Glen

Trial by fire

Part II

Glen, caught unawares and still in pre-duel gloating stance, tried to dodge out of the way, but rattled as he was by his opponent’s swift attack, he failed. So the young man raised an arm to meet the suddenly lethal looking blade, -more a prayer, than a parry- and caught the dagger on his vambrace with a clank, the blade sliding upwards and almost taking out his right eye.

Kill this foolish worm!

Wait, what?

Who's this?

The young former thief attempted to retaliate on instinct, but Nidar pulled back a step and then went for the young thief’s throat almost catching him again off-guard.

Glen stooped under the blade, darn thing almost ridding him of what was left of his ear and then rolled on the hard road to get away, the terrain somehow turning to limestone tiles under his feet, when he reached the end of it.

What in the…

A pair of large eyes, the sclera black with no visible iris and the crescent pupil gleaming an emerald green, stared at him unsympathetically. Immediately after, a disturbing as much as familiar hoarse voice, its tone equally pitiless, admonished the slowly standing up young man.

This isn’t the village’s square.

“What are you doing?” The ‘strange’ Lorian roared.

Glen hesitated looking about him surprised and more than a little scared. “Ahm, I was just fighting a duel,” He paused unsure and returned the freak’s stare. Other than the eyes, he didn’t appear particularly dangerous, nor was the man armed. “Who are ye? Fuck’s is this place?”

“It’s a square.”

Okay.

Glen checked his ear to see, if Nidar got to it and sighed in relief, when he realized it was fine.

“You are trying to get yourself killed again,” The man noted, raspy voice coming out like a drawn out hiss. “So soon, after I saved you. Why?”

Glen frowned, having forgotten that part and details of it returned fuzzy and dreamlike. There was more to it obviously, but he couldn’t remember it.

“Why save me?” He probed, still looking around what was either the largest square ever constructed, since he couldn’t see any other building bordering it on any side, or a gigantic flat prairie some lunatic had paved over.

“Ye promised me, we’ll find her child,” The man explained, although he didn’t appear overly pleased to do it. “For some odd reason, I foolishly entertained the idea.”

A kid?

“I don’t remember that.”

“There’s a scroll in your pocket. It has its name on it,” The man explained, his patience running thin.

There was a scroll there indeed. What was written on it, almost indecipherable; whomever wrote it, he thought, is probably illiterate. Then he found a second smaller scroll, with more scribblings on it, equally unreadable. This scroll he remembered. Jinx’s handwriting was different than his, but not prettier.

Ah.

It all makes sense now.

To be fair, his writing was pretty decent, considering this was probably the first word he’d ever written on paper, he thought.

Glen puckered his brows. “Hey, were that ye in my head before? Talkin—”

The man crossed his arms on his chest and glared at him.

“We’re in your head in a sense, right now.”

“No, I meant out there. Offering… advice ‘n shit—”

“Offering… shitty advice?” The man repeated, trying to make sense of his mumblings.

“Something like that.”

“No.”

Glen blinked.

“Are ye sure? Because ye just did earlier.”

“Yet, I didn’t.”

“I clearly heard yer talking—”

“What did I say?” The stranger cut him.

“Ahm, kill him?”

The man pressed his lips into a thin line and Glen thought a shadow came over him, but looking up he saw the sun still up on the sky.

So that was weird.

“Were you holding the dagger?” The stranger finally asked him. An odd question.

“Aye. I have it on me all the time.”

The man shook his head.

“That was Gimoss, the Dead.”

Glen stared at him blankly. Nobody talked for a long moment, the eerie silence of the expanse around them unnerving.

“So, who’s he?” Glen asked, seeing the man wasn’t going to be forthcoming.

“We have talked about this thief. Many a times.”

“We have?”

“You have a piece of him with you all the time,” The weird man reluctantly answered. “What part of this, is so difficult to understand?”

Glen cleared his throat and looked at the dagger’s curved handle. It was shaped like a Wyvern, its body being the grip, the pommel its head and its open wings making the guard.

“Why they call him the dead?” He queried.

“Because he’s dead,” The stranger deadpanned.

Great.

“How is he talkin’ then?” Glen insisted and seeing the man’s discomfort at repeating it, he added. “Tell me again.”

“A Dragon’s bone has a piece of his soul in it, alike all living things.”

