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
Character portraits
Glen
Lord Glen & Mister Garth
Part I
-Almost out of time-
Glen pulled at the collar of his gambeson, the leather brigandine cutting through it and irritating his skin there. He wiped the sweat off his brow next, sucked a huge amount of air in his cheeks ballooning and stared at the massive looking ruin.
“There’s no ceiling. Like… the whole thing is just gone and someone even cleaned out the fell stone,” he finally said puffing out, lips flapping alike his horse that mimicked him a moment later. Glen paused disturbed at the prolonged neigh and then roared irate, “I get the need for air in this plaguin’ heat, but this is ludicrous!”
Seeing as no one was willing to answer him, he glared at Metu, the hapless slave having a constipated look on his painted face.
“Well?” Glen probed. “Have ye anything to say?”
“Master Lon wants me to inform you; he has also bought the blocks of buildings facing the Mastaba sire. The prize was excellent due to wear and tear,” the slave replied, sitting in the driver’s seat of the closed carriage Biscuit was kept in.
Glen stared at the aforementioned parcels of real estate.
“I can see what looks like a warehouse in the first, another house somewhat standing in the second,” Glen noticed sourly. “Everything else is a pile of rubble. That was a lot more tear than wear Metu!”
“As I informed your Excellency the property was surprisingly easy to acquire.”
“I bet it was!”
“Haha…hah…ahahaha!” Gimoss roaring laughter rang down the relatively abandoned street. A giant tumbleweed rolled in front of them and they all watched it strolling down Eikenport’s wide cobblestone road thoughtfully.
Taking a moment to also collect themselves after Metu’s revelation and the corpse’s outburst.
“Right,” Glen said ending the small interlude and jumped from Outlaw’s saddle, his knees hurting when he landed. With a grimace he pointed at the big entrance looming open at the base of the pyramid-like structure. “Get the wagon in there Metu.”
“Aye, Master Garth.”
Good then.
Wait.
“There’s no door,” Glen commented and Flix, approaching under his gigantic straw hat, chuckled like an old lady with a severe case of bronchitis. “What?” Glen blasted him.
“Nothing. It’s a sound observation.”
Glen pointed at two unsavory-looking characters watching them from across the street next. “Look at them!” He roared, the two locals frowning. “They are about to rob us blind!”
“Hmm. Are you certain?” Flix asked and stared at the odd couple. A Lorian and a chocolate-skinned Issir with slanted eyes and Cofol face.
“Ye want me to ask them?” Glen turned around and walked smartly to the middle of the street. Behind him Metu with Gimoss giving the slave rude instructions, brought the wagon inside the large Mastaba. “Hey! You!”
The Lorian blinked and looked about confused. It was obvious Glen was talking to them, with no one else at the near and that this was cheap theater. His friend on the other hand appeared ready to make a run for it.
“Have you no tongue?” Glen snapped angry.
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
The Lorian grinned showing four, or five, good teeth in a forest of black cavities.
Good grief!
“Howdy well-armed stranger,” the Lorian said politely. Glen raised a brow and hooked his thumbs on his leather waistband. A new addition to his armour that kept his heavy harnesses together.
“Hello there,” he greeted him back in an even tone. “I was having a conversation with my… ehem, mother,” the Lorian blinked, then stared at the small-bodied Gish still on his horse. Flix raised a small arm in greeting. “She thinks you are upstanding citizens.”
“Citizens?” The Issir-Cofol hybrid wondered aloud.
“Of the city. Dis one,” Glen pressed on. “Eikenport.”
“Ah,” they both said and nodded together.
Right.
“I’m… Garth Aniculo,” Glen sort of introduced himself. “Merchant, adventurer.”
“Merchant, or adventurer?”
“Both.”
Another round of ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ohs’ ensued.
“Your names lads?” Glen probed and Flix was heard chuckling behind him.
“I’m Greedy Dunstan,” the Lorian said, henceforth to be called Dunstan.
Glen glanced at Flix watching them and grinned. “Yer mother gave ye the name?” He asked turning to the shifty-looking Dunstan.
“How’s Garth… whatever the other part was any better, friend?” Dunstan retorted, his associate finding it amusing.
“It’s an Imperial name,” the two men blinked taken back. “What’s yours?” Glen asked his friend sourly.
“Pocket Clint,” Clint replied.
What the…
“Pocket… as in what I have on me coat?”
“As in pickpocket sire,” Clint elucidated. “Had to shorten it, because it made people point the finger on me every time something went missin’.”
Well, Glen thought. Who would blame them? “What do you do for a livin’?”
“The truth?” Clint asked, eyes avoiding his scrutiny.
“It’ll help,” Glen replied dryly.
“I’m what’s called a mugger sire,” Clint replied truthfully.
“Otherwise be known as a pickpocket,” Glen remarked trying to keep a serious face.
“More a bag-snatcher,” Dunstan defended his friend and Flix almost toppled from his horse, laughing uncontrollably.
Glen stared at them for a moment. “You lads were casing the wagon right? Or was it the building?”
“Eh, yer awfully close to the truth sire,” Clint admitted.
“More like showin’ interest in its contents,” Dunstan elucidated. “Academically.”
Hmm.
“How about I give ye a paying job?” Glen asked them after thinking it through and got his purse out. “Along wit a warning. There’s no bigger bandit around here than me. No one more dangerous to cross. You make one mistake, or refuse me offer, my mother here will kill you. Right mom?”
Flix sighed, but played along. “Can we just give these to Gimoss? It’s gotten to him that he needs to eat brains to speed up his skin regeneration. We’re fresh out since yesterday,” the Gish said.
Clint and Dunstan were listening with their mouths hanging open.
“Barely any brains between these two though,” Glen argued, but Flix shrugged his shoulders not as sure.
“We have to crack one skull open to be certain. You know how he is,” the Gish countered.
“Wait a god-darn minute there!” Clint protested, probably cursing himself for not making a run for it earlier.
“What’s the job?” Dunstan said quickly, apparently the more practical of the two.
“Do you know the city?” Glen asked them with a cunning smirk and they nodded in unison. “Start from the port,” the former thief said to his new crew. “Take yer fuckin’ time, but learn everything about everyone.”
