Glen

Lord Reeves

Arguen Garth

Hardir O' Fardor

Lord of Morn Taras

Monarch of Wetull

King beyond the Pale Mountains

Aniculo Rokae

Duath Erin I Menel

Malantur O' Furu

'Rhu Fareno'

Peppermint & Brimstone

A deluge of flames erupted from the diving wyvern's gaping jaws. Uvrycres' scaly neck muscles quivering as they expanded beneath the ornate saddle. The fierce heat surged back, and blasted the manically bellowing mask-wearing Glen's sweaty face and soaked tousled hair.

In half a second it dried everything up underneath and left the Monarch of Wetull all but blind.

The air smelling of ash and brimstone.

Then the torrent of bright-yellow lava punched the ground alike a giant's fist and created a series of secondary chain explosions in an arching line as the Wyvern banked hard to the right in order to cover a bigger area. It blew apart old sycamore and chestnut tree trunks, shattered or even uprooted –before turning to ash- colorful limes and oranges, and vaporized wild berries and mature pineapples. The earth would eventually turn to glass after melting like it had done at the Greenhouse, while the guttural –alike an underwater drill- sound of the wyvern's powerful lungs pumping out the fiery magma-like liquid overwhelmed all other noises reaching Glen's ringing ears.

"Did you get him?" The dazzled at the spectacle of fiery colors Glen asked hoarsely, twisting around on the saddle, his body half hanging sideways in order to catch a glimpse of their target.

Who?

"Larn, gods darn it!" Glen barked, tears running down his irritated eyes when the wyvern dived through the toxic fumes of the burning chaos underneath them.

I'll make another pass.

Giving the still roaring Glen a mouthful of deleterious vapors.

The struggling to draw breath Glen's eyes run from the meadows and the flats around the Greenhouse's outline –where the earth had turned to glass- they had left behind, to the jungle that had been the 'Orchard', most of the latter's outer ring now burning. Smaller burned patches of ground visible around the ancient ruins of the Greenhouse as well.

Some of the burned or smoking piles, clearly belonged to once-living creatures, or even humans.

Let's not jump into hasty conclusions here, he thought, coughing and spitting at the same time.

"Surely you got him," Glen grunted in an animalistic growl, trying to discern the lonely figure of the pale-faced assassin. They had flown right over him and Glen was pretty certain that it was Larn, with the Wyvern supportive of his observation at first, when they had turned to make a second pass of the edge of the woods. "The pale dude? Larn?"

Don't know who that is, the wyvern admitted.

"You told me it was him!" Glen growled furious.

Ahm… you said that! You seemed so sure I went along with it!

"For crying out loud!" Glen griped, punching at the saddle with a fist.

Hey, it was a close thing at least, Uvrycres added making a strange sound inside his gullet as he gathered 'material' to try again.

"Eh. You mean close far as nailing him is concerned," Glen rustled not liking where this was going. "Or whether it was him in the first place?"

Both.

Again, I trust you made the right call my friend.

"Why… you sneaky cretin. Are you serious?" Glen roared, a hand wiping the oily grime from his face after he raised the mask, but he got rudely interrupted afore he could go on a mini-tirade.

Cavalry incoming.

Hit them with a small fireball?

Need to let it cook for a bit more for the bigger fire spells.

Glen tried to locate the riders as they flew around in circles over the burning forest and spotted them at last, a group of twenty coming up the old imperial road. On proud Imperial horses and clad in imperial armour.

"These are my knights!" He blasted the humming to make a fireball wyvern.

Since when?

"They serve at the plaguing palace!"

Fine.

Blast them once and say it was friendly fire?

"What? Cut this crap right away!" Glen snapped and waved his arm at the Rokae, the trumpet blaring as they changed course to ride under the now hovering ten meters over the ground wyvern and the Monarch.

This is such sentimental bullshit! You are supposed to help me work on difficult targets! Uvrycres bellowed in righteous indignation, the wyvern's shriek rattling their horses and almost scattering the Rokae formation.