Again with that bone thing.

“I thought this was a Wyvern.”

“It is you fool. There’s no reason to separate them. Wouldn’t you call a Cofol, human?” The man retorted with a raspy growl.

Some people wouldn’t, Glen thought.

“Why am I here?” He asked, seeing the man wasn’t going to say anything else.

“You’re not,” The man replied with a cruel smirk, “you’re on Eplas fighting a duel.”

And just like that, he was back in Refuge Moon.

An incredulous Glen rolled on the terrain trying to get away, with Didar kicking him in the back, his boot catching the young thief on the kidney and sending him sprawling down. The crowd erupted, either in fear, or delight. Glen couldn’t exactly tell, busy as he was, trying to stay alive.

He sidestepped when Didar came at him again, blade grazing his ribs, the armour saving him. Glen slashed him across the face in retaliation, but the Cofol ducked under it, tried to knife him in the gut, failing in turn as Glen used his iron vambrace to block it. Since he’d used the arm holding the Wyvern’s Tongue, he threw an uppercut with his left that caught the still stooped Didar right below the jaw and hurled his head back.

“GAH!” The Cofol cried out, lips split and a couple of teeth missing.

One of Glen’s fingers was bent the wrong way.

The pain so great, it brought tears in his eyes.

Didar spat down, a mixture of saliva, blood and what was clearly a tooth and glared at him.

“Ye don’t fight like a Knight.”

“Had a diverse upbringin’. Wanna give up?” Glen retorted through clenched teeth, trying to move the hurting finger, but failing.

“Nah,” Didar said and charged again, dancing on his feet, to throw him off-balance. It was a great tactic, if you knew what you were doing and your opponent hadn’t seen a fight in his life. Glen though, while not an expert, had seen and fought his fair share traveling with the Knight, for close to six months now.

Follow yer opponent’s weapon and the arm that handles it, Sir Emerson preached and Glen, while opposing the older man’s methods, was subconsciously paying attention to those lessons. Greedily absorbing every detail.

All plaguin’ else, is just dressing.

Didar’s upper shoulder flinched tensing before he reached him, betraying his attack. Glen moved to intercept, but misjudged the coming blade, the sharp tip slipping past his blocking arm and striking him at the shoulder pad, as Glen balked away at the last moment. He cursed inwardly, but seeing his opening, swiftly pushed ahead past Didar’s defenses and pressed the tip of his dagger just under the man’s exposed cartilage.

Hah!

“YIELD!” Glen bellowed, stopping shy from slicing his throat. Didar gasped and recoiled away, his jaw and mouth covered in blood, with more pouring out of the horrendous wound on his neck.

He apparently had pressed on with his attack.

What the fuck? Glen shuddered and pulled the stained dagger back. How did this happen?

Didar huffed and gurgled in front of him, unable to answer, both hands on his neck trying to stop the blood from spilling out and failing. His face had turned a worrying grey-white color. The crowd around him engulfed in stunned silence.

“Help this man!” Glen barked, himself staying where he was. “This is over!” Sameer, mouth hanging open, responded sounding awed and troubled in the same breath.

“Milord, he hasn’t yielded.”

Glen all but rolled his eyes in front of them.

“Man’s dying ye plaguin’ fool!” He yapped and finally someone from the slowly coming around crowd run to assist the thrashing Cofol. The murmur of the rest of them turning angry.

“Lord Reeves won!” Marcus declared, cutting through the increasing noise like an angry drill sergeant and a woman on the front row, let out a scream and feinted abruptly. She toppled over, her head shockingly bouncing off the hardened road, but a few of them, men and children amongst them cheered. Those that didn’t, were less than inclined to protest the muscular soldier’s verdict. “The gods,” Marcus stated with finality, eyeing the more unruly of the bunch. “Have spoken.”

Which gods the man was referring to, Glen hadn’t the faintest idea.

“Argh!” Glen moaned, when Stiles pulled his finger to set it proper. The former pirate ducked under a fist he threw him to retaliate, and lithely avoided a kick that tried to trip him over. “You piece of shit,” Glen griped. “I think ye made it worse!”

“It’ll feel better, milord. Though I will council ye to partake the rest of that Kaju, just to be sure,” Stiles replied, wisely keeping his distance. “It wasn’t broken.”

“Sure felt that way!”

