Is there another way?”
Fikumin shrugged his shoulders. “We could change the bandages.”
“Hah! There, do that!” Glen exclaimed, rather pleased at the quick solution.
“It won’t help him heal faster, nor stop the pain, milord,” Fikumin said and Norec snorted, in disgust.
“Will it be better?” Glen countered, not wanting to admit defeat.
“In a sense.”
“Stiles!” He barked, although he didn’t have to.
“You want me to slit his throat?” The pirate asked patiently and Glen coiled like an asp on that darn stupid saddle to glare his way.
“What? Is that what ye got from our talk?”
“Wasn’t really payin’ attention, milord.”
Glen let out a pained sigh.
“I want ye to change his bandages.”
Stiles incredulous look brought a roar of laughter out of the Decanus and even Glen, though still seething then, thought it rather amusing.
They say, when people laugh, gods get jealous.
While not fair to apply it in this instance, folks also decree that gods are anything, but fair.
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Sameer had offered them six horses in the end. Four mares and a couple of stallions, the sturdy, though smaller variant of the kind abundant in the Steppe. There was of course the large and famed black stallions of the Great Desert, but the Khan's cavalry had a huge price tag on them and it wasn’t easy to find one outside the bigger cities.
Speaking of cities, there was no Cofol city near Raoz, but smaller villages near water sources, nothing though on this side of the mountains. The roads followed these few oasis, traveled through long empty kilometers of steppe and later desert, the paths themselves nowhere near the cobblestone the Lorians used on Jelin. Eplas was a huge place, but deceptively empty for the most part. The biggest cities located, with the exception of Yin Xiyan that stood at the border between the Cofol Steppe and the Great Desert, otherwise marked by Hath Kirk River and the Desert Lake Oasis, much further to the West and beyond the Khanate Gulf, mainly the Greenwhale Peninsula. The name given to it, due to its distinct shape probably.
Or perhaps there are a ton green whales there, Glen thought, eyeing the attempts by Stiles to fix Qanuq’s injury. He wouldn’t know of course. The young former thief hadn’t seen any type of whale in his short life, neither green, nor red.
Nor did he know much else about the continent he found himself stranded. Raoz, though on Eplas, still followed Lorian and Issir customs, for the most part.
“Where are we heading Glenavon?” Fikumin asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“To Rida.”
“We should go West, after the Aken.”
Glen stared at the bearded creature.
“There’s a war going on, dwarf. People are actively trying to kill me.”
“Lithoniela asked me to help you,” Fikumin frowned. “The Knight and the others, died so you can live, Glenavon.”
Glen grunted in frustration.
“We don’t know that. We don’t know they are dead,” He stare turned into a glare. “Ye want me to throw myself… everyone here, to the wolves. How is that going to help us find yer Aken?”
“How is going to Rida, help you in finding the others?”
Glen opened his mouth to explain to his annoying companion, he was in fact the one calling the shots, but Stiles frustrated gasp prevented him.
“What happened?” He probed, turning their way. They had stopped to let the horses graze and attend to the priest’s wound. Endless grass all around them, with not a tree in sight. The road, a well-trotted wide path, maintained more by wild animals, horses, buffalos and the nifty antelopes, than man.
Marcus stood up and scrunched his jaw, looking troubled.
“Rot set in,” He murmured. “Or something close to it.”
Glen didn’t like the sound of that.
“What does it mean?”
“Might have to cut off more of the foot.”
“YER NOT TAKIN’ MY FOOT!” Qanuq all but screamed, deathly scared at the suggestion.
Marcus glanced his way. “The pain will get worse lad.”
“I can take it!”
“Then ye’ll die from blood poisoning.”
Glen puffed his cheeks out distressed. The problems kept mounting up and he’d no idea how to deal with them.
“Stiles?” He chanced, having nothing to offer himself.
“We can cut it at the ankle, leave the stump—”
“NO!” Qanuq protested, eyes ogling wide. If he was thin before, the man appeared half-dead now, Glen thought. Eyes sunken, skin leathery and pale, a constant shake on his emancipated arms. The Priest’s begging turned desperate. “Please my Lord, I beg you, don’t let them take my foot please!”
Good grief.
Glen gulped down, unsure on what to do and a little annoyed everyone else seemed to expect him to make the decision.
