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Glen

Mister Garth

Hardir O’ Fardor

The Veils of Nether

Part II

-The trespassers-

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The sun had almost set over the jungle. Some of its weak light managed to penetrate the thick canopy, especially over that ancient boulevard. While still covered in soft soil and mud, rotting branches and sickly leaves, enough of it was uncovered due to the heavy use by both people and bigger animals. Everyone will follow the open path in the end, Glen mused staring down the seemingly endless granite slates of the ancient paved road.

He glanced at Kalac, the Horselord leader talking with his injured man and then at Jinx, the young Gish still worrying over Soren. Angrein standing next to him cleared his throat to get Glen’s attention.

“We need to get going Garth.”

“Go where?” Glen retorted. “They are going to wait for us further down the path. An idiot could figure this one out.”

“You want to turn back?”

“How many are they? These… cultists?” Glen queried and watched as Jinx approached them.

The muscular man shrugged those big shoulders. “I don’t know. Not many once upon a time, but that was three centuries… and some change back.”

What in the slovenly fuck is he talking about?

“How old are you?” Glen asked.

Angrein smacked his lips and then stared at his blacksmith’s hands for a moment. The fingers thick and calloused, the hands themselves huge in size. “If I tell you, I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

“How did ye pull that off? You are human, right?” Glen probed eyeing him suspiciously. “Is this magic?”

“A different kind than the one Darfin used back there,” Angrein replied. “It was a test I passed. I wasn’t really supposed to or perhaps I was.” He eyed him with his strange unnatural eyes. “How did you resist the spell Garth?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” Glen retorted.

“Hardir O’ Fardor,” Angrein said with a grimace. “The tales were off it appears at some things, but right in others.”

“How so?”

“You’re not all-knowing,” Angrein replied solemnly. “But you might be all-powerful. The rest remain to be revealed.”

“What are the rest?” Glen croaked and with another shrug of his powerful shoulders Angrein told him.

“Whether you’re merciless, or not.”

 

 

“I don’t trust any of them,” Jinx hissed, her small face contorting, the moment the blacksmith walked away.

“How about Flix?”

“Him I trust even less. He’s still gone by the way. Alix swears he vanished into thin air during the fight.” Jinx eyed him intently.

“Flix is on our side Whisper,” Glen assured her. “A Gish.”

“Gish can be cunts as well,” Jinx retorted. “What are you gonna do?”

“What do you think?”

“They are not going to forget this,” Jinx replied. “Next time they’ll hit us with everything they have.”

“Turn back?” Glen asked, looking at her strained face.

“Don’t give me that stupid look,” Jinx admonished him. “Have you seen yer darn face? You went from being a kid to this… in a couple of years Glen.”

Glen still looked half-dead, despite improving the last couple of weeks.

“It’ll wear off soon,” Glen said and pushed back his messy hair.

“What if it doesn’t? You might run out of years fast,” Jinx said with a sigh. “This journey was a mistake.”

“I can talk to Kalac, find a way to bring the caravan back. Leave all this shite behind,” Glen told her.

“What they did to her was wrong,” Jinx whispered not looking at him.

To Meira’s friend was her meaning.

“Aye, it was,” Glen agreed and got the chain around his neck out. He’d a lightstone there and Sen’s pendant. He brought them to the fainting light and his Knight’s ring gleamed on his right finger. “I think he was going to eat her.” He added in a low voice.

“It makes sense,” Jinx replied guardedly.

“How? Eating their own?” Glen asked more than a little grossed out.

“Gish, people and Zilan. The cleverer the species, the better spells turn out. It’s how it works. Supposedly.”

Glen grimaced. “There must be another way.”

“There is probably,” Jinx agreed. “But this is the easiest. The Zilan were always practical, until they decided to change things up. Look at how that turned out for them.”

“Who would worship a beast Whisper and prey on his own people?”

“Folk worship all manner of things. Some love Abrakas, others pray to the Kraken or other stuff.” Jinx replied with a shrug. “Only the Five think Uher made this Realm out of his fucking light and not all of them are really convinced.”

