Grimdux
I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck
Touch O' Luck
II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.
It will be a superior reading experience
to start this story from the beginning
Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)
Chapter specific maps of the realms
Maps of the Realms
Grimdux I) Glen hears 'me too' instead of Metu in these chaps
Sir Glen Reeves
Garth Aniculo
Hardir O’ Fardor
Who takes a Wyvern in a Bazaar?
Part I
-The Old Seer’s Words-
WRREEEEEEE!
“Where?” Glen asked, twisting on the saddle and looking over his left shoulder. Outlaw neighed annoyed at the game and Gimoss, riding next to him unsheathed his sabre with a grunt. The sun was hidden behind the mountain slopes of the Litching Tops, the narrow flat valley that dabbled as a not manmade road of sorts –aptly called the Goddess’ Path- slowly changing from the sandy parched terrain of the Great Desert into sturdier much darker soil.
Occupying the space between the Neesen Mountains to their South and the Litching Tops to their North, the well-known Goddess’ Path –which goddess was referring to, a mystery to Glen for the time being- led into a fertile patch of land, flanked by Felmond and Shifton Rivers that had their sources on the mountain ranges they were slowly leaving behind.
All caravans braving the Steppe, or the Desert -coming from the Khanate, mainly the faraway Greenwhale Peninsula, intending to reach Eikenport and the Khan’s southernmost territories- were converging here. The Cofol merchants said that in this place, where the two mountain ranges soared from the flat terrain, the Great Desert ended. For the weary travelers and merchants alike, this was the first variation in colors and nature, they would perceive, after months of journeying in the endless sands.
Water changed everything.
Oh, you oversized peacock!
Biscuit, a good head taller than he’d been not ten days back, came soaring from the sky, dodged a manic brutal slash from Gimoss’ saber and smacked Glen hard on the back toppling him from his horse. Glen went tumbling down, rolling deftly to avoid a serious injury and stopped in a heap covered in dirt three meters away.
“Dammit!” He cursed and jumped up, just as the wyvern landed on his hind legs, using its large leathery wings to break the momentum of the dive. Biscuit’s face gave him a black-toothed hideous grin in response, coupled with his patented…
RRRR
And something faintly resembling a cackle.
“Listen up,” Glen warned him, still rattled from his fall and not amused, while slapping the dirt off his worn out clothes with both hands. “I’ve had enough of this shite! No more fuckin’ games bugger!”
“You can’t expect a Wyvern to keep riding a horse,” Flix noted, well into his third pipe of the day. The Gish’s consumption of drugs was disturbing.
“If I’m a riding a horse, he’s riding a horse,” Glen decided and eyed Biscuit. “Hop on the darn saddle and no chewing on ears, we almost lost the mule. Another animal kicks the bucket, yer carrying the produce mister!”
Biscuit snorted and sidestepped to avoid the sneaky approaching Gimoss’ downward slash. The corpse incensed at the near miss.
“Bullshit!” He bellowed and grinded his decrepit teeth, the upper lip somewhat healed, but the scar left hideous. “I need a longer weapon! Provide more arms phony champion!”
“Make yourself a spear,” Glen snapped, not wanting to bother himself with his antics.
“It’s already made,” Gimoss retorted eyeing the old Gish. “But I have it reserved for the harlot!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Glen groaned and went to climb on his horse again. “It’s not funny Gimoss.”
Gimoss stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back –the badly stitched scar on his neck visible- and roared, greatly amused.
“Haha… hah…ahahaha!”
That is a lot of tents, Glen thought and got up to walk to the small thicket of palm trees. They had made their camp under their much appreciated shade. Gimoss and Flix were waiting for him to approach, the morning heat and humidity of the nearby Shifton River, while pleasant at first, was starting to bother him.
“It looks like a town,” he told them and Flix still dripping from his swim, his dress soaked through, nodded agreeing. “A little chaotic,” Glen added.
“That’s the Merchant’s Triage,” the Gish explained. “A melting pot for all the caravans reaching the south. Used to be bigger once upon a time.”
“Seems big enough. So it’s a bazaar of sorts?” Glen queried.
“Not really, more like a center for the Guild to redistribute and organize smaller caravans,” Flix replied and walked to his horse. “But I guess with so many merchants around, you can call it one.”
Great.
“I need new clothes,” he showed them his worn out garbs and Gimoss agreed, his own stolen garbs, even more worn out, dirty and bloody on top of that. “Supplies and news. How far is Eikenport?”
“Let us focus on today,” Flix advised him.
“Aye, mother, still I need a plan,” Glen retorted a little tauntingly and glared at Gimoss. A warning, as he wanted the talk to remain civil.
“What? You think that was funny?” Gimoss mocked. “Huh, nah! It wasn’t.”
“You can’t go there wearing Rida’s armour,” Flix noted.
“Fine,” Glen replied, with another look at Gimoss. “You stay here.”
The corpse raised a hand, showing him index and mid finger. The index finger crooked and still broken, pointing more to the side than upwards as intended.
The meaning ambiguous.
“Fuck does that mean? Is this new?” Glen hissed and Gimoss denied it with a shake of the head.
“Same as the old one,” he explained all serious and added annoyed. “Can’t close the other finger! So ye get the crooked one also!”
Biscuit raised a winged arm mimicking him, mid talon protruding at its reptile three-fingered hand and cackled, pure black and gnarly, glass-like teeth snapping loudly.
The former thief wasn’t amused.
