Glen

Garth Aniculo

Hardir O’ Fardor

A matter of proper quarters

Oh no, god dammit! Glen cursed, his boot slipping on a chunk of cow manure, right leg going sideways and the rest of his body moving forward. He twirled desperately mid-air, stretched an arm out for purchase found nothing but empty void, the dark behind the wagon thick as mud and went down face first.

RRRREEE

Biscuit came out from behind the back wheel he’d hidden to evade them, a thrashing Glen tumbling past him, cheek and shoulder buried in soft dung his feet pointing towards the heavens and dashed towards the opening.

Glen landed on his back with a gasp, coughed up a mouthful of shit and muddy grass, then jumped upright, eyes wild and went after him. Biscuit cut a hard left, nimble hind legs sending chunks of soil and mud on Glen’s face, jumped over a sneaking Flix using his wings with a delighted screech and got bodied by Gimoss that charged him from the side, dagger in hand and they both tumbled down in a heap.

What?

Glen dived on the corpse, grabbed his dagger-yielding arm and pulled it away from the thrashing wyvern under him.

“Halt dis! What are ye doing?” He cursed and Gimoss tried to head-butt him frustrated in retaliation. Glen dodged panicky, the corpse’s forehead smacking him on the sternum like a sledgehammer.

“Let go you fool!” The corpse bellowed, probably waking up the sleeping camp. Glen -eyes ogling- raised an index finger to ask for a respite in order to get his bearings back, as he’d almost swallowed his tongue and Biscuit found the opening to stab Gimoss on the left side of his neck with his tail.

“Hah!” Gimoss guffawed, seemingly unaffected. “You try it again and I’ll rip your tongue out!”

Biscuit stared at him unsure.

For fuck’s sake!

“What is this violence Gimoss?” Glen protested, seeing out the corner of his eye Lon-Iv rushing towards them from the front of the caravan, Metu, Manvir and Ashima -his slaves- running behind him.

“What violence?” Gimoss snapped, bodying Biscuit towards the open back of the carriage and shoving him inside.

“Good grief, he’s right…” Lon-Iv said just as he arrived at the scene. Gimoss turned to stare at him and the Sopat scion switched his tune immediately. “Still if the Wyvern is unharmed—”

“I can handle this,” Glen cut him off, face covered in filth. “As a matter of plaquin’ fact, it’s already handled!”

“Of course, master Garth,” Lon-Iv agreed readily. “May I suggest a quick bath before retiring?”

Ahm.

“Well,” Glen said, wrong-footed by the change in subject and still breathing heavy from chasing Biscuit around for almost an hour. The Wyvern didn’t want to confine himself in the carriage for the day, or any day, making each attempt more difficult. He also thought the whole running around in the dark thing, quite the exciting game. So Biscuit went about it every time. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Perhaps we keep him in the cage?” Lon-Iv suggested and seeing Glen frowning, he threw his slave under the proverbial wagon. “Metu thinks it’s a good idea.”

Glen eyed the slave warningly. “I don’t. We get him out every night per my plan. Allow him to have his fun. It’s a simple set of instructions Sopat.”

“Right. Well then, people are waking up. All this excitement… some might want to see the jaguar,” Lon-Iv said.

Huh?

“What bloody Jaguar?”

Lon-Iv puffed his cheeks out, like Glen frequently did.

“I had to come up with something,” He admitted a little apprehensively. “The elusive Hobgoblin seemed too excessive an idea.”

Glen sighed in agreement and checked the side of the wagon where the water barrel was, thinking to clean his neck and face from all that cow excrement. Manvir eyed Gimoss nervously, the corpse caught him looking and slapped him once across the face, hard enough to bloody his nose and send him sprawling down senseless.

“Goddess!” Lon gasped shocked, then recovering quickly, he glared at the hapless slave struggling to get up, both hands holding his face and his legs rubbery. “That’s five lashes for you,” Lon-Iv announced and Metu opened his mouth to argue, which infuriated the Sopat scion even more, so he turned and pointed an accusing finger on the objecting slave.

“Three lashes!” Lon-Iv spat.

“Master?” Metu queried.

“Five!”

The slave blinked in shock. “Me?”

“You too!”

“Hah…Ahahaha!” Gimoss roared, pleased at the prospect of quality entertainment.

Glen thought it funny as well, not the punishing part of course, he would attempt to prevent that, but their exchange.

He could appreciate a good turn of phrase.

“What’s the material?” Glen asked, wiping the sweat off his tanned face.

“Boiled cow skin, master Garth,” The tailor/armorer replied. A half-breed slave, one part Lorian the other Cofol, Lesta was about forty in years, but looked younger. The round glasses set at the tip of his nose giving him a scholarly air, ruined a bit by a big red ruby earing on his left ear and a nose too small for the size of his head. “Two layers, outer one is hardened in vegetable oils making it solid, whilst the inner part is more pliable. Not as soft as a young-calf, or deer, but I don’t have the means to procure it when on the move. A thin gambeson is advised to avoid scuffing.”

The tailor eyed the thin silk robes given to him by Lon critically.