“Hah, that’s true,” Glen smiled, himself a Luthos believer and not much else.

“We are not heroes Glen. Dante wanted to be one at the end and he’s dead now,” Jinx murmured looking at the setting sun. “But I can’t sleep thinking I could’ve helped them and didn’t.”

Ah.

Glen could probably sleep the horror away, but not if Jinx reminded him of it for the rest of their days. At some point the young Gish had sneaked up on him. He stared at Soren sleeping a fatal injury off and grimaced.

He thought of Emerson and Marcus. Of sweet Zola and that smart-mouthed Dante.

Glen was running out of friends and he remembered a time when he had none to care about. While painful and a headache, Glen preferred having company and people to love and care for, than being a depressed hermit. You don’t let down yer friends, he decided. Unless you’re a cunt.

A crook he could live with, but Glen had to draw a line somewhere.

“I also don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she continued as if she could read his thoughts, her voice cracking at the end. “I’m a horrible leader.”

“Hey,” Glen said and pulled her into a hug, the Gish’s head resting on his chest. “You’re doing great. I’ve lost everything they’ve put me in charge of, be it a fort or a fucking city.” He cracked a bitter smile at that. “You wanna blame someone, blame me aye. I’m going to find a way to fix this bullshit somehow. Talk these people down, if I have to.”

Glen didn’t know how.

He didn’t see gold working this time around.

“Yer armour needs mending,” Jinx commented after a very long contemplating moment. Glen shook his head at her ability to jump topics and spotted Flix appearing out of the thicker parts of the Jungle, the southeast. The old Gish walked slowly towards them, some of the men already starting a fire behind them, with Metu preparing a meal. He carried his peleg in one hand, the steel weapon covered in gore and Darfin’s severed head in the other using a nasty iron meat-hook lodged in his brutalized mouth.

Dripping gore everywhere.

What in the name of holiest of loots! Glen wondered with a shudder.

 

 

“The ranger got away,” Flix told him, Glen staring horrified at the brutalized head of Darfin. “The jungle and a bit of magic helped her. Mmm.”

Right.

“Ah, you think they’ll… chuck this up as an accident?” He chanced. “As in you know, the man tripped from blood loss and decapitated himself on a sharp root or an axe-shaped broken branch?”

Flix tired eyes stared at him. “They’ll find him. They’ll know they made a mistake.”

“Or they might get even angrier?” Glen reminded the sober Gish. “Why get them all riled up?”

“Are you going to talk with them?” Flix asked.

The thought had crossed Glen’s mind.

“I don’t see it as a viable idea Flix. Not anymore,” he admonished the old Gish. “You are forcing my hand here!”

“If they have reached Goras, they would never let us near it Garth.”

“How many are they?” Glen asked puffing out.

“I had to return,” Flix said without really replying. “I don’t know the jungle. I found the crossroad though and the sea beyond it.”

“How far?” Glen asked with a frown.

“Less than a day. The gulf starts where the mist is thicker.”

“The caravan will be there, before the end of this month,” Kalac informed them approaching. “They might walk into a trap.”

“Fuck. Everyone arm yourselves. We must set a watch for the night,” Glen decided.

“We need to move Garth,” Flix said.

“Ah, you’re insisting Gish.”

“You told her to wait there, the caravan also. We have to consolidate our forces, afore they gather theirs.”

Glen glared at him.

“What forces for crying out loud? They could have a hundred hungry cultists fall on us!”

“It’s better to fight them out of the jungle then, or on terrain favoring horses,” Kalac suggested.

“Kalac numbers… do matter,” Glen reminded him.

“Spirit matters the most,” the Horselord countered his conviction absolute. “And heart. We shall smash these soulless thugs, or die in the attempt as free people!”

Ugh!

Glen stood back dumbfounded.

“We have Hardir O’ Fardor,” Angrein added observing him. “They should fear us.”

Glen groaned inwardly and looked at the darkening road ahead of them. He let out a deep sigh and turned his head around to look back to where they’d come from. The light a dark red, dancing through the jungle’s canopy, the road now more visible after they cleared it, but still ominous.

