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Glen
The Celestial Opal of Lai Zel-Ka
Part II
-The mark of the Capricorn-
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The young former thief, could sense Fikumin’s disapproval oozing out of every pore of his small body, even before the scowling dwarf opened his mouth.
“You should’ve refused.”
“Yeah, I thought about it,” Glen replied, looking about the dark camp, for anyone listening in. Ye can never be too careful. As for dark, that is but for the fire pits burning outside every tent. “Do ye know, why I didn’t?”
“You have stratagem prepared?” The dwarf guessed.
Ahm, no? I was just scared.
“Yes,” Glen lied, a little disappointed he hadn’t thought about it earlier. His answer now sounding pedestrian. “I wanted to know more.”
Then again thinking about it, wouldn’t have helped me to actually produce a scheme worth the risk.
“So, you’ll break your word?” There was scorn in the words, Glen didn’t appreciate at all.
“I never gave him my word, dwarf.”
And my word, is easily breakable.
Historically.
“Why sent you to the Duke? Seems strange for a Cofol to do that, during wartime,” Fikumin insisted, always difficult to please, much less fool.
Which was a bit strange, since Glen thought the dwarf was the biggest fool of them all. A noble one, but a fool nonetheless.
“You assume the merchant, likes the Khan.”
“You don’t?”
“I can read between the lines,” Glen replied smugly.
“What if there is nothing there?”
Huh?
“What do you mean?”
Fikumin puffed his lips out, big nose swelling, almost hiding his eyes. It was nigh disconcerting.
The whole construct that was the dwarf’s head, could explode at any moment!
“Nothing. We can always read the letter and learn,” Fikumin relented, looking at him for confirmation.
Phon wanted a letter delivered to the Duke of Raoz, the moment Glen made it into the city of Rida. Making it the second time, he was to carry a letter of some import to someone that could have him killed with an order. Then again, the first letter he kind of… appropriated unwittingly, perhaps a bit of luck was involved, or the opposite of luck, come to think of it. All Glen wanted at the time, was to steal the corpse’s clothes.
The bag was right there. What was he supposed to do? Leave it to get soaked in salt water, or even worse found and taken, by some unsavory scoundrel? Who would have warned the king then?
Yep.
Look where doing the right thing landed me, he thought with a sigh. What this elusive right thing was, not important enough detail to dwell on. Fikumin, who expected an answer from him, rolled his eyes and walked away fuming to the tip of his great beard, managing to disappear behind a barrel two strides in. His ability to get lost in a hurry uncanny.
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While there was meager illumination inside the caravan’s circle after the last call, outside of it the land was a sinister black, but for the two moons shinning their light from the sky, the expanse endless on all sides and the constant gush of wind foreboding.
“It gives me the creeps,” Glen murmured, looking at the surrounding emptiness, crammed in the space between two of the smaller carriages and Stiles, who was standing a couple of strides behind him, grunted in response. “Ye don’t think so?” Glen asked turning his head to glance at his manservant.
“Oh, I do milord,” Stiles replied. “It reminds me of the sea, in the night.”
“A sea of grass,” Glen thought aloud, finding poetry in the former pirate’s words, a fact that surprised him greatly. “That’s deep, Stiles.”
“Thank you, Milord. Though it’s the shallows one must be warry of.”
Great.
Now I regret praising ye.
Stiles was being a smartarse that much was clear.
“So how’s the Priest?” He asked, to cut his manservant down to size.
“They had to excise the infected parts,” Stiles replied nonchalantly. “Scrap the bone clean at places.
Glen blinked in horror at the superfluous detail.
“Is that… was the damage too great?”
“Better to take the foot off, if ye ask me,” Stiles retorted. “Plenty of lads had it done, put a stick, or a hook in its place,” He shrugged his shoulders. “Got the job done just fine. Milord.”
“I’m pretty sure the priest doesn’t have pirating in his future plans.”
“Well, it’s a decent living.”
“Not for those ye kill while raiding,” Glen deadpanned.
“True, milord,” Stiles replied and seeing Glen narrowing his eyes, he added quickly. “The priest’s is better I believe, fast asleep.”
“That sounds… encouraging?”
“Sleeping? They gave him a potion for that. Went right out.”