“You could have called me Glen, but ye didn’t since the start,” Glen told Flix an hour later. He’d sent the two bandits to gather information and they inspected the Mastaba in the meantime.
“No man hunted by an Imperial Assassin,” Flix said slowly, placing his hat in a big bag. “Keeps his name. It’s foolish.”
Ah.
“You were right,” Glen admitted.
“What made you change your mind?”
“I need a clean start.”
“How are you going to keep the Wyvern a secret?”
“I don’t know,” Glen replied. “I’m not sure… I should.”
Metu managed to unlock the door to Biscuit’s cage, swung the sheets open and then looked inside apprehensively. Gimoss said something Glen missed. They were standing about ten meters away –the inside of the Mastaba massive though empty- and at the same time Metu got knocked off of the step he was standing on from a screeching Biscuit that burst out right after. The slave got hurled back onto the ground next –whatever floor the building once had, it was gone now- bounced once on his back with a hapless yelp, the wyvern flying over him and zipping across the field-sized hall cackling hysterically.
Flix sighed and started walking towards the odd couple, patted Gimoss on the back to make him stop –the corpse had doubled over guffawing uncontrollably- and went to help the rattled slave stand on his feet.
A left without something else to do Glen decided to go after the wyvern.
“Lookin’ at the positives that opening is about six-seven floors up,” Glen argued half an hour later, with Biscuit chewing on a severed cow’s leg next to him. “So he can’t fly that high hopefully. We close the doors and he has all this room to play wit—”
“What room?” Gimoss blasted him.
“We’re inside a massive Mastaba,” Glen explained.
“Hah! Massive he says! Unambitious and unskilled sham of a hero! A SHAMEFUL DISPLAY!”
Glen took the insult in stride.
“That is as big as two city blocks,” he continued clenching his jaw, “We can see them across the street.”
“So?” Gimoss asked his eye not yet formed, causing some spillage to run down his cheek.
“So it’s big enough.”
“Nonsense! This needs tearing down and built anew!” Gimoss argued passionately. “Look at these cracks, the walls are worn out and there are bones of at least nine people buried under this field, two cats and a fuckin’ goat!”
Glen rubbed a point under his nose with the flat of his finger.
“You failed to convince me,” he calmly told Gimoss after a contemplating moment.
“Only fools step on a dead goat’s bones!” Gimoss growled and threw him a flattened rock the size of a plate. Glen dodged coolly, moving his head to the side. “Hah!” The corpse smiled, the view offered atrocious. “You’re improving at least. Good. I’ll start hurling blades next!”
Glen groaned in frustration and stared at Flix for help, but the Gish kept his silence.
“Seeing as we can’t start digging up the ground looking for bones, can you keep him inside?” Glen asked Gimoss. The corpse crossed his arms on his chest. “Metu will help,” he added. “That won’t be me by the way, but him,” Glen pointed at the gawking in panic slave.
“He won’t make it a day!” Gimoss blasted and Metu almost collapsed, his knees weakening at the thought. “Ahahaha!” Gimoss guffawed relishing in the slave’s fear.
“Come on! Biscuit is mostly harmless! He-he, right?” Glen downplayed it nervously.
“My kin is an idiot, but this weak-willed harlot has nice smelling flesh,” Gimoss explained and Glen stared at the Wyvern gnawing at the cow’s leg-bone. Biscuit stopped, raised his burgundy eyes and then burped, pieces of gore running down the sides of his jaws. “Aye, that cocksucker won’t make it. In light of this I’m eating his brains when he kicks the bucket!” Gimoss thundered looking at the slave appreciatively.
For fuck’s sake.
“Enough!” Glen snapped furious. Metu had started crying traumatized. “Nobody is eating anyone’s brains, or other bits!”
RRRRRR
“No buts and ifs!” Glen insisted glaring at them both in turn. Gimoss was laughing silently while he talked. “You are staying with Biscuit ye bag of rot. Metu is coming wit me,” Glen decided.
Their first stop was the house across the empty dirt-covered street. Glen stared at the narrow three story building, the internal stairs leading up and made of solid stone. The floors in relatively good condition, but smallish and with square small windows. The top open, a mere three by three, the half-wall cut like a parapet, the embrasures neat half circles.
“This was a watch-tower once,” Flix commented and Glen caught sight from above of Gimoss. The corpse was walking stiffly across the street.
What in the slovenly fuck?
“What were they watching?” He asked, frustration oozing out of him.
“The slaves inside the Mastaba,” Flix replied and lit his pipe.
Right. There was that.
“Can you repair it?” Glen asked the still shaking Metu.
“Ahm, yes… who will use it, Master Garth?”
“My wife,” Glen replied.
“You’ll put the Celestial Opal in here?” Metu blurted and Glen eyed him austerely.
“After you repaired it, friend. I’m sure you’ll do yer best.”
“There’s no kitchen, baths—”
Glen cut him off midsentence.
“One bath will suffice. We’ll share. Find room for a kitchen. Turn the upper floors into bedrooms.”
“You’ll place a bath at the entrance?” Flix queried. There was some misunderstanding here, Glen thought, about what a bath is and the size of it.
Something to worry about at a later time.
Glen turned to the slave.
“Can we expand the lower floor?”
“Master Lon has promised to send a building crew as soon as one becomes available,” Metu explained. That was vague as fuck, Glen thought. “I believe it can be done,” the distressed slave added, eyes red from sobbing.
Glen pointed at the piles of debris around the neighborhood. They had a good vantage point from the top. “Use whatever you can find. Lots of stone and finely cut rocks around us. I’ll find proper furniture.”
“Where sire?” The slave probed, wiping his running nose.
Glen sighed. “There’s a pirate market, a Cofol market and a black market here apparently. I’m sure something will turn up.”
Gimoss was staring at the second building, standing north of the small watch-tower, also across the street from the Mastaba. A small vertical alley separated the two still standing structures, everything else adjoining them had collapsed, or was on its way there.
“What’s wit the glassy walls?” Glen asked. Some of the buildings had a part of a wall standing. One half of it turned to glass, or covered with it. The sun playing tricks on the shiny surfaces.
“Wyvern fire,” Flix explained, puffing smoke out of his nostrils. “In this instance a fireball.”