What the fuck…?

A tall armoured figure was coming towards their camp built in the middle of the ancient road. He had appeared out of nowhere and was walking briskly, hobnailed boots thudding on the ground as if he was marching. Ominous black helm on, the slits on it running down the small openings at his eyes. A muscled cuirass like the one the cultist had on, but gleaming with gold details and in a far better condition. A spear strapped on his back and a shield. A blade down his left leg.

“Praise be Gimoss. The Foul!” Angrein gasped sounding stunned. Nothing had fazed the hale blacksmith up until that point in their journey. “An Imperial Hoplite.”

Praise?

Come again?

“How the fuck do you know?” Glen croaked staring at the imposing warrior reaching them and stopping to examine their camp with sober interest.

“I think I recognize the armour,” Angrein murmured instead, strangely awed.

“Is that a good thing?” Glen asked out of the side of his mouth and stepped forward to greet the newcomer with a grin.

“That’s Isil Mehtar steel Garth. Forged by my master,” Angrein said on his back and then retreated. “None of his weapons and armour had survived the First Era, but for a set and Queen’s sword.”

Glen licked his dry lips and eyed the imposing warrior watching them in silence.

“Friend,” he started diplomatically and the armoured Hoplite cracked his neck right and left, then reached behind him and got his spear out.

Shit.

“Thou are standing on Imperial land,” he announced in rusty common and Glen caught Jinx reaching for her bow out of the corner of his other eye. The young Gish also sneakily kicked Darfin’s severed head out of sight with her heel. “Sinya Nore, Gish and Horselords alike,” the warrior continued. “Are not permitted here.”

“We’re explorers,” Glen said quickly, a merchant’s smile on his lips.

“Killing a Zilan on Imperial ground is a capital offense.” The warrior continued disregarding his words. “What is your plea?”

“He was a murderer,” Flix answered and walked next to Glen.

“On your word Gish? Who granted you right to be an executioner?”

“I’m a member of the Circle,” Flix explained.

“Which makes you a murderer and a deceiver by trade. Is this Nym’s doing?”

Huh?

“This is a disciple of the Veils of Nether,” Flix replied with a grimace.

“I find your attempt at dodging pathetic,” the Hoplite admonished him. “Your disguise vile. You reek of servitude Gish. Enough with your lies!”

“You don’t know with whom you’re dealing with,” Flix hissed, the insult cutting him deep.

“One of you will die for this transgression.” The Hoplite continued sternly. “The rest I shall give you a day head start to get away. Then I will come after you. I suggest you pick a decent warrior to buy you the time needed Gish.”

“You’ll fight Hardir O’ Fardor?” Angrein asked him.

What? Glen recoiled in shock.

The Hoplite stared at the blacksmith for a long moment.

“You’ve had the Saereg.” He decided finally. “Are you a collaborator? Who was your master?”

“Isil Mehtar O’ Mecatan,” Angrein replied proudly. “He only took one pupil.”

“Was it you?” The Hoplite asked him ominously.

“I didn’t betray the Queen Anfalon,” Angrein said. “I had left the Empire already. A reward for my services.”

“The Blacksmith Angrein had left that is true. You claim you’re him. Where’s Hardir, blacksmith?” Anfalon asked and Angrein pointed a muscled arm on a seething Glen.

“Are you serious?” Anfalon grunted and stared at Glen carefully. “Have you a spear Sinya Nore?” He asked him.

“Why?” Glen replied unsure, not likening the turn of events and very angry with the Blacksmith.

Anfalon stabbed his spear down and got his forward curved sword out. “You’ll fight for them then.” He decided. “Whether you’re who he claims or not. It shall be revealed. I suggest to get moving.” He told the rest of them. “If he falls, I’m coming after the rest of you.”

 

 

“Let’s rush him,” Kalac suggested. “We have the numbers Garth.”

“He offered a duel,” Angrein argued. “We can’t insult the gods Kalac!”