Outlaw snorted and shook his mane, front hooves half-sunk in soft mud, the dirt road leading through the forest of tents, bristling with activity. Men with carts, horse-drawn carriages, camels and mules laden with produce and goods, packing the road and at its sides, benches and counters showcasing a variety of wares. Gems, tools, fabrics and leather products. Carpets and animal covers, even art and food, mainly alcohol, black and orange rum, red wine and Kaju from the Steppes. The majority Cofols, but some Lorians were mixed in, even Issirs. The slaves outnumbering the citizens two to one.
Glen paused his horse before a counter, the shifty merchant selling cheap jewelry.
“My good man,” he told him in passable Cofol, reaching for the dagger for assistance just in case he blurted out something too offensive. “I’m looking to buy a decent outfit.”
“Buy the gold brooch,” the man suggested, without changing expression and pointed at the obviously fake-gold item. “It’ll be great with it!”
Seeing Glen not convinced, he allowed a creepy bejeweled smile on his Cofol face. He had pearls inserted in four of his gold teeth.
“Perhaps later,” Glen replied and moved to the next one. Half an hour later, he was deep inside the sprawling -more a massive camp, than a town- site. The outer rim of it, consisting of tents of all sizes and types, while there were wooden and even stone buildings located at the center. The marking on the roads and alleys nonexistent, the whole place reminding him of a gigantic bazaar.
Glen got down from his horse and approached the large counter, the mid-aged Cofol merchant manning it, dressed in blue silk finery, a large pearl pendant on his neck. The eyes painted a garish yellow.
“Hello there,” Glen greeted him, with a forced smile, the close proximity to so many people after months in the wilderness, taxing to his nerves. He stared at the counter filled with rolls of fabric. “I’m in the market for a decent set of clothes.”
“A man with coin may find what he seeks much easier, than a man without. Some might even say that man might remain unclothed,” the Cofol merchant retorted, thin mustache dancing over his lips.
“I have coin,” Glen said. “Ahm, what fabric is this?”
“Red silk,” the merchant replied, staring him in the eyes hypnotically. “Very expensive.”
I’m sure, Glen thought.
“How much?”
“A silver per meter.”
The former thief wished for the merchant to spend his profits in healing potions.
Fervently.
The moment dragged and Glen gulped down, his throat dry. “How long is the whole thing?”
“You mean the roll?” The merchant checked, he wasn’t jesting.
“Aye.”
“Ten meters. Ten silver dinars.”
“So a gold Eagle.”
“If you favor gold Eagles, then its twelve silvers, foreign friend.”
Glen glared at him. “Eagles are much more valuable than dinars,” he noted.
“Not on Khan’s lands, they aren’t,” the Cofol replied without missing a beat. “Are you still interested?”
“How much for the white roll?”
“Eight.”
“So in other words ten,” Glen made the calculations himself. “If I was to take both, would two gold Eagles suffice?”
The Cofol merchant smacked his lips and eyed him, from top to bottom.
“It would, but I have promised the white roll of silk to a faithful customer,” the merchant said sadly and even if Glen was an idiot –and the matter had been brought up in the past- he would have seen through the obvious lie.
“Three Eagles,” Glen countered.
“It would be difficult to refuse such offer,” the merchant admitted lamely.
“What about the faithful customer’s order?”
“He would understand.”
“I’ll take them both for that price and some information,” Glen decided.
“May I hear what kind of information you’re seeking first, demanding foreign friend?”
If he asked for more coins, Glen was prepared to run him through with his blade, grab the loot and make a run for it.
“A place to buy clothes, or a tailor to make something presentable.”
“South Market, outside Tyeusfort is where you’ll find a good tailor,” the Cofol replied.
“Eh, something nearer?” He asked and the merchant shrugged his shoulders. “Are the Sopat’s here perchance?”
“The Sopat of Lai Zel-Ka?” The Cofol asked standing back, as if had just gotten slapped in the face.
“The same, I’m related by marriage,” Glen explained and the man across from him blinked, thoroughly stunned.
“You’re not a member of the Guild,” he croaked more than a little shaken.
“I’m not, but I believe they are,” Glen retorted with a smile.
“Of course, for almost a thousand years,” the merchant said and pointed to a two story white stone building, roughly at the center of this large Bazaar town. One of the three standing there, the rest made of wood. “They have lodgings, next to the Guild’s offices.”
“I’ll take the rolls to my horse,” Glen said, the building at least a hundred meters away, through the thick crowd.
“We’ll have them delivered,” the merchant deadpanned with a broad smile, suddenly very accommodating. “What name should we address them to?”
“Sir Reeves,” Glen replied. “Or Garth Aniculo.”
Glen cleaned his dirty boots as best he could on the clean limestone stairs of the building. Its entrance rounded in the Cofol manner, the columns hugging it ornamented with elaborate geometric patterns, made out of painted glass, the sign of the Capricorn engraved in blue and green at the top.
A slave seeing him standing run down the stairs and stopped in front of him, shaved legs and arms covered with tattoos, bracelets and anklets that ringed, when he moved.
“The horse should stay at a stable, master,” he said and Glen blinked unsure.
“Is there one near?”
“Behind the building. Are you a member of the Guild?”
“I’m a member of the family,” Glen said.
“I shall take it myself,” the slave replied with a deep bow. “I’m Lon-Iv’s personal servant.”
The words delivered ambiguously, ranging from helper to lover.
“How about you stay here, until I return?” Glen countered, with a sigh.
The slave looked at his gruff, bearded face. Then at his weapons.
“Of course.”
“Pray I find you, when I return,” Glen warned him.
He walked tiredly up the six wide steps and entered the cool building, the relief at the clean and rather quiet interior lasting a very brief moment.
“Yes!” A lithe man called, rushing towards him. The floor under their feet tiled and thoroughly cleaned. “You have message?”