“Clouds from Northwest,” Norec announced from atop his own mount.
The young man narrowed his eyes confused.
“It’s going to rain?” He chanced.
“Someone is coming, milord,” Marcus explained, his head turned that way, to see for himself. “Bringing a lot of animals.”
Oh, for slovenly fuck’s sake.
The last thing we need now is the Cofol army appearing!
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If that was the army, then they had caught up with its rear end.
The supply train, as Emerson had called it on a day he had one cup of wine too many, wher’ soldiers go to forget their sorrows amidst the cooks, the crooks and the whores that love their coin ‘n hate their guts.
The carriages and wagons were large, almost twice the size of any wagon Glen had ever seen, which made them kind of huge in a sense, around twenty of them in a long row and drawn by slow moving oxen. There were guards leading and following the wagons, hard Cofol men armed with bows and swords.
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“See the flags, over each wagon?” Stiles murmured, almost giving him a heart attack, as he’d approached him without Glen noticing.
“What of them?” The flags were unfurled and flapping in the constant Steppe wind, most of them depicting an ashen white Capricorn, but others a Dogfish, a Mermaid and a couple of monsters, or animals Glen didn’t recognize.
“They’re sigils, milord.”
“How the fuck, could ye possibly know that?”
Stiles bit his lower lip. “Had a mate, a Cofol. Told me all about ‘em.”
Glen snorted, at the useless detail. “What does it mean?”
“Khan’s army carries his symbol. The Scythed Chariot,” Stiles gave him a side glance. “Only a few families of the old Cofol lines, are allowed to display their own. Anyway it’s what she told me.”
“Right. Where’s she now?” Glen asked him, the information not as useless as he’d originally thought.
“Yer ranger killed her milord,” Glen frowned hearing the sadness in the callous man’s voice. “Aboard yer ship.”
The young former thief sighed, feeling a little guilty about that as well. “Attacking us was a bad idea, Stiles.”
“Twas milord. But it wasn’t my idea, nor was it hers,” His manservant replied, making him feel even worse about the whole thing.
“I’ll need to talk to them,” Glen said to stop this uncomfortable conversation from ruining his mood even more and Stiles nodded, scarred face looking much as it usually did.
“A word of counsel, milord,” The former pirate offered, in a toneless voice. “Keep yer own family name, out of the conversation.”
Glen wasn’t sure, if that was as good an advice, but Marcus approached at that moment, relief on his face and solved a riddle, creating a new one.
“That’s a merchant caravan,” The former Legion Decanus, of the engineering corps, informed him. “Heading to Rida.”
“That’s… good news,” Glen said and seeing the man’s expression, added. “Is it not?”
Marcus grimaced, all that previous relief, a misdirection apparently.
“They said, they’re aiming for Yeriden’s mid tributary, milord. Which is the roundabout route,” He reported. “Reason is, the northernmost is blocked by Khan’s main army.”
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The Caravan stopped to prepare for the night, the wagons circling and creating an inner ring of safety, everything done with a rhythm and tenacity that resembled a well-rehearsed dance. Every action measured by the drivers and the many slaves. A detail that troubled Glen, not familiar with the custom.
The fact he’d a slave himself, never crossing his mind.
“They seem rather happy considering,” He commented, accepting a refreshment from a cute girl, with chocolate skin and warm eyes. Fikumin hidden under his coat snorted. The sound coming out as a loud fart. “Shut yer mouth, dwarf!” Glen hissed, just as another slave appeared, silver collar on his neck looking nigh expensive to lead them further inside, the huge tent. More than ten had been erected inside the inner circle, this one apparently belonging to the leader of the caravan, or whatever the hell it was called.
“Mean Chakara,” The old Caravan Master introduced himself a moment later, answering him that query and Glen tried to reply respectfully.
“My name’s Gle… Glenavon. This is… Mister Marcus and my manservant Stiles.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Glenavon,” The old Cofol said, face weather-bitten but healthy, a thin mustache on his upper lip greying, alike his short hair. “Your injured man is being looked after.”
“Gratitude, Master Chakara,” Glen quickly replied, not pleased with himself. Too much stuttering in his voice. “We will compensate you, for the assistance.”