"Milord! For the love of Uher!" Sir Alan Kirk was heard yelling from atop his horse right under them and waved his arm. "You burned the army's wagons!"

Shit.

"It wasn't me!" Glen snapped back with a hoarse grunt with plenty of spit mixed in. The sorceress, Uvrycres hissed with a shriek to help him out. "It was the witch! All those fires, look at the damage damn it!"

"Aye sir," Sir Alan muffled behind his sober Rokae mask. "Your orders?"

"Head straight up ahead!" Glen ordered them and turned around to see through the dispersing smoke if Larn was still there. Sure enough, or strangely enough, the assassin was still in the open with the trees burning all around him. "It's him Alan!"

"Aye, sire." Alan stood up on the stirrups whilst trying to control his nervous mount and prevent it from bolting. "Who are we talking about?"

"LARN!" Glen barked irate and pointed at the assassin, less than a hundred meters away. The scarred Zilan half-breed grimaced and then stabbed a spear he used as support on the ground. "Go and get him afore he slips away!"

"Right away sire," Sir Alan replied and directed the riders towards the caught in a ring of fire assassin, who appeared unwilling to move for some reason.

Is this a ploy? He wondered a little suspicious. Are you going to melt away without shadows?

"Alan," Glen growled. "Be careful, but see if you can arrest him. Rough him up but don't kill the bastard."

Why bother? Uvrycres asked curious.

"Sir?"

"We don't know where the witch is," Glen snapped, his eyes on the scowled mug of Larn. "But he does, I'm certain."

The wyvern landed some distance from the raging forest fire, the heat adding to the hot summer morning and making it difficult to breathe. The Abarat patrols finally appeared again about ten minutes later, whilst Glen was busy watching the Rokae surrounding the assassin, who for some reason didn't put up any fight at all.

A Zilan officer, of the Abarat Guards dispatched by Lady Vaelenn of Abarat, the local Governor and the King's Judicar, saluted the monarch. Not far behind him, Samak and Hesam arrived atop their mounts. The former Cofol slavers had been dispatched by Glen a couple of weeks earlier, before he decided to personally oversee the operation.

"Lord Garth," the Zilan reported. "We have cleaned up the land bridge and located several survivors. It might take a while to clear the garden from danger."

"What danger?" Glen asked, lowering his field glasses.

"Varg sire. The Governor is on her way to assess the damage," the Zilan replied.

"What was that first thing?" Glen asked preoccupied with the Rokae dealing with the assassin.

"The fabled Mistland werewolf."

Glen breathed out and reached in his satchel for a flask of water. Uvrycres was patrolling the skies searching for hostiles and had taken most of the King's supplies with him.

"How many are we talking about?"

"We are not certain. Close to a hundred?" Get the fuck out of here! "We discovered at least forty carcasses burned or killed. We have eight soldiers dead, a patrol and the sentinels at the land bridge. Four civilians and several injured others. Lady Soletha is here sire," the Zilan replied and Glen took it all in, some details he knew, others he suspected.

A good chunk also being new information.

"Where is she? Soletha."

"Near the old Greenhouse, my Lord."

"Hesam," Glen ordered the approaching Cofol. "I'll need a good horse."

"We brought spares great Caliph. I'll see to find a good one," Hesam replied with a bow of his turbaned head.

"Hold that thought," Glen told him, hearing the Rokae return with the tied with a lot of rope Larn. A second rope looped around the half-breed's neck held by Sir Nuvian. "I need to deal with something else first."

Larn could barely walk and getting dragged behind the Zilan Knight's horse, roped at the neck and with both arms tied behind his back, he actually stumbled to his knees twice trying to keep up. Sir Nuvian didn't appear bothered or willing to slow down his mount.

Glen could understand the Rokae would have preferred the assassin resisting and give them an excuse to cut him down, even against the Monarch's orders. With a grimace Glen unsheathed his sword and then let it rest over his right shoulder.