“Glen can’t best Anfalon,” Flix said sounding stressed out. “This is unexpected. Yet, it shouldn’t have been. What manner of design is this? I can’t see the angle.”

Whatever the old Gish was mumbling about was perhaps worthy of further investigation, but Glen was preoccupied with more urgent matters at the time.

“Surely I can squeeze out a win somehow?” Glen offered hopefully. “Is there a point system?”

“Whoever fall’s first losses Garth,” Angrein elucidated.

“Fall’s as in tripping himself up, or dying is yer meaning?” Glen queried to dot the I’s and cross his T’s.

“Have you lost your mind?” Flix snapped angrier than he’d seen him before. “You don’t stand a chance against the leader of the Imperial Phalanx! Hell, I don’t even know if we can get him out of the way even with magic.”

“We have the numbers Gish,” Kalac rustled and Glen eyed the silent Hoplite waiting for them to prepare, utterly unbothered at their discussion.

“Anfalon survived the Plague Isles campaign,” Angrein explained. “Fought the Grand Sire of the Aken’s hordes at the Battle of the Coral Valley until the dead got tired is the word. Gimoss buried him under the Grand Temple’s rubble and he clawed his way out after a week. Went after an elder Onyx Wyvern on foot! There are songs written about him Kalac!”

Fantastic!

“He’s older now though,” Glen played it down and Flix shook his head negatively. “What? The man probably slowed down for crying out loud!”

Flix snorted in disgust.

“Hardir can stand against all threats,” Angrein said with a touch of finality. Glen was all fine with fanaticism in a servant but this fool was going to get him killed. “Anfalon won’t fight you, if he realizes you’re him.”

Well, shit. Glen groaned inwardly and rubbed his face hard with both hands. So if you fuckers are wrong, I’m a plaguin’ goner!

 

 

Glen unsheathed Emerson’s sword and walked towards the waiting Imperial Hoplite, the ancient Zilan taller than the former thief and his sinister helm making him appear even more so. Brawny but also lean he was the most impressive male of his species that Glen had ever seen. It wasn’t the size of his muscles but the implied skill forging them. The muscled thorax adding to the illusion. The sword he carried –a kopis- made of a single piece of grey steel with a faint red hue, the grip decorated with a thick outer layer of finely-shaped ivory, with hollows that were a perfect match for his fingers. Anfalon flipped the blade expertly in his hand to test it and Glen thought he heard a song coming out of it.

He gulped down and glanced back to his own group and friends. Jinx had moved to one side of the jungle road to have an open angle for an arrow shot and Flix had done the same on the other side, but more discreetly. They were going to try and help him, rules be damned. Ah, Glen thought moved at the gesture, knowing he’d have to surprise the warrior in order to win.

Behind Anfalon three figures had appeared. All of them female, one dressed as a Ranger in green hard-leather armour and hair a bluish-purple, the other rather plainly wearing tight worked-hide pants and a vest, her hair caught in an elaborate bun. The third of the bunch was standing ahead of the other two. She wore a simple short tunic and her large green-silver eyes were staring at them curiously. Shorter than the others and visibly younger.

Almost a kid.

“Stay back Phinariel,” Anfalon told her in Imperial without looking towards them.

“She worries the Sinya Nore won’t honor the rules,” the Ranger replied and Glen could understand them as he’d his hand on the dagger’s grip.

“Then they are lying,” Anfalon retorted and the lissome Ranger stared beyond Glen at Jinx, her gold-silvery eyes taunting.

“Damn,” Jinx gasped behind his back awestruck and a bit aroused, much to Glen’s bewilderment considering the circumstances. The young Gish attempted to save it at the end though. “What are you lookin’ at ye purple cunt?”

A taunt and an opening. The Ranger grimaced not expecting the rebuke and made to reach for her long bow, but Anfalon turned his head and signed for her to stay out of it.

For fuck’s sake Pretty, Glen thought and rushed the distracted Hoplite.

Thank you.

