Glen

A Zilan’s song

 

 

Glen was looking at the forest, but his mind was trying desperately to process a host of things. Formulate a plan of sorts. It didn’t have to be a good plan and Crafton always said that any semblance of a plan would do. Then again, the old crook didn’t really believe plans worked most of the time. Or at all.

Better to think on yer feet lad, he’d say at other times. Always something ye hadn’t think about will pop up and mess everything up. Always. Crafton did offer different takes or opinions depending on the state he was in, the time of day or night or the amount of ale he’d downed; so perhaps him saying that, was just Crafton admitting he was bad at planning shit.

Which in turn wasn’t helpful at all.

Stupid unreliable motherfucker.

The forest was too big an obstacle to navigate alone. This was pretty clear at the least.

So the girl, Zilan, Glen corrected himself still deep in his thoughts, had a point.

Let’s call it a plan.

“Ye seen somethin’?” Emerson asked him gruffly and his heart almost burst out his chest.

“Argh… nay. Nothing,” He’d difficulty speaking.

“You sure?” Emerson insisted oblivious to his plight, stooping into his personal space. “Seeing ye a tad uncertain there. Mayhap, it was something ye heard?”

Luthos shriveled balls, Glen cursed stepping away from the older man.

“I was just thinking about stuff,” He deflected.

“The demon spawn,” The knight figured, sharp as a knife.

“Aye… well, better not use the word that loosely, I think.”

“Which one?”

“Kinda harsh painting her a demon, I think.”

“Why? You’re some kind of occult expert now?” Emerson scoffed. “Ever seen one before?”

A gypsy dwarf that claimed he could piss into a bucket, right across the street.

For a minute.

“No.”

“Seems to me I get to call her, whatever I plaguing like. You failed to convince me lad. Tell me again how you understand her tongue.”

“I don’t think…” Glen paused seeing the knight glaring at him. “…I touch this,” He said, pointing at the dagger.

“Like grabbing it?”

“No just like touch. Maybe a grab sometimes.”

“Strong touch or light one?” Emerson was anything, if not persistent.

“It responds better to a light touch, I think.”

“Like a woman’s tit.”

“Ehem, no. It just works man.”

Luthos what’s this? High Magister’s inquisition?

“How so? Is it like magic?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess.”

“Ye know that demons are birthed of magic right? Now, I don’t know the details of that, nor I’m particularly inclined to learn them. But you get the gist,” Emerson said seeming very pleased with himself. “So, had I wanted to make argument supporting me words, this would’ve been a fine start. Right?”

Glen sighed.

“You have a point,” He relented.

“Good,” The knight turned to face him. “Ye have one too. Pull it out lad.”

Glen returned his stare puzzled. It took him a long moment to figure out what the silly knight meant and Emerson unsheathed his blade in the meantime.

“Am I speaking too fast?” He asked him.

“I kinda thought… it’s fine.”

“Your arm is better. Is it not?”

“Only slightly.”

“Good enough then. Draw your blade. We will train.”

“Ahm,” Glen looked at the sharp looking weapon the man was brandishing. “I can fetch my stick—”

“Lad, nobody uses a stick, unless they are a kid or they’re just starting. You’ve trained some by now…” Emerson replied with a grunt and Glen wanted to kick him in the nuts at that moment. Repeatedly. “…and if you’re old enough to lust after a demon, you can wield a sword.”

 

 

Emerson waited for him to get ready. Then stepped forward, blade in hand and said, “Head.” Which meant nothing to Glen.

Though it should apparently.

“Hold your sword, blade pointed up,” The knight said, tone suggesting he was about to cuff him hard, if he fucked it up.

“First hold on the right, then move to left, hold. Rise above head. Hold.”

Glen nodded. “All right, I remember.”

Emerson snorted. “Ye sure? Not exactly filling me wit confidence.”

“The stances aye. It’s all coming back now,” Glen replied pretending he was engrossed to the task.

“So I call the attack.” Emerson continued not convinced. “You block it with the blade.”

“Hey, should I use a shield?” Glen offered hopefully.

“You hide one in your bag?”

“How about yours—”

“No.”

“It’s prudent—”

“Yer not joining the infantry son.”

“What if I don’t block in time?” Glen insisted the whole naked blades part worrying him.

Obviously.

“You’ll get cut. Probably bleed some. Right then. Head,” Emerson said matter-of-factly and attacked.

Glen raised his sword to block still unaccustomed to it, almost too late despite the warning and the knight’s blade struck his above the guard, shoved the sword back hard enough to cut his nose clean off easy, but for a last minute instinctual dodge of the head.

“Hey!” Glen protested.

“Right.” Emerson said attacking again.

“Left.”

“Right.”

“Head.”