“What manner of potion?” Glen asked, quite interested in the exotic medicines of the land.
“Milk, I reckon. Unless my Cofol is worse than I thought.”
Glen smacked his lips, unsure what to make of the information. He glanced at the many oxen and several cows noisily grazing in the relative quiet of the camp and sighed.
“Cow milk?” He chanced, looking at his manservant.
Stiles frowned.
“From poppies, milord.”
Glen nodded, as if he knew what the man was talking about. “I see,” He simply said, although he couldn’t see anything. “Well, I’ll have a look around.”
When unsure, quit talking.
“Outside the camp, milord? Is it prudent?”
Why wouldn’t it be…
“I’ll just jump over the yoke—”
“I believe it’s called a ‘tongue’, milord,” Stiles interrupted him and Glen paused, one leg over the darn thing to glare his way.
“I’ll have dinner when I return,” He said ominously and Stiles tried to protest.
“Dinner? It’s past the time—”
But Glen cut him off.
“Ye know what? And wine, yes. I’ll have a bottle of wine as well. The one Phon gave me,” He added with a smirk. “See to it, Stiles.”
The last part, half an order, half a threat.
Stiles got the message, loud and clear. He bowed his unwashed head in mock respect.
“Of course, milord.”
Glen watched him leave, dragging his legs, taking his stench with him, rather pleased with himself.
The fact nobody, himself included, had washed any of their parts for weeks, completely escaping him.
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There was something terrifying in staring at the open Steppe. As if the sky dived and touched the flat land, the seam blurring in the darkness, the pale moonlight creating shadows of the tall grass, in some places, as tall as a man. The shadows danced with the wind, all noises dulled and the caravan behind him, slowly quieting down as well.
At first he thought it another shadow, standing still to his right, head raised upwards staring at the blackness of the night sky. Slim and almost to his height, wearing that scandalous slave girl’s outfit he’d gotten a glimpse of under a short tan cloak, thin silk straps holding the silver fish-tail shaped cups on her chest, long ebony hair made in many thin braids that flowed down her head, as if alive. The wind made them dance, a beautiful haunting picture that framed her face, beads interwoven in those braids, hundreds of them, catching that moonlight and gleaming like a white viper’s scales.
A round face and chin, a graceful upturned nose and eyebrows trimmed and penciled arching over her opal-colored eyes. The woman heard his gasp and turned to see who it was. The slant on those eyes not as pronounced as the Cofols Glen had met before, a myriad different colored spots in them, blue and green and shades of gold, as if they were real gems and not made of flesh.
Wow.
Even If Lith’s face was symmetrically beautiful, this exotic woman could give her a run for her money, Glen thought, remembering to close his mouth and keep his eyes on the young woman’s face and away from the mounds of flesh spilling out of her thin cloak.
It was an impossible task.
Suitable for celibate paragons of virtue and gallant heroes.
Glen, was none of that.
The Cofol woman frowned and tried again, seeing that her first query, delivered in her native tongue had gone unanswered.
He’d no idea, what she was talking about.
“Apologies… I don’t speak Cofol,” Glen blurted in common, trying not to grin and appear completely creepy. The woman looked around them, a hint of worry on her face now and he tried to alleviate her fears. “I’m with the caravan.”
There’s a word she knew. She examined his clothes and face, pouted and asked him something again in Cofol. As if he could learn their darn tongue in a couple of minutes. Not very bright are you? Glen thought, deciding it wasn’t so big a deal, then almost slapped himself right there remembering the dagger.
The moment he put his hand on the handle of his strange weapon, the woman gasped and jumped away alarmed.
“Don’t fear,” Glen said and she froze in place, those exquisite eyes opened wide as saucers. “I’m Glen.”
“What’s a Glen?” The woman asked and there it is, he thought, that elusive magic, a big grin on his face. Coupled with a modest shadow that had appeared recently, it gave him quite a devilish look.
It was a poor intro though.
Like, what the fuck man?
Try again.
Use more words.
And put her on the back foot, he counseled himself.
“It’s my name. Short for Glenavon,” He waggled his eyebrows, his fixed grin turning into a smug smirk unwittingly. “Your secret is safe wit me, milady.”