He had an oval face, tanned goldish skin and brown eyes, not more prominently slanted than the normal. A Cofol from the Peninsula, Glen thought. The man was also dressed in a long roomy robe of fine green cloth with gold details at the sleeves.
“I’m Garth Aniculo,” Glen said. “Not a messenger. I want to speak to whomever is in charge.”
The man frowned and stopped in front of him.
“That would be me,” he tended a ring adorned hand. The rock on one of the gold bands monstrous. “Lon-Iv Sopat, manager of the South markets, currently on tour,” he explained at the end.
“Please to meet you Lon,” Glen replied, the man nodding him along, eyes urging him to explain, who the fuck he was. “Ahm, I’m not sure if you’re aware… Sen is my wife.”
“Right,” Lon replied and stood back to have a better look at him. “Sen-Iv is your meaning?”
“Aye, she’s probably at Eikenport by now,” Glen explained. “Perhaps you know me as Sir Reeves, Lord of Altarin, though I can’t use the name now, for security reasons.”
“Khan’s war, of course,” Lon repeated and licked his lips, either stunned, or about to call the guards on him. “Sir Reeves, good grief,” he grimaced and puffed out. “I was flabbergasted at the news, my cousin… we were not sure, you’ve made it out of Rida,” he stood up straighter. “How can I be of service?”
Glen sighed deeply relieved. “I need clothes, preferably armor. For two people, men and a very small woman.”
Lon blinked, but kept his composure very civil.
“How small?” He probed in a professional manner. “I assume you’d like something made for the festival?”
“Child size,” Glen replied, opting not to answer what he didn’t know and Sen’s cousin bowed once.
“I will sent for our tailor. He’s not very talented, but can do a decent job. An armorer might take me a while to locate. This isn’t exactly an organized city.”
“Is there somewhere to stay in the meantime?”
“I will have a room ready,” Lon said reassuringly, adding without batting an eyelash. “Would your slaves share the premises, Sir Reeves?”
“Garth,” Glen corrected him. “I’ll have to get back to you on the latter.”
Ah.
That’s godly, Glen thought, well-built legs sunk into the bronze bathtub his room had. The room gigantic, the bed king-sized made out of bamboo, its mattress all soft silks and many pillows, Glen didn’t much like and hurled on the floor. The floor itself covered in thick soft carpets of various colors.
How rich are you girl? Glen asked, thinking of his wife.
He had some more rose wine, burped and pushed his wild hair back from his face. The large windows covered in white drapes, the sun entering pleasant, once he’d soaked and cleaned himself. A large mirror at a wall showed a strange man, scarred and richly tanned like an Issir, amber eyes gleaming and contrasting, looking back at him.
Fuck, he thought. My cock’s gotten bigger, haha!
He flexed his arms a couple of times, the servant entering paused, not wanting to interrupt his posing and Glen caught him looking through the mirror.
“Hey, weren’t you supposed to guard my horse?”
“It’s in the stables, milord,” the slave replied.
“Good then,” Glen decided with a nod. “Ah, you brought my clothes? Eh, didn’t get yer name?”
“Metu milord.” Glen opened his mouth to tell him his name again, but stopped as the slave continued. “A robe courtesy of master Lon-Iv. The tailor will be here shortly,” the slave explained.
Right, hmm.
“Huh, how soon is that?”
“A couple of hours?”
“Leave them and give me some privacy good lad,” Glen said and waved him off, remembering his lordly manners.
The slave’s departing bow shocking in its litheness.
This garb is of serious fuckin’ quality, Glen thought and walked in to the first floor hall, where Lon was waiting for him.
“Everything working?” Lon asked and Glen frowned.
“Of course, ah… gratitude for the clothes.”
“Don’t mention it. You brought me great news,” Lon-Iv waived it off. “We didn’t know whether you made it out, or not. If she had. We were very worried. The army apparently have lost control of the situation there.”
“The destruction was deliberate,” Glen pointed. “Sahand’s wife wanted blood.”
Lon-Iv stood back. “Rumors are she is difficult to persuade.”
“I don’t think anyone’s trying it, friend,” Glen replied. “Has Sen reached Eikenport?”
“I've sent bird to inquire, Sir Reeves,” Lon said readily. “You will stay here for some time?”
“Until I have everything done, then I need to move again.”
“Of course. I don’t know if an answer will reach us by then. The tailor will be here shortly.”
“I’ll have a look at the town,” Glen said.
“Ah, it’s more of a Bazaar, away from Khan’s taxes,” Lon-Iv explained. “I’ll have Metu escort you.”
“I’m fine,” Glen stopped him not wanting Lon to come along. “It’ll be just a stroll.”
“Undoubtedly,” Lon deadpanned, a seasoned merchant’s smile on his face. “You did cross the Great Desert on a horse, Sir Reeves. The Triage can hardly compare.”
Glen walked across the dirt road at the center of this massive mix of tents and houses, benches and exotic animals, the camels being the highlight. He stopped breathing the foul air, some of the luster wearing off immediately and then glanced at the opening of the large tent, the wooden poles on the entrance painted a brilliant azure, the tent’s walls a light blue with white details.
The woman clad in the white mesh robes and full-face niqab head cover the sorceress wore at Rida, returned his gaze. Azure eyes gleaming behind the finger-narrow opening. The sheer robes swished, when she walked by him and entered the dark tent. The body of a dancer making it seem like she glided, before she disappeared behind the tent’s cover.
Wow, Glen thought. He glanced at the side of the opening. There was nothing under them robes, but jewelry on naked skin. He sighed, a man walking past him pausing, seeing his expression.