“How do ye know?”
“It came from the southeast,” Flix pointed with his pipe. “Blew out every house near the tower, missed it for a couple of meters and ended up here. That the warehouse survived was pure luck.”
“Biscuit can do that?”
“I don’t know. He’s too young.”
Hmm.
“Is there a warning sign?”
“Not that I know of.”
Seems kind of important friend, Glen thought with a frown. Asking Gimoss was probably not sensible at this time. A quiet corpse was a blessing.
Ye don’t rattle him.
“It’s missing the roof,” Glen noticed to change the subject. They were standing at what once was the entrance of the big warehouse.
“It needs tearing down!” Gimoss growled, sounding exceptionally mad. “Useless piece of shite! Tiny!”
Glen sighed.
“Metu stay here. Put the crews to work the moment they arrive. Start with the door to secure the Mastaba. Use wood, but work fast. Keep them away from the wyvern. Use him for it,” he pointed a finger at the frowning Gimoss. “Don’t kill anyone until I get back. I need to talk with Lon-Iv.”
And get the lay of the land for myself.
The main artery heading for the port of the shell-shaped old city, cut through its ruined center. A five-carriage wide avenue crossed parts of it untouched from the destruction, but long-abandoned and parts almost completely leveled. If there was a pattern to the mayhem that had occurred here, Glen just couldn’t see it.
Approaching the center and more so later, people started appearing. Groups, big and small. Unsavory characters, Cofols, some Lorians and anything in between. Eight out of ten, were hard-faced cutthroats. They occupied whole neighborhoods, if the old buildings were safe, or still standing.
The closer they got to the port, the bigger the destruction it seemed. But these were also the parts of the city that showed signs of a rebuilt happening. To the north stood the Pirate quarter, a mix of tents, half-standing old buildings, taverns and brothels every second door and a boisterous market at its edges. To the south, the Khan’s engineers had cleared out the debris, opened up most of the port facilities and had created a small Cofol city within the city itself. Glen spotted a couple of villas, several government buildings and mounted archers patrolling the clean slate-covered streets. The walls painted gold and blue, even a soft red, making the neighborhood and the square before the docks a pleasant place. The sanguine waters framing the port making the picture almost idyllic.
The mounted archer stared at him under heavy black eyebrows.
“Garth?” He repeated, unsure if he’d heard him correctly.
“That’s right,” Glen replied with a wide grin, tanned face contrasting to the amount of white teeth displayed.
“And that’s your mother?”
“Aye, though poor thing can’t speak well. Nurturing me took everythin’ from her.”
“A Gish?”
“My father had excessive taste in women,” Glen deadpanned with a shrug.
The Cofol made to laugh, but caught himself. “An adventurer you say, coming from Merchant’s Triage.”
Glen nodded. “Is the port working?”
“Not really. Even if you make it to the straits, the High King’s navy has Shallow Sea locked down tight. You won’t reach Rida, assuming you wanted to get there. Not on a Cofol ship.”
“How about the pirates?”
“The Khan has no problems with the local ones,” the mounted archer replied. “I counsel against visiting their quarter though. They are after all criminals.”
Aren’t we all?
“Gratitude for the advice.”
“Luthos be with you,” the mounted archer wished him and clicked his tongue to get his horse moving.
Glen turned on his saddle to look at Flix. “Well this is disappointing,” he said furrowing his brow. “I don’t see the Marquette.”
“Maybe in the pirates’ part of the port?”
That would be the northern side of it.
“Ah, last couple of times I met wit pirates, they tried to run me through with sharp blades. One smacked me with a bronze carafe… though that was partially justified.”
“They tend to do that,” Flix agreed. “I think that’s Lon-Iv.”
“Where?” Glen asked and twisted around to see where the Gish was pointing.
“Before the granite square building. He’s waving his hands? Lovely yellow robe on.”
Glen could see the Sopat scion now. He’d mistaken him for a whore at first. “Come on boy,” he urged Outlaw. “Let’s see what this perfumed degenerate found out.”
Lon-Iv Sopat walked them inside the austere granite building. The interior cool, but the front rather empty. At the other side of the stripped down rectangular hall, cases and boxes of supplies and goods were slowly piled up by a determined workforce. Others were working on cleaning up and even painting white the dull grey granite walls.
“I’ve seen a similar building in Rida,” Glen commented, following the Sopat scion up the stone-tiled stairs to the second floor. “A Mclean & Merck bank.”
“Of course, no surprise there. It was an Imperial Bank afore,” Lon explained walking briskly towards his office. The room lacking a door, but had a large table installed already and a comfortable armchair, with a fancy leopard-skin back. The open windows behind it giving a nice view of the port. “Mclean & Merck just copied the design.”
“I wouldn’t call it a miracle of architecture,” Glen commented, wiping his sweaty face.
“It’s sturdy though,” Lon replied with a smile. “Only building that survived relatively unscathed. Has a couple of floors under us. Meter thick walls. Easy to repair. We’ll be up and running inside a week. The army left it unused for its lack of… windows. This is the only room that has them.”
“That’s all very nice Lon. Where’s Sen-Iv?” Glen asked dryly.
“Do you have a spyglass?”
Glen blinked unsure on his meaning.
“Not on me.”
“Have mine,” Lon replied and reached inside a drawer to find it. “Come to the window.”
“What am I looking for?” Glen asked him, examining the docks through the expensive instrument. Expensive since it was made of silver and ivory, other than the typical cheaper bronze. Lon sparing no expense per usual.
“Ships. The Marquette.”
“I don’t see it. That’s a transport, a couple of fishing boats.”
“What about the Pirates side?”
Glen turned to examine the more distant part of the port.
“That’s not it. Different sails. The one next to it, is too small.”
“It’s a brig and a schooner. Pirate ships. The latter arrived this week. The brig is moored for a while now.”
“What did you learn?” Glen asked him still looking through the spyglass. The window of their building was giving him a good vantage point.
“Follow the coastline,” Lon replied. “Towards the natural edge of the gulf, what do you see?”
“A ship?” Glen murmured.
“Is it the Marquette?”
It looks like it, Glen thought. But it was anchored too far away.