He was on a roll. The day, well… night, taking a turn for the better.
Luthos hand for sure.
“It is?” The woman asked, probably too overwhelmed in his presence to form coherent thoughts.
Because there’s also skill involved, he thought.
And lots of plaguin’ presence.
“You don’t want to be found out,” He explained confidently.
She clasped her arms on her chest, a high crime, if ever there was one, covering her exposed flesh and the tip of her tongue touched her lower lip. Her teeth, white little pearls, clean as rain water. Glen realized he was gawking at her like a hawk and pulled back.
“Why do you think that?” Came her query, with another glance behind her back and the now mostly quiet camp.
Ah.
There ye go.
“You’re not allowed outside,” He had elucidated to her calmly the night peaceful. “You’re someone’s slave,” although he couldn’t see a collar on her. Maybe they take it off, Glen mused. Maybe she’s ‘that kind’ of slave. His young mind drifting, imagining the young woman taking that collar off, then her top; down her naked bejeweled navel his eyes had drifted, following the route of his lewd thoughts, her frustrated hiss stopping him.
“Everyone is someone’s slave, Lorian,” the young woman had told him.
“Not me,” Glen replied confidently. “I’m from the Free Isles by the way.”
“Where’s…” The woman started to say, then stopped, her eyes narrowing looking over his shoulder.
“What?” Glen asked, a little troubled at her bewilderment.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I heard someone,” She explained.
Glen turned his head and checked at what was the outside perimeter of the camp. The wagons created a barrier that wasn’t easy to overcome, or fight through it. Plus, there are guards posted, he thought, seeing one of them waving his hand recognizing him.
Glen waved back, sensing the young slave girl hiding behind his body and the guard, a good twenty meters from where they stood, gave a head nod and continued his patrol.
“Nothing to worry about,” He said, turning to face the woman and once again Glen was awed at the medley of colors enclosed in her expressive eyes. No real opals, he’d seen… or stolen, ever came close to this.
A treasure, he thought stooping closer and the sneaky arrow whistled over his head, missing it, tip lit on fire and shining bright. It hit the side of a carriage, next to a wheel and went out.
Move.
Glen dashed to the right, left arm extending back to grab the young woman’s hand and drag her with him. She snatched his forearm, as if reading his thoughts and followed him, as he run stooped towards safety.
The sound of numerous hooves, probably muffled out, but clear enough now they were closer and because they were so many, forced him to look back.
“Horselords,” The slave girl, breathed in his ear, her flesh smelling of jasmine oils and despite the tension of the moment, half his attention went to his throbbing cock.
Only his fear of getting skewered by the charging riders, snapping his head on straight.
“RAIDERS!” Glen bellowed, putting everything he had in it. His voice teared at the stillness, broke through the wind and was heard over the camp. “TO ARMS!”
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More arrows fell to where they were standing a moment ago, some setting the grass on fire, his wild call alarming the camp and waking up the rest of the guards. It also pinpointed their new position and the first of the arriving riders, turned and headed their way.
Oh, crap.
Glen unsheathed his sword, thought about it, the charging men looking dangerous as all hells and glanced back to see, if they could make it back inside the perimeter.
“They’re coming!” The young woman screamed right in his ear, blowing his eardrums off.
“RUN!” A dazed Glen barked and shoved her away with a hand, left palm massing a breast that darn sliver metallic plate on them, outright cutting him. She stumbled away with a pained indignant cry, leaving him just enough time to get his own head out of the way of an upward cut, delivered by the first arriving rider. The sabre missed his neck for a breath, slashing at his chest armour, as Glen dodged right, landed on his knee, found a sturdy rock amidst a sea of plaguin’ grass, the pain jolt hitting him like a hammer and howling alike a bitch poked through her arse with a scorching iron, rolled again to avoid a maddened horse’s hooves.
Horse and man jumped over him, his whole life flying before his haunted eyes, dust and half the prairie raining down on his head. The woman screamed in her tongue and he didn’t need the dagger’s help to realize she was in danger.
As if Glen wasn’t.
Fuck it, he decided. Save yerself.
He’d done all he could.