Glen parried best as he could, narrowly deflecting potentially crippling blows, his face flustered and legs shaking. Ten minutes into the brutal training session Emerson paused barely winded, stared around them probably for the still unseen Zilan and grunted, when she was nowhere to be found.

“What?” Glen asked breathing heavy. “She’ll be back.”

“Your assertion is based on the fact that she likes ye I presume?” Emerson asked mockingly. “Hope you have better arguments to offer than before.”

“Well, of course not!” Glen snapped initially offended, but after pondering on it he added, tongue wetting his dry lips. “Though…”

“Yes?”

“I think she probably does.”

The rugged knight stared him silently for a long moment, but Glen returned the stare not willing to back down. He was also low-key stalling to rest some more.

Feeling absolutely no shame about it.

“I think you mastered this enough.” Emerson said finally. “So now you’ll defend without me helping you.”

“Wait, mastered?”

“Don’t hang up on words lad, you studied the way I move before every attack for a good while now. So you can guess what I will do to an extent.”

Studied? Glen thought with a shiver.

Guess?

“Guard yourself,” Emerson said and attacked again.

 

 

You can tell where an attack will come by the way one sets his shoulder, the way his legs move and the initial position of the blade. Glen thought, a really good swordsman would ‘guess’ right eight out of ten times, which was good enough, if you dodged the other two times or moved away. Something could always change, a good opponent would mix his swings and slashes, fake a touch and do something different for example. Many variants could decide a sword duel one way or another and not all of them were based on skill.

Of course, if you are not a decent swordsman then you are pretty much lost. Luck can give a hand here and there, but luck is a fickle mistress and her father Luthos a right bastard of a God.

Emerson went for his head first and Glen half-parried half-jumped away from the blade. A success nonetheless but it was followed by a barrage of attacks that forced him to retreat almost to their horses. He blocked one cut barely, parried another using blade and his right sleeve equally and avoided a wide slash falling backwards on his arse.

So two minutes or thereabouts into the ‘training’ Glen raised his hurt arm from where he’d landed and bellowed perhaps louder than he’d intended. With enough righteous conviction to startle the gods above.

“Enough!”

Alright, fine. It came out more like a strangled croak.

 

 

Emerson paused his assault.

“Did I hit ye on the head boy?”

It was close a couple of times you donkey!

“Listen,’ Glen mumbled trying to get on his feet. ‘Let’s stop for a rest, the sun is up…”

“No enemy will stop because you’re tired. Haven’t heard a knight requesting a break in the middle of a fight…” He thought about it some. “Ever.”

“Hey there,” Glen said grasping at the opening to thump his chest weakly. “Not a knight… yet.”

Emerson snorted. “Makin’ jokes now. You dishonor your father.”

Not really.

“Well, it is just a short break. Can’t raise my arm and I don’t think my father became a knight in a week. What’s the rush?”

Emerson sheathed his sword. Something on his face had turned sour.

“What’s the matter?” Glen asked mimicking him in putting his blade away as well. If you succeed in starting a conversation to avoid hard labor, don’t hesitate. Keep firing questions.

“Your father had enemies.”

Hence he’d washed up mostly eaten by fish…

He tried an artful half-dodge to keep him talking.

“Is it the shield brooch thingy?”

“Part of it,” Emerson bit the inside of his mouth, wild beard moving as if it was alive, eyes blacker than he’d remembered them. “He asked for an escort to the capital. It’s the long and short of it.”

That was new information, Glen thought.

“Why?” He asked not willing to let the conversation die.

“Just told ya. Letter didn’t say. Anyways, found a couple of solid sellswords, won a scrap in Castalor but got ambushed outside Deadmen’s Watch. Thought they were ‘Silent Servants’ at first and not the priest kind the other, now I’m not as sure. I had to cross Krakentrap straits in the dead of night, left them for dead. Damn good men they were,” He spat down, the memory poisonous. “Anyway, thought I lost them killers, planned on waiting a couple of days and go back.”

“What happened?” Glen wasn’t bothered he kinda lied to him, everybody lied.

Refrain from pointing out one’s bastardy, when a bastard yourself.

His own fucking rule right there.

“Told you, what happened; Villy bought that arrow, so we hoofed it for Oakenfalls across the peninsula. Little good that did him. Poison ate him from the inside. Turned right green ‘n blue ‘fore me eyes. Then he died,” He breathed once heavy. Let the air out slow as if to ease the memory away, before continuing. “Days later I found you. Carrying Glen’s sword.”

Dodge.

“So he was coming to meet you, then what?” He hurriedly backtracked.

“Reckon that scroll has the answer. The one wit the king’s sign on it.”

Or it could say about how he never got a son named after him.

Emerson will probably kill him right there, moment he found out.

“Can’t read it.” Glen blurted out, adding lamely. “Learned how to write my name though.”

