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Glen

Old thief’s greed

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“That’s Whitford?” Soren asked, wood toothpick in his mouth. He worked it this way and that, making sucking noises under Glen’s scrutiny, before he spat it out with a grimace. “Don’t seem like much,” He added, turning his large head to watch Jinx walking past them -mischievous smirk on her lips- her fit thighs dancing to the rhythm of her alluring backside.

Twas quite the sight all right, Glen thought, joining the Northman in silent appreciation.

“Well, what did you expect?” The young man replied, louder than he needed; faking innocence, when she glared at them with a snap of her pink head. “It’s just a village.”

They had arrived at Whitford six days after they crossed the Krakentrap Straits. Captain Gray immediately went to work trying to recruit more members to his crew and undertaking the much needed repairs for the Marquette, leaving the rest of them free to explore the village. While bigger than Shroudcoast and on the opposite edge of Colant’s Refuge, Whitford was just a small community of around seven hundred people, give or take a few. It had a decent inn, a meager, but working market, another tavern near its small port and no other large ship moored at the time the Marquette arrived, but for its many fishing boats.

“Ever been here?” The Northman asked, long red hair caught at the nape with a leather string.

“Sure, a couple of times, maybe more,” Glen said thinking of the one time he made the journey on foot. It took him a whole day of walking to get rid of a couple of iron pots, some tools and a silver necklace. Decent profit that, he thought with a small smile. One silver, seven coppers. “Nice roasted fish fillet at the inn. Most times fresh.”

“This sounds darn nice,” Soren murmured, licking his lips.

“What sounds nice?” Dante asked them, putting a hand on their shoulders. He had to make a considerable effort to Soren’s.

“Fresh fillet,” Soren replied, already salivating. “Roasted,” He said adding as if to reinforce it even more. “Fish food.”

“Right. Well, on that note mister Aron Gray decided to leave the matter of the… prisoners, to us,” Dante said, well-groomed shirt tacked in and clean, not a hair out of place on his head. “As in, we will get paid to watch them, turn them in when we get to Altarinport for profit. Fantastic little deal. So I want you, to get back on the ship and stay watch over them.”

“Wait. Why me?” The Northman griped, seeing the prospect of a warm meal slipping through his big fingers.

“You’re more guard material than the girls.” Dante explained, not batting an eye. “I mean, it should’ve been obvious.”

“How about Pale?” Soren asked with a frown.

“I want them alive,” The Captain of the Gallant Dogs deadpanned, not intending to give in an inch.

It was a strong argument.

 

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Glen caught sight of Lith talking with the dwarf, a small surprise since he didn’t know that little shit had boarded the Marquette, the two of them half-hidden behind the stables bordering Whitford’s market. He moved towards the unlikely couple, bumping onto people perusing the various merchant tables, determined to get a closer look at the little rascal. The crowd pretty decent, despite being late in the morning. One of them too young to be either blind, or blind drunk, almost knocking Glen on a stand selling lettuces, as he went past him.

A pretty good effort.

The young man felt his chest on instinct and then his coat’s side pockets, before snapping his head, when he realized his new coin purse was missing, and crying out words, he never expected to voice out loud.

Ever.

“THIEF!” Glen boomed, righteous indignation oozing out of him, the dastardly youth freezing and glancing back with gawking eyes, hearing his exclamation. Surprise turning to horror, when he pointed an accusing finger on him. “THERE! DON’T LET HIM, GET AWAY!”

The youth bolted to a side alley, not willing to oblige him and Glen, a smile on his face, run after the smaller boy, some of the others initially following after them, but quickly giving up. The two young… thieves, being way faster than them.

The thief knew the back alleys sandwiched between Whitford’s houses well enough and he made a fake right turn, as if to run towards the forest, but Glen -who knew Whitford’s alleys equally well- didn’t bite and jumped on him, when the youngster immediately turned to go back towards the busy market and disappear.

They rolled on the ground, a mess of hands, feet and all else jumbled in, mud and dog shit smearing their clothes. They fought for a bit -a wild affair- before the thief kicked his ankle, then his stomach to push him off. He got up, a cursing Glen shoving him from behind to the side wall. Down the little thief went, but just as fast got up again, with Glen smacking him hard on the face, when he tried to jump away; laying him down proper.

Best punch Glen had thrown in a while.

“Gah!” The little shit cried, hand on his bleeding nose, as Glen stooped over him. “You broke muh nose! HELP!”

“Give my purse back,” Glen warned, in his best imitation of Sir Lennox’s threatening voice.

“I don’t have it! Arrgh!” His denial, turning to a howl of pain, when a smirking Glen, grabbed his bleeding nose and pressed hard.

Twisting a bit at the tail end of it.

“Give it up.”

“Okay! Just let go!”

Glen released his grip, wiping his fingers on the kid’s dirty clothes. Younger than him, probably fourteen, with a freckled face, messy brown hair and red swollen eyes.

The latter probably from all the crying.

 

 

He counted his coins, to make sure nothing was missing. Liko, which was the little thief’s name, watching him from the side, all curious.

“Is that a gold Eagle?” Liko asked with a sniffle, trying to wipe his smeared face using a sleeve. “Are you rich?”

“Never seen one?” Glen asked him, square coin in his hand.

“No. Why it has that shape?”

“Don’t know, gold ones are like that.”

“Can I have it?” The thief asked hopefully.

“No.”

“How about a silver?”

Glen started laughing.

“Are you a thief or a beggar?” He asked, looking his way.

“I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten in two days,” The kid explained and the smile faded on Glen’s face. He looked around them, but it wasn’t a busy alley. Not many of those in Whitford.