The third of the riders pulled at the reins and paused seeing him getting up, probably mistaking the panic in his eyes for rage and then went for his bow. Nocked an arrow, before Glen could decide on a counter, the woman somewhere to his left shrieking as if she was getting raped, or pulled apart at the limbs, guards barking orders and arrows flying right and left, others lit, others not.
Chaos.
“Don’t do it!” Glen yelled at the undecided Cofol rider, fresh out of ideas and the warrior perked up hearing his cry in common.
Huh? It worked?
The Cofol rider spat down the next moment disgusted and released his arrow, answering him that question. Glen tried to cut it out of the air with his sword, a fantastic, as much as celebrated move in theory and in tales told in taverns of bad repute, but nigh difficult to accomplish in the field.
So he failed.
The arrow flew past his blade smacked the right side of his chest, as he flinched at the last moment, the bone tip going through everything and piercing his skin below the nipple superficially. It stayed stuck there. Glen groaned, his day going from bad to worst in the span of a couple of minutes and pulled it out, while charging himself towards the stationary rider, sword in hand. The Cofol saw him coming fully mad now, after tossing his arrow away and recoiled in fear. He went for another arrow, turning his horse with his knees, but fumbled the whole thing, the horse denying him and realized he was running out of time. So he went for his sabre instead.
The young thief, more scared than injured, reached him in four large strides, dodged a downward slash and retaliated full force aiming for the rider, but catching the horse’s head instead below the left ear. Opening a wound that reached its mouth. The poor animal neighed, the wound grotesque, its tongue flapping, bloody froth on his teeth and black eyes scared beyond measure and got on its hind legs first tossing the hapless rider, then started kicking right and left trying to get away from him.
Glen managed to get under a murderous hoof, rolled under the horse’s belly to the other side, looked up when he stopped and saw the Cofol dead next to him, his face caved in, mouth, nose and eyes all mixed up in a bloody pulp and flinched horrified, puke lodged in his throat.
For fuck’s sake.
The young man stumbled away coughing up his lungs and whatever he’d in his stomach and came face to face with another Cofol horselord… whatchamacallit, the man’s goatee reaching his belly, bone armour covering his chest.
“Cursed Lorian,” The unmounted warrior spat in broken common and slashed at him with a nasty sabre. Glen parried it away and then blocked the return as well, his opponent’s skill in the long blade, or on foot questionable.
Glen cut him above the knee next and the man pulled away with a yelp of pain, hatred in his eyes.
“Let’s talk about this,” Glen urged him, spiting pieces of leftover puke stuck in his teeth.
The Cofol didn’t want to talk about it and came at him again with a roar telegraphing his attack. Glen stepped out of the way, turned his blade inside out, much as Emerson had shown him and slashed him across the throat.
He turned his head away not to look at the man bleeding away and saw the last of the Cofols, saber in hand glaring at him, his other hand wrapped around the girl’s braids savagely. Glen made to charge him, all fired up after his recent successes, but his opponent grunted and put the blade against the panicked woman’s throat, forcing him to stop.
“It’s true then,” The man said, older than the others, grey hair braided and caught at the nape. “You fight for her. A Lorian.”
For slovenly fuck’s sake, Glen thought shaking his head. I’m not a fuckin’ Lorian!
And I had forgot she existed up to a minute ago.
“I’m not,” He offered simply, despite shaking all over.
“Yer lying. You protect the Capricorn spawn.”
“Dude, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. She’s just a slave.”
“She wears the fish tail. You’re lying,” The man countered.
What is this bullshit?
“Let her go man. Your raid failed.”
“We came for her. The raid was a distraction,” The older Cofol said and threw her a hateful look. “If I’m to die here, she follows me to the great plains.”
Glen couldn’t reach him in time. He thought about throwing the sword, but despite being about a mere three strides away, botching the whole thing and skewering the hapless woman, would make for a ghastly tale.
No bard will ever tell that story, he thought and felt his left hand flaring up in a worrying familiar manner. Everything below the shoulder deadening and sweltering at the same time.
Luthos sat on a blasted bear trap.
“No,” He croaked and both the young woman and her captor glanced at him. Gods, her gaze could stop a lion dead in its tracks, he thought, just as the Cofol snorted and went for the kill.
