Glen

A quest for Ostruki

I can touch this roof wit my blasted hand! Glen griped, looking around perplexed. He still had trouble accepting being inside a mountain, of all fuckin’ places, and in what was apparently, a dwarf settlement.

I mean, what?

He had some more ale from the silver goblet, the craftsmanship excellent and steal-worthy. Buveala, wearing a new dress with a more modest neckline, gave him a polite stare and Glen returned it uncomfortably, remembering their earlier meeting. Avras, her mate or husband, couldn’t keep still for the life of him.

“We’re gonna be late,” He repeated for the eighth time in an hour.

For Ustruki’s funeral, Glen added, his mind returning to the disturbing dream. I need to keep everything clear in my head. This seems god-darn important, he thought nervously.

Write it down.

There… that’s a bloody good idea!

He got up from the small chair, his knees banging on the low table.

Damn mini everything! Glen looked around him for something to write it on, saw a quill on a corner counter across from him and went to fetch it. The short roofed hall right below his room, had four tables with chairs and it looked like a kid’s restaurant.

“Is there a paper somewhere?” He asked the couple that were just about to leave for the funeral.

“Like a parchment?” Buveala probed.

“Sure.”

“Over the counter, my supplies list. It has a couple of vellums un-scribed.”

“Thank you,” Glen replied politely and reached for the stack. “Is this a… restaurant of sorts?”

“Whisperwing is the biggest inn, in Brightos.” She beamed, all proud.

Glen glanced at the straight carved in rock ceiling. “It’s impressive,” He said lamely.

“So polite he is, right?” Buveala grinned, looking at her scowling husband. “Yer the first real Lord, I’ve hosted here, milord.”

Glen decided not to comment on that last part.

Right, Glen thought with a comical frown, staring at the blank parchment, quill in hand. Where to begin?

The kid.

Ah.

Uvrycres.

How the fuck do ye spell that darn thing?

“Ou...vre…cres.”

He looked at his scribblings, covering almost half the page and frowned some more.

You don’t have to write everything down, he reasoned.

Just a bit.

The other names… which I don’t all remember.

Fine, let’s just concentrate on the important stuff.

Save the kid right?

Uhm.

Why?

Glen realized he didn’t know enough words, to write much of anything down and paused again, the time dragging.

Okay, forget the why. Perhaps it was a trade, for healing him.

Did that dwarf die because of him?

Well, surely that’s a stretch.

Still possible though.

Perhaps an unlucky complication? Luthos messing wit me?

Was I even injured?

He patted himself, then pulled his shirt up and looked for that thin white injury mark, where Larn’s blade had scarred him. Sure enough, it was there.

Let’s not dwell on this as well, he decided.

Put a mark next to the name, to save some space.

A symbol.

Hmm?

Why make these pages so god-darn small?

Like, what the fuck?

Glen puffed out hard, flapping his lips and letting it drag audibly for a moment.

The sound of cheers coming from outside the inn interrupted him. He rolled up his recollection of the events, all one word of it and put the quill in its place, before getting up to go check, what all the fuzz was about.

“USTRUKI IS FULLY DEAD. BLESSED THE GODS BE!” A black-bearded angry dwarf shouted, to a small crowd gathered in the village’s square.

Wait, Glen thought.

“LAYING BEREFT OF LIFE, A CORPSE!"

"TURNED TO STONE! A BLOCK OF PLINTH!” The one standing next to him added pompously, twice as loud.

“AYE!” Came the crowd’s thunderous reply.

What in Luthos crooked knee is this?

“GONE AND NOT A DAY TOO SOON!” A girl screamed deliriously eager.

Huh?

“HURRAH!” Several others agreed, much to Glen’s surprise. Most of them were heavily inebriated, as far as he could tell.

“WELL, GOOD RIDDANCE!” Another guffawed, mouth filled with teeth, beer froth on his brown beard.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Rejoined the crowd, in what was apparently a pattern.

“That’s bloody strange, is what it is,” Glen said aloud and caught out of the corner of his left eye, a blond mustached dwarf watching him. He’d no beard worth a lick on him and stood on stubby short legs, a good head shorter than the others.

“I SAY THAT OLD GOAT DESERVED NO BETTER!”

A short dwarf, Glen thought and started laughing in tandem with the rest of the crowd. The jubilation in the small square palpable, as much as weird.

“Hey,” The dwarf asked him. He’d a gold sphere in his small hand and wore a satchel over his shoulder, long clasp reaching his knees. “You wanna play?”

What?

“Fuck that’s supposed to mean?” Glen retorted, eyeing the weird dwarf frustrated. He’d well over three times his size and felt emboldened. The dwarf backed away surprised. Showed him the small gold ball and seeing him frown perplexed, used his other hand to pull another one out of his satchel.

“I’M GLAD HE FINALLY KICKED THE BUCKET!”

“Ye need to make it roll and try to strike the other from ten feet,” The dwarf explained defensively.

“Hit the ball?” Glen asked looking to see, if that smart-arse was pulling his leg.