“Where are you staying?” He asked getting up.

“The street?” Liko replied unsure, on what Glen meant. “Unless Crafton, gets us a place in the stables. Which he won’t do, unless we bring him something.”

Glen nodded, knowing how it went. Then helped him up, grabbing his shoulder to steady him, when Liko staggered on his feet still dazed.

“Is the old man around?” He asked, a moment later.

You didn’t run far from Shroudcoast it seems, Glen thought.

“Crafton? Aye,” Liko said surprised. “Ye know him?”

“You ask too many questions, kid,” Glen replied. “Come, let me get you something to eat. Then we will talk a bit about Crafton.”

 

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“Is that you, Liko?” Crafton asked, walking slowly towards them, leaving the table he was sitting, at the tavern next to Whitford’s docks. His retreating red hair, now more grey than Glen remembered them. His clothes worn out and his tall frame, all skin and bones. The last months probably hadn’t been easy for the old thief.

“Got anything good?” He asked reaching across the street, the oak trees shading them a bit from the onlookers. Crafton’s eyes went over Glen’s face and longsword, staying on his coat now dirty, but clearly expensive and his boots.

Well, the corpse’s technically.

Father’s, Glen repeated the correction, drilling the detail into his head.

“Is there a problem…?” The man paused unsure at first. “Is that you Glen?” As if he’d seen a ghost. He glanced around them and back towards the tavern.

“Hello Crafton,” Glen said, a hard look in his eyes. “Long time, no see.”

Crafton smiled nervously, yellow teeth shown. His heart not in it. “Thought you were dead, lad.”

“Ye know him?” Liko asked surprised. “How?”

“He tried to have me killed,” Glen explained, hand resting on the pommel of his sword confidently.

Crafton took a step back worried at his words.

“That’s not true,” He said, gulping down. “Twas all her, don’t ye put that on me boy!”

“I ain’t your boy.”

“Ye know, I always meant good for ye,” Crafton insisted, sweat on his forehead.

“It’s Glenavon, my name. Glenavon Reeves,” Glen said and Crafton frowned.

“Since when?” He asked, narrowing his eyes, an attempt to see the angle.

“Since always. Right, uncle Crafton?” Glen replied, staring him down.

The old thief licked his lips, thinking on it.

“What ye got there lad?” Crafton asked, that greedy gleam, back in his eye.

“Glen,” He corrected him. “Just like my father.”

“Yer father,” Crafton clicked his tongue, looking at a fascinated Liko watching them, his eyes as big as saucers. “Who was he then?”

“Sir Reeves, was the son of Lord Reeves, of Altarin,” Glen explained.

Crafton whistled, a smirk on his lips.

“Is that so?”

“Aye, but you knew that, right Crafton?”

“My, my… what do you know…?” He paused, rubbed his face with a hand hard, as if to jog his memory. “Aye, it’s all coming back now. Your mother was… a local wench—”

“Your late sister,” Glen patiently corrected him, not offended. Crafton nodded, agreeing to the small amendment.

“Aye, my sister… Evelyn—”

“Who’s that?”

Crafton shrugged his shoulders, faraway look in his washed out blue eyes.

“A girl I liked in me youth. Up North.”

“Go on,” Glen probed him, not wanting to hear it.

“So yer father and her, they… had a thing—”

“Married. You witnessed it,” Glen pushed.

Grafton creased his nose. “They won’t buy that.”

“They will, he wrote a letter, naming me his heir.”

“Where’s the letter?”

“Destroyed, but not afore you read it,” Glen said confidently, the lies well-rehearsed by now.

“Bah, I can barely string two words in common. Numbers I can do better,” Crafton complained, not seeing it flying.

“You don’t have to write it, just say you read it,” Glen insisted.

“Say to whom?” Crafton asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Sir Lennox. My grandfather, over in Altarin.”

“Ye want me to lie to a Lord? Are ye insane lad?” Crafton took a step back.

“Name’s Glen Reeves,” Glen repeated steel in his voice, hand on the pommel of his sword. “My grandfather will know of it. You will vouch on what we just said,” Crafton grimaced, not swayed, but not eager to taste his skill in the long blade. Glen sighed, fishing his purse out of a pocket. Pulled the strings open -all a show- searched for a bit and got a gold Eagle out. It’s glint catching the old thief’s eye. “I will pay you, for your services,” He explained and watched the greed surface on Crafton’s face.

“I will do it,” Liko said quickly surprising them. “For half the amount,” The boy added, to appear reasonable.

“Shut up kid,” Crafton cut him off. “There’s considerable risk involved, in what you’re suggesting Glen.”

“There is, but the payment will make up for it.”

“What about that Cofol bitch? What if she gets involved?” Crafton asked. “I had to disappear myself for a while.”

“She’s dead,” Glen said, with a grimace. “Ye don’t have to worry about her.”

“Dead? Who killed her?” Crafton asked, but then seeing his face took another step back. He’d fear in his eyes. “What happened to you son?” He asked worried.

It was Luthos doing.

Glen crossed his hands on his chest. He caught out the corner of his eye the knight approaching them, coming probably from the Marquette. “I want an answer Crafton. It has to be now. This is a onetime offer, take it, or I’ll find someone else.”

The old thief made to refuse, never partial to dangerous schemes, if it involved him, but then his eyes went to the Marquette, the fancy Barque the talk of the small village and the sound of spurs coming from the approaching knight, clad in his armour, before settling on the square gold coin Glen made a show of dropping into his purse.

Crafton let out a deep sigh, glancing at the gawking and expectant Liko.

“Inasmuch as…” He started and Glen let a gratified smirk settle on his lips.

In the end, greed always trumps fear.