Don’t do it, Glen urged the dagger panicked, trying to remember if he knew how to control it, quickly realizing he didn’t.
Fuck.
Don’t use my bloody hand!
He screamed internally, before blacking out.
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“You are a special kind of idiot,” The freak with the Dragon eyes hissed. “Truly.”
“Ah, fuck…” That was all he could muster; before the strange man clicked his tongue and the young thief was back at the Caravan site again.
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Inside a large tent and not in the field, with someone manhandling his private parts. Glen looked down alarmed and a little hopeful, only to realize he was held upright by Stiles and Marcus, his coat all buttoned up, despite it being hot as all hells.
The fuckin’ dwarf cozying up between his legs again.
“Let go,” He started to say, but Marcus stopped him.
“Milord, what happened?”
Glen smacked his lips, felt the wound smarting on his chest and tasted puke in his mouth.
“What happened?” He threw the veteran's query back at him.
Two can play this fuckin' game!
“You stopped the raid, saved the caravan,” Marcus explained. “They tried to sneak inside but you killed them. We found you passed out, yesterday.”
That’s a lot of time missed, Glen thought, pushing them away.
“We thought ye died,” Stiles explained. “But twas a glancing wound.”
“What were you doing outside the perimeter?” Marcus grunted.
Glen raised both hands to stop their interrogation.
‘There was a girl,” He started, but again he wasn’t allowed to finish.
“Phon wants to talk with you,” Marcus said. “The Caravan Master is dead.”
What?
“Anyone else?”
“No, we were very lucky,” Marcus replied. “Though the man died of a heart attack, is the word.”
Glen sighed pensively. He checked on his left arm next, found it just as he’d left it and sighed again deeper this time.
“Well,” He said looking about. “I guess this could have gone way worse.”
Forgetting that when unsure, it’s better to keep your peace.
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“There’s the man,” Sopat announced, the moment they got outside the tent. “An unlikely hero, we had in our midst,” He added watching closely and the whole caravan gathered around him, cheered loudly his name.
Glen, the Lorian!
Good grief.
Guards and merchants in the mix, slaves and drivers. Even the oxen joined in. It was a cerebral moment that lasted about half a minute.
“That’s him,” One of the guard’s declared, a different tone in his voice and Glen, well trained to spot trouble, saw the problem almost immediately. There was a particular young woman standing next to Phon, one of three. They had their heavily painted faces hidden behind a shrill white veil, a long shawl over their heads and all wore that provocative silver top under their short white cloaks. It looked like a slave’s outfit, but wasn’t. Glen had never seen so much gold and riches adorning any woman, or man before.
And he could never mistake the young woman’s exquisite opal eyes, however covered she was, or painted, for someone else’s.
“I saw him last night, master Sopat,” The guard continued, pointing an accusing finger at him. “With your sister.”
Are ye freakin’ kiddin’ me?
Sen raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow, when he glared at her.
“Is this true?” Phon inquired feigning ignorance, all a theater, as this was obviously staged in advance.
“It’s true that I saved her,” Glen replied, staring back at him.
The murmur coming from the gathered crowd was one of shock and disbelief. Most of the guards bearing the Capricorn sign on their armour, reached for their weapons.
It was apparently, the wrong answer.
Fuck you Luthos.
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“Stay back lad,” Marcus grunted stepping forward, hand on his sword’s handle.
Where? Glen thought, way ahead of him. We’re surrounded by bloody wagons!
“Now,” Phon said, loud enough to be heard above the crowd. “I find myself mired in a dilemma,” He eyed his sister a little frustrated. Glen couldn’t tell, if that was also an act. “My guest saves the day, then turns around and defiles my sister.”
No I didn’t, ye piece of perfumed shit!
“What am I to do?” Phon continued, over the crowd’s angry response. Glen caught out the corner of his eye Stiles retreating towards the wagons, knife in hand. “Sen-Iv Sopat is a celebrated beauty. Her worth, an enormous fortune,” He looked about him pensively. “Whatever I make out of this trip, will be for naught. I’m left with two choices.”
