Glen

Arguen Garth

Hardir O’ Fardor

Lord of Morn Taras

Monarch of Sinya Goras

Almost a grisly end

“Send another,” Glen ordered Folen and the Master of Silence nodded, with a glance at his lute. “Leave it there. Go,” Glen repeated.

“Garth this is the third missive,” Vaelenn reminded him. “What do you expect to hear?”

Something horrible.

“Why isn’t Jinx replying?” Glen argued and the judge stood back on her chair.

“Lady Jinx has no role in the administration Arguen Garth. Perhaps there’s nothing to report?”

Onas smacked his lips, eyeing the Judge of Sinya Goras a little amused.

“What is it Onas?” Glen grunted.

“With all the respect Hardir, the biggest issue right now is to secure Abarat,” the old Council member noted. “While I sympathize, some Hydra-loving magic practitioner’s words aren’t enough of a reason to derail you from the matters of state. That is if you are intending to assume the burden, else we are all made to look like fools here.”

“My family’s safety is enough of a reason Onas.”

“Of course, but your family is secure per all reports, Abarat isn’t.”

“Anfalon has the city!” Glen snapped angry.

“He also has command of the Phalanx. Olonelis might think, well… anyone really, if we should just give him the reins and be done with it. He has a better claim than Rothomir.”

“You said there was no sorceress with Pelleas?”

Glen couldn’t get the hag’s words out of his head.

Onas sighed and took a goblet of wine in his hands. He played with it for a moment and then set it back on the table.

“Pelleas had found a way to keep Vemoro from eating him,” the old Zilan finally said. “Was it skill? Talent? Bloody luck? Who cares? He did it. He had a way with animals, but finding monsters to help you isn’t easy. The Fall of the empire made his backwards little clique swell with members, but no legitimate sorcerer would ever befriend him. They fed their own to the Hydra to allow them passing through the marshes. Rothomir was desperate, I never condoned this alliance.”

“A witch killed a lot of people Onas,” Glen insisted.

“A nest of Mambas and the Hydra did,” Onas retorted.

“She used magic Lord Onas,” Darunia intervened, strangely silent up to that moment.

“What kind?” Onas grunted with a grimace, not liking the talk not moving to the events in Abarat.

“It was an Alteration spell I believe,” Darunia said. “But I only seen the last part of it.”

Onas scoffed. “Conjuration, even necromancy, if undead were involved. Then telekinesis, what you’re mumbling about. You lads are describing a Bonemancer and no Zilan since well… a very long time, ever touched that shite.”

“There was a Wraith Arachne involved,” Glen argued. “She could have turned Pelleas into that fucking zombie!”

Onas pushed back on his chair, arms crossed on his chest. “How could you possibly know they can do that?” He queried.

“It doesn’t matter,” Glen replied. “I do. The fact there’s a murderous witch loose in my rear is making me nervous Onas.”

“All the more reason to reach Abarat and assume control Garth,” Lord Onas countered, sounding frustrated. “What am I missing here? You are supposed to drag us all through the finish line. I’m not feeling it,” Onas grimaced. “Then there’s Aenymriel.”

“What about her?” Glen hissed, not liking being questioned in front of others. It wasn’t a vanity thing. Glen just didn’t like questions. They could lead to truth spilling out, plans derailed and folk getting hurt.

Or worse.

“The King had kicked her out of the Council sessions. Her brother barred her from visiting Nureria and there’s a lake there with her plaguing name!”

“Why?”

“When a non-skilled in magic person tries to look behind the curtain,” Onas explained. “He might get injured, or killed. Most just go mad. No one is immune to that. Everyone has his talents and she went further than she should have. You are breaking bread with a crazy murderer Garth.”

Glen stood back and stared at him intently. “The Queen used her assassins plenty, when it served her.”

“Not to my knowledge,” Onas grunted.

“Are you a soldier or a politician Onas?” Glen asked him. “Because you went further than you should have it seems.”

“Ah, war has strategy in it,” Onas countered. “A fighter can have brains and see the right course of action to be taken. A fool trusts a disturbed killer no one trusted afore him.”

“Everyone afore me is long dead and… probably buried, if they were bloody lucky!” Glen retorted his face darkening. “Want to try again?”

“If you can’t put the state and the fate of everyone else above your qualms Hardir,” Onas grunted and got up. “Then no one will ever trust you enough to stop fearing you. You’re human, how long will you rule like that?”

“Thank you for yer input Lord Onas,” Glen told him scrunching his mouth.

The old Zilan hissed and stormed outside the dock warehouse they were using as headquarters. Darunia rushed after the Council member trying to calm him down.

The Canal needs infrastructure, a miffed Glen thought staring at the open door.

“You found what I asked you?” He asked Kirk and the fighter gave him a small bag of dried redleaf mixture. Glen used it to lit Flix’s pipe with a tiny firestone and sucked on the aromatic smoke for a while. “Where’s Soren?” he finally asked, eyeing the silently watching their meeting Vulreon.

“Elwuin took him to the bridge Milord,” Kirk replied. “He needed help to examine whether the supports can still be used.”

“How is he…? Never mind,” Glen said. “What have you written about Kalac Vulreon?”

The scribe perked up. “Ahm, I described your words to the Horselords in quite the detail Arguen Garth,” he started, then paused seeing Glen’s expression. “How you helped him solve a problem.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Glen corrected him. “It was wearing his men down to the bone with no end in sight. It might seem fine on paper, but the constant struggle for more glory can be exhausting.”

“Doesn’t it qualify as a problem?” Vulreon asked.

