Glen

Arguen Garth

Hardir O’ Fardor

Lord O’ Morn Taras

Monarch of Sinya Goras

Beyond Nether’s Veils

Part I

-Turn on the road-

“Sword,” Glen said and took the blade to sheathe it at his waist. “Axe thingy.”

“It’s a peleg Garth,” Folen corrected him.

“Don’t want ye to hand me an egg,” Glen deadpanned.

“Ahm,” Folen murmured. “I can’t feel it Garth sorry.”

“Kirk?” Glen asked for a second opinion.

“It’s a small axe milord. Excellent pun,” Kirk replied and Glen eyed the former bard warningly before he secured it on his harness’ belt. He wore it over his cuirass, a hoplite shield on his back.

“Supplies in the bags?”

“Packed,” Kirk said. “Took the liberty of securing a mule for your personal favorites sire.”

“Good, good. Hardtack biscuits and salted lamb as well,” Glen told him. “They taste like shit, but you don’t want to run out of food ever and get to eat a real turd.”

“It’s a bog,” Folen argued taken aback at his metaphor. Probably. “Plenty of game about.”

“Like what?”

“Ahm, stuff… I suppose.”

Aha!

“Kirk?”

“Frogs come to mind Milord,” the bodyguard replied.

“Can you eat that?”

“Better than rats is the word,” Kirk elucidated. Glen frowned not as sure. Some rats have a lot of good meat on them. But if one wanted to be honest here, he hadn’t missed the taste though.

It always left a wierd tang in his throat.

Ugh.

“Wylinor and Shalia ready?” He asked hoarsely, after clearing said throat.

“Aye, the Horselords as well,” Folen replied.

“Don’t care about them,” Glen retorted. He’d send them to fight the Hydra by themselves, if not for the optics. “Soren, the other big guy?”

“Hobor. Lyceron and a hundred Hoplites,” Kirk answered with a grimace.

“Not ours?” Glen probed.

“Anfalon wouldn’t allow it.”

Glen stared at Kirk thoughtfully. “Who’s leading it?”

“Lyceron. He took over from Bellas. It’s a promotion for him.”

“What happened to the other guy?” Glen probed.

“You slew him milord.”

Glen frowned not liking those words thrown out willy-nilly. “Was I justified?”

“Of course sire,” Kirk replied.

There’s a solid lad.

“Do we have supplies for so many?”

“Anfalon will cross the canal, secure the docks with the Phalanx, so that will relieve some of the pressure,” Folen said and gave Glen his Hoplite-type helm.

Sure.

“I was talking about our group,” Glen elucidated.

“As I said sire,” Kirk replied. “Alternative ways of feeding the men have been explored.”

Glen stared at him blankly not sure where he was going with this.

“They’ll live off the land Garth,” Folen said. “The bog if you want to be precise. I have a couple of good verses coming out. All this recent excitement has rejuvenated my dried up psyche.”

“Keep them in,” Glen retorted furrowing his brow. “Look to fix that other thing. It sounds nasty.”

Glen stared at the nice map Lord Onas had given him, then at the tome carrying Zilan with the ponytail and the silk not very manly robes. The open-toed sandals dangling from the sides of the mule disconcerting. The Zilan had come with the map. A gift apparently.

“Fuck are you?” he grunted and the Zilan blinked. “Kirk!”

“Milord.”

“Take this weird mute out of my face,” Glen said.

“Distinguished Arguen Garth,” the Zilan started.

“Belay that,” Glen told Kirk who had approached on his own horse to grab the Zilan. “Continue,” he said to the bookish Zilan that had paused unsure if he was talking to him.

“I’m Vulreon, of Kataer. Lords Onas asked me to join your entourage and take over a scribe’s duties.”

Glen had thought for moment he heard wife’s duties there. He sighed missing Sen.

“Why?” Glen probed a moment later. He’d spent it looking at the map in pensive silence. The army waiting patiently behind them.

“I’m a certified scribe Hardir,” Vulreon replied readily. “Worked with Melaneol in the Palace for six centuries.”

“That so? What is it you do?”

“Ahm, I write down your words my Lord. Keep a record.”

Glen didn’t like the sound of that at all. He scrunched his face, stared at the map again and sighed. “Listen… eh, I have a system here… what was the name again?”

“Vulreon,” Kirk said with a snicker.

“I can learn your system Arguen Garth. A record should be kept of your campaigns,” Vulreon added. Glen didn’t trust men that penciled their brows. Metu a prime example of it. Still the Cofol had been useful, he thought.