“A fortune teller,” he told him. “The old lady knows her stuff.”
Glen looked at him perturbed.
“A seer?”
Old? Is he blind?
“Sure,” the man agreed. “A man sees what he wants.”
Eh, I’m pretty sure my eyes are fine, ye darn camel-fucker. Her apprentice perhaps? Glen wondered. “Gratitude.”
The man nodded and walked away and Glen with a smack of his lips pushed the cover away and entered the dark tent.
There was nothing inside the large tent but two copper braziers burning incense, the woman standing behind them. Glen felt grass under his boots, the air heavy and the darkness hazy.
“Huh,” the woman sneered and clapped once with her bejeweled hands, flames jumping out of the braziers and illuminating the roomy interior. She was old after all, the white mesh robes turned into a conservative green garb, her Cofol head uncovered and her long hair white.
Her aged face looked at least sixty and Glen was being a gentleman.
“Impressive trick,” Glen said, clenching his jaw. “I’ve seen weirder stuff though. Where’s the girl? I liked her… face more.”
Tits, legs and arse, the whole darn package.
“You’ve seen the mother of the son, you’ll never meet,” the seer replied in her ancient voice. “Unless you repent.”
Wow, how about ye suck a bag of caramel dicks?
Then gnaw at the bag.
“You know,” Glen said, puffing his cheeks out. “Yer not exactly selling me the good stuff now. I see no coin in yer future, elderly woman.”
“The truth shall hurt you traveler,” the aged seer opened her right hand, fingers stretched. “It is not what you seek.”
“Do you know me? What you say, makes little sense. I’ve a woman already.”
The seer tended her left hand, clenched in a fist.
“She’ll birth a queen, but the girl shall be only half yours. Do you want to know her name?”
Glen licked his lips.
“I don’t really like yer words, woman,” he croaked and the old seer cackled, a youthful laugh.
“A goddess hates you, for you have her daughter’s heart in your fist. The great horned one owes you, and he who has no name shall turn your heart’s love into rot. A dragonkin shall carry you across the Haze Sea, where all mists are birthed. Never to return again. If you find the pirate’s dungeon and travel beyond the Pale Mountains, you’ll never find happiness and neither will this realm, but your shadow shall never be forgotten.”
“What if I don’t?” Glen asked her, sweating and feeling light-headed.
“You’ll die exposed for all to see and a hero,” the seer paused, a nasty smirk on her wrinkled mouth, her painted eyes an olive black. “What will you choose, tamer of monsters? The throne and infamy, or the chance to perish for a greater cause?”
Glen cleared his throat and grimaced. He wiped the tears from his eyes, the air putrid inside the tent and took a step back.
“There’s no such thing as a greater cause, witch. Future is what we make of it.”
His rule. Foremost in the fucking list.
“Ah, thus all kings have answered,” the seer replied and opened her closed fist, a black sphere in it the size of a human eye. It gleamed as if made of obsidian.
A bed creaked, a foreign woman whispered.
Lover.
Glen blinked and turning on his heels stumbled towards the exit, having had enough superstitious bullshit to last him a lifetime.
“The Wyvern has a name,” she told him, just as he was about to leave the tent and then sounding haunted the old seer added. “Remember even gods err, Glen. Not the heart though, never the heart.”
A man wearing a pointy hat blinked, a grimace of terror on his face and jumped away from him, the moment he stepped out. The sun blinding. Glen groaned, witnessed a middle-aged couple stare his way with ogling eyes and frowned. He turned his head one way and saw nothing, so he swung around and caught sight of Gimoss pulling at his left eyelid with two fingers, until he ripped it away completely, the reins of a horse in his other hand. Flix’s small body laid on the saddle unconscious.
Good grief, Glen thought stunned and hurried there, the weird seer forgotten.
“What the fuck are ye doing here?” He barked at the corpse and Gimoss grunted, one eye weird, the other milky and lidless, blood down his decrepit face.
“I was bored!” Gimoss blasted him back. “It’s been hours!”
“Fine… alright,” Glen replied, looking about him with a tense reassuring smile. Quite the crowd had stopped to gaze at the corpse-looking stranger. “But you have that skin condition,” he said as loud as he could as if to remind him. “Yer not supposed to walk under the light!”
“Huh? What manner of drivel is this?” Gimoss argued, but Glen pushed him towards the Sopat building, taking the reins from him.
“Is he dead?” He asked, glancing at the unconscious Flix a little worried.
“Nah, the harlot is fine.”
“What did ye do to him?”
“Spiked his smoke,” Gimoss replied, then thinking about it started laughing. “Hah… haha…ahahaha!”
Oh, for slovenly fuck’s sake, Glen thought rolling his eyes, as they hurried across the busy street. “Wait,” he said, pausing just before the entrance, a shiver running down his spine. Metu waiting for him at the top of the stairs with a patient look on his painted face, but for the eyes. The slave’s eyes looked worried.
“Where the fuck is Biscuit?” Glen asked and a gut-retching scream came from further down the street. The woman letting it out scared out of her wits.
Oh crap.
God dammit no.
FUCK!
Maybe it’s an animal attack? He thought hopefully trying to not overreact. A rabid god, or a bloodthirsty camel?
“A MONSTER!” Someone yelled hysterically, squashing that theory.
“GODS HELPS US!” Screamed another, much more devout civilian.
“DON’T LET IT EAT THE KID!” Bellowed a third, despair in his voice.
Shit!
Glen started running as fast as he could towards the commotion. His boots digging at the soft ground, hands pumping energetically and breathing in and out hard. He run towards what the panicked crowd, was running away from.