“In a sense, but it was a mistake in strategy on his part,” Glen said blowing smoke out of his nostrils. “Kalac didn’t need a prize for him, but for his men. Darunia, or any other slave girl, would have provided naught but fleeting gratification. Soon the problem would have surfaced again, orphans left behind with no father, slain friends and a dwindling force that blamed him for all their misfortunes. He didn’t need a temporary solution to his problem, but a change in vision. No bigger vision but a patch of land given to an oppressed people so they can start anew.”

“It would be difficult to find the votes for giving him all this land Garth,” Vulreon noted.

“Do I need to?”

“If Hardir wants to be a King then he’ll need some legitimacy Arguen Garth. Fear you have already.”

A King.

Legitimacy.

Right.

“How would a King do it?” Glen asked him.

“Secure Abarat and ask Lord Suraer to bend the knee I believe is the correct term,” the bookish Zilan said with a blush.

“Where did you hear that?” Glen asked with the hint of a smile.

Vulreon blinked a panicked look on his face.

“The humans talk about it Garth and it spreads in the Zilan ranks,” he finally blurted out. “Not that it have to. Everyone knows what needs to be done. It is the Old Way.”

Of the Realms was his meaning.

Ah.

“Would Lord Suraer do it?” Glen asked curious.

“The Lord of Lo-Minas wouldn’t acknowledge Lord Rothomir because the latter couldn’t secure Goras. Giving free reign to Pelleas lost him a lot of goodwill and didn’t accomplish anything,” the Scribe replied slowly worming himself into Glen’s good graces. “Well you already have Goras and you would have Abarat,” Vulreon said and stopped at that.

“Remove the Horselords inner conflict from your notes,” Glen told him and emptied his pipe down. He used the table’s leg to do it properly and got up. “Give Kalac a steady plinth to stand on and an out,” Glen added. “One day even the unschooled Horselords of the bloody steppe might read your little record scribe.”

A sniggering Kirk offered him his reinforced leather sheath with his sword.

“Shall I ready the horses’ milord?” The loyal bodyguard queried.

“Not this time. We’ll take a ship,” Glen retorted and nothing else needed to be said.

“Hey, big guy.”

Soren turned his big red head and looked at him a huge grin on his mouth. “Hey Glen. Elwuin is up on the support.”

Good grief.

Glen nodded upset and glanced at the academic among other things, riskily navigating the half-collapsed parts of the bridge, an iron rod in hand to check on the sturdiness of the asphalt. The first couple of massive stone and concrete supports had a narrow connection still standing –a thin slash of roadway basically- but it had been gutted underneath, iron ripped out, a lot of material broken away to fall into the Canal. Elwuin was risking a pretty lethal drop, especially if he kept on pounding down with his stupid rod to check on the durability of what was left.

“He’s gonna get himself killed,” Glen decided.

“Hahaha!” Soren agreed and gave him a light smack on the shoulder. Glen rode with it, making a twirl the Nord thought even funnier.

Fuck’s sake.

“Hahaha!”

“How is he going to come down from there?” He asked shaking his head at Soren roaring uncontrollably, fat tears rolling down his eyes.

The Nord gasped, wiped his face and long beard and pointed at a hemp rope running the length of the wall of the final support. The ancient stairs and paved road that used to lead up to the twenty meters in height bridge had been turned into piles of debris a long time ago. Most of that material Rothomir had used to rebuild the docks.

But not all.

“I’ll help him down, much as I helped him up,” Soren told him. “Pretty easy.”

“What happens if the rope snaps?” Glen asked eyeing the boulders, large pieces of stone and old debris still present at the base of the support.

“Ahm,” Soren murmured. “Hey Elwuin!” He boomed and the academic poked his disheveled head from above abruptly, standing rather dangerously at the edge of the platform.

“What?” He barked irate. “I’m busy!”

“With what?”

“Didn’t I explain…? Argh. We could insert iron bars in the cracks, pour cement over them—”

“What happens if the rope breaks?” Soren asked, cutting him off.

“The… rope?” A perturbed Elwuin asked.

“It was a rhetorical query my friend,” Glen intervened with a groan and turning his head upwards to eye the bewildered scholar he barked hoarsely at the top of his lungs.

“GET YER STUPID ARSE BACK DOWN HERE!”

“Eh?” Elwuin recoiled extremely startled, his head snapping backwards, left foot slipping out the lip of the bridge. A yelping Elwuin tried to compensate putting pressure on the rod he’d set down to use as a cane, but the clumsy scholar used too much force, his body twirled around the other way like Glen’s had earlier, danced at the edge of the support for a couple of breathtaking as much as horrifying seconds and then tumbled abruptly with a scream into the shallow bank of the Canal.

Missing the boulder-sized rocks, the rusted iron bars covered stone-like debris and the equally hard, gravel-packed ground for a couple of inches at the most.

What in the slovenly fuck? Glen shuddered not expecting such a grisly end to that fool’s story.

“Ehm,” Soren gasped in shock at the splash fearing the worst as well.

“GAAAH!” A wildly flaying Elwuin cried out popping out of the frothy brackish water a moment later, soaked to the bone and bleeding down his face, but relatively unharmed and stared at them with haunted eyes.

“The nethermost… is unbroken,” the scholar mumbled sounding shook and not making any sense. “It… can be done. Hardir… don’t you see?”

Ahm.

No.

All Glen could see was a crazy person, who’d probably suffered brain damage, so he ordered Darunia to sedate him heavily for the journey across the Canal.