Glen

Wyvern’s Tongue

He dreamed of a castle. Big walls, stone battlements, fire glowing between the spaces. People and beasts roaring, air smelling of sulfur. Saw himself running down the stairs, through the broken gates of a grand Hall. Poison clouds burning his lungs, the building crumbling. Dead bodies piled one next to the other, women and children mixed in with the warriors. Flesh melting and falling from their bones. Horrors moving next to him and a woman whispering in a foreign accent. What did she say? He thought. Wake the Wyvern. She felt her breath on his skin, nails tracing patterns on his chest. Take her throne. Felt her unfolding, opening up. There, he thought desperately. I can hear you now.

The Pirate Lord crossed the Scalding Sea…

her voice whispered.

Someone pushed him once. Twice.

Then kicked him.

Hard.

“Gah!” Glen gasped waking up, his heart almost bursting in his chest. He almost screamed seeing the man glaring at him, breath smelling something awful. “What…” He mumbled trying to get away. “…who are you?”

“It’s morning,” Sir Emerson said gruffly. “We met yesterday.”

Glen tried to gather his wits. The nightmare was still fresh in his mind. Looked around them, frowned, then frowned some more.

“No it’s fucking not!”

“As early as it’ll be.”

“What does this mean?”

“Got work to do. Time is of the essence.”

Luthos cock caught in a vise.

“What work?” Glen tried to get up, managed it putting a hand on the wall, remembering his injured arm too late and howled something fierce, almost falling back down. Tears in his eyes. “I’m unwell.”

“Nah. You’re fine,” Emerson said, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. “Dressed it proper, I did. It’ll be good as new, in no time.”

“Still, some time is surely needed.” Glen argued as the larger man bodied him towards the exit. They were inside the structure he’d discovered yesterday. A strange empty place, but he’d rather wander about discovering some more instead of doing whatever the crazy man had in his mind.

He looked at the stick again. Sir Emerson held another same as the one he’d offered him.

“What is this?”

“Just told you.”

“I’m not well enough to fight you.”

The older man laughed, beard dancing underneath his chin.

“It's called training lad,” Stopped as if to think, face getting serious all of a sudden. “There is a cuff coming if you delay the task further.”

Glen grabbed the stick with his good hand. Its length was around eighty centimeters. He tried it some under the watchful eyes of Sir Emerson.

“Now what?”

“Know anything about blades?” He asked him.

“I can use a dagger.” All thieves learned this at an early age.

“Knives are not a Knight’s weapon lad,” Emerson seemed just about ready to hit him. “But they can be useful in a fight.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t be smart. Attack.”

Glen stared him stupidly. They were standing right next to the entrance, sun was bright over their heads. The morning beautiful. He was hungry and needed to take a piss. Let’s get this stupid thing out of the way, he thought.

“Any pointers?” He asked sizing up the big man.

“Use the stick,” Emerson replied and Glen sneak attacked him before he finished his words.

Emerson parried his attack away with difficulty, returning stick missing his head by an inch as Glen moved away in time. Glen grinned feeling better. He fainted an attack on the upper body this time, went for the man’s leg instead. Sir Emerson moved his leg out the way and smacked him hard on the neck felling him on the tiled floor.

For fuck’s sake.

“Get up.”

“I can’t breathe.” Glen croaked.

“I will crack this on your head.”

Glen forced himself to his feet, murder in his eyes.

“Aye boy,” Emerson spat pleased. “Now try again.”

The second part of the training, as Sir Emerson called it, consisted of him beating up Glen for almost an hour straight. He got him twice on his good hand, once on the wrist and the other on the elbow. He landed another blow to the head that left him dizzy and smacked him thrice on the buttocks. By the end of the sparring contest Glen was left bruised and spiteful of the older man. He vowed to hurt him the next time, hoping that time to be as far away into the future as possible. After they finished, they lunched on salted pork the Knight kept in the bags of his horse. They used water to soften it up as it was hard as rock and almost as tasteful. Glen wished he had more figs.

He checked on his gold bag next, now secured on the other horse the Knight had, a dark brown and miserable palfrey called Val. Sir Emerson’s proud destrier was named Duke and he looked the part.

“Villy loved that horse,” The Knight commented, before he’d time to complain on giving him the worst of the two animals. “Good squire he was, aye.”

“What happened to him?” Glen asked half-collapsed on the stairs leading to the temple, his body hurting him enough to forget his injured arm.

“Took an arrow at the back of the knee. Stuck right in.”

“And he died from that?”

“It went bad.”

“Terrible.”

“Aye. We had to amputate the leg. But it was too late.”

“Rot?” Glen asked not really wanting to learn more details.

“Poison,” Sir Emerson replied. “Demon got him good.”