“Ahm, let’s not dwell on that, before having a cup,” Mean Chakara replied, with a casual smile. “Do you partake in wine?”
“Sure… yes. That’s an excellent idea.”
“It’s the custom.”
Not where I’m from.
But he quickly bobbed his head.
“Of course, apologies.”
Mean Chakara made a grimace and looked over Glen’s shoulder. Glen resisted the temptation to glance behind his back.
“Perhaps it’s his first time on Eplas proper,” A cultured voice said.
The Caravan Master nodded and cleared his throat, whole demeanor of his body changing.
“Master Glenavon,” He said measuring his words, just as a figure walked past them to sit behind the short table, on a sturdy and large leather pillow that was apparently the Cofol’s version of a stool. “You’re in the presence of Phon-Iv Sopat,” Mean announced and the richly dressed young man waved his ring-adorned hand to cut it short; He’d a clear face, skin a rich yellow and the standard Cofol eyes not as pronounced, but penciled a deep black, much as his lips. You could mistake him for a woman in the dark, if he wasn’t well-built and taller than Glen. “It’s his tent and caravan.”
“Ah, dear Chakara,” Phon stopped him, with a pretentious smile. “I just own the larger portion of it, no need to embellish.”
“Apologies, your excellency. I shall lash a slave of your choosing ten times, for the slip of the tongue.”
What?
“Bah! We don’t have to go that far, dear,” Phon replied, noticing Glen’s reaction. “Let one of mine, take your place and make it a modest five lashes.”
“It shall be done,” Mean agreed and bowing deeply, left them alone. He opened a door cut in the wall, previously unseen and disappeared inside.
“It is a large tent,” Phon explained, always watching Glen’s reactions. “But not the biggest. I believe the Khan has a larger one.”
Only the Khan, has a bigger tent, Glen translated, the shifty man’s hidden boast.
“You’re not impressed,” The Cofol merchant noticed. “Perhaps you are not as humble, as you tried to portray yourself.”
Glen cleared his throat, completely out of his element and his companions weren’t any help as well. But for the dwarfs of course. They had remained hidden, Norec somewhere inside the camp and Fikumin, well… he was just standing between Glen’s legs, hidden behind his long coat and had managed to remain unseen somehow.
It would be for the best, if he remained silent as well.
“We’re just adventurers.”
Phon chuckled, showing his delight.
“I love adventurers,” He gushed, which made Glen even more uncomfortable. “Read about them, in my youth. Even tales of Jelin, much as they are fanciful.”
Glen nodded, himself not as well read, but having the knowledge of many a tales, told in taverns by drunken sailors and women of questionable morals and hygiene, nobody was ever bothered by.
“You can have your man leave,” Phon said coming about. “I’m rather harmless.”
An understatement, if there ever was one.
“Marcus, Stiles,” Glen said. “Wait outside, if you please.”
“Are ye sure about it, my lad?”
Phon raised a trimmed eyebrow, interest piqued.
“I’m sure, Marcus.”
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“Your slave, is rather unruly,” Phon commented.
“Marcus works for me, but he’s not a slave,” Glen retorted.
“Ah, of course. So you pay him?”
Ahm, nope?
“He’s a friend.”
“And the other man, is also a friend?”
“A manservant.”
Phon pouted and looked at the cups left on the short table in front of him.
“A slave and a friend,” He finally said, reaching for a silver cup filled with wine. “Have I got it right?”
Glen grimaced.
“Sure.”
“Is it typical for Lorian men… you’re Lorian, aren’t you?”
“I’m from the Free Isles.”
“Ah, the Free Isles. I had some dealings there. The port of Bayspel.”
Glen nodded, now in much surer ground. “I know of it well.”
“Of course, Glenavon,” He sipped at his wine and offered him another cup. “Please, it is a rather good year. I can vouch for it.”
“Ye can?” Glen replied and reached for a cup.
“It’s my own vintage.”
“Is that what you do, ahm… Master Sopat?” Glen queried.
Phon smiled, appearing amused. “Gods, you really never heard of my family. This is, extremely refreshing. I must show you to Sen. She’ll be delighted.”
Glen cleared his throat, not likening his tone at all. The wine was excellent though, so he sipped some more, taking care not to overdo it, the knight’s instructions on the back of his mind.