“A scribe,” he said mulling it over.

Vulreon tapped his heavy leather bound pile of parchments. The ‘tome’ weighted a ton probably. “I’ve kept a blank notebook all this time,” he added proudly.

Glen didn’t care.

“Rothomir don’t take notes?” He asked not wanting to do what others didn’t.

“He has his own scribe Arguen Garth.”

Hmm.

“Fine. Do you get paid for this shite?” Glen asked concerned, being as he was drained of funds due to all the animals and food he had to buy.

Greedy mercenaries, blasted Caravan guards, slimy Merchants and the pompous wine sellers compensation.

Not to mention manning a small fleet and Voron costing me both arms and legs already. The architect now busy gnawing at my innards!

The long and short of it was the list was endless, the coin wasn’t.

“Of course.”

Fucking little weasel.

Ruffian!

“We’ll see about that,” Glen retorted. “You can start. Now,” he said returning his eyes on the map. Why is the road crossing the swamp here?”

“It cuts through the corner of it milord afore turning towards Snake Mountain,” Kirk said and Wylinor moved his horse near and stooped to look over the map himself. Glen caught out of the corner of his eye Vulreon scribbling fast on the first page of his monstrous manuscript.

“What are you doing?” He barked irate and the scribe paused, putting a hand on the small inkpot he’d secured on the saddle, not to drop it.

“Writing down everything Garth,” Vulreon said perturbed.

“That’s where yer mistake lays,” Glen explained his tone didactic. “Never do that. As a matter of fact, put that quill away and I’ll walk you through what you need to write later.”

“Garth is a skilled transcriber? Noble Goddess!” Vulreon gasped a little womanly, sounding very emotional. “I’ll be humbled and very honored to study your lettering.”

Ugh?

Glen could barely write his own name in Imperial, though he could write the fuck out of it in Common and Cofol.

“You’ll do all the lettering,” Glen told him matter-of-factly to get this out of the way. “I’ll just tell you what them letters will be about.”

He’d no idea what kind of system Rothomir was running, but you don’t let an untrustworthy random person in on your scheme. That was the quickest way to the gallows.

The frog, a plump fat ball of green and white skin, ballooned his cheeks out, creating two smaller sized balls there and let out a burp like croak.

‘Brahnk!’

“Good grief,” Marlo commented riding next to him. Kalac had moved on eagerly at the top of their column and the mercenaries had approached them.

“Bullfrog,” Hush said, a smile on her gloomy face. “Very tasty.”

The frog ogled his eyes at her words.

‘Brahnk?’

“I’m not eating that,” Glen decided and slotted a huge carameled biscuit in his mouth. Sen’s recipe and not issued to the rest of the army. Uvrycres had declared the treat divine, but Glen had pretended he’d no more of it. The Wyvern had started eating the whole bag, hemp sack and all, instead of out of it recently.

The mule carrying it not exempt from danger.

A week on the road, they had found a good rhythm and decent game for the troops. They left the Unscaled Overhang back on their east and cut north towards the green marshes. Trees and scrubs sprouting out of the fertile ground. The nicely paved road Lord Onas had repaired earlier that year helping them move fast until they reached the waterlogged swamplands. It cut through the jungle-like bog, following a narrow parch of land like a natural bridge that ended at Snake Mountain’s slopes.

Everything changed for the worse the moment they entered Hydra’s Marsh, though the name was given later.

“GOD DARNIT!” Glen bellowed, his boots sunk into the treacherous terrain, foul water pouring in over the edge and soaking his feet.

“Stick on the road milord?” Kirk queried still on his mount.

“Standing on the sides,” Hilton Marlo said thoughtfully, stooped over the saddle. “Might also be viable.”

“I was standing on the plaguing side!” Glen growled hoarsely, the humidity getting to him. Both in the heavy, bug infested air and on his feet. “Whole thing just moved into the mire!”

The ground was his meaning.

He grabbed Kirk’s arm and stepped out of the mud, pants covered in it and boots squelching on every stride. The troops were busy cleaning the way, as the bog vines and roots had covered the land bridge again. They weren’t benign these plants at all. A Hoplite had been sucked into the murky waters already by something. While there was still hope he could be alive, Glen had written him off.

After an hour you’re either dead, or a fish.

“This place stinks, holy cow!” Glen grunted and Vulreon cleared his throat wanting to talk. “Don’t,” he warned him.

“We could use trunks to construct a stand for the night,” Kirk suggested. “I will call on Laedan.”