Grimdux
I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck
Touch O' Luck
II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.
It will be a superior reading experience
to start this story from the beginning
Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)
Chapter specific maps of the realms
Maps of the Realms
Grimdux I) Glen hears 'me too' instead of Metu in these chaps
Sir Glen Reeves
Garth Aniculo
Hardir O’ Fardor
Who takes a Wyvern in a Bazaar?
Part I
-The Old Seer’s Words-
WRREEEEEEE!
“Where?” Glen asked, twisting on the saddle and looking over his left shoulder. Outlaw neighed annoyed at the game and Gimoss, riding next to him unsheathed his sabre with a grunt. The sun was hidden behind the mountain slopes of the Litching Tops, the narrow flat valley that dabbled as a not manmade road of sorts –aptly called the Goddess’ Path- slowly changing from the sandy parched terrain of the Great Desert into sturdier much darker soil.
Occupying the space between the Neesen Mountains to their South and the Litching Tops to their North, the well-known Goddess’ Path –which goddess was referring to, a mystery to Glen for the time being- led into a fertile patch of land, flanked by Felmond and Shifton Rivers that had their sources on the mountain ranges they were slowly leaving behind.
All caravans braving the Steppe, or the Desert -coming from the Khanate, mainly the faraway Greenwhale Peninsula, intending to reach Eikenport and the Khan’s southernmost territories- were converging here. The Cofol merchants said that in this place, where the two mountain ranges soared from the flat terrain, the Great Desert ended. For the weary travelers and merchants alike, this was the first variation in colors and nature, they would perceive, after months of journeying in the endless sands.
Water changed everything.
Oh, you oversized peacock!
Biscuit, a good head taller than he’d been not ten days back, came soaring from the sky, dodged a manic brutal slash from Gimoss’ saber and smacked Glen hard on the back toppling him from his horse. Glen went tumbling down, rolling deftly to avoid a serious injury and stopped in a heap covered in dirt three meters away.
“Dammit!” He cursed and jumped up, just as the wyvern landed on his hind legs, using its large leathery wings to break the momentum of the dive. Biscuit’s face gave him a black-toothed hideous grin in response, coupled with his patented…
RRRR
And something faintly resembling a cackle.
“Listen up,” Glen warned him, still rattled from his fall and not amused, while slapping the dirt off his worn out clothes with both hands. “I’ve had enough of this shite! No more fuckin’ games bugger!”
“You can’t expect a Wyvern to keep riding a horse,” Flix noted, well into his third pipe of the day. The Gish’s consumption of drugs was disturbing.
“If I’m a riding a horse, he’s riding a horse,” Glen decided and eyed Biscuit. “Hop on the darn saddle and no chewing on ears, we almost lost the mule. Another animal kicks the bucket, yer carrying the produce mister!”
Biscuit snorted and sidestepped to avoid the sneaky approaching Gimoss’ downward slash. The corpse incensed at the near miss.
“Bullshit!” He bellowed and grinded his decrepit teeth, the upper lip somewhat healed, but the scar left hideous. “I need a longer weapon! Provide more arms phony champion!”
“Make yourself a spear,” Glen snapped, not wanting to bother himself with his antics.
“It’s already made,” Gimoss retorted eyeing the old Gish. “But I have it reserved for the harlot!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Glen groaned and went to climb on his horse again. “It’s not funny Gimoss.”
Gimoss stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back –the badly stitched scar on his neck visible- and roared, greatly amused.
“Haha… hah…ahahaha!”
That is a lot of tents, Glen thought and got up to walk to the small thicket of palm trees. They had made their camp under their much appreciated shade. Gimoss and Flix were waiting for him to approach, the morning heat and humidity of the nearby Shifton River, while pleasant at first, was starting to bother him.
“It looks like a town,” he told them and Flix still dripping from his swim, his dress soaked through, nodded agreeing. “A little chaotic,” Glen added.
“That’s the Merchant’s Triage,” the Gish explained. “A melting pot for all the caravans reaching the south. Used to be bigger once upon a time.”
“Seems big enough. So it’s a bazaar of sorts?” Glen queried.
“Not really, more like a center for the Guild to redistribute and organize smaller caravans,” Flix replied and walked to his horse. “But I guess with so many merchants around, you can call it one.”
Great.
“I need new clothes,” he showed them his worn out garbs and Gimoss agreed, his own stolen garbs, even more worn out, dirty and bloody on top of that. “Supplies and news. How far is Eikenport?”
“Let us focus on today,” Flix advised him.
“Aye, mother, still I need a plan,” Glen retorted a little tauntingly and glared at Gimoss. A warning, as he wanted the talk to remain civil.
“What? You think that was funny?” Gimoss mocked. “Huh, nah! It wasn’t.”
“You can’t go there wearing Rida’s armour,” Flix noted.
“Fine,” Glen replied, with another look at Gimoss. “You stay here.”
The corpse raised a hand, showing him index and mid finger. The index finger crooked and still broken, pointing more to the side than upwards as intended.
The meaning ambiguous.
“Fuck does that mean? Is this new?” Glen hissed and Gimoss denied it with a shake of the head.
“Same as the old one,” he explained all serious and added annoyed. “Can’t close the other finger! So ye get the crooked one also!”
Biscuit raised a winged arm mimicking him, mid talon protruding at its reptile three-fingered hand and cackled, pure black and gnarly, glass-like teeth snapping loudly.
The former thief wasn’t amused.
