Here’s an almost blasphemous,

as much as dangerous suggestion

for these troubled times;

once regarded naught but a common and rather trite fact.

When the war ended,

the Issirs settled the untrotted Jelin lands.

…

Let us add another one.

Uncouth captains became lords, their leader a King.

…

Here’s a question never answered.

What brought the putrid acidic clouds and the fires?

…

People remember what they see every day,

Forget what they don’t.

Old races like the evil Zilan and the willowy Gish of the sinking isles,

melt into obscurity.

Left behind into the Blasted Lands,

shrouded in myths and tales

of flying serpents and gargantuan sea monsters.

…

Oh, the abhorrent lies! The wise priests-of-five say.

But still the lies just won’t die.

Living in words of a waning generation colorfully rehashed

with the fervor of old sailors around a tavern’s table.

By the time these words were finally written,

All these truths had almost faded away.

…

Remember traveler;

Calamity awaits those who forget.

Histories volume II

The old realms, chapter IX

-epilogue

(Proscribed edition)

Gallio Veturius circa 99 NC

They say,

before his flesh turned rotten

Reinut named himself High King…

And everything was forgotten.

Ancient Zilan Elegy

May Luthos guide you,

through the pending struggles

Common Lorian saying

Glen

Dead man’s gold

A cold breeze came from the Shallow Sea. It gushed through the main street of Shroudcoast, one of the two settlements on Colant’s Refuge and rapped at the backs of those gathered in the village’s square. A crowd of forty, one sixth of the population of the small island. People complained but mostly about the delay of the much anticipated event. A cuss could be heard here and there reminiscing of better times, while some women did murmur at the change of weather.

Colant’s Refuge was a bigger place once, but the nearby Cliffson Cay kept luring the younger people away with its larger harbor, the taverns and its brothel. You could ferry there with a boat in less than five hours that much was true. But eventually people grew tired of making the journey. Cliffson was a bigger island, more than twice the size of Colant’s Refuge, a giant amongst the four islands populating the Shallow Sea. The continent of Jelin in the East and the continent of Eplas in the West were separated by its deep dark blue waters, since despite its name, the Shallow Sea was anything but shallow.

There were creatures in its depths big as ships, the fishermen that braved the waters always said, abominations that could swallow a grown man whole; many swore they’ve seen them, but the only thing any of them ever brought ashore were different kinds of fish. Some larger than others, even sharks and fat red old-whales, but no monsters.

A lucky streak, Glen thought. Running now for generations.

That was a lot of luck.

He needed just a tiny bit of it for himself.

Just a bit, ye god of fuckin’ luck.

The window cracked open and he pushed it with his shoulder gently at first not to make more noise, not that anyone would pay attention to him; then harder. It squeaked, Luthos-cock-caught-in-a-vice, a terrible sound or so it seemed and given that, Glen immediately thanked the God of Luck for keeping everyone busy. And Brad Copeland of course, whose execution everyone had gathered to witness. People didn’t lose their heads every day in Shroudcoast. Nor any other day either. They did fall sick with the cockrot or the common cold, misplace the occasional limb and got drown in tons of salt water, ale and spit down the wrong pipe, much as everyone else in the Free Isles. But they kept their necks well out of Andrew Baker’s blade reach.

The Headsman had arrived early in the morning from Bayspell wanting to finish the deed soon as he could no doubt, but turns out he wasn’t as lucky as the fishermen; a sudden outpour had delayed the proceedings, so he stayed in the local tavern instead, courtesy of the local Lords and mainly Lord Heilyn Sear. The weather opened up in the afternoon, much to Brad Copeland’s dismay and the local Council decided to go ahead with it, since no one wanted to pay even more coin to watch Andrew Baker down ale after ale, thirsty as a dog fresh out the Khanate’s desert.

Thus the village gathered in the relative gloominess of the late afternoon, to watch Brad Copeland lose his head. It is generally known that no one likes rich people, especially if they aren’t local lads and for them even an argument could be made, but since you can’t kill a man for that, they pretended Jentile Soris wasn’t a drunkard and a half that fell and broke his damn neck stepping out the tavern. Someone saw Brad push him they said and swore to the fact. He denied it until he turned blue in the face that much is true.