It was this 'I want to kill you with honor' tendency the knights had and Glen wasn't fully onboard with, despite being also a knight himself.

Though he wasn't really honing his knightly activities nor really cared to do it.

For quite a while now.

Larn still looked gnarly, even more roughed up than six years ago, with his scarred ashen face and eyes, brutally maimed Zilan ears and stained in dirt clothes. A lot of the dirt mixed with gore, especially on the assassin's right side and down his torn up pants and generally worn out garbs.

A face you just can't forget, Glen thought with a shiver and half-instinctively, half-on-purpose, lowered the sword's point when the Rokae shoved Larn towards him, and stabbed the defenseless half-breed below the leaking wound near his liver, nicking the kidneys, before sharply pulling the blade back.

A torrent of black blood spurted out of the cut and Larn faltered forward before he got yanked back with the rope by Sir Nuvian. A collective gasp of surprise escaped from the knights watching the scene unfold.

"My lord," Sir Alan said in the mildest possible protesting voice. "You should name the crime first."

Glen made a gesture for Alan to give him a moment.

"Take this opportunity to reflect on the murder of Sir Nyvorlas," Glen proceeded to retort in a sarcastic manner as Larn was helped to his feet. It was a rehash of sorts of the half-breed's words to him all those years back. The motherfucker hasn't made a sound yet, but kept his cold eyes on the sweaty Monarch. "And poor Marcus, who was a good friend. Lest not forget trying to kill me thrice. You are a criminal, I believe this was the term you had used."

"Nothing changed. Since you want to bring it up… one of those times was a contract, the other revenge for what you did," Larn rustled. "And the men mentioned… you killed in a sense, using me." Glen raised the sword and aimed it at Larn's face. "But… killing me now is indeed the right call. Go ahead," the assassin added with a grimace of pain.

Glen pursed his mouth, an eye assessing the mood of the men around them, with most Rokae impossible to figure out given their silver masks –although Glen knew no knight found honor in cutting down unarmed opponents. Especially given what had happened when he had ordered the mercenaries executed. Hesam with Samak as usual stood completely indifferent and fully supportive of the Monarch's actions.

Solid pair them two, Glen thought.

"Why surrender?" He asked opting not to be influenced by the half-breed, and reminding himself he had all the leverage at this point.

"I didn't," Larn rustled. "Just couldn't fight… and no one can outrun a wyvern or your horses."

Nah. There must be another reason.

"I don't believe you," Glen retorted.

"You shouldn't," Larn replied sounding tired and probably about to collapse given that his pants had soaked in fresh blood. "Get this charade over with Reeves. You've no morals at all… what are you doing here? This is rather embarrassing," he said in a raspy voice.

A couple of Rokae murmured not familiar with the surname and the dismissive tone, but Glen puffed his cheeks out not too-bothered with the half-breed's taunt and then ordered in a casual voice. "The day I nuisance myself wit yer opinion exists only in your head. Patch this murderous creep up. I need to talk with him and he's about to bleed out."

Well, the honest truth of the matter was that Glen had been bothered quite a bit with Larn calling him out in front of everyone. Largely because this gnarly murderer hadn't lied.

RRRRREEEEEE

Glen watched the wyvern making circles over the burning portion of the Orchard. Sometimes zipping over the stream of soldiers arriving from Abarat, to head as far back south as the land bridge cutting through the Acid Lake and as far to the north as the peaks of Desert's Watch, where the caves that hid the witches tombs where.

He shared a meal with the local officers, always followed by Hesam and Samak, while Sir Alan Kirk made certain Larn was offered some medical attention. Glen wanted to return near Soletha's group of healers, but apparently the half-breed carried a lot of injuries to be moved immediately.

"A whole caravan," he told the Zilan officer Ivaraen, an Abarat local. "On the road east of the city."

"Three families of humans, almost forty people in total," Ivaraen expounded. "Merchants heading for Taras."