Outlaw snorted and shook his mane, front hooves half-sunk in soft mud, the dirt road leading through the forest of tents, bristling with activity. Men with carts, horse-drawn carriages, camels and mules laden with produce and goods, packing the road and at its sides, benches and counters showcasing a variety of wares. Gems, tools, fabrics and leather products. Carpets and animal covers, even art and food, mainly alcohol, black and orange rum, red wine and Kaju from the Steppes. The majority Cofols, but some Lorians were mixed in, even Issirs. The slaves outnumbering the citizens two to one.
Glen paused his horse before a counter, the shifty merchant selling cheap jewelry.
“My good man,” he told him in passable Cofol, reaching for the dagger for assistance just in case he blurted out something too offensive. “I’m looking to buy a decent outfit.”
“Buy the gold brooch,” the man suggested, without changing expression and pointed at the obviously fake-gold item. “It’ll be great with it!”
Seeing Glen not convinced, he allowed a creepy bejeweled smile on his Cofol face. He had pearls inserted in four of his gold teeth.
“Perhaps later,” Glen replied and moved to the next one. Half an hour later, he was deep inside the sprawling -more a massive camp, than a town- site. The outer rim of it, consisting of tents of all sizes and types, while there were wooden and even stone buildings located at the center. The marking on the roads and alleys nonexistent, the whole place reminding him of a gigantic bazaar.
Glen got down from his horse and approached the large counter, the mid-aged Cofol merchant manning it, dressed in blue silk finery, a large pearl pendant on his neck. The eyes painted a garish yellow.
“Hello there,” Glen greeted him, with a forced smile, the close proximity to so many people after months in the wilderness, taxing to his nerves. He stared at the counter filled with rolls of fabric. “I’m in the market for a decent set of clothes.”
“A man with coin may find what he seeks much easier, than a man without. Some might even say that man might remain unclothed,” the Cofol merchant retorted, thin mustache dancing over his lips.
“I have coin,” Glen said. “Ahm, what fabric is this?”
“Red silk,” the merchant replied, staring him in the eyes hypnotically. “Very expensive.”
I’m sure, Glen thought.
“How much?”
“A silver per meter.”
The former thief wished for the merchant to spend his profits in healing potions.
Fervently.
The moment dragged and Glen gulped down, his throat dry. “How long is the whole thing?”
“You mean the roll?” The merchant checked, he wasn’t jesting.
“Aye.”
“Ten meters. Ten silver dinars.”
“So a gold Eagle.”
“If you favor gold Eagles, then its twelve silvers, foreign friend.”
Glen glared at him. “Eagles are much more valuable than dinars,” he noted.
“Not on Khan’s lands, they aren’t,” the Cofol replied without missing a beat. “Are you still interested?”
“How much for the white roll?”
“Eight.”
“So in other words ten,” Glen made the calculations himself. “If I was to take both, would two gold Eagles suffice?”
The Cofol merchant smacked his lips and eyed him, from top to bottom.
“It would, but I have promised the white roll of silk to a faithful customer,” the merchant said sadly and even if Glen was an idiot –and the matter had been brought up in the past- he would have seen through the obvious lie.
“Three Eagles,” Glen countered.
“It would be difficult to refuse such offer,” the merchant admitted lamely.
“What about the faithful customer’s order?”
“He would understand.”
“I’ll take them both for that price and some information,” Glen decided.
“May I hear what kind of information you’re seeking first, demanding foreign friend?”
If he asked for more coins, Glen was prepared to run him through with his blade, grab the loot and make a run for it.
“A place to buy clothes, or a tailor to make something presentable.”
“South Market, outside Tyeusfort is where you’ll find a good tailor,” the Cofol replied.
“Eh, something nearer?” He asked and the merchant shrugged his shoulders. “Are the Sopat’s here perchance?”
“The Sopat of Lai Zel-Ka?” The Cofol asked standing back, as if had just gotten slapped in the face.
“The same, I’m related by marriage,” Glen explained and the man across from him blinked, thoroughly stunned.
“You’re not a member of the Guild,” he croaked more than a little shaken.
“I’m not, but I believe they are,” Glen retorted with a smile.
“Of course, for almost a thousand years,” the merchant said and pointed to a two story white stone building, roughly at the center of this large Bazaar town. One of the three standing there, the rest made of wood. “They have lodgings, next to the Guild’s offices.”
“I’ll take the rolls to my horse,” Glen said, the building at least a hundred meters away, through the thick crowd.
“We’ll have them delivered,” the merchant deadpanned with a broad smile, suddenly very accommodating. “What name should we address them to?”
“Sir Reeves,” Glen replied. “Or Garth Aniculo.”
Glen cleaned his dirty boots as best he could on the clean limestone stairs of the building. Its entrance rounded in the Cofol manner, the columns hugging it ornamented with elaborate geometric patterns, made out of painted glass, the sign of the Capricorn engraved in blue and green at the top.
A slave seeing him standing run down the stairs and stopped in front of him, shaved legs and arms covered with tattoos, bracelets and anklets that ringed, when he moved.
“The horse should stay at a stable, master,” he said and Glen blinked unsure.
“Is there one near?”
“Behind the building. Are you a member of the Guild?”
“I’m a member of the family,” Glen said.
“I shall take it myself,” the slave replied with a deep bow. “I’m Lon-Iv’s personal servant.”
The words delivered ambiguously, ranging from helper to lover.
“How about you stay here, until I return?” Glen countered, with a sigh.
The slave looked at his gruff, bearded face. Then at his weapons.
“Of course.”
“Pray I find you, when I return,” Glen warned him.
He walked tiredly up the six wide steps and entered the cool building, the relief at the clean and rather quiet interior lasting a very brief moment.
“Yes!” A lithe man called, rushing towards him. The floor under their feet tiled and thoroughly cleaned. “You have message?”