But he kinda looked guilty enough to kill, Glen supposed with a grimace. A man don’t need much when he’s on his way out of this world, Crafton Hailey had told him breath smelling of bad teeth and cheap ale, when the merchant’s fate became apparent to all. All 'is coin he’s surely brought along wit him, gone to waste. A fuckin’ pity.

“Where did you put it then?” Glen asked aloud the empty room. Large for his standards not that he had any, this is a Lord’s place almost. But then again he was nothing, if not ambitious.

The fireplace was at the center of the wall facing the window he’d just pried open and his eyes run quickly over the sturdy oaken furniture, a large table, three chairs, then paused examining the thick woolen rag underfoot. He pushed it aside casually with the toe of his boot, stabbed same foot on the wood flooring just in case and pursed his lips, eyes settling on the hefty strongbox next to the door leading further inside the merchant’s house.

Made of dark wood, reinforced with iron rivets and plates secured with a lock, it looked like something one will bring with him on a long trip with a boat. Something to put his hard-earned coin in or other valuables, he thought. Without a doubt, the man intended to move those valuables to a safer location after disembarking from said boat. With or without the box. Might even had done it already. Kept the fuckin’ box for décor. Used it for an extra table of sorts. That would be a bummer. Glen smacked his lips audibly and gave the sturdy lid a try, steading himself for disappointment.

Locked.

Or maybe not.

So he reached for his tools of trade.

Glen got it on the fourth try. The lock clicked and he pushed the lid back slowly. He let out a deep sigh of relief just as Brad’s head hit the scaffold with a thud and the crowd roared delighted. The glint of the Eagles danced on his face a strong yellow and outside the torches of the nearby square followed seemingly the same tune as well, when people started dispersing.

He had to get moving.

Work first, enjoy later.

And after a small pause.

I’m going to need a bigger bag.

Glen realized his hands were shaking. This was his biggest haul in a long life of crime. A life of unsuccessful, petty crime. And in Colant’s Refuge of all the bloody places. Glen filled a hemp bag in large heaves trying not to count. Then his great-coat’s large side-pockets. Poured at least two handfuls of these square gleaming-beauties down his worn out boots before he scrapped the bottom of the strongbox clean.

Then he was gone.

Light as a bird, the tales would have us believe.

Alas not.

Still jaded he almost broke his legs landing, after climbing out the second story window. It seemed as if he weighted a ton-and-a-half, as much a concern as a good thing, but instead of feeling a little happy, he was bizarrely terrified. Every step on the muddy street a torture. Heart beating erratically, ears perked expecting someone to yell at him to stop any moment now.

But no one did.

In the end, it was too easy.

He took the longer road. Cut through dark alleys, bumped into a sleeping dog, avoided the next one only to step into soft horse dung, a bucket’s worth of it. The gold clinking in his pockets, bag heavy on his shoulder. He reached the edge of the docks and took a moment to steady himself, eyes trying to pierce the darkness in front of him. The village had gone quiet. Glen could hear the sounds of the sea, discern the outline of boats tied on the wharf. No sign of Crafton.

Then he heard him.

Talking to someone.

He’d started walking that way but stopped dead in his tracks. A couple of large barrels stinking of rotten fish hid him from his partner. A peep revealed the bulky silhouette of Crafton and another fellow he didn’t recognize. Crafton was a Northman from the cold lands of Fetya. Big boned, a good head taller than Glen and red haired though he lacked at the latter. The figure standing next to him was lithe and smaller.

“…need to ease up a bit. I told ya people the boy is the best in the Free Isles. He’ll get it done.” Crafton said.

“Best thief,” The figure hissed. “Nothing to pride about.”

A Cofol. Ora’s have him, Glen cursed his unease returning.

“When ye need thieving, best employ a thief I say,” Crafton retorted. Glen had already started backing away from them. He wanted nothing to do with the people of the Khanate. He didn’t need Crafton or his deals either. Whatever the stupid Northman had arranged, Glen wanted no part of it. He’d enough gold to start a new life in the three Kingdoms.

Split a treasure two ways was sort of acceptable. Going beyond that was too painful to even consider. Blasphemous even.

It was a big decision but he reached it quickly.