“Perhaps, I’m not sure.”
“I asked,” Lon said with a sigh. “About a dozen sailors disembarked from it about two months back. Claimed it was.”
“What about Sen?”
“Nothing. The worrying part is, as the sailors’ tale goes, this is a pirate vessel now. Under a new captain.”
What?
Glen turned and glared at him.
“What the fuck are ye waiting for?” Glen hissed, trying to calm himself down and failing. Flix who had remained unseen up until now, walked up to Glen, took the spyglass from him and looked to see for himself.
“I can’t admit to the world we don’t know where she is, or that the pirates have her Garth,” Lon explained and Glen felt a vein throbbing dangerously on his temple. “It’s a matter of prestige for the family and also a way to keep our negotiating position strong. You don’t throw away coin. Therefore I need to move with caution, so the news won’t spread. In the meantime I’ve sent a bird to Phon-Iv for further instructions.”
Take a breath. Don’t stab him in the cock.
It would be nigh impossible to explain away.
Glen’s mouth had dried up.
“Do you have wine?” Glen asked him and pushing Lon away sat on the armchair trying to regain his composure. He had difficulty standing up.
“Ashima, bring us a couple of cups and a bottle!” Lon shouted at the door-less opening to his office.
“Fuck,” Glen gasped, rubbing his face hard. “They must’ve recognized the ship. Dammit!”
“The ship looks empty,” Flix commented.
“Ye can’t tell from that distance,” Glen argued puffing his cheeks out. “Fuck, I got nothing!”
“I can tell just fine,” Flix countered. “And you have those two sniffing around. The streets have their own tales.”
Ah.
Yes.
YES!
Glen jumped up and walked to the door, where Lon was waiting for his slave to arrive.
“Forget dis shit! I need to go now,” Glen told him and the merchant frowned not expecting it.
“Lord Glen?” Glen flinched and waved his index finger at him. They had agreed Lon won’t use his real name. Lon recovering quickly, changed it to something more accommodating.
“Mister Garth, I’ve ordered wine,” the merchant said calmly. “Let’s talk about this.”
Is he plaguin’ serious?
“There’s no time!” Glen growled.
His gut was screaming for him to hurry the fuck up.
“There’s always time. Let us learn more, act later,” Lon argued with a wave of his wrist, always eager to delve into the minutiae.
Eat a bag of sugary dicks, Glen cursed him, never willing to doubt his instincts.
Rule of the trade number… three?
Or something.
“Listen… friend, the pirates have Sen-Iv whether we weigh on it, or not. Yer fuckin’ cousin,” Glen admonished the tardy noble, as politely as he could, given the circumstances. “I can’t just sit around and discuss options ‘n strategy over drinks!”
Manvir saw him run down the stairs, a scowl on his face and dark brown hair with gold streaks in them flowing alike a lion’s mane and stumbled away panicked from his horse. Glen grabbed the saddle’s horn with a hand and jumped lithely on the well-used leather seat, then reached for the reins.
“Garth,” Flix called running after him. The former thief gave him a glance and signed with his head for the Gish to follow him.
They crossed the square and headed for the pirate part of the city, the docks on their right and the crews that finished their shifts, returning to rest at their quarters in small tired groups. The mounted archers, remembering them from earlier, allowed them to pass without further questions, but a couple of curious stares.
Glen and Flix reached the chaotic pirate market around late noon, the sun turning from a bright gold to a sickly orange and red over Eplas. The merchants were slowly gathering up their produce and goods to retire, the dirty street riddled with rotten vegetables, discarded bottles and smelling of human urine and animal excrement. Sweat, disease and puke the fragrance of choice.
And the night hasn’t even started, Glen thought, as they burst out of the market, tents and half-collapsed buildings sprawling out in all directions, every second street a foreboding alley, each new face that of a rascal.
If ye were lucky.
The pirates’ part of the port had two kind of joints after its market, or variations of them. Taverns and brothels. Some brothels were also inns and taverns, while some taverns, offered ‘various services’.
Literally.
It was written under the label.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
Clint spotted him first and made to smile, before seeing his face and regretting it. Glen’s scowl had turned permanent by now, as the small ride had allowed his worry for the fate of his friends and wife to worsen. Dunstan glugging down what looked like cheap beer, or very frothy piss, finished up quickly almost drowning himself in the process and rushed to greet him.
He did it on purpose, as Glen’s furious entry deep into the pirate neighborhood hadn’t gone unnoticed. The fact he was armed and sporting a rather fancy armour for the place, factoring in as well.
“Mister Garth,” his personal, freshly-hired ruffian said quickly. “We weren’t expecting you in person.”
Glen grunted too frustrated to catch the shifty lackey’s undertone and jumped from the saddle, under the growing scrutiny of several patrons from the nearby working taverns and brothels.
“What have ye learned?” He hissed and ‘Greedy’ Dunstan offered him a foul smirk afore speaking.
“Coin might fuel me memory further…” Glen’s hand dropped to his dagger, Dunstan noticed it and switched his tune midsentence. “…but in dis case just ask away chief.”
“The name of the ship, not moored inside the port,” Glen rustled without delays.
Clint narrowed his eyes.
“What?” Glen snapped. “Is it the Marquette?”
“Aye chief. How do ye know?” ‘Pickpocket’ Clint asked.
“I need to speak to its captain,” Glen said, disregarding his query.
Both of them appeared very troubled at his request.
Luthos ye piece of crap deity! What have ye done?
“What?” Glen growled fearing the worst.
“Ah, see now chief, and I might be wrong,” Dunstan glanced at the sky, as if to gauge at the time. “The captain might be dead by now.”
“He’s sick?” Glen chanced, working in his mind what this could mean for his friends.
“Far from me to speculate,” Dustan retorted. “But they were gonna hang him afore last light anyway is the word. Everyone’s hurrying not to miss it.”
Glen glanced at the crowd noisily dispersing, even those interested in him and Flix. They were headed towards an opening of sorts, a small copse sprouting where an estate’s garden once was.
“Flix?” Glen asked and the Gish pulled at the reins and turned his horse.
“Go,” the Imperial Assassin urged Glen, probably trusting his gut instinct as well. “You’re almost out of time.”