He had an oval face, tanned goldish skin and brown eyes, not more prominently slanted than the normal. A Cofol from the Peninsula, Glen thought. The man was also dressed in a long roomy robe of fine green cloth with gold details at the sleeves.
“I’m Garth Aniculo,” Glen said. “Not a messenger. I want to speak to whomever is in charge.”
The man frowned and stopped in front of him.
“That would be me,” he tended a ring adorned hand. The rock on one of the gold bands monstrous. “Lon-Iv Sopat, manager of the South markets, currently on tour,” he explained at the end.
“Please to meet you Lon,” Glen replied, the man nodding him along, eyes urging him to explain, who the fuck he was. “Ahm, I’m not sure if you’re aware… Sen is my wife.”
“Right,” Lon replied and stood back to have a better look at him. “Sen-Iv is your meaning?”
“Aye, she’s probably at Eikenport by now,” Glen explained. “Perhaps you know me as Sir Reeves, Lord of Altarin, though I can’t use the name now, for security reasons.”
“Khan’s war, of course,” Lon repeated and licked his lips, either stunned, or about to call the guards on him. “Sir Reeves, good grief,” he grimaced and puffed out. “I was flabbergasted at the news, my cousin… we were not sure, you’ve made it out of Rida,” he stood up straighter. “How can I be of service?”
Glen sighed deeply relieved. “I need clothes, preferably armor. For two people, men and a very small woman.”
Lon blinked, but kept his composure very civil.
“How small?” He probed in a professional manner. “I assume you’d like something made for the festival?”
“Child size,” Glen replied, opting not to answer what he didn’t know and Sen’s cousin bowed once.
“I will sent for our tailor. He’s not very talented, but can do a decent job. An armorer might take me a while to locate. This isn’t exactly an organized city.”
“Is there somewhere to stay in the meantime?”
“I will have a room ready,” Lon said reassuringly, adding without batting an eyelash. “Would your slaves share the premises, Sir Reeves?”
“Garth,” Glen corrected him. “I’ll have to get back to you on the latter.”
Ah.
That’s godly, Glen thought, well-built legs sunk into the bronze bathtub his room had. The room gigantic, the bed king-sized made out of bamboo, its mattress all soft silks and many pillows, Glen didn’t much like and hurled on the floor. The floor itself covered in thick soft carpets of various colors.
How rich are you girl? Glen asked, thinking of his wife.
He had some more rose wine, burped and pushed his wild hair back from his face. The large windows covered in white drapes, the sun entering pleasant, once he’d soaked and cleaned himself. A large mirror at a wall showed a strange man, scarred and richly tanned like an Issir, amber eyes gleaming and contrasting, looking back at him.
Fuck, he thought. My cock’s gotten bigger, haha!
He flexed his arms a couple of times, the servant entering paused, not wanting to interrupt his posing and Glen caught him looking through the mirror.
“Hey, weren’t you supposed to guard my horse?”
“It’s in the stables, milord,” the slave replied.
“Good then,” Glen decided with a nod. “Ah, you brought my clothes? Eh, didn’t get yer name?”
“Metu milord.” Glen opened his mouth to tell him his name again, but stopped as the slave continued. “A robe courtesy of master Lon-Iv. The tailor will be here shortly,” the slave explained.
Right, hmm.
“Huh, how soon is that?”
“A couple of hours?”
“Leave them and give me some privacy good lad,” Glen said and waved him off, remembering his lordly manners.
The slave’s departing bow shocking in its litheness.
This garb is of serious fuckin’ quality, Glen thought and walked in to the first floor hall, where Lon was waiting for him.
“Everything working?” Lon asked and Glen frowned.
“Of course, ah… gratitude for the clothes.”
“Don’t mention it. You brought me great news,” Lon-Iv waived it off. “We didn’t know whether you made it out, or not. If she had. We were very worried. The army apparently have lost control of the situation there.”
“The destruction was deliberate,” Glen pointed. “Sahand’s wife wanted blood.”
Lon-Iv stood back. “Rumors are she is difficult to persuade.”
“I don’t think anyone’s trying it, friend,” Glen replied. “Has Sen reached Eikenport?”
“I've sent bird to inquire, Sir Reeves,” Lon said readily. “You will stay here for some time?”
“Until I have everything done, then I need to move again.”
“Of course. I don’t know if an answer will reach us by then. The tailor will be here shortly.”
“I’ll have a look at the town,” Glen said.
“Ah, it’s more of a Bazaar, away from Khan’s taxes,” Lon-Iv explained. “I’ll have Metu escort you.”
“I’m fine,” Glen stopped him not wanting Lon to come along. “It’ll be just a stroll.”
“Undoubtedly,” Lon deadpanned, a seasoned merchant’s smile on his face. “You did cross the Great Desert on a horse, Sir Reeves. The Triage can hardly compare.”
Glen walked across the dirt road at the center of this massive mix of tents and houses, benches and exotic animals, the camels being the highlight. He stopped breathing the foul air, some of the luster wearing off immediately and then glanced at the opening of the large tent, the wooden poles on the entrance painted a brilliant azure, the tent’s walls a light blue with white details.
The woman clad in the white mesh robes and full-face niqab head cover the sorceress wore at Rida, returned his gaze. Azure eyes gleaming behind the finger-narrow opening. The sheer robes swished, when she walked by him and entered the dark tent. The body of a dancer making it seem like she glided, before she disappeared behind the tent’s cover.
Wow, Glen thought. He glanced at the side of the opening. There was nothing under them robes, but jewelry on naked skin. He sighed, a man walking past him pausing, seeing his expression.
