‘A dream’, the disoriented witch thought in her slumber.

‘What’s a dream? An image of the past? A tale of the future?’

‘Or a glimpse of the present?’

The guard wearing the Great Tree on his bronze cuirass led the odd couple in. A worn-out officer and a scarred ranger, sporting a horrifically burned left arm. Though healed, the white deformed skin left behind showing big parts of her flesh missing underneath.

“Vulas,” the petty Lord said from his high-back chair. “We feared the worst, when the bodies washed ashore.”

“The worst my Lord,” Vulas replied gravely and she realized part of his left cheek was completely missing, along the brow to the bone and the eye, the fire leaving a hole in the soft flesh there, he covered with a leaking scarf. It made his words come out garbled. “Has already happened. Less than thirty survived. Half your force is enslaved by Hardir. Most of the Council as well.”

‘My-my’, she thought. ‘The time of Hardir O’ Fardor sister. That’s how it always starts. But which time, I wonder?’

“Ah,” the Lord gasped in horror, trying to avert his eyes from his officer’s condition. “You did all that you could my old friend, it was an impossible task with a wyvern involved.”

“Roran joined Anfalon, Lord Rothomir,” the female ranger hissed. “Hid behind his shadow.”

“Had Lord Suraer offered his help,” Rothomir replied bitterly. “Perhaps this catastrophe could have been averted.”

“It wouldn’t. He’s Hardir and a sorcerer, a warlock at the very least,” the ranger spat. “He’ll kill us all unless he’s stopped. Don’t expect a deal to save your neck. His acolytes will burn everything down. He’ll leave nothing standing!”

“I can’t stop him!” Rothomir protested with a yell and got up frustrated. “It’s over.”

“That wrathful tarantula Aenymriel walks by his side. Here comes the reign of madness, exiles and killers.”

“Aargh!” Rothomir gasped and gestured for her to stop, but she didn’t all fired up.

“You wanted the throne,” the ranger snarled and approached him, with Rothomir waving the guard away. “That’s how you get it.”

“I can’t risk the city,” Lord Rothomir murmured and grabbed his head with both hands. “Younglings, civilians. The wyvern will spare no one. He’s proven that.”

“Don’t fight him in the city. Let him have it,” a toneless voice said and a familiar face stepped out of the shadows. Familiar yet dull, his spirit diminished, but not his handsome face. “But do what’s necessary, or surrender the people to an evil tyrant,” Paeris advised him. “He’s not a benevolent arbiter Rothomir and he won’t go away after he’s finished. This is the worst possible turn of the Sibyls prophecy. The Empire is doomed.”

Hmm.

“How do I do that?” Rothomir murmured in despair and the ranger tossed a sparkling piece of jewelry to his feet.

“Wake the witch,” the female ranger hissed, her eyes glowing with hatred. “Avenge those slain. Don’t let him rule.”

‘Ah’, the ancient sorceress thought interested. ‘Imagine that.’

‘A dream of the present.’

‘Black and malicious.’

‘Hellish.’

‘He-he.’

Glen

Arguen Garth

Hardir O’ Fardor

Lord O’ Morn Taras

Monarch of Sinya Goras

A worthy prize

You solve a plaguin’ problem of sorts, then another immediately pops out of the god-darn woodwork, Glen thought sourly. Wylinor and Shalia, Maeriel’s pupils he’d freed after the battle of Serpent Canal, waited for him to reply standing stiffly before his field table. Fuck it, just let them go hunting. He waved them off with a gesture and they trotted away, Folen stepping forward when they did ready to say something, but hesitating.

“Yes!” Glen snapped irate standing up, the chair tumbling down behind him making a ruckus that was lost in the noise of many people hurrying towards the banks of the canal.

“There’s some talk,” Folen started. “About the affair.”

“Already?” Glen grunted absentmindedly and glanced at the overturned chair. “What affair? There’s no bloody affair!”

“Apparently Darunia wanted to look for some shade flowers—”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about!” Glen exploded and Vaelenn eyed the former bard, bar and brothel owner, now working as his Master of Silence reproachfully.