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
Character portraits
Glen
Lord Glen & Mister Garth
Part I
-Almost out of time-
Glen pulled at the collar of his gambeson, the leather brigandine cutting through it and irritating his skin there. He wiped the sweat off his brow next, sucked a huge amount of air in his cheeks ballooning and stared at the massive looking ruin.
“There’s no ceiling. Like… the whole thing is just gone and someone even cleaned out the fell stone,” he finally said puffing out, lips flapping alike his horse that mimicked him a moment later. Glen paused disturbed at the prolonged neigh and then roared irate, “I get the need for air in this plaguin’ heat, but this is ludicrous!”
Seeing as no one was willing to answer him, he glared at Metu, the hapless slave having a constipated look on his painted face.
“Well?” Glen probed. “Have ye anything to say?”
“Master Lon wants me to inform you; he has also bought the blocks of buildings facing the Mastaba sire. The prize was excellent due to wear and tear,” the slave replied, sitting in the driver’s seat of the closed carriage Biscuit was kept in.
Glen stared at the aforementioned parcels of real estate.
“I can see what looks like a warehouse in the first, another house somewhat standing in the second,” Glen noticed sourly. “Everything else is a pile of rubble. That was a lot more tear than wear Metu!”
“As I informed your Excellency the property was surprisingly easy to acquire.”
“I bet it was!”
“Haha…hah…ahahaha!” Gimoss roaring laughter rang down the relatively abandoned street. A giant tumbleweed rolled in front of them and they all watched it strolling down Eikenport’s wide cobblestone road thoughtfully.
Taking a moment to also collect themselves after Metu’s revelation and the corpse’s outburst.
“Right,” Glen said ending the small interlude and jumped from Outlaw’s saddle, his knees hurting when he landed. With a grimace he pointed at the big entrance looming open at the base of the pyramid-like structure. “Get the wagon in there Metu.”
“Aye, Master Garth.”
Good then.
Wait.
“There’s no door,” Glen commented and Flix, approaching under his gigantic straw hat, chuckled like an old lady with a severe case of bronchitis. “What?” Glen blasted him.
“Nothing. It’s a sound observation.”
Glen pointed at two unsavory-looking characters watching them from across the street next. “Look at them!” He roared, the two locals frowning. “They are about to rob us blind!”
“Hmm. Are you certain?” Flix asked and stared at the odd couple. A Lorian and a chocolate-skinned Issir with slanted eyes and Cofol face.
“Ye want me to ask them?” Glen turned around and walked smartly to the middle of the street. Behind him Metu with Gimoss giving the slave rude instructions, brought the wagon inside the large Mastaba. “Hey! You!”
The Lorian blinked and looked about confused. It was obvious Glen was talking to them, with no one else at the near and that this was cheap theater. His friend on the other hand appeared ready to make a run for it.
“Have you no tongue?” Glen snapped angry.
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
The Lorian grinned showing four, or five, good teeth in a forest of black cavities.
Good grief!
“Howdy well-armed stranger,” the Lorian said politely. Glen raised a brow and hooked his thumbs on his leather waistband. A new addition to his armour that kept his heavy harnesses together.
“Hello there,” he greeted him back in an even tone. “I was having a conversation with my… ehem, mother,” the Lorian blinked, then stared at the small-bodied Gish still on his horse. Flix raised a small arm in greeting. “She thinks you are upstanding citizens.”
“Citizens?” The Issir-Cofol hybrid wondered aloud.
“Of the city. Dis one,” Glen pressed on. “Eikenport.”
“Ah,” they both said and nodded together.
Right.
“I’m… Garth Aniculo,” Glen sort of introduced himself. “Merchant, adventurer.”
“Merchant, or adventurer?”
“Both.”
Another round of ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ohs’ ensued.
“Your names lads?” Glen probed and Flix was heard chuckling behind him.
“I’m Greedy Dunstan,” the Lorian said, henceforth to be called Dunstan.
Glen glanced at Flix watching them and grinned. “Yer mother gave ye the name?” He asked turning to the shifty-looking Dunstan.
“How’s Garth… whatever the other part was any better, friend?” Dunstan retorted, his associate finding it amusing.
“It’s an Imperial name,” the two men blinked taken back. “What’s yours?” Glen asked his friend sourly.
“Pocket Clint,” Clint replied.
What the…
“Pocket… as in what I have on me coat?”
“As in pickpocket sire,” Clint elucidated. “Had to shorten it, because it made people point the finger on me every time something went missin’.”
Well, Glen thought. Who would blame them? “What do you do for a livin’?”
“The truth?” Clint asked, eyes avoiding his scrutiny.
“It’ll help,” Glen replied dryly.
“I’m what’s called a mugger sire,” Clint replied truthfully.
“Otherwise be known as a pickpocket,” Glen remarked trying to keep a serious face.
“More a bag-snatcher,” Dunstan defended his friend and Flix almost toppled from his horse, laughing uncontrollably.
Glen stared at them for a moment. “You lads were casing the wagon right? Or was it the building?”
“Eh, yer awfully close to the truth sire,” Clint admitted.
“More like showin’ interest in its contents,” Dunstan elucidated. “Academically.”
Hmm.
“How about I give ye a paying job?” Glen asked them after thinking it through and got his purse out. “Along wit a warning. There’s no bigger bandit around here than me. No one more dangerous to cross. You make one mistake, or refuse me offer, my mother here will kill you. Right mom?”
Flix sighed, but played along. “Can we just give these to Gimoss? It’s gotten to him that he needs to eat brains to speed up his skin regeneration. We’re fresh out since yesterday,” the Gish said.
Clint and Dunstan were listening with their mouths hanging open.
“Barely any brains between these two though,” Glen argued, but Flix shrugged his shoulders not as sure.
“We have to crack one skull open to be certain. You know how he is,” the Gish countered.
“Wait a god-darn minute there!” Clint protested, probably cursing himself for not making a run for it earlier.
“What’s the job?” Dunstan said quickly, apparently the more practical of the two.
“Do you know the city?” Glen asked them with a cunning smirk and they nodded in unison. “Start from the port,” the former thief said to his new crew. “Take yer fuckin’ time, but learn everything about everyone.”