Laedan was bringing up the animals and the supply train. All the time they had gained on the open field, they had lost in the swamp. A week later had brought them no closer to Pelleas and while there was sun coming through the foliage, the terrain had a shady stillness to it, but for the occasional croak symphony.

Darn things just wouldn’t shut up once they started.

“Can he move the wagon?” Glen asked him, considering whether he should abandon the whole affair and return to the Canal.

Kalac could just say the old skulls were his kill. We can even prop them up a bit, use some blood, or paint to make them look freshly skinned. Who would know? It’s not like Hydras roam about in the bloody market!

“Yes, but he’s blocking the road. Everyone has to wait for him to go over the difficult parts.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Glen cursed and removed his boots. A couple of leeches already busy sucking his blood. “Somebody light a god darn fire!” He barked and reached for the dagger.

Three big fires were lit initially, but they went out quickly despite the oil they used and almost suffocated the whole column as they created an ungodly amount of thick smoke. So they put them out and slept in the thin illumination provided by lightstones. Eating cold food in the dark, soaked to the bone and surrounded by still waters can break a man’s spirit, he thought eyeing Angrein’s creation.

“A Scorpio,” he told Laedan, the person responsible for it. The reason the wagon was so unwieldy apparent. Glen had seen it last in Goras just before they departed months back, but during the battle it had been left with the supply train in the Gullet and he hadn’t the chance to use it.

“A Bolt Thrower,” Laedan explained patting the oiled iron machine he’d uncovered. “Three steel-tip arrows, another six in the magazine,” he pointed at the oblong storage box under the body of the machine. “You can fire them all at once, or one at a time using the three levers. The torsion spring sends the arm back over the ladder when every bolt has been fired and it drags the next three out. You push the winch wheel to lock them in place, aim and fire again.”

“Can it move?”

“Not this model, you’re thinking of Scorpio. The Lorians took the design very early over to Jelin.”

“How?”

Laedan frowned, then wiped his teary eye with a dirty cloth.

“Bribery?”

Glen nodded as it made sense.

“So you point and shoot?”

“You spot the enemy first, then fix this baby into position. This type we must position before the target. Angrein did a wonderful job recreating it.”

“What if the target moves to the side? You know out of the way? I would,” Glen asked seeing the obvious flaw in the whole thing.

“You have many of them. So you cover a wide front. Nothing comes through and even a wyvern will pause to think about it,” Laedan assured him.

Or just fly over? This looked like a castle defense weapon more.

“Do we have another?” Glen asked again spotting too many holes in his arguments.

“Haha. Ahm… no,” Laedan chuckled. “It was a side project for Angrein.”

“Has any wyvern got the business from it?” Glen queried grinding his teeth.

“Garth, what are you talking about?” Laedan asked unsure. “We had the wyverns. I brought it along to fire at soldier columns in a field. Maybe get a shot at the Hydra? Unwieldy beasts. Easy to spot usually but very rare. Not like Chimeras. Them are tricky.”

Thank the gods.

“Usually?” Glen asked pressing his mouth tight that is until he landed a heavy slap on his own nape to kill a fat bug.

“Well, they are faster in deep waters,” Laedan replied thoughtfully. “Or in a big bog.”

“Let me guess,” Glen commented sourly. “This is a big fuckin’ bog.”

“Actually it’s both,” the Denmaster replied casually. “This place is a natural lake. It just expands in the rainy season.”

Well then.

Lucky us, the rainy season is almost over.

Glen agreed with Lyceron on the need to post double sentries for the rest of the night. He returned to the middle of the column, numbering just over two hundred men, to talk with Soren and decided to rest nearby listening to the banter between the two very big Nords.

“Ye need an axe always,” Soren insisted not giving an inch.

“What for?”

“To cut wood for fire. Cook your food fool! Else it’ll take ye ages to rip the meat from the plaguin’ bone.”

“You can find wood easily,” Hobor argued. “Wood and water.”

“What if you can’t? Then you eat yer meat raw. And there’s a place called dessert. No wood there.”

“Is it sweet?”

“Don’t know, probably. No water there too. Ask Glen. He’s smart as fuck,” Soren replied. “What you do wit uncooked meat?”

“I season it, so I don’t get what you’re saying. Who’s Glen?”

Good grief, Glen had almost lost consciousness hearing them, despite having his head on a hard saddle.

“The little lord. Hmm. Season with what?” Soren asked, having managed to steer the conversation where he wanted.

“Have a dried up sack wit garlic on a camel, rock salt and spices.”