“Just wild flowers flourishing in the shade Garth,” Folen elucidated.

Glen started rapping his fingers on the table, an eye watching the people rush towards the Canal.

Is this fucking rumor real? What the hell?

“Like under the bridge’s supports,” Folen continued.

“Right. So she went to look…” Glen murmured.

“Per your orders, Sam escorted her—”

“I gave him no such order!”

“You did Garth.”

You piece of honest shite!

I did.

“Not to follow her under a plaguin’ bridge!” He protested in righteous indignation for all to hear.

That sounded shady as fuck.

Who does that?

“He did. Upon their return Kalac, who’d learned about their trip in the shade, confronted Sam Mathews,” Folen said quickly. “Accusing him of taking his spoils of the raid.”

“THERE WAS NO GOD DARN RAID!” Glen blasted the blinking Zilan and Folen stood back to comb dishelmed blue hair with his fingers, afore continuing.

“In a sense there was. Sam didn’t agree with Kalac and the Horselords present made to attack him. Mercenaries got mixed up in the brawl and Kalac suggested they settle the matter with a duel.”

“Kirk!” Glen yelled abruptly.

“Milord,” Kirk replied startling him, standing a couple of feet to his right.

Good grief!

“Are the horses ready?” he asked in a normal tone, after cleaning his throat and grinning widely to the scared at his outburst pale-faced Vaelenn.

“Of course,” the always dependable Kirk replied.

“Garth, it’s a pleasant and short walking distance,” Folen reminded him and Glen nodded, afore giving him his curt reply.

“For that you get to walk it truthful friend. Work on your cardio. Kirk, we’re riding there now.”

Glen rode a fresh Outlaw hard near the shores, where a large crowd had gathered. Mercenaries, Horselords and Hoplites amongst the agitated civilians. A lot of armed very excited folk was a potent mix that could turn this ‘affair’ ugly fast.

He jumped from the saddle lithely, with extra panache for the ladies present, landing with a grimace as despite his special boot, he was still missing a toe and tossed the reins to Kirk that had followed him in his mad and very irresponsible dash through the flocking to the shores people.

Glen spotted Marlo and a grim faced Sam immediately in a group, Darunia looking behind their broad shoulders curious, Kalac, Tarn and Belec in the smaller Horselords crowd and even Roran with a good number of Hoplites in another.

“Everyone disperse immediately!” He roared to be heard and walked between the parties. The crowd murmured and he turned his head about energetically to glare at them. “Everyone but the culprits get the fuck out of here!” He blasted them irate, his eyes gawking crazy and the civilians dispersed, but most of the better armed folk remained. “Kirk!” Glen bellowed and crossed his arms.

“Guards are coming here Milord. We’ll deal with them,” Kirk assured him from atop his horse.

Right.

Glen walked to the mercenary, stopping a meter from him.

“Sam,” he said trying to keep it civil. “What is going on here?”

Sam Mathews scratched his unshaved chin with a gloved finger and stared at the scowling Horselords first, then at the Hoplites.

“Kalac took offense I got to escort Lady Darunia,” he finally said.

“Per my orders,” Glen added eyeing the stern Horselord leader. Kalac’s face resembled a well-worn leather saddle, without the softness. Tarn –another weathered and scarred mug- scoffed at his words and Glen frowned not expecting the rebuke.

“They presumed I fooled around with her,” Sam grunted. “Which I wouldn’t.”

“Sam is very honorable,” Darunia added and Glen glared at her not seeing how that first name familiarity helped him defuse the situation.

“Maybe she bend from the waist to pick a flower,” Glen started spitballing a likely scenario. “And you went to help her, someone passing by might have mistaken you standing behind her for… ehm, something else,” a flustered Darunia giggling, finding it hilarious.

“I did no such thing!” Sam retorted sternly, genuinely affronted.

Eh.