Glen thought them roomy and appropriate for the local climate. Zola’s pants were a torture to put on again.

“Right,” Glen droned. “Isn’t it rather long?”

“It’s a leather brigandine, the base design,” Lesta explained. “I don’t have the skills to come up with a better style of my own, apologies. You’ll need a real armourer, or a blacksmith for that.”

Glen thought he was doing pretty well for a part-timer.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Glen replied. “It covers the hips nicely.”

The groin too.

“It does. We will use the old metal shoulder pads you produced, secure them on the armor and then perhaps make a set of vambraces, but we need to come up with something for the rest of the arm. I don’t want to add sleeves, it will make the armor unyielding. You appear in splendid shape, but it may tire you in a fight.”

Hmm, there’s that of course.

“How about elongating the vambraces to cover the elbow partially?” Glen asked, examining the steel square-headed studs used to rivet additional rectangular pieces on the armor, four on each corner of the many hard-leather plates, arranged in rows decorating the base leather layer.

“It could be done, but it’ll take some work. It’s called studded leather in the East, but this brigandine is inspired from the scaled Cataphract armour, minus the mail. The many additional pieces of hardened leather, add another layer of protection, beyond the solid outer crust.”

“Will it stop an arrow?”

“Depending on the tip, it will. Avoid crossbow bolts at all costs.”

It goes without saying, Glen agreed.

“What about a blade?”

Lesta pushed his glasses higher and looked at him. “Will master Garth partake in adventuring?”

Glen returned his stare with a broad grin. Two of his teeth on the left side of his mouth were chipped.

“That’s one way of describin’ it,” He told the serene Sopat tailor.

“Then, I advise you to dodge frequently milord,” Lesta returned his smile. “Master Flix insisted on an armour that won’t impede your dexterity, first and foremost.”

Ah.

Ye sleekly little Gish.

Flix just gets it, he thought.

There was nothing fast-moving in a caravan. The wagons and carriages were inching forward, the river giving the terrain shades of green and a soft muddy ground that was difficult to traverse. No road meant no clear path, the tall reeds, bushes and multicolored grass sprouting about everywhere.

“Camelus are fast,” Flix commented using the archaic term, giant straw hat always increasing in size, as the Gish kept adding on it. It now sported a sheer white veil around it that reached his shoulders, to better protect him from the many insects.

“They are?” Glen wondered, slapping away a buzzing multi-legged bug with garishly pink wings.

Wow!

What in Luthos shaved balls is this shite?

“Uhm, faster than horses some claim,” Flix replied, apparently a student of humps-backed animals, with crooked legs and fat-lipped stupid heads.

“One of them spat on me!” Glen snapped, nailing the returning bug with a crashing punch.

It went down between his horse’s legs.

Hah!

Flix chuckled seeing his efforts.

“I mean look at that arse!” Glen argued, pointing at one slow-moving camel. “That thing is huge! Impossible to hoof on it fast,” He decided.

“They are laden with supplies, Garth.”

Glen groaned, another bug almost diving in his gullet.

“Good grief, I should tell Lon to pull as away from the banks!” He protested and kicked his legs to get Outlaw moving.

“A week?” Glen asked, sneaking a quick look at the inside of Lon-Iv’s carriage. Is that velvet upholstery? Are ye fuckin’ kidding me?

“Perhaps sooner, I never tried to cut straight towards Eikenport, dear Garth,” Lon replied, eating dark blue grapes from a bowl. “I don’t think anyone ever attempted it, with a perfectly good road on the other side of the river it is just not profitable.”

“Right. Are they any good?” Glen asked him.

The grapes was his meaning.

“They are. Ashima, get master Garth a fresh bowl dear,” Lon said. A nicely smelling naked Ashima appeared from the depths of the large carriage and offered him a bowl of grapes. Glen, still riding on a slow walking Outlaw next to the carriage, stared at the bowl first, then at her painted-blue bejeweled nipples -the breasts supporting them firm, nicely round and tanned- before settling on her Cofol face. Ashima half-raised a shaped brow at his scrutiny.

“Anything else master Garth?” She asked syrupy.

Ah… no.

Decent people visit a brothel for that.

This is disrespectful.

Close your eyes and think of Sen-Iv.

It worked every fucking time.

He cleared his throat once and then stooped to get the bronze bowl, without answering.

Flix eyed the bowl on his return to the back of the line of wagons. Gimoss was riding a couple of meters behind him, busy at work sharpening the tip of a long shaft.

Huh?

“What is he doing?”

“It is best not to ask,” Flix said bringing his mount closer and reached for a treat. “Small whites are a much sweeter type,” He commented chewing on a couple of berries.

“Right,” Glen murmured, slapping away a hornet the size of a mouse. Soon we’ll need a dagger in hand to handle them, he thought. “I meant to ask about the other day—” He started, but Flix stopped him.

“It is better not to query on that as well. Old people reach strange understandings, Garth.”

Which was as vague an explanation as Glen would have expected.

“I don’t think people will accept Biscuit,” He finally said with a sigh, after slugging down half his bowl, not bothering to chew on the tasty grapes.