"Are Varg roaming the forests?"

"The Varg were a mythical race known from the old tales, Hardir. Used in cautionary manner to keep children from misbehaving. Like a Troll. Has Hardir ever laid eyes on a Troll?"

"Yes," Glen replied taking the officer by surprise.

The Monarch gave the bewildered Ivaraen a moment to get his wits back and then pointed at a pile of burned or butchered werewolf bodies the guards had gathered from the fields. "I've also seen these two-legged wolves around Rain-Minas."

"It's surprising." Ivaraen replied numbly.

"So what, they migrated? Opted to use the roads to make better time?" Glen grunted and secured his helm on the horse's saddle. His head had started boiling proper and just couldn't stand wearing it outside. The Zilan stood back while Glen cleaned his face with a towel and pushed his mostly grey-white hair back. "Never seen a human up close Ivaraen?"

"I have, apologies Hardir," the Zilan replied. "Perhaps a few Varg did come here after all to answer your previous query. There have been rumors in the past."

Obviously.

"You think this bastard knows more?" Glen queried with a glance at the silent Larn. Ivaraen shrugged his shoulders in response and Glen went another way. "Any weapons on him, other than that spear?"

"Six bolts in his boots and some long nails on the weapon's harness sheaths, a pair of pliers and a skinning knife. Also this," the officer said and gave Glen a leather box with a fastener at the lid. "It's a food box. Adventurers of old carried it."

Glen cracked the lid open and moved about one of the two meat cubes he found inside with the help of his finger. "Pork?"

"Tastes like lamb. But it is flesh."

Fuck's sake.

"How do you know?" Glen asked raising his eyes and Ivaraen blinked unsure.

"Ah, I ate one just now? To… check."

"You can tell this easily?" Glen murmured, wanting to keep an open mind, and give him the benefit of the doubt. The Zilan nodded.

"My mother used to keep them in the house as treats, Hardir."

"As all mothers do," Glen retorted wryly. "Are there a lot of civilized cannibals in Abarat? Give me an estimate."

"I don't know. Not many would be my guess. It was a rough couple of centuries," Ivaraen replied with a frown sensing the Monarch's disapproval.

Not many. Had I asked about local whores, this wouldn't have been half-bad an answer.

Now it just feels uncomfortable.

"Milord," Sir Alan said interrupting them. "We are ready to move towards the Greenhouse camp."

"Give me a bit of space," Glen ordered and returned the food box to Ivaraen. He then walked near the sitting Larn and sat across from him on a folded blanket. It forced Glen to maintain a difficult posture that bothered his back.

"I need that box returned," Larn warned and Glen chortled with a pained expression.

"I'll trade you. The box of horrors for the sneaky witch's whereabouts."

Larn pursed his mouth.

"Fine, a humane and lighter sentence," Glen added. "Say, fifty years in Morn Taras dungeon tower. I'll be dead by then probably and wouldn't have to worry about you."

"Assuming you are not lying, which is a very tall ask for your likes, if you take me to Goras," Larn replied raspingly. "I'll be dead by nightfall."

"I have a pretty secure castle. Big walls and thick doors with expensive locks on them. Barred with sturdy padlocks."

This time Larn cracked a thin leer which was annoying. "Spare your time Reeves. I won't tell you anything."

"Because this witch is a pupil? Her sweet daughter?"

Larn stood back with a frown.

"Interesting."

"You think? What's your taste in torture? Will that refresh your memory?" Glen taunted. "I could start with the fingers—"

"You'll waste your time," Larn rustled cutting him off. "And I'm already missing one."

Eh. Glen believed him. "Are there more Varg inside the woods?"

Larn grimaced in discomfort, but said nothing for a while. "Nym knows," he finally told the impatient Monarch. Glen had started cramping up.

He shifted position to stare in Larn's gaunt face.

"Aha. Where's Draug?"

"In the woods."

Larn absolute tone gave Glen the impression the other assassin wasn't about to move away from there.