Glen stood back. “I believe you,” he said and turned around to go talk with the Horselords that had approached as well to hear their conversation. The still gathered crowd now turning relatively quiet.

“Kalac, you know Mathews,” Glen started but he never got the chance to finish.

“He knows you as well,” Tarn grunted. “Longer than the mercenary.”

“Tarn, what the fuck is your problem here?” Glen retorted crossing his arms.

“Nimra,” Tarn replied and the Horselords nodded behind him with a loud murmur. “And all those lost for this mission. We follow Kalac, son of Duham and he follows you. But what we lose don’t balance the scale when we add the winnings.”

Glen blinked slowly, crumpling his closed lips right and left over his clenched teeth. The one made of white gold bothering him.

“Darunia isn’t part of the spoils,” he finally said.

“What you capture is yours, if the fight is won. The enemy is defeated,” Tarn said and Belec agreed nodding audibly. “You spill blood for it, then in blood shall you be repaid, or in flesh. A leader not providing that shouldn’t lead. A man losing what he captured, is no man,” the hardened horselord finished.

His case made.

Ah, Glen thought seeing Kalac’s grim face. I see now.

“Darunia can’t be part of any spoils,” Glen started. “Justly won, or otherwise,” he added seeing the hard stares on their faces. “Because she’s promised to Lord Rothomir. We don’t deal in women like furniture gents.”

Tarn grimaced not agreeing with him.

“Well, one might argue that yer wife fits that description Milord,” Marlo said treading carefully. “Just keeping it honest here.”

Glen felt acid forming in his stomach and he had to dry retch to relieve some of the pressure.

“Rothomir lost the fight,” Kalac reminded him. “He has no claim on her.”

“Really?” Darunia intervened sounding surprised. “Is that a thing?”

Glen whipped his head back to give her a warning glare.

“There’s no way I let him lay a hand on Lady Darunia,” Sam said before he could think of a way around this new development. Glen eyed him frustrated and Roran who hadn’t spoken up until now decided to voice his two cents.

Rather dramatically.

“I’ll fight whomever wins to the death,” the Hoplite Leader announced sternly. “And keep Lady Darunia out of their hands.”

Why in the slovenly fuck would ye do that?

“You’re a friend of Rothomir or something?” Glen grunted.

“Nothing to do with that,” Roran replied stiffly.

“You fancy Lady Darunia perchance?” He hazarded a guess.

He could kinda respect him sneaking in at the last moment to pinch her for himself, despite the latter not being helpful to Glen’s plans.

“Roran? Aelinole is a childhood friend,” Darunia gushed, a bit scandalized at the prospect. Glen hadn’t anticipated the conversation getting derailed so much. The Hoplite’s face contorted, the Zilan visibly in distress, so there was something there, he decided.

“I’m tasked with defending your line Darunia. I won’t shy away from it,” he grunted. “I’m the noblest bloodline available.”

“What about Anfalon?” Glen probed curious and trying to buy himself time to think of a solution, mostly to pacify the Horselords without shaming Kalac, as he didn’t really fear Sam and Roran would cause him much problems. Well, Roran might, he decided, not wanting to marry himself to the notion. He’s too handsome to trust fully.

“Lymsiel is with child,” the Hoplite replied, what apparently was public knowledge in the ranks. Glen had no idea and milked it for all it was worth.

“You don’t say,” he stalled, faking interest.

“Hardir, I just did,” Roran replied with a frown. “Everybody probably knows.”

“I knew,” Darunia admitted shyly. “She told me.”

Great.

“What about Onas?” he asked. He’s old as shit.

“Olonelis would have his balls,” Roran replied. “He couldn’t risk it.”

Which meant Onas had considered it.

Eh, you old goat you.

Ha-ha.

Ah, back to the grim reality, he thought, having formulated a solution of sorts.

He was thinking on his feet here.

“Kalac you can’t have Darunia,” Glen announced soberly. Raising his voice to prevent the inevitable outburst. “Let me finish. Sam you can’t have her either and neither does Roran.”

There.

Justice.