Backing away from the barrels, he half-run towards a pile of fishing nets taller than him and followed it intending to circumvent them and leave the docks unseen. He reached the end, the dimming lights of the village on his left side, the darkness of the sea on his right.

The dark was his friend. He started walking caring not to make noise. I’ll follow the road to Shroudcoast, then board a ship to Bayspell or Atri, he thought. After that it was a two days journey with a merchant barque to Issir’s Eagle. He always wanted to see the capital. Glen’s mouth cracked a small grin as he hurried faster to get away. The coins clinking heavy on his back, coat weighting him down and his feet hurting as if he was walking on pebbles. No one was following him, no alarm was raised.

Easy.

So naturally it didn’t last.

Something screamed an inch from his neck and disappeared somewhere to his right. Glen ducked instinctively, stumbled the next couple of meters and then he started running following the shore at first, then turned sharply towards the trees populating this part of the island. A bolt struck the pine he was heading to so he turned again away from it, boots slipping in the mud, heart beating thunderously in his chest and run back towards the coast. There were fishing huts near the docks, most of them abandoned.

He needed to hide. Glen was winded and his legs hurt already, but he couldn’t rest in the open. It’s not easy to hit a man in the dark especially if he’s moving, he reckoned. But it’s surely easier, if the poor fucker stands still catching his breath.

Glen almost ran against the wooden wall of the fishing hut. He banged his shoulder a bit as he felt his way around it, legs shaking and breathing heavy, drenched in sweat despite the chill. Be quiet damn it, he scolded himself as he collapsed on his knees, the bag he carried suddenly weighting a ton.

He set his ears trying to catch the sound of the man hunting him. All he could hear was the waves splashing gently on the sand and himself breathing. Glen tried not to, but it wasn’t easy. He almost burst out laughing at the turn of events.

This wasn’t easy at all.

“Still there?” A girl probed. “Island boy.”

Glen became one with the wall of the hut. The voice had an accent, but she spoke the common tongue fluently. At first he thought she wasn’t talking to him. Then she heard her walking near the huts, there were three in a row where he stood, stopping to call out again.

“Come forth. Let me speak to you.”

Glen was all for speaking with girls, he was pretty darn good at it. But seeing that this girl had just tried to skewer him repeatedly not five minutes ago, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“I just want the shield,” The murderous girl said, voice coming from further away now. “You can keep the coin.”

Glen popped his head out the corner of the hut, caught her shadow moving towards him and tip-toed the other way. Around the wall he went, reached the edge and dashed the few meters to the next wooden hut. This one a wreck with only three walls standing.

What does she want a shield for? He wondered. What shield?

Girl was lying, obviously.

He kept moving, keeping the walls of the hut between him and his pursuer. Reached the final hut just as she walked around the first one, the night his friend and cover. He started walking stooped as fast as he could, without making too much noise. He cursed the coins clinking on every single step and blessed the waves drowning the sound, in the same breath. Moving slower than he liked, not daring to check if he was followed, back hurting, calves burning and his right hand numb from carrying the bag, he rushed across the muddy beach leaving the huts behind.

Bushes hid him as the open space gave way, rocks replaced mud with the occasional tree popping out the darkness. Branches almost knocked him down a couple of times and he slowed getting more tired with every shaky stride. He pressed on stubbornly, the plan was originally to circle around and reach the road leading to Shroudcoast, but Glen decided he couldn’t do that, as the girl would probably go to guard the road with her friends next. Plus he didn’t think he could make it that far.

When he first saw the dinghy lightly floating against the moonlight, he thought he was dreaming. His eyes glanced back towards the docks, realized he couldn’t see past his nose, but when he looked front again the dinghy was still there.

A small yelp escaped his lips.

Deliverance.

Glen headed with as much speed as he could muster towards the unanchored vessel, before the night tide sucked it further away from him. He made three or four determined strides, then stumbled over something unseen and went down head first into a heap of seaweed.

“Luthos bloody cock!”

Glen’s knee connected with a sharp rock as he landed, and he lost the grip on his bag. He started feeling the ground blindly with his hand searching for it, while slowly getting up on one unhurt knee. His fingers touched something cold and slimy. Soft like skin in one place, swollen and hard at another, as if it had bones underneath. Smelled of death.

He almost screamed like a wench.