Ever.

"She sent him then? Who else?"

Larn's eyes drilled into Glen's head. "You don't know?"

"I know Din and I assumed the other dude was Draug," Glen replied and forced himself to stand. "Flix, you. But I'm missing the others still. I heard a story recently about your merry group."

"There are no others," Larn replied in that same tomb-like voice. "I've killed them all. If you see Nym, tell her to look for Labriel in the small glade near the river's banks, where the trail turns south."

Glen rubbed his forehead with a couple of fingers deep in thought. "Who is she?"

"Nym knows," Larn replied and set his jaw.

"I can order her to stand down," Glen finally said, as he realized he had stepped into an old feud. This barrel of secrets is full of rotting turds.

"You could," Larn replied with another grimace of discomfort. "But you won't. On the scales it shall always look better for you if I'm gone and she's your friend."

Glen puffed out and gave Larn a knowing stare. "Would I be wrong?"

"Always assume you are wrong beforehand."

"Dude, you're a ruthless killer and I'm told, likely a cannibal on top! That's what I call disturbing."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Others find the company of a crazy killer equally disturbing," Larn replied with a small pause and turned his cold stare to the sky in order to watch the wyvern fly over their heads afore adding making increasingly more sense than Glen had ever expected. "Frequently, those passing judgement on both have savored the same tastes as myself, be it in the past or even now, out of prying eyes."

"Keep your eyes on him at all times," Glen warned his Rokae. "He's slippery. Now, we'll move out to see our healer," he added and turned to Samak while Hesam went to fetch his horse. Samak returned Glen's –now refilled with water- leather flask and the Monarch gulped down most of it in a go.

"Damn, it's fucking hot," he told Samak and tossed the flask back to him. "Get me some more water from the wagons."

"Right away Caliph," Samak replied with a deep bow and Glen nodded with a smack of his lips. He watched the Rokae move towards their horses as well, then the guards bringing up supplies from the land bridge and a scowling kid carrying two heavy bags on each shoulder following after the last mule-driven wagon. The Monarch frowned, as the youngster wore an eye-patch and appeared to carry at least two weapons that he could see. A large expensive sword on his back and a smaller one strapped at his waist under a muddy coat too-big for him.

Something about that urchin felt off to Glen.

The sword, it seems familiar.

"Hey," Glen told the returning Samak. "Bring that kid here."

"What kid Caliph?" Samak asked respectfully and Glen span around to show him, but no one now walked behind the wagon. Its driver –a Zilan wearing a hat- went past the checking to find where the kid had disappeared to Monarch and his entourage, and towards the assembly area in order to park near the other supply wagons Vaelenn had sent from Abarat.

"Caliph?" Samak asked with a glance at the strong sun, as if he feared Glen was hallucinating.

"Search the wagons," Glen ordered with a glare. "Make certain you know everyone has reason to be here."

"As you wish," Samak replied and signed for a couple of Abarat guards to follow him, but hard as they tried, they found no sign of the one-eyed kid anywhere.

-

Eight hours later

The ruins of the Greenhouse

Monarch's camp

Glen dismounted and offered the reins to Hesam. He waited for the Rokae to secure the tied up Larn on a pole, right in front of the two erected pavilions. Built inside the footprint of the Greenhouse –the northwest corner- after the soldiers had cleared the debris, they offered some protection from the strong summer sun. Much of the grass had burned out and the black soil surrounding the outline of the old building stood empty on all its sides. A large fence had been marked from construction once the material arrived. Glen wanted the garden to have a permanent military presence henceforth, as merely guarding the land bridge had proved to be inadequate.

The once glassy surface of the building's floor area itself was now thoroughly cracked and broken up. Roots had sprung from the ground, bringing dark earth on the surface and some telltale signs of further growth, even vegetation.