“Ayup,” He put one down and walked about ten short steps away, the other clenched in his hand. “It takes some skill.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. The dwarf stopped and hurled the sphere missing the target for a hair. He grimaced, frustrated from the tips of his boots to his impressive mustache. “Damn it!”

Right.

“Gimme that,” Glen said and bending at the waist grabbed one of the two gold spheres, leaving the other there. It was heavier than he expected. “Is there lead in it?” He probed, looking it up close curious.

“No, only gold.”

It makes sense, Glen thought and walked to the correct spot, the realization of what the dwarf had said hitting him like a hammer between the eyes, when he stopped.

“Wait, when ye say gold,” He probed, examining the sphere in his hand, with renewed enthusiasm. “You mean dipped in it right?”

“Nay, I mean gold,” The dwarf explained. “What does iron mean, when you say it in yer tongue?”

Glen blinked once unsure. “Iron?”

“See? It’s the same.”

The young former thief smacked his lips, not liking his jeering. Eyed his target, lips pressed tight. “I strike it,” He said matter-of-factly. “Ye tell me, where you found it.”

That was four Eagles worth of gold in there.

Assuming the kid wasn’t lying.

“The sphere?”

“Yep.”

“Ahm, sure.”

Glen nodded once, then took a step forward, stooped adroitly and hurled the sphere. It hit the stony ground and rolled true, striking the other dead on.

Perfect, on the first attempt no less.

If they ever gave trophies for this silly game, then he should get one before the games even started. Let everyone else compete for the honor of being second after him.

“YES!” Glen hollered in triumph, thoughts of future ball-game glories still fresh in his mind, clenched fist raised high and a manic smile plastered on his flushed face. “Haha, ye saw that?” He asked the scowling dwarf and crossing his hands on his chest proudly, waited for him to go get his ridiculously expensive toys back.

His head hang in shame.

“What yer doing wit Arrock?” An approaching Buveala asked, a grin on her pretty face.

“Twas a sphere,” Glen explained patiently. “Not a rock.”

Buveala blinked and then bit her lip, placed a hand on the short dwarf’s head and messed his hair a bit. “This is Arrock, a youngling. Still hadn’t gotten his full name.”

Glen stared at the dwarf kid livid, his lips pressed tight, a thick vein throbbing on his right temple.

“Do you know where the gold is?” He asked Arrock accusingly.

The youngling shook his head right and left that he didn’t.

Stupid kid, he cursed and seeing Buveala’s questioning stare, he added casually, deciding to be the better man. Lying of course was his first and outmost priority, much as adults habitually do. “It was a nice game. Difficult to master. I was of the mind to make a couple of balls for myself and take ‘em home.” The last part not coming out as nice, as he would have liked.

“Where’s home, milord?” Buveala asked all interested, not minding his word salad, but thankfully Avras came to his rescue, since that was a thorny subject as well.

“Master Fikumin has returned,” Her husband announced soberly. “They had trouble.”

“Lord Reeves,” Marcus said, right side of his jaw angling, face turning less squarish and his beard peppered with grey hairs. He’d sprouted way too much hair in such a short time, Glen thought, answering with a nod that turned into a frown, when he heard the man’s query. “Yer well?”

“Ahm, not a hundred percent,” Glen replied. “Still all things considered, I can still move pretty darn well.”

“The dwarves helped then?”

I’ve no idea.

Probably not.

“I’m sure they did their part,” He said and looking to change the subject. “Can you believe there’s… a whole dwarf village under the mines? Like inside the freakin’ mountain! Look!” He pointed out the open door, to the dwarves talking with Fikumin, their faces grim. Then again, Glen decided, ‘em shorter people are pretty weird. Jinx came to mind.

“Hah,” Stiles seated in an uncomfortable tiny stool guffawed annoyingly.

“Aye,” Marcus agreed and paused unsure for whatever reason.

“Guys, it’s pretty strange,” Glen insisted and not seeing much enthusiasm, other than the pirate’s silly grin, he decided to move on. “Where’s Emerson?”

Marcus grimaced, he’d dark circles under his eyes, probably road weary.

“Sir Emerson and others, stayed at the fort to buy us time.”

Glen waited for him to say something more, but the man remained silent, looking at him pensively. What the slovenly fuck is going on here?

“So…” He said, seeing no desire in him to elaborate. “…we must go and inform him of what we found. Right?”

Marcus smacked his lips and stared at his dirty boots. Stiles just snorted.

Glen sighed. “Hey, let’s go save them!” He urged them raising his fist, getting even less enthusiasm than before.

“Milord,” Marcus started, visibly uncomfortable. “Sir Emerson stayed back that’s true,” Glen nodded a little impatiently, as the man took his time. “Thing is, the mines are very far and it’s been three weeks almost, since the battle.”

Glen blinked in surprise and stood back.

“I woke up here, it can’t be more than two days now, three tops.”

“You were out for more than two weeks afore that milord,” Marcus explained. “We traveled most of that time through the tunnels. Whatever was Sir Emerson’s fate, we can’t change it now.”

That’s… no, Glen thought, a feeling of unease coming over him.

“You’re saying Hellfort fell to the Cofols?”

“Aye, milord.”