“Sometimes it does,” Stiles countered, looking outside the open door of Sameer’s house. They’ve commandeered it, while Marcus and the dwarfs were talking horses with the locals. It was for the better he remained out of sight, since killing Didar hadn’t exactly helped Glen’s popularity. The poor Cofol had died to his injury, despite the efforts to save him. The worst in all this mess, was that Glen had no intention to kill the man, nor fight him in the first place. Hells even torturing and eventually maiming Qanuq was an accident. A fluke more, than skill.

It was the dagger.

It had acted up again.

He looked about him for something to write on. Glen needed to remember what the strange man had told him. Whether it was a feverish dream, or some unlikely ability he’d developed, what the stranger had said made sense.

The dagger had a will of its own it seemed.

“Ever heard of magic weapons?” He asked Stiles.

“Like yer dagger?”

Huh?

“How do you know about it?”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a weird thing, milord. Noticed it right away on the ship. It made sense to pick it for the duel.”

“Well, I’m not sure I know what it does.”

“What is it made off?” Stiles asked taking it in his hand from the table Glen had dropped it on.

“Wyvern’s bone, according to Lith.”

“Yer ranger? How does she know?” Stiles queried, giving him the blade. Glen took it and placed it on his waistband.

“I have no idea.”

“You think she died at the siege?” Stiles asked. His manservant was suddenly full of questions.

“We don’t know, anyone died there,” Glen replied a little frustrated.

“You’re right, milord. Still, perhaps ye should make sure.”

“Fikumin wants us to chase this Bonemancer.”

Stiles stared at him all serious.

“Fikumin, is not in charge, milord.”

Glen had to agree with that. He got up with another glance at his swollen middle finger, just in time as Sameer, followed by Marcus rushed inside the homestead.

“Let’s ask, Lord Reeves then,” The Cofol elder was saying, with Marcus grunting in disapproval, scrunching his mouth this way and that.

Glen smacked his lips. This was going to be something awful again, he decided.

“What is it?”

“It’s about Qanuq, milord,” Sameer explained.

Oh crap, don’t tell me his foot got infected and he died as well!

“What happened?” Glen growled, fearing the worst.

“Well, he can’t stay here!”

“Okay, fine. Move him to another house then.”

Like Didar’s for example.

“I mean here, as in Refuge Moon, milord,” Sameer elucidated. “You won the duel. The man is guilty.”

Right.

“The Gods have spoken,” Glen repeated Marcus’ words from earlier.

“Exactly. We don’t trust him.”

Glen puffed his cheeks out and glanced at Marcus for help. The scowl on the soldier’s face alarmed him. “What are you proposing, friend?” He asked, crossing his hands on his chest. The swollen finger protruding.

“Take him with you.”

Glen stared at his boots and exhaled slowly, to let the man’s words sink in.

“You want us…” He started to say unable to make sense of the request and Sameer added quickly over Marcus’ disapproving grunt.

“Take the priest wit you, milord. He brought us bad luck.”

“Hahaha!” Stiles guffawed seeing Glen’s expression.

The former thief threw him a glare that was also a warning to shut his mouth and turned to the leader of the locals.

“What will it cost you?”

Sameer frowned not expecting the question. Then took a step back, when he realized what Glen was proposing.

Haggling perhaps being the closer word.

“Yer friends picked five horses, milord,” The Cofol said, the number too great in his eyes. “Perhaps we agree ye don’t pay for two o’ them.”

The man had erroneously assumed, Glen intended to pay him anything in the first place.

“Six,” Glen countered readily to Sameer’s shock and added to put the matter into the proper context. “The Priest can’t walk.”

“Bah! That’s absurd!” Sameer protested, throwing his hands in the air. “Let’s say three, if ye take six animals, milord. How about it?”

Glen snorted and glanced at the troubled Marcus.

“Six horses,” He repeated. “For taking the Priest off yer hands and Sameer,” He added, a touch of steel in his voice. “It’s non-negotiable.”

Glen was fresh out of gold coins and what he had, the young man wasn’t about to spend enriching the local Cofol populace.

“This is high robbery, milord. Excuse me words, but it is.”

He was right of course.

Qanuq barely worth an old mule with arthritis.

But being a thief for most of his life, Glen saw this exchange under a completely different light.

To him, this was a glorious deal.