“You could have called me Glen, but ye didn’t since the start,” Glen told Flix an hour later. He’d sent the two bandits to gather information and they inspected the Mastaba in the meantime.
“No man hunted by an Imperial Assassin,” Flix said slowly, placing his hat in a big bag. “Keeps his name. It’s foolish.”
Ah.
“You were right,” Glen admitted.
“What made you change your mind?”
“I need a clean start.”
“How are you going to keep the Wyvern a secret?”
“I don’t know,” Glen replied. “I’m not sure… I should.”
Metu managed to unlock the door to Biscuit’s cage, swung the sheets open and then looked inside apprehensively. Gimoss said something Glen missed. They were standing about ten meters away –the inside of the Mastaba massive though empty- and at the same time Metu got knocked off of the step he was standing on from a screeching Biscuit that burst out right after. The slave got hurled back onto the ground next –whatever floor the building once had, it was gone now- bounced once on his back with a hapless yelp, the wyvern flying over him and zipping across the field-sized hall cackling hysterically.
Flix sighed and started walking towards the odd couple, patted Gimoss on the back to make him stop –the corpse had doubled over guffawing uncontrollably- and went to help the rattled slave stand on his feet.
A left without something else to do Glen decided to go after the wyvern.
“Lookin’ at the positives that opening is about six-seven floors up,” Glen argued half an hour later, with Biscuit chewing on a severed cow’s leg next to him. “So he can’t fly that high hopefully. We close the doors and he has all this room to play wit—”
“What room?” Gimoss blasted him.
“We’re inside a massive Mastaba,” Glen explained.
“Hah! Massive he says! Unambitious and unskilled sham of a hero! A SHAMEFUL DISPLAY!”
Glen took the insult in stride.
“That is as big as two city blocks,” he continued clenching his jaw, “We can see them across the street.”
“So?” Gimoss asked his eye not yet formed, causing some spillage to run down his cheek.
“So it’s big enough.”
“Nonsense! This needs tearing down and built anew!” Gimoss argued passionately. “Look at these cracks, the walls are worn out and there are bones of at least nine people buried under this field, two cats and a fuckin’ goat!”
Glen rubbed a point under his nose with the flat of his finger.
“You failed to convince me,” he calmly told Gimoss after a contemplating moment.
“Only fools step on a dead goat’s bones!” Gimoss growled and threw him a flattened rock the size of a plate. Glen dodged coolly, moving his head to the side. “Hah!” The corpse smiled, the view offered atrocious. “You’re improving at least. Good. I’ll start hurling blades next!”
Glen groaned in frustration and stared at Flix for help, but the Gish kept his silence.
“Seeing as we can’t start digging up the ground looking for bones, can you keep him inside?” Glen asked Gimoss. The corpse crossed his arms on his chest. “Metu will help,” he added. “That won’t be me by the way, but him,” Glen pointed at the gawking in panic slave.
“He won’t make it a day!” Gimoss blasted and Metu almost collapsed, his knees weakening at the thought. “Ahahaha!” Gimoss guffawed relishing in the slave’s fear.
“Come on! Biscuit is mostly harmless! He-he, right?” Glen downplayed it nervously.
“My kin is an idiot, but this weak-willed harlot has nice smelling flesh,” Gimoss explained and Glen stared at the Wyvern gnawing at the cow’s leg-bone. Biscuit stopped, raised his burgundy eyes and then burped, pieces of gore running down the sides of his jaws. “Aye, that cocksucker won’t make it. In light of this I’m eating his brains when he kicks the bucket!” Gimoss thundered looking at the slave appreciatively.
For fuck’s sake.
“Enough!” Glen snapped furious. Metu had started crying traumatized. “Nobody is eating anyone’s brains, or other bits!”
RRRRRR
“No buts and ifs!” Glen insisted glaring at them both in turn. Gimoss was laughing silently while he talked. “You are staying with Biscuit ye bag of rot. Metu is coming wit me,” Glen decided.
Their first stop was the house across the empty dirt-covered street. Glen stared at the narrow three story building, the internal stairs leading up and made of solid stone. The floors in relatively good condition, but smallish and with square small windows. The top open, a mere three by three, the half-wall cut like a parapet, the embrasures neat half circles.
“This was a watch-tower once,” Flix commented and Glen caught sight from above of Gimoss. The corpse was walking stiffly across the street.
What in the slovenly fuck?
“What were they watching?” He asked, frustration oozing out of him.
“The slaves inside the Mastaba,” Flix replied and lit his pipe.
Right. There was that.
“Can you repair it?” Glen asked the still shaking Metu.
“Ahm, yes… who will use it, Master Garth?”
“My wife,” Glen replied.
“You’ll put the Celestial Opal in here?” Metu blurted and Glen eyed him austerely.
“After you repaired it, friend. I’m sure you’ll do yer best.”
“There’s no kitchen, baths—”
Glen cut him off midsentence.
“One bath will suffice. We’ll share. Find room for a kitchen. Turn the upper floors into bedrooms.”
“You’ll place a bath at the entrance?” Flix queried. There was some misunderstanding here, Glen thought, about what a bath is and the size of it.
Something to worry about at a later time.
Glen turned to the slave.
“Can we expand the lower floor?”
“Master Lon has promised to send a building crew as soon as one becomes available,” Metu explained. That was vague as fuck, Glen thought. “I believe it can be done,” the distressed slave added, eyes red from sobbing.
Glen pointed at the piles of debris around the neighborhood. They had a good vantage point from the top. “Use whatever you can find. Lots of stone and finely cut rocks around us. I’ll find proper furniture.”
“Where sire?” The slave probed, wiping his running nose.
Glen sighed. “There’s a pirate market, a Cofol market and a black market here apparently. I’m sure something will turn up.”
Gimoss was staring at the second building, standing north of the small watch-tower, also across the street from the Mastaba. A small vertical alley separated the two still standing structures, everything else adjoining them had collapsed, or was on its way there.
“What’s wit the glassy walls?” Glen asked. Some of the buildings had a part of a wall standing. One half of it turned to glass, or covered with it. The sun playing tricks on the shiny surfaces.
“Wyvern fire,” Flix explained, puffing smoke out of his nostrils. “In this instance a fireball.”