Glen felt his arm burning up. He scratched at the bandage anxiously.

“Don’t worry about it. No poison on that arrow. Checked it myself,” The man said catching his move. “You are lucky. This was a very clean shot.”

Glen felt the opposite of lucky, but he let out a sigh of relief.

“Anyways, we go after him tomorrow.”

“He probably is far away from here by now,” Glen said. “And if he knows the land, we’ll probably never find him.”

Emerson scoffed at his words.

“Nah. He’s out there. In ‘em woods.”

“What is he doing?” Glen asked looking towards the forest he’d crossed the other day.

“My guess is he’s guarding this place.”

This place was built like a temple inside. Glen walked down the hall, keeping away from spots where the ceiling had collapsed, creating big piles of material on the dust covered floor. He searched for doors leading further inside the building, but all of them were blocked by rubble. An earthquake, or fire, he thought examining the blackened walls. Some were painted over with scenes of these strange creatures performing different tasks. Glen couldn’t make out much though. His keen eyes were looking for loot of any kind. Near the end of the central hall, a huge pile of rubble covered the altar. Or was it a throne room?

“Where are you lad?” Sir Emerson yelled from the entrance. “Come and keep an eye here, while I empty my bladder.”

“Sure.” Glen replied, cursing the older man inside. His body still hurt from the treatment he’d given him. But it was his injured arm that bothered him the most. At least it’s the left one, he thought. He rounded the big pile of building material and tried to look in the hole that had been created over it on the collapsed ceiling. Couldn’t see much in the dark. Maybe if I light a torch, tossed it over the edge there. Was there a second floor? Sure seemed that way to him. But it was too high to reach it. Unless I climb on top of the pile, try to jump and catch the edge from there.

“I’m gonna piss where you sleep in about a minute,” Emerson declared sounding angry.

“Coming,” Glen replied with a grimace of frustration and turned to walk towards the entrance. He stopped after one stride, swung around again. He’d seen something at the edge, where he’d intended to hurl the torch earlier. But now he couldn’t make out, what it was.

“Lad, I’m serious…”

“Have you got a torch?” Glen asked rushing towards him. Sir Emerson glowered his way.

“What would I need a torch for?” He snapped brushing past him to rush inside the building. “I’ll just point it one direction and let rip.”

“You’re going to… it’s a temple for crying out loud!” Glen protested watching the man’s back disappear behind a cracked column.

“Not any of the Gods I know,” Came his voice and a second later the characteristic sound of trickling piss hitting the floor. “Eyes to the forest my lad. Don’t want him getting any ideas now right?”

“He’ll have to go past the horses,” Glen noticed, his mind on what it was he saw. “Didn’t you say, Duke will warn us if anything comes near?”

“Aye. He will,” Emerson appeared from behind the column, buttoning his breeches. “But you got to have your ears wake not to miss him. He’s a horse, not a bloody Bellman!”

Glen stared at the forest expanding under them. The vantage point they had on top of the stairs leading into the pyramid-like temple gave them a superb view of the surrounding area.

“There’s a city inside that forest,” Sir Emerson said standing next to him. “Whatever’s left of it anyway; Trees turned red feeding on the blood of those that had fallen here.”

Glen blinked. He believed himself a practical man. Living in the streets since he was a boy had made him distrustful of hyperbole in general, but he respected the truths hidden in good stories. Or terrible ones.

“A city?” He murmured.

“Aye. Oakenfalls was called. Had a teacher that loved the old books,” Emerson eyed him intensely. “You know your letters lad? You have a scroll in your bag.”

“Not really.” Not much need to read, when you sleep in an alley.

“You should probably learn,” He played with his beard for a moment. “Matter of fact, I’ll teach you much as I know of the common tongue.”

“Can it wait?” Glen asked, thinking he wanted to explore the ruin some more.

“It can’t. You need to know how to read lad. Same as you need to learn how to use a sword or a lance,” He paused as if thinking about something. “I knew it was your father’s sword, because I remembered him having the words carved. Not the words of the Duke of Raoz, but that of his house,” Emerson grimaced at the memory. “Such as it was.”

Glen gulped trying to pretend he felt something for the corpse that had given him a name and a big sack of gold. A good pair of boots as well, he thought. At least I gave him a proper burial.

More or less.

“What were they?”

Emerson took a good breath before replying. It was the most emotion Glen had seen on him since they’d met.

“Ever vigilant.”

It was a good saying.

A quick foray to the start of the forest hoping to surprise the creature didn’t yield any results, so they returned after they fed the horses, stocked on branches and a bag of figs same as the ones Glen had had before. They camped on the opening at the top of the stairs, next to the entrance. Since Emerson decided Glen wasn’t fit for another sword lesson, they spent some time with him teaching the young man some letters. It was more difficult than Glen had thought it will be but after a couple of tries he managed to write his name on the dirt covering the floor.