“A fortune teller,” he told him. “The old lady knows her stuff.”
Glen looked at him perturbed.
“A seer?”
Old? Is he blind?
“Sure,” the man agreed. “A man sees what he wants.”
Eh, I’m pretty sure my eyes are fine, ye darn camel-fucker. Her apprentice perhaps? Glen wondered. “Gratitude.”
The man nodded and walked away and Glen with a smack of his lips pushed the cover away and entered the dark tent.
There was nothing inside the large tent but two copper braziers burning incense, the woman standing behind them. Glen felt grass under his boots, the air heavy and the darkness hazy.
“Huh,” the woman sneered and clapped once with her bejeweled hands, flames jumping out of the braziers and illuminating the roomy interior. She was old after all, the white mesh robes turned into a conservative green garb, her Cofol head uncovered and her long hair white.
Her aged face looked at least sixty and Glen was being a gentleman.
“Impressive trick,” Glen said, clenching his jaw. “I’ve seen weirder stuff though. Where’s the girl? I liked her… face more.”
Tits, legs and arse, the whole darn package.
“You’ve seen the mother of the son, you’ll never meet,” the seer replied in her ancient voice. “Unless you repent.”
Wow, how about ye suck a bag of caramel dicks?
Then gnaw at the bag.
“You know,” Glen said, puffing his cheeks out. “Yer not exactly selling me the good stuff now. I see no coin in yer future, elderly woman.”
“The truth shall hurt you traveler,” the aged seer opened her right hand, fingers stretched. “It is not what you seek.”
“Do you know me? What you say, makes little sense. I’ve a woman already.”
The seer tended her left hand, clenched in a fist.
“She’ll birth a queen, but the girl shall be only half yours. Do you want to know her name?”
Glen licked his lips.
“I don’t really like yer words, woman,” he croaked and the old seer cackled, a youthful laugh.
“A goddess hates you, for you have her daughter’s heart in your fist. The great horned one owes you, and he who has no name shall turn your heart’s love into rot. A dragonkin shall carry you across the Haze Sea, where all mists are birthed. Never to return again. If you find the pirate’s dungeon and travel beyond the Pale Mountains, you’ll never find happiness and neither will this realm, but your shadow shall never be forgotten.”
“What if I don’t?” Glen asked her, sweating and feeling light-headed.
“You’ll die exposed for all to see and a hero,” the seer paused, a nasty smirk on her wrinkled mouth, her painted eyes an olive black. “What will you choose, tamer of monsters? The throne and infamy, or the chance to perish for a greater cause?”
Glen cleared his throat and grimaced. He wiped the tears from his eyes, the air putrid inside the tent and took a step back.
“There’s no such thing as a greater cause, witch. Future is what we make of it.”
His rule. Foremost in the fucking list.
“Ah, thus all kings have answered,” the seer replied and opened her closed fist, a black sphere in it the size of a human eye. It gleamed as if made of obsidian.
A bed creaked, a foreign woman whispered.
Lover.
Glen blinked and turning on his heels stumbled towards the exit, having had enough superstitious bullshit to last him a lifetime.
“The Wyvern has a name,” she told him, just as he was about to leave the tent and then sounding haunted the old seer added. “Remember even gods err, Glen. Not the heart though, never the heart.”
A man wearing a pointy hat blinked, a grimace of terror on his face and jumped away from him, the moment he stepped out. The sun blinding. Glen groaned, witnessed a middle-aged couple stare his way with ogling eyes and frowned. He turned his head one way and saw nothing, so he swung around and caught sight of Gimoss pulling at his left eyelid with two fingers, until he ripped it away completely, the reins of a horse in his other hand. Flix’s small body laid on the saddle unconscious.
Good grief, Glen thought stunned and hurried there, the weird seer forgotten.
“What the fuck are ye doing here?” He barked at the corpse and Gimoss grunted, one eye weird, the other milky and lidless, blood down his decrepit face.
“I was bored!” Gimoss blasted him back. “It’s been hours!”
“Fine… alright,” Glen replied, looking about him with a tense reassuring smile. Quite the crowd had stopped to gaze at the corpse-looking stranger. “But you have that skin condition,” he said as loud as he could as if to remind him. “Yer not supposed to walk under the light!”
“Huh? What manner of drivel is this?” Gimoss argued, but Glen pushed him towards the Sopat building, taking the reins from him.
“Is he dead?” He asked, glancing at the unconscious Flix a little worried.
“Nah, the harlot is fine.”
“What did ye do to him?”
“Spiked his smoke,” Gimoss replied, then thinking about it started laughing. “Hah… haha…ahahaha!”
Oh, for slovenly fuck’s sake, Glen thought rolling his eyes, as they hurried across the busy street. “Wait,” he said, pausing just before the entrance, a shiver running down his spine. Metu waiting for him at the top of the stairs with a patient look on his painted face, but for the eyes. The slave’s eyes looked worried.
“Where the fuck is Biscuit?” Glen asked and a gut-retching scream came from further down the street. The woman letting it out scared out of her wits.
Oh crap.
God dammit no.
FUCK!
Maybe it’s an animal attack? He thought hopefully trying to not overreact. A rabid god, or a bloodthirsty camel?
“A MONSTER!” Someone yelled hysterically, squashing that theory.
“GODS HELPS US!” Screamed another, much more devout civilian.
“DON’T LET IT EAT THE KID!” Bellowed a third, despair in his voice.
Shit!
Glen started running as fast as he could towards the commotion. His boots digging at the soft ground, hands pumping energetically and breathing in and out hard. He run towards what the panicked crowd, was running away from.