“How do ye know?”
“It came from the southeast,” Flix pointed with his pipe. “Blew out every house near the tower, missed it for a couple of meters and ended up here. That the warehouse survived was pure luck.”
“Biscuit can do that?”
“I don’t know. He’s too young.”
Hmm.
“Is there a warning sign?”
“Not that I know of.”
Seems kind of important friend, Glen thought with a frown. Asking Gimoss was probably not sensible at this time. A quiet corpse was a blessing.
Ye don’t rattle him.
“It’s missing the roof,” Glen noticed to change the subject. They were standing at what once was the entrance of the big warehouse.
“It needs tearing down!” Gimoss growled, sounding exceptionally mad. “Useless piece of shite! Tiny!”
Glen sighed.
“Metu stay here. Put the crews to work the moment they arrive. Start with the door to secure the Mastaba. Use wood, but work fast. Keep them away from the wyvern. Use him for it,” he pointed a finger at the frowning Gimoss. “Don’t kill anyone until I get back. I need to talk with Lon-Iv.”
And get the lay of the land for myself.
The main artery heading for the port of the shell-shaped old city, cut through its ruined center. A five-carriage wide avenue crossed parts of it untouched from the destruction, but long-abandoned and parts almost completely leveled. If there was a pattern to the mayhem that had occurred here, Glen just couldn’t see it.
Approaching the center and more so later, people started appearing. Groups, big and small. Unsavory characters, Cofols, some Lorians and anything in between. Eight out of ten, were hard-faced cutthroats. They occupied whole neighborhoods, if the old buildings were safe, or still standing.
The closer they got to the port, the bigger the destruction it seemed. But these were also the parts of the city that showed signs of a rebuilt happening. To the north stood the Pirate quarter, a mix of tents, half-standing old buildings, taverns and brothels every second door and a boisterous market at its edges. To the south, the Khan’s engineers had cleared out the debris, opened up most of the port facilities and had created a small Cofol city within the city itself. Glen spotted a couple of villas, several government buildings and mounted archers patrolling the clean slate-covered streets. The walls painted gold and blue, even a soft red, making the neighborhood and the square before the docks a pleasant place. The sanguine waters framing the port making the picture almost idyllic.
The mounted archer stared at him under heavy black eyebrows.
“Garth?” He repeated, unsure if he’d heard him correctly.
“That’s right,” Glen replied with a wide grin, tanned face contrasting to the amount of white teeth displayed.
“And that’s your mother?”
“Aye, though poor thing can’t speak well. Nurturing me took everythin’ from her.”
“A Gish?”
“My father had excessive taste in women,” Glen deadpanned with a shrug.
The Cofol made to laugh, but caught himself. “An adventurer you say, coming from Merchant’s Triage.”
Glen nodded. “Is the port working?”
“Not really. Even if you make it to the straits, the High King’s navy has Shallow Sea locked down tight. You won’t reach Rida, assuming you wanted to get there. Not on a Cofol ship.”
“How about the pirates?”
“The Khan has no problems with the local ones,” the mounted archer replied. “I counsel against visiting their quarter though. They are after all criminals.”
Aren’t we all?
“Gratitude for the advice.”
“Luthos be with you,” the mounted archer wished him and clicked his tongue to get his horse moving.
Glen turned on his saddle to look at Flix. “Well this is disappointing,” he said furrowing his brow. “I don’t see the Marquette.”
“Maybe in the pirates’ part of the port?”
That would be the northern side of it.
“Ah, last couple of times I met wit pirates, they tried to run me through with sharp blades. One smacked me with a bronze carafe… though that was partially justified.”
“They tend to do that,” Flix agreed. “I think that’s Lon-Iv.”
“Where?” Glen asked and twisted around to see where the Gish was pointing.
“Before the granite square building. He’s waving his hands? Lovely yellow robe on.”
Glen could see the Sopat scion now. He’d mistaken him for a whore at first. “Come on boy,” he urged Outlaw. “Let’s see what this perfumed degenerate found out.”
Lon-Iv Sopat walked them inside the austere granite building. The interior cool, but the front rather empty. At the other side of the stripped down rectangular hall, cases and boxes of supplies and goods were slowly piled up by a determined workforce. Others were working on cleaning up and even painting white the dull grey granite walls.
“I’ve seen a similar building in Rida,” Glen commented, following the Sopat scion up the stone-tiled stairs to the second floor. “A Mclean & Merck bank.”
“Of course, no surprise there. It was an Imperial Bank afore,” Lon explained walking briskly towards his office. The room lacking a door, but had a large table installed already and a comfortable armchair, with a fancy leopard-skin back. The open windows behind it giving a nice view of the port. “Mclean & Merck just copied the design.”
“I wouldn’t call it a miracle of architecture,” Glen commented, wiping his sweaty face.
“It’s sturdy though,” Lon replied with a smile. “Only building that survived relatively unscathed. Has a couple of floors under us. Meter thick walls. Easy to repair. We’ll be up and running inside a week. The army left it unused for its lack of… windows. This is the only room that has them.”
“That’s all very nice Lon. Where’s Sen-Iv?” Glen asked dryly.
“Do you have a spyglass?”
Glen blinked unsure on his meaning.
“Not on me.”
“Have mine,” Lon replied and reached inside a drawer to find it. “Come to the window.”
“What am I looking for?” Glen asked him, examining the docks through the expensive instrument. Expensive since it was made of silver and ivory, other than the typical cheaper bronze. Lon sparing no expense per usual.
“Ships. The Marquette.”
“I don’t see it. That’s a transport, a couple of fishing boats.”
“What about the Pirates side?”
Glen turned to examine the more distant part of the port.
“That’s not it. Different sails. The one next to it, is too small.”
“It’s a brig and a schooner. Pirate ships. The latter arrived this week. The brig is moored for a while now.”
“What did you learn?” Glen asked him still looking through the spyglass. The window of their building was giving him a good vantage point.
“Follow the coastline,” Lon replied. “Towards the natural edge of the gulf, what do you see?”
“A ship?” Glen murmured.
“Is it the Marquette?”
It looks like it, Glen thought. But it was anchored too far away.