“That’s close enough I suppose.” Sir Emerson decided.

“Hah!” Glen grinned from ear to ear his injury forgotten.

“Don’t spread the letters so much.”

“Why?” He checked his scratchings proudly. “There’s plenty of room.”

“People don’t write on the floor lad.”

“I know that.”

Emerson grimaced. “Well keep trying. It takes time.”

Kinda like lock picking, Glen decided. He tried again keeping the characters closer together. Try, try… until you get it open.

“You asked for a torch,” The Knight said interrupting his thoughts.

“Hmm.”

“Earlier.”

Ah, yes.

“I need to check something inside the temple,” Glen replied getting up with a nervous look towards the sky. There was still time before the sun set.

“Grab a branch ‘fore I lit it,” Emerson said. “Wrap a piece of cloth at the end. That’ll do. And be careful in there. Place may collapse without warning.”

Glen climbed at the top of the small mound of warped material, not an easy task as he couldn’t use his injured arm and he carried a lit improvised torch with the other. A slip and he would hit a rock or a piece of concrete, face first. Mayhap even get himself impaled on one of the many sharp broken boards mixed in the rubble. Sweating and puffing hard, he took a moment to set his feet proper on the shifting terrain and then lifted the light towards the large looming hole over his head.

He felt less certain about the whole ordeal. The darkness seemed impregnable and uninviting. Better head back, he thought. No point in risking a fall, not while injured. Better try again another time.

Glen had almost convinced himself to abandon this adventure, when the torch shown on something coiled like a snake at the edge of the hole. He instinctively flinched away with half-a-curse, half-a-yelp, boot slipping on the loose rocks and almost toppled down the mound to his death.

“Luthos hairy arse!”

“You okay lad?” Sir Emerson called from the entrance.

That wasn’t a snake.

“Aye. Got scared is all.”

Glen approached pointing the torch towards it. It looks like a rope of sorts. But it was too high to reach it. He needed a stick. A quick search about him, proved of little help so he climbed down, twice more carefully this time and headed towards their fire.

“What did you find?” The knight asked him.

“Some kind of rope,” Glen answered looking around their stuff for his sparring stick. He located it with a grin and stooped to grab it.

“Where?”

“Down the hall. Where the ceiling collapsed over the… whatever it was underneath it,” Glen replied and turning headed back towards the small mystery he had uncovered. “A looter perhaps,” He said over his shoulder. “He used it to reach the second floor.”

“How do you know?” Emerson asked and Glen paused to answer him.

It is what I would do.

“What else could it be?” He asked instead.

“The demon,” Came the knight’s reply.

The rope, two fingers thick made of tarred hemp, was tied around an exposed beam. Its lower end had moved out of position when part of the ceiling collapsed but remained still lodged somewhere out of his torch’s light. Glen pulled at it once to see if it will hold his weight, still apprehensive of attempting to brave the dark opening.

“Have you gone up yet?” Emerson yelled from his spot near the entrance.

Glen didn’t answer him trying to decide on the best approach. His hurt hand prevented him from pulling himself up using the rope. Obviously it was what the rope was there for, but he didn’t want to risk opening the wound with unnecessary acrobatics.

That was the first reason he hesitated.

The second was the rope itself.

It was very well preserved.

Almost new.

If this wasn’t left by a looter sometime back that only meant it was put there by the creature he’d encountered earlier. The one that gave him the injury. The idea it waited for him to pop his head in the hole in order to put an arrow in his face was understandably unsettling.

And probably ludicrous.

“Can a horse climb this mound?” He asked loudly so Emerson could hear him.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can stand on the saddle, reach the edge more easily,” Glen explained wiping the sweat off his face. His eyes were irritated by the burning torch and a small tear run down his cheek. He wiped that off as well.

“You want me to bring a horse there?” The knight asked sounding incredulous. “Are you drunk lad? Who’s going to guard the entrance?”

Luthos give patience!

“He’s probably long gone.”

“What’s that lad?”

“It will only take a minute,” He snapped frustrated.

“What you hoping to find there?” Emerson insisted maddeningly. Glen puffed his cheeks out hard.

Treasure. Any type of loot.

“He may be hiding. The Demon.”

You suggested it. Senile old prick.

“Where?” The knight inquired sounding more interested.

For crying out loud.

“THERE’S A WHOLE FLOOR UP THERE!” Glen boomed losing control of his tongue and Sir Lennox’s face scrunched up suddenly seeing his logic. Sometimes righteous indignation will sell a hopeless lie.