He put a half-grin on top to sugarcoat it.

Emerson shook his head. “Anyway, as I said. If your Zilan isn’t lying, and even that leeway I’m givin’ her is too much, we need to choose where to go next carefully.”

“We agreed on heading to Raoz.”

“Nah, we didn’t. That’s what the witch said,” She did? Witch? “We don’t know what’s there. Don’t stare like an idiot. It’s more flattering a moniker. People hunted Demons for sport not fifty years back. Doing your sorry arse a favor,” He stared at the horses for a moment. “There she is by the way. In case ye missed her. Now show me that letter again.”

Oh fuck.

 

 

The Zilan had appeared on the top of the stairs leading inside the pyramid. Glen was sure he’d seen her leave towards the forest and far as he knew, no one had seen her come back.

Though apparently she had.

Was there a circuitous route in the forest…

“How does she do that?” He asked the solemn faced knight, stalling as much as he could.

“Give me the darn thing,” Emerson grunted and snatched the scroll from him, never in the mood for small talk. Looked at it hard, for a long moment. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“We have to break the wax seal,” The knight said sounding unsure suddenly for whatever reason.

“So… we break it?” Glen asked without thinking.

What was that? He startled. Fuck are you saying you moron?

“Can’t undo that lad,” Emerson scratched the side of his face, calloused fingers digging in the thick beard loud enough to distract Glen from thinking anything else. “You can’t give the king an opened letter.”

“Why not?”

He just couldn’t stop himself.

“It’s impolite. Like say… I don’t know, sleeping wit another man’s wife.”

“Even if she wants it?” He’d a horse in that particular race.

“Wants what son?”

“Nothing. Might have gotten lost in your metaphor.”

“Lad,`twas an example,” Emerson corrected him.

“That too.”

The old knight sighed. “I’m just saying, perhaps we must think it through.”

Glen made a grimace, not particularly invested in opening the letter, despite his stupid mouth blurting out stuff for no reason. He was more interested on the whereabouts of the exotic female with the even more difficult to pronounce name. But even with half his attention away, one phrase the knight had uttered came back.

“You said, give the king the letter.”

Oh, for cryin’ out loud.

STOP TALKING ABOUT THE BLOODY LETTER!

What was wrong with his brain?

“Is what Glen… your father wanted.”

“That means going towards people that want to kill us.”

Say nay, Glen mentally urged him. For once in your goddamn life—

“Aye.”

“Which we don’t want,” Glen insisted, equal parts despaired and relieved. He’d managed to derail the conversation from the scroll at the very least. He’d lost it for a while, which was weird as fuck but perhaps it was all the stress and injuries of the last ten days. “Right?”

“We don’t? What are you talking about? Avenge your father, my squire. Finish the bloody mission. Lots of good thrown in,” Emerson added them up grinning, thick as a rock. “Kinda makes the idea palatable enough,” He decided.

Glen blinked fairly certain it didn’t.

“Should we ask her?” And he pointed towards the entrance, only to realize the girl had disappeared again.

Damnit!

“Well, I’ll do a thing in the meantime,” Emerson replied hint of a smile still on his lips. “Grab a bite, rest my bloody feet. Think about it some more. Maybe wait the sun to come down a bit.”

A good number of things then, Glen thought a little pissed he’d missed her again, while failing to accomplish anything at all.

Except stalling himself out of a training session.

“I’ll feed the horses.” He shouted after the departing knight.

Forget about the damn scroll.

Count my gold.

Look for Lith.

There.

Glen grinned from ear to ear.

He’d stuff to do too.

 

 

Glen let his head rest on the wall. He was sitting just inside the entrance of the pyramid-like structure, after he spent a good half hour searching for the Zilan. Lithoniela was nowhere to be found. That was a mouthful, he decided. Sweet Luthos.

Lith was way better.

He’d fed the horses, checked his gold was in the bags and then patrolled their camp looking for the elusive female.

“That was a huge waste of time,” He said to the wall across from him, getting no reply.

Still, far as time went, these past ten days or thereabouts, were memorable for Glen. He just needed to not fuck everything up, reach a city and use the gold to fund the rest of his life, if possible. Maybe get the brute to knight him, he’d no idea how it worked. Perhaps ditching the man altogether was an even better plan of action. Avoid the dangerous stuff, what had Lith said? A throne of gold. Where had I heard this again? Probably lots of danger there too far as he was concerned. Not a bad idea to leave all the unsafe stuff for later, after he’d established himself. Buy a house. With lots of rooms to keep the loot hidden.

A blooming lootroom!

That brought another grin on his lips. It stayed there as sleep silently claimed him.

 

The words were like a song.

Indecipherable, agonizingly gloomy but beautiful.