 

 

Glen made two fast steps forward and lunged aiming for the opening at the Zilan’s throat, where his panoply met the helm. Anfalon heard him coming and moved back lowering his head. The blade clanged on the conned top, slid down and bounced off of his thorax without leaving a mark. Glen pulled the blade back half a draw and attacked again with a downward slash aiming for the Hoplite’s leg, just above the heavy steel greaves. Phinariel gasped in horror, but Anfalon withdrew his leg out of the way with uncanny speed, sidestepped and attacked Glen’s left side.

The speed and strength behind the thrust impossible for his eye to catch. Glen moved on instinct, his left hand burning and pushed it aside with his sword. The clang of blades reverberating down the relatively quiet jungle road, the sun’s diming light a red ominous hue and the sparks dropping from the connecting steel blades burning the dry leaves under their feet black.

The ground started smoking momentarily.

Glen jumped away, his ears ringing and Anfalon danced to his left side gracefully for such a heavily armoured warrior and attacked him again. Fuck off, Glen cursed and parried again, the clang of blades sounding like Uher’s bells. This time he felt the power behind the blow to his very bones. It went up his arm and rattled his teeth when his jaw snapped shut. Glen stumbled back, left hand the color of coal and almost went down on his knees.

All a ruse.

Anfalon came at him dancing on his feet, going right then left, his movement paused for a tiny fraction of a second at each step as if he was looking for an opening. Glen gave him one and the Hoplite took it lunging forward. Glen sidestepped instead of parrying this time, felt the blade slashing at his shoulder pads as he twisted away and attacked Anfalon from his own unprotected side. The Hoplite raised his left forearm to block him and Glen changed his stance mid-move to chop his arm off.

Glen’s blade bounced off the vambrace without making a dent on it though, the fat sparks burning Glen’s face where they landed. He cursed inwardly and followed the retreating Hoplite flipping the longsword in his hand and attacking again on the return, the blade starting low and rising.

Anfalon sidestepped in the blink of an eye, his retreat a trap and downed the kopis aiming for Glen’s neck. The former thief had to turn his own attack into a last minute defense and he did just that readjusting his stance again on impulse, while jerking spastically aside.

The two blades met savagely again and Glen felt his break for the second time that year. In a sense having it happen before saved his neck. The nasty grey sword continued on, but Glen realizing what had just happened before his eyes had actually registered the scene, jumped away from the steel tip that ruined the front of his armour right at his chest.

RRREEEEE

Glen stumbled back a couple of steps, Emerson’s blade shattered and turned into a long dagger near the grip, just as Biscuit’s screech rang over them, high above the jungle’s canopy. Anfalon who’d started his finishing move, paused visibly in distress and glanced above his head, giving Glen the time to regain his footing. Jinx eyed the Ranger standing about twenty meters away warningly, both females had their bows out ready to use them.

So much for rules, Glen thought his body hurting and without any feeling to his left arm.

“Hmm,” Anfalon grunted, then eyed the sweaty and pale faced former thief.

“Do not be alarmed,” Glen told him reassuringly, sporting a pained smile and watched the Zilan teen running away from her friends to approach them.

“Was that a Wyvern?” Phinariel asked curious standing next to the much taller undecided Hoplite and at that moment Biscuit burst out of the canopy above them, breaking branches and creating an opening for the reddish light to come down fully. The Wyvern made a circle above their camp and then landed near Glen, botching it a bit at the end and almost going down.

Phinariel gasped in shock and the Zilan female standing next to the Ranger fainted abruptly and went down planting her face in the mud.

RREEE? Biscuit queried a little miffed and walked near the hurting Glen. He was now standing as tall as Soren on his hind legs. Glen put a hand on his rough scaly snout and gave a light tap.

“I’m fine buddy,” he told him with a tired smile and turned to look at the stunned Anfalon.

“Hardir O’ Fardor,” the Imperial Hoplite rustled in the Old Tongue having trouble coming to terms with it. “Is a bloody human?”

Biscuit twisted his head at the sound of his voice and snorted loudly.

Then burped just as loud.

Whatever he’d gulped down, a grimacing Glen thought too hurt to even speak smelling the wyvern’s breath, had lived a foul life and died screaming.