“He’s a Wyvern. How could they?”

“Happened in the past,” Glen countered, spitting the bitter thin branches down.

Apparently these were uneatable.

“There was no choice given, Garth. The Zilan did whatever they wanted and even then, the Wyverns weren’t kept inside cities.”

“Where did they keep them?”

He burped, a small grape stuck in his throat.

“You’ve been in Rida. Where the Duke’s Palace is now, the Wyverns landed briefly.”

“Why briefly?” Glen asked.

“You can’t expect a Wyvern to stay put for long. You can’t really talk to them, or make them understand.”

Hah!

“Are you sure about that?”

“You’re thinking of the dagger. Only the witch, or the late Queen had the opportunity to test it. How are you going to be sure?” Flix asked him in turn and reaching, took the bowl away from him.

Glen frowned, as he hadn’t finished eating from it.

“They cause indigestion,” Flix explained and pointed at a slow-moving cow shitting herself making a mess. “And can be rather rough on the bowels. Unless you thoroughly chew on them of course, then you’ll be fine.”

Good grief.

“Ahm,” Glen grimaced and glanced back just in time to catch Gimoss skewering a large hornet with his pointy makeshift spear and then proceeding to feed it to the caged Biscuit. The Wyvern watching them out of the barred side window with curious burgundy eyes.

Looking a bit pissed, Glen supposed.

Who wouldn’t be?

He needed to find Biscuit a home.

Sen as well obviously, even Jinx for crying out loud, I mean she isn’t a dog to expect her to live in the street.

Liko and Crafton could handle the cobblestone mattress just fine, as far as he was concerned.

“Ruins,” Glen repeated a week later a bit skeptical, although he could see the dilapidated buildings through his spyglass. “Some of them are bigger than others, quite well-standing.”

“Near the docks, much has been repaired,” Lon explained, always ready to showcase his knowledge. It’s not that he did much else around the caravan. The journey had given him a couple of kilos in solid fat at least, as he’d spent it eating and sleeping with his slaves. “The outer rings of the old city though, well… they are left to a more unsavory crowd, the parts that are not abandoned that is.”

“Which parts?” Glen probed.

“Ah, the old shrines and temples of the Zilan, was my meaning.”

“The small pyramids,” Flix explained. “Most have collapsed.”

“I see a couple wit sloped walls,” Glen murmured, his eye smarting from looking though the tube for so long.

Probably what gotten Stiles blinded in the first plaguin’ place!

“These are Mastabas, half-pyramid structures. They housed animals and slaves,” Flix replied, his tone reminiscing.

“Your Gish is correct,” Lon agreed.

Glen smacked his lips and eyed Gimoss, the corpse was chewing on something, the crunching noise disturbing. The legs on the large bug still moving. Shuddering, the former thief wiped his face and put the spyglass back in his saddlebag.

“I see a black one just at the edge of the city. We’ll head there,” Glen decided to get them moving before they died from dehydration.

“That’s the abandoned part!” Lon protested. “And we need to go through the cutthroats to reach the harbor and the bridge!”

Sneaking an insane corpse and a Wyvern in their city will probably raise an argument, or two at the very least from the local thugs, Glen thought, but Lon apparently didn’t lose any sleep about it.

“Leave the carriage with the pregnant jaguar,” Glen replied, as there were a couple of hired guards present. Eikenport a couple of kilometers away, shining like a jewel in the morning sun, the Scalding Sea’s waters a striking turquoise color creating quite an antithesis, while painting a breathtaking picture. “Pick the safe route to get to the harbor and settle in. Do you have offices here?”

“Phon ordered me to buy any building available, or plot of land to open a fresh trade route and that was before learning about the… our project,” Lon replied, almost choking on the last words. He’d sent a missive to Sen’s brother, but the older Sopat hadn’t replied yet. As the bird would reach Triage first, an answer was some time away.

Glen sighed and then stared at the empty looking ruined city.

“Purchase that… mastaba first, or whatever the fuck it’s called. Some buildings around it,” He advised him. “And don’t worry about us, we can protect ourselves, but we may need trustworthy workers.”

Lon grimaced, then looked at Gimoss and calmed down.

“Fine. I need to finish quickly with the purchases, if I want to have a caravan ready and moving. We need to make profit at some point.”

“Will the Khan’s officials allow you to buy land?” Glen asked.

“Well, it depends on the local official. Some are difficult.”

“What happens, if he’s unwilling to cooperate?” Glen probed.

“Crash his skull! Eat, his brains!” Gimoss thundered almost giving Glen a heart attack, scaring near animals and people alike.

“Ahm, my goodness… we’ll just pay him more,” Lon mumbled, his face pale.

“Weak arse shite cunts!” The corpse bellowed and crossed his arms over his chest looking at them reproachfully.

Glen half-sighed half-groaned, then calming down smiled reassuringly at the fidgeting guards and Lon, before adding with a weak smile, even by his standards.

“We’ll try it Lon’s way first, friends.”

Nobody appeared eager to argue the matter further.