 

 

The Pirate Lord crossed the Scalding Sea…

her voice whispered.

came from where the maps don’t see

Lay cursed swords an’ gems o’ doom in obsidian chests,

hid ‘em in a silken fold

deep in their livin’ cargo holds.

Fooled the Gish sinnin’ on the sinkin’ Onyx crests

Wit promises of glitter n’ shiny gold,

for this or out of spite eyes turned cold

They say,

painted people showed him to Wetull of old

In the black of night they traveled

In the dead of night they arrived

Demons of Issir left unchained.

 

The Pirate Lord poisoned the waters…

her voice lamented.

Slew mothers in their sleep, cut till their bellies burst ‘n opened.

Burned the crops and blinded the young

When the Wyvern woke up

Of treachery the faithful had spoken

Down he brought the crested mountains

buried everythin’ in venomous-ash fountains

 

The Pirate Lord wanted his throne of gold…

her voice remembered.

Lazuli hoplites stood as last host

By then his fleet was burned ‘n lost

his blood-raiders forced to walk on land

till he used a lover’s soft hand

Of treachery the faithful had spoken

Enslaved horselords left the gates open

Lorians were easier to fool

Two kingdoms for them to rule

A third to lord over them

Traded his ships, his cursed weapons for a title

 

They say,

before his flesh turned rotten

Reinut named himself High King…

her voice hissed.

And everything was forgotten.

 

 

The breeze brought the whiff of cooked meat inside the pyramid. It roused Glen from whatever his dreams were. Dazed and numb he tried to remember them but realized he couldn’t but for snips and nuggets. In a tongue he didn’t understand. Halfway down the stairs, his eyes on the melting rabbit, he’d forgotten most of it. Emerson stirred the coals a bit and then cut a leg out of the spit roast his eyes following his descent.

“Knew your stomach would wake ya,” He said simply taking a good bite out of his fat dripping roast.

“You caught a rabbit?” Glen asked sitting down on a warm flat rock next to him.

“She did. Two o’ them.”

“Wow. How she did that?”

“Wit her bow.”

“How come you gave it back to her?” Glen asked cutting the other leg out using the knight’s greased knife.

“It was a trade,” Emerson replied wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “Pretending she’s a captive is not helping anyone. Not if she’s missing most of the time. We are just makin’ ourselves look foolish.”

Glen nodded.

“Aye,” He tasted the rabbit. One bite led to another, his teeth giving the hot bones a try before stopping, a smile on his mouth. “That’s… great.”

“Have at it.” Emerson urged him.

“Shouldn’t we leave some for her?” He asked while taking another fat-dripping cut.

The knight snorted.

“As I said. She caught two of them lad. Wolfed the first one down raw, while you slept,” He helped himself to another roast portion, face marred with what was one part a troubled frown, the other a hefty dose of wonderment. “It was a strange thing to witness.”

Glen paused mid-bite. “Haha, you’re pulling my leg,” He said with a grin.

“No jest,” Emerson stared at the half-eaten spit for a moment. “Had a dog like that. Half-wolf `twas. Long snout, sharp teeth. Black n’ silver,” He sighed. “My father put it down the day I turned fifteen. It tried to eat him in his sleep. Aye. Darn thing could scare the skin off your flesh.”

All right then.

Glen finished the rest of his roast in awkward silence.

 

 

Lith didn’t return by the time they finished their meal and with the sun sinking on the horizon, Glen decided to fetch some more dry wood to keep the fire going for part of the night. It was warm enough but he wanted to use it to light up their camp site.

Man-eating wolf-dog stories had that effect on him.

“Let the coals go out,” Emerson grunted, apparently not of the same mind.

“It’s not like we’re followed. Since I arrived I’ve met two people and one of them ain’t even human,” Glen droned unhappy. Even Duke snorted loudly probably agreeing with him. “Haven’t seen a soul in days not since—”

The knight stopped him raising a lobstered gauntlet. Glen hadn’t seen him putting them on in days, though Emerson habitually slept in his armor. So he gave it no further thought.

“What?” He asked annoyed.

“Horses are uneasy,” Emerson said looking around them. “Think they heard somethin’ lad.”

Glen puffed exasperated. They were standing at the base of the stairs leading up to the ruined pyramid structure, the ancient columned road leading towards the forest on their right and nothing but wild scrubs and flora covered boulders on their left.

“Place is as quiet as a tomb now,” Glen said with a grimace.

“Aye,” The knight agreed, which didn’t help Glen any at first.

Then a man dressed in quality leather armor and a sword strapped at his waist stepped confidently out of the bushes, shoulders set straight, long black hair caught at the nape, sporting a trimmed goatee under a pleased smile. He stopped, comped said goatee with his fingers twice, making a small bow before speaking.

“Sir Lennox,’ The newcomer said with a faint Lorian accent. ‘Dear Sir, you are a hard man to find.”