Soletha appeared bruised, but mostly unharmed. Her pupil, the healer Mylael, walked with the help of a cane mourning for the loss of her Nimra lioness –one brought to Morn Taras to mate with Raro the previous year- and Morthil –Vela's friend from the market- was missing an arm and a leg, but breathed irregularly drugged through the nostrils, still in a critical condition. Soren had taken the most damage out of everyone apparently. The initially stressed at the news Glen was quickly reassured the Nord was fine, and he assumed the nearby Soletha had fought hard to keep him alive.

A thirsty Luthos fell asleep under a tree and drunk a deer's piss in his stupor, mistaking it for warm green tea.

"I had help, Hardir," Soletha told the contemplating silly rhymes but thankful Glen, whilst cleaning her arms from the blood in a bucket.

"Figured as much. Plenty of magic was used here, I'm told," Glen retorted stiffly. "We found over thirty Varg burned to a crisp. Not the kind a damage a lit torch will do. Not all of them the same ages also. So plenty of mysterious crap. Now then. Where is the culprit?"

"Your culprit was a young migrating pack," Soletha commented. "Or were you speaking of the healer?"

"Soletha," Glen grunted warningly. "I'm no fool. You are well aware."

"We can't possibly know who brought the Varg here Hardir," Soletha retorted and Glen grimaced, but opted not to argue with the old Zilan cow in front of everyone. The Monarch walked near Soren –they had the giant Nord laid on a blanket and when they had run out of bandages, the healers opted to use a plain sheet to cover the rest of his wounds. Soren even had bite marks on his face that now stood swollen and leaking blood.

"Fought with a big cat?" Glen jested touching the Northman's shoulder after he knelt next to him.

"Sir Glen? Hah. No cats. Wolves of sorts. Worse than them wild dogs," Soren replied groggily opening his eyes to look at the smiling tensely Glen. "The witch helped us."

"Uhm. A witch you say. What did she look like?"

"Like Zola with big ears? Pretty," Soren managed a pained grin. "She made my skin burn. Like Sulphur."

"She burned your skin? Because I don't want to go down the other route mate."

"To heal, Soletha said," Soren corrected him.

"Right. Where did she go?"

"She went to look for their horses," Soren replied tiredly and closed his eyes again. "She made my skin burn," the giant Nord murmured before he started snoring.

Glen stood up and puffed his cheeks out. He then stared at the watching Soletha.

"You heard that? Of course ye did. Them big ole ears are not just for show."

"He's feverish," Soletha replied in a disapproving tone.

"Cut the crap," Glen snapped angrily and Soletha's stare turned even more austere. "That won't work either," Glen warned her. "Although, I can see the appeal."

The old Zilan healer's melons were pressing against the thin fabric and it is a fight they'll sooner rather than later win, he thought trying to maintain eye contact with her.

"Lord Hardir!" Soletha protested with a blush.

"Lady Soletha, where is the witch?" Glen growled, afore he could control himself.

"A healer can use different spells, right Mylael?" Soletha replied.

"Yes mistress."

Shut up, you little lying minx.

"Any Zilan can and some even say, our Monarch dabbles in it occasionally," Soletha added sugary and Glen lodged his tongue behind his upper lip in frustration.

"A Mori-Zilan healer," he grunted. "Dabbling in the occasional fire spell?"

Does it say 'idiot' on my plaguing forehead!

"What is Hardir searching for?" Soletha queried after a small nod of agreement. "Each person is different, one's sins don't transfer to another."

Glen shook his head, having had enough advice thrown at him for a day and turned to walk back to his prepared open air quarters, but paused to look back at the watching him intently Soletha.

"Was her name Moira? Just throwing shit to see whether they stick," he asked and the old priestess and Sinya Goras' official –quite the distance away now from her post- furrowed her blue brows.

"No. Her name is Lenar, of the Coal Isle," Soletha replied.

Get the fuck out of here, Glen thought, a spasm distorting his face, but managed to wrestle back control under Soletha's scrutiny.

No blasted way.