Glen wetted his lips.

“You’ve buried the man already sergeant? Is that what yer telling me?” He lashed out.

“Milord, I don’t think the Cofols were looking for prisoners.”

“How do ye know?” Glen snapped angry. The knight couldn’t be dead. He scratched his head hard, nails digging in his scalp. Bullshit. The man was indestructible for fuck’s sake!

The fact that he wasn’t difficult to accept.

Too painful.

“Apologies, milord.” Marcus said sadly.

Glen took a deep breath to fight back the despair. He realized his fist was clenched so hard it hurt his knuckles and crossed his arms on his chest to combat that too.

Don’t get beat from grief or fear, Emerson’s advice bubbled up.

I want none o’ that.

Fuck! Glen cursed inwardly, twisting this way and that.

“Milord,” Stiles started, but he cast him a glare to shut him up.

“We don’t know,” He croaked, a twitch in his right eye starting. “If he’s killed. We ought to find what happened to him.”

“Ye got to let go lad,” Marcus advised, adding with a frown. “Milord should think about Altarin first.”

Who cares about plaguin’ Altarin?

“I will not abandon my friends, sergeant.”

“The dead need no help, milord. The people in Altarin might face an invasion soon.”

“He needs to get back there first,” Stiles pointed. “Easier said than done.”

“We don’t know, if he’s dead, or not. I also don’t care about yer opinion,” He said, through his teeth. This wasn’t a fuckin’ democracy! Who do they think we are? The Gish? “I want to make sure, is what I’m saying. I also want to know where Lith disappeared to and warn her about Larn.”

“Who’s he?” Stiles probed, almost falling down the small stool, as he attempted to switch position.

“The bounty hunter,” Glen explained, looking at them. “The one that tried to kill me.”

“Haven’t seen him, since that first day,” Marcus said, sounding skeptical. “Are ye sure?”

“No I imagined it,” Glen replied scornfully. “Of course I’m bloody sure!”

“There’s no way to go back,” Stiles explained. “The entrance is closed. The Dwarves know of another way out though. We made the journey already, so they ain’t lying.”

“Fine,” Glen relented. “We use that. Circle back for survivors and then we may go to Altarin, if it’s still standing.”

“We can’t leave without fulfilling our end of the bargain,” Fikumin said and Glen flinched, as he hadn’t seen him getting in. He’s pretty easy to miss. The former thief stared down the small bearded creature.

“Wow,” He finally said, after examining him for a bit. “Ye look like a day’s old shit, Fikumin. Seriously. Fuck happened to you?”

The dwarf creased his mouth, lips almost touching the tip of his large nose.

“I need to talk with Lord Reeves,” He said to the others. “Give us the room.”

Marcus frowned not keen on taking orders from him, but he shrugged it off and made a gesture to Stiles.

“Okay little guy,” Glen said his tone condescending, when the two of them walked out of the inn. “What is there to talk about?”

“You milord,” Fikumin replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Me?”

“Yes you. How are you alive? You were almost gone, when we left you,” He glanced outside, as if to check if anyone was eavesdropping. Glen thought the dwarf had gone nuts at first, before remembering he was actually right. “They told me, it was done overnight. How?”

A guy wit creepy eyes might have killed Ostruki to save me?

“I got better?” Glen said instead.

Fikumin wasn’t amused.

“A miracle?” Glen chanced and Fikumin had enough of his smartassery.

“Ye used magic,” There was a hefty dose of accusation in his tone.

“I was in a coma?” Glen dodged, like an expert.

“I meant before,” Fikumin countered.

Glen grunted not liking being interrogated. No thief worth his salt likes questions.

“Listen… friend,” He started, measuring his next words that turned into a thinly veiled warning. “I didn’t use magic, so drop it.”

Fikumin scoffed totally unimpressed.

“Pfft. Spare me your bullshit. What happened to your hand?”

“I’ve no idea what yer talking about,” He lied shamelessly, pulling back quickly changing topic to steer the conversation away. “Where’s Lith?”

“She asked me to save you,” Fikumin replied, but before Glen could get properly surprised at that, the dwarf added. “Lithoniela went to find her people.”

What?

“Her people?”

Fikumin sighed and shook his head.

“She left with Larn.”

His answer a slap in the face.

“Larn?”

“He’s a Zilan.”

Luthos cock caught in a plaguin’ vise.

Glen felt his knees weaken and he had to stumble towards the counter and grab it for purchase.

“We need to find her,” He managed to say, through his shock.

“We have something to do before that,” The dwarf countered.

“Something? We need to find Lith Fikumin! Larn tried to kill me!”

“A quest, for the dwarf that died,” Fikumin said matter-of-factly, keeping his composure.

Ostruki?

“That motherfucker is dead!”

And not particularly well-liked.

But Fikumin wouldn’t budge. “It matters naught, milord. Your word must be your bond. Else you’re neither a Lord, nor a knight.”

Good grief, a noble dwarf. Way shorter than the knight, but twice as obnoxious!

“What kind of quest?” A despondent Glen croaked finally and Fikumin, stubby hand pulling at his long beard, told him.