“Is she yer wife?”
Phon chuckled, a naughty look on his eyes.
“People have suggested it,” He admitted. “I can take another, why not do it like the Empire did, right?”
“I’m not really…”
“She’s my sister,” Phon explained. He sighed pensively. “Alas, we are still looking for a match for her.”
Is she a troll? Like super ugly, or maybe she looks like him? That would drive any suitors away in a fuckin’ hurry!
Phon was still on the subject though. The matter troubling him. “She was to be Prince Sahand’s third wife. We could work with that,” The meaning of the latter ambiguous. “But circumstances changed, let us say.”
The strange Zilan appeared, Glen thought, remembering the story Sir Emerson’s friend had told them in Castalor. Ruined your family’s plans.
“So what does yer family deal with, friend?” Glen asked, wanting to milk him for information, while distracted.
“Gems.”
Glen perked up at the short answer.
“As in rubies?”
“Well, opals and amethysts mainly,” Phon replied, in business mode. “Are you a fan yourself?” He examined the large gold ring, Glen wore on his middle finger, with interest. Glen clasped his hands in front him to hide it.
“I like gems,” He said simply.
“Who doesn’t, am I right?” Phon chuckled, but it never reached his eyes. His whole demeanor changed in an instant.
“You’re heading to Rida?” The gem merchant asked him, adding before Glen could answer. “But where are you coming from, Mister Glenavon?”
He suspects something, Glen thought.
Dodge.
“It is not set in stone,” He croaked, having nothing at the ready.
“Wherever trouble leads you?” Phon touted a familiar saying.
Glen frowned and the well put man added, seeing his expression.
“It’s a quote. Framtond’s, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Ah, thought it familiar,” Glen said quickly, increasingly nervous. Fikumin touched the inside of his knee to comfort him. Either that, or to stop it from shaking.
He realized Phon was examining him thoughtfully and the silent moment dragged.
“Is it politics, or crime?” The astute man finally asked. “What you are running from?”
“Nothing is clear anymore,” Glen replied honestly.
Phon got up from his pillow, much to the young former thief’s relief, as it wasn’t comfortable staring down on him and walked to a corner of the large room. He stared at the drawings covering the linen walls of the tent, his back turned on Glen for a while, before replying.
“Khan’s war,” The gem merchant said simply and turned to look at him.
Glen nodded, keeping it as vague as possible.
“That’s a signet ring, you’re wearing, Glenavon.”
So he noticed. Keen eyes for jewelry indeed.
Phon sighed, deep in thought. Glen had a hand on his dagger, just in case this turned tits up.
“The Gold Leopard, is in Raoz then,” Phon noted.
The man in Hellfort’s Pass, Glen thought, remembering the Cataphract.
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“I left Lai Zel-Ka, two years ago,” Phon started and seeing his surprise, he added. “It’s a city-port on the Greenwhale Peninsula. Where the Cofols always lived.”
“I thought they roamed the Steppe,” Glen said.
“That’s the Horselords, the Khan’s ilk. Much as he dencounces it,” A tick had appeared on the merchant’s face and it took him considerable effort to keep the rage brewing from his voice. “Raised above their station, either by necessity, or stupidity. You can’t put the Jinni back in the bottle, Glenavon. A long gone empire’s sins, is thus forced upon us.”
The meaning of the latter confusing to Glen.
But it seemed the Khan had his own problems back home that much, he could discern.
“I can get you to Rida, if that’s where you’re going,” Phon said a moment later, having recovered his composure. “But I want something in return.”
“What makes you certain, your caravan will make it through?”
“I’ll wait the war out in Queen’s Oasis, near Sadofort, Glenavon,” Phon replied that smirk back on his face. “We were going to Rida. The plan changed, when we heard the news.”
Oh, boy. This is going to get me killed.
“What do you want?”
“Ah, you’re too impatient,” Phon said, plopping himself down on the leather pillow. He stared at the unmoving Glen a little amused. “You prefer standing?”
Glen smacked his lips, eyeing the weird and alien furniture. It was a miracle the man could stay on top of it and not toppling over on his head. Many a injuries have ensued, attemptin’ less precarious acrobatics. “As a matter of fact, I do,” He deadpanned.
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