Wow, he thought genuinely impressed with himself. Now I just add a bit of cheese to balance it out. If Glen could he would have patted himself on the back. It was a poignant half a second.

“Why?” Darunia asked with a pout. “Mister Kalac said that I’m free—”

“Darunia let me finish!” Glen roared tipping his head back to stare at the sky frustrated. “Fuck’s sake!”

“Apologies Hardir—”

“DON’T TALK!” Glen growled cutting her off. “Not another plaguin’ word!” He paused to draw a long breath, sweat running down his face and then he let it out the mouth. “God darn it,” Glen growled. “What was I saying?”

His mouth felt dry, the sun blasting him in the face not helping.

The moment gone.

“They can’t have Lady Darunia. Milord,” Kirk reminded him, stooping down from his horse. The horse snorting and releasing a big greenish turd down with a splash.

“Right,” Glen said a bit distracted at the size. “Since I value your contribution though,” he continued turning to a scowling Kalac. “You’ll get to have a prize no other Horselord has ever claimed afore.”

This was a gamble.

“What would that prize be?” Kalac queried his interest piqued due to Glen’s usage of a lot of fancy words.

“Not a mere female, exotic or otherwise for sure,” Glen replied, as he’d no females available to spare and he needed something in hand to convince this group. The alternative was to have them arrested, but that would look really bad. Not to mention the Horselords would probably resist arrest, then they’ll get summarily slaughtered and more pyres prepared, since he couldn’t let Uvrycres eat them in front of all Goras faithful. If you throw your allies under the proverbial wagon’s wheels, after they bled to death, or got imprisoned following your orders –eh, sort of followed, but this kind of minutiae are difficult to explain to simple folk- then the rest of your allies might start considering when their own time might come.

“A mere female?” Darunia protested angry and stepped forward, despite Marlo’s desperate efforts to quiet her down. Mathews whispered something in her ear and the comely healer blushed and then nodded, placing a slender finger on her lips conspiratorially.

Hmm.

“What will it be then?” Tarn asked curious. “This worthy prize.”

Glen sighed.

“The lands from the jungle to the marshes,” Glen replied, over the murmurs of the Zilans present. “And ahm… Hydra’s head.”

Heads. Whatever.

Brr.

“Hydra’s head,” Kalac said a gleam in his eye. “But we get to kill it without the wyvern, or I can’t assume the honor.”

What?

Glen was talking about giving him the skulls Laedan had cleaned up and kept in the catacombs under Nesande’s Temble.

Without the wyvern? Are you nuts?

“Well,” he started, a tick in his left eye so severe, he had to put a hand on it and stare at the horselords with the other. Then he glanced at the captivated small crowd listening in. Luthos you slimy small-dicked gnome! “Surely as a precaution—”

Kalac turned around not paying him any attention. “Kalac, son of Duham will slay the Hydra. Take Snake Mountains and all the land until the jungle!” He announced triumphantly, giving himself a bit more than what Glen had suggested. “The Horselord Fields!”

There were marches, a whole mountain and a village on top of the flat fields in there.

Even so the name he didn’t mind. Fuck it, let him have the stupid marshes. It’s the bloody Hydra I don’t want to face again.

“You’ll kill more of us, is that it?” Tarn grunted, not very excited at the prospect.

Understandably.

“Are you fearful then, Tarn? Has Badal seeded a daughter?” Kalac taunted him and Tarn stood back his eyes narrowing affronted.

Oh, for crying out loud!

“Enough!” Glen barked stepping between them. “The decision has been made. God darn it! What is this shit? Fuck!”

“Milord?” Kirk asked just to be sure.

Glen smacked his lips and then sighed deeply, whilst rubbing his tearing eye.

“Find Lord Onas,” Glen grunted his tone grave staring at his muddy boots and then at the large turd the horse had deposited on the ground. “Inform that old goat I want to learn about Pelleas’ village.”

Hoping the Hydra had long eaten them all and migrated elsewhere.

In Yalca, or whatever the hell that place was called.