“Perhaps, I’m not sure.”
“I asked,” Lon said with a sigh. “About a dozen sailors disembarked from it about two months back. Claimed it was.”
“What about Sen?”
“Nothing. The worrying part is, as the sailors’ tale goes, this is a pirate vessel now. Under a new captain.”
What?
Glen turned and glared at him.
“What the fuck are ye waiting for?” Glen hissed, trying to calm himself down and failing. Flix who had remained unseen up until now, walked up to Glen, took the spyglass from him and looked to see for himself.
“I can’t admit to the world we don’t know where she is, or that the pirates have her Garth,” Lon explained and Glen felt a vein throbbing dangerously on his temple. “It’s a matter of prestige for the family and also a way to keep our negotiating position strong. You don’t throw away coin. Therefore I need to move with caution, so the news won’t spread. In the meantime I’ve sent a bird to Phon-Iv for further instructions.”
Take a breath. Don’t stab him in the cock.
It would be nigh impossible to explain away.
Glen’s mouth had dried up.
“Do you have wine?” Glen asked him and pushing Lon away sat on the armchair trying to regain his composure. He had difficulty standing up.
“Ashima, bring us a couple of cups and a bottle!” Lon shouted at the door-less opening to his office.
“Fuck,” Glen gasped, rubbing his face hard. “They must’ve recognized the ship. Dammit!”
“The ship looks empty,” Flix commented.
“Ye can’t tell from that distance,” Glen argued puffing his cheeks out. “Fuck, I got nothing!”
“I can tell just fine,” Flix countered. “And you have those two sniffing around. The streets have their own tales.”
Ah.
Yes.
YES!
Glen jumped up and walked to the door, where Lon was waiting for his slave to arrive.
“Forget dis shit! I need to go now,” Glen told him and the merchant frowned not expecting it.
“Lord Glen?” Glen flinched and waved his index finger at him. They had agreed Lon won’t use his real name. Lon recovering quickly, changed it to something more accommodating.
“Mister Garth, I’ve ordered wine,” the merchant said calmly. “Let’s talk about this.”
Is he plaguin’ serious?
“There’s no time!” Glen growled.
His gut was screaming for him to hurry the fuck up.
“There’s always time. Let us learn more, act later,” Lon argued with a wave of his wrist, always eager to delve into the minutiae.
Eat a bag of sugary dicks, Glen cursed him, never willing to doubt his instincts.
Rule of the trade number… three?
Or something.
“Listen… friend, the pirates have Sen-Iv whether we weigh on it, or not. Yer fuckin’ cousin,” Glen admonished the tardy noble, as politely as he could, given the circumstances. “I can’t just sit around and discuss options ‘n strategy over drinks!”
Manvir saw him run down the stairs, a scowl on his face and dark brown hair with gold streaks in them flowing alike a lion’s mane and stumbled away panicked from his horse. Glen grabbed the saddle’s horn with a hand and jumped lithely on the well-used leather seat, then reached for the reins.
“Garth,” Flix called running after him. The former thief gave him a glance and signed with his head for the Gish to follow him.
They crossed the square and headed for the pirate part of the city, the docks on their right and the crews that finished their shifts, returning to rest at their quarters in small tired groups. The mounted archers, remembering them from earlier, allowed them to pass without further questions, but a couple of curious stares.
Glen and Flix reached the chaotic pirate market around late noon, the sun turning from a bright gold to a sickly orange and red over Eplas. The merchants were slowly gathering up their produce and goods to retire, the dirty street riddled with rotten vegetables, discarded bottles and smelling of human urine and animal excrement. Sweat, disease and puke the fragrance of choice.
And the night hasn’t even started, Glen thought, as they burst out of the market, tents and half-collapsed buildings sprawling out in all directions, every second street a foreboding alley, each new face that of a rascal.
If ye were lucky.
The pirates’ part of the port had two kind of joints after its market, or variations of them. Taverns and brothels. Some brothels were also inns and taverns, while some taverns, offered ‘various services’.
Literally.
It was written under the label.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
Clint spotted him first and made to smile, before seeing his face and regretting it. Glen’s scowl had turned permanent by now, as the small ride had allowed his worry for the fate of his friends and wife to worsen. Dunstan glugging down what looked like cheap beer, or very frothy piss, finished up quickly almost drowning himself in the process and rushed to greet him.
He did it on purpose, as Glen’s furious entry deep into the pirate neighborhood hadn’t gone unnoticed. The fact he was armed and sporting a rather fancy armour for the place, factoring in as well.
“Mister Garth,” his personal, freshly-hired ruffian said quickly. “We weren’t expecting you in person.”
Glen grunted too frustrated to catch the shifty lackey’s undertone and jumped from the saddle, under the growing scrutiny of several patrons from the nearby working taverns and brothels.
“What have ye learned?” He hissed and ‘Greedy’ Dunstan offered him a foul smirk afore speaking.
“Coin might fuel me memory further…” Glen’s hand dropped to his dagger, Dunstan noticed it and switched his tune midsentence. “…but in dis case just ask away chief.”
“The name of the ship, not moored inside the port,” Glen rustled without delays.
Clint narrowed his eyes.
“What?” Glen snapped. “Is it the Marquette?”
“Aye chief. How do ye know?” ‘Pickpocket’ Clint asked.
“I need to speak to its captain,” Glen said, disregarding his query.
Both of them appeared very troubled at his request.
Luthos ye piece of crap deity! What have ye done?
“What?” Glen growled fearing the worst.
“Ah, see now chief, and I might be wrong,” Dunstan glanced at the sky, as if to gauge at the time. “The captain might be dead by now.”
“He’s sick?” Glen chanced, working in his mind what this could mean for his friends.
“Far from me to speculate,” Dustan retorted. “But they were gonna hang him afore last light anyway is the word. Everyone’s hurrying not to miss it.”
Glen glanced at the crowd noisily dispersing, even those interested in him and Flix. They were headed towards an opening of sorts, a small copse sprouting where an estate’s garden once was.
“Flix?” Glen asked and the Gish pulled at the reins and turned his horse.
“Go,” the Imperial Assassin urged Glen, probably trusting his gut instinct as well. “You’re almost out of time.”