“SKIN HIM!” The crowd roared with one voice. Most of them that is. Someone suggested the ‘Pits of Fu De-Gar’, whatever the fuck that meant. There was vitriol in there and a deep perverted expectation of violence. The change in their demeanor dramatic. Glen took a cautionary step back shocked. That’s not a fuckin’ choice, he thought, gulping down nervously, looking for a way out. Cutting through a group of veiled women, standing behind an old Cofol merchant, the safest route.
Then what? There’s nothing out here for miles!
“Or skin his favorite slave,” Phon softened it somewhat diplomatically and Glen realized the shifty merchant was looking for a deal.
What manner of a deal…
“The Celestial Opal, was to be a royal wife,” The man said pensively and this quieted the crowd. “The story well known.”
Glen glanced towards Sen and the famed beauty apparently, rolled her eyes catching him by surprise.
“My family was pressured to arrange another match, as her good years were wasted away, but I stalled, looking for something of equal station,” He turned to Glen now, his eyes holding no warmth. “What am I to get for a spoiled treasure, Glenavon? You’ve caused me great harm.”
You can’t put the Jinni back in the bottle, was his meaning.
“How is killing me, compensation enough?” Glen asked, keeping his voice steady, despite his inner turmoil. Everything is hanging by a thread here.
“Killing you, or your slave,” Stiles gasped horrified at that. “Restores my honor.”
“What’s the other option?” Glen probed, not completely against throwing Stiles under the proverbial wagon, but looking for a better deal.
Phon shook his head at his query. He had his eyes penciled a marine blue this day. Made him appear rather ghoulish, Glen thought.
“You buy, what you sampled,” The man finally replied callously. “But alas, Sen-Iv is way above your station.”
The last bit he delivered with the tiniest of smirks, left corner of his painted mouth curling upwards.
“I may be,” Glen started and Sen’s eyes grew alarmed, sensing something was afoot. She doesn’t know, Glen realized, ye poor thing, but he couldn’t stop now. It was a gruesome death for Stiles, if he did. “The Lord of Altarin,” His revelation stunning the gathered crowd to total silence.
“The Lord of Altarin, is a good starting point,” Phon surprisingly said, his hawkish eyes never leaving Glen’s face, their talk before all those people bizarre, until Glen realized they were all standing witness. The cunning Sopat had indeed staged this magnificently.
“Milord,” Marcus said warningly, but it was too late.
“I’m still young,” Glen deadpanned.
Younger than yer sister.
“What’s the Lord of Altarin’s innermost desire then?” Phon asked theatrically and more than sixty pairs of eyes turned on Glen to hear his response.
Your heart’s desire, Lith had told him and now Glen was forced to reveal it, although he’d no idea what that was. Retire in the country with the merchant’s delectable sister was out of the question, though a welcomed outcome. Getting another pile of gold, or an equal amount in coins, sounded a little shallow, though the finest and more feasible of all ideas. He couldn’t tell them about the dagger and his imaginary talks with a deity, or a monster. They’d probably let Stiles live and skin him in his stead.
> Luthos perked up.
So Glen went with the first thing he remembered.
Something implied, but never mentioned during his talks with the alluring Zilan. A faint memory of it, from his talks with a strange creature in his dreams.
“A throne of gold,” Glen had said.
The same answer, Reinut the Great had given to Eodrass, two centuries in the past.
> Forced to pay for a heroic deed
>
> that concealed his true character, those early years,
>
> He opted to save a tainted soul, a meaningless slave in all but the name,
>
> Binding himself to a foreign mate, a woman of a different culture,
>
> And revealed in front of those lucky to stand witness,
>
> That which was hidden in the Onyx Wyvern’s heart.
>
> The truth of his greed, impossible to measure, or suspect at the time.
>
> Neither peace, nor war,
>
> no mere plunder, women and riches, could ever satisfy it,
>
> But the whole plaguin’ Realm.
>
> -
>
>
>
>
>
> Fikumin Flintfoot
>
> -The evil dwarf-
>
> Jarl of all the Folk
>
> First Servant of the Onyx Wyvern
>
> Foremost Shield,
>
> of the dreaded King beyond the Pale Mountains
>
> -
>
> Chapter II
>
> (Final paragraph)
>
> An Adventurer’s Tale
>
> unofficial edition
>
> Circa 253 NC