“Oh shit!” Soren retorted with a grunt. “I have a water pig hidden under the supply wagon. I kicked it and it just died.”

Glen opened his eyes, his interest piqued.

“What about fire?” Hobor asked.

“Forget about fire, let’s season that fat thing. Come, you lift the wagon, I’ll grab the pig,” Soren told him and they moved away.

Glen got up, feeling cold and wet. It came as no surprise to him that he was in fact frozen stiff and soaked to the bone.

“Penetrates everything,” Kirk told him sitting on a shield. “Fucking dampness.”

Glen nodded and moved his arms glancing at the early morning sky. As much of it as he could see.

“We need to clear the vegetation,” he decided. “Find the higher parches of land, then dam the lake to avoid the water spilling out. Turn this place livable.”

“Uhm,” Kirk murmured.

“Where’s Mathews?”

“With the Healer,” Kirk said.

Darunia had decided to come and apparently he’d no legitimate reason to stop her from joining, given that he was lacking a good healer. Sam and his group had signed up to participate perhaps as much for that reason than anything else come to think about it.

“You don’t think, they…” Glen asked and Kirk shrugged his armoured shoulders.

“As in doin’ the thing… Milord?”

“Well, yeah...” Glen murmured keeping the inane dialogue going for unknown reasons.

It didn’t last long as not a minute later a circling the skies Uvrycres not liking the terrain, decided to start renovations early.

“FIRE!” A sentry bellowed raising the alarm. The darkness dissolving as large swaths of vegetation and trees flamed up and quickly dissolved in an inferno about a hundred meters from the column. The dampness of the bog stopping it from spreading, although many soaked trunks and branches boiled from the inside and exploded creating chaos.

“Stop god darn it!” Glen yelled standing up to run near Lyceron’s Hoplites and the Horselords at the front of their stretched out on the paved road formation.

EEERRRR

Uvrycres shrieked not bothering to answer and made a low pass over their heads scaring the pack animals and scattering the troops. It took them three hours, by then the sun was up on the sky fully, to assess the wyvern’s damage on the bog. Uvrycres destructive passage had cleared both flanks of the road they were following almost ten meters from each side and then the wyvern had directed its fire right, or eastwards revealing an elevated parch of land like an island, heading deep into the deeper part of the concealed lake. There he’d burned everything a foot deep, leaving smoldering black soil behind and thick vapors.

The smell atrocious.

“The road heads straight north,” Lyceron told him, using a cloth to wipe the soot off of his fancy helmet. “He just gave us a day of fast march. This turn though I don’t get the reason behind it.”

Glen stared at the smoking flattened small island, his feet still on the paved part of the bog.

“Does it look sturdy to you?” He asked Lyceron.

“I’ll sent a soldier there,” Lyceron replied with the confidence of a seasoned officer.

Some people are born with it, Glen decided and nodded. “Kirk, find Wylinor, or Shalia. Have them check this also, but to stay visible at all times. Anyone caught whiff of any Cultists around?”

“Nothing,” Kalac said approaching, his wild face unshaven. “Ran-Sahor licked them good and they retreated on the other side of the lake.”

That was more than a month ago.

“That’s a lot of time for them to cross the bog and this is the road leading to their village,” Glen murmured a little nervous standing in the open amidst the vapors. “Is there another approach for them?”

“They’ll know it,” Lyceron replied and put his helmet back on. “I’ll see to inform the rest of the column,” he said confidently, adding with a nod of his black helm, probably grinning underneath. “Hardir.”

Glen hated muscled swaggerers and smart-mouthed players.

The soldier walking towards the center of the -less than two hundred meters in diameter- island was halfway there, when Glen spotted -at the far edge of his peripheral vision- a Zilan wearing a damaged hoplite cuirass painted with weird symbols appear abruptly on the road just ahead of them.

The newcomer froze seeing so many armed soldiers packing the way and made to retreat as everyone had turned their attention on the smoking parch of land the Wyvern had exposed and not the road.

“HALT RIGHT THERE!” Glen bellowed at the top his lungs alarming everyone and shattering the relative calmness that had followed Uvrycres deliberate firestorm. Vemoro, who had spotted his hunting lair turning to ash, responded with a horn-hissing otherworldly sound that shook the vapor covered marshes.

WHUOA

HUISSSSS

Pumpkin sized shit, Glen thought seeing the Cultist abandoning his retreat and turning around his gaunt face, a coil-shaped whistle Glen had missed on his lips.