Hours later, after the scorching sun had yielded its place to the two full moons in the night sky, a contemplative Glen sat beneath the shaded wooden pavilion, observing the half-breed as he slept with his back against the pole.

While the fires still burned going away from them, split into two big fronts heading north towards river Marionel's sources and southwest towards the lake, their red light glimmered faintly on the horizon against distant peaks. A caravan had arrived from Abarat and immediately parked behind the guards' camp that now stood adjacent to the ruins of the ancient Greenhouse, where the Monarch had built its field quarters.

Citizens had come to help douse the fire, hunt down the Varg and help the wounded. The latter's number ever increasing with each new revelation of the pack's destructive passage. As for the pack itself, other than a couple of brief sightings dealt swiftly by the patrolling Uvrycres, the werewolves appear to have gone away.

Or wiped out.

Glen was of the second opinion.

He lit his engraved thin pipe and inhaled some quality Redleaf while Sir Alan gathered all reports left behind by the departing Ivaraen and Lady Vaelenn his boss. They had gone to greet the Abarat citizens, healers, hunters and merchants, the majority of them Zilan that had come from the city. Glen could see the lightstones marking the old imperial road in the dark, set up by the Zilan on poles that snaked south towards the lake under the red hellish backdrop.

"Vaelenn seems capable," Glen commented blowing smoke out, thinking of the one-armed Judicar. The wyvern that had mutilated her years back was heard trumpeting from a distance, still hunting for the scattered Varg.

"Classic Zilan bureaucrat milord," the Lorian knight replied, a former officer of the guards in Rida and the distant Duchy of Raoz, Alan was approaching thirty now. He still had most of his hair and a face without too-many wrinkles. He looked younger than the Monarch who was almost twenty five now. "Any bureaucrat. They are tougher than nails."

Or thereabouts.

"What was that about Lady Olonelis wanting a leave of absence?" Glen queried sucking at the end of the pipe, given to him near Rida from the willowy for his age Gish Flix, a retired assassin of Nym's Circle just like the sleeping Larn.

Rest in peace, crazy Gish, Glen thought with a brief smile, cut short as he'd noticed a newcomer talking with Soletha and Mylael across the flat –though now strangely covered with more plants than in the morning- ancient floor. The distant figure –the ruins outline that was the final floor of the Greenhouse extended for over a hundred meters on each side- barely visible as she stood near Soletha's fire.

Soren laughed, always picking the wrong moment and the small group –the only group with permission to remain near the Monarch's cordoned quarters- joined the big Nord to relieve some of the stress. Morthil hadn't made it despite the healer's efforts and Vela was about to receive some pretty terrible news from the small circle of healers.

So perhaps the big Nord was in the right to take their minds off of it, Glen thought and realized he'd missed Sir Alan's reply. The knight repeated it, as everyone had learned to adjust their behavior around the Monarch's skittish attention span.

"Darunia is in Ani Ta-Ne, there's some gossip about her in Abarat," Alan said and shrugged his shoulders. "And Phalanx Leader Roran."

"Mm," Glen murmured and stooped to untie the leather boots from his tired feet. He also removed Angrein's fake metal toe from his maimed foot and placed it down. "Push that bucket here Alan. I need to soak the ole toe in it a bit. It's been killing me all day."

Ah. Nice, he decided after he lowered both feet inside the lukewarm scented water, not minding for his pants. Whale leather is supposed to be fine inside plaguing water!

"Master Laedan's prototype capsized in Hardir's Port drowning five," Alan reported reading from the pack of scrolls with messages from Goras, as palace work seemed to follow Glen around tighter than his own shadow.

Fucking disturbing shite.

"Laedan amongst them?"

"He used human workers for the test."

"Of course he did. What happened?"

"The interconnecting bridge platform cracked and it went down like a bag of lead balls sire. It's in the shallows fortunately," Alan elucidated with a small pause. Glen gulped down and then sucked on the edge of the pipe in an attempt to compose himself. "Also—"

He stopped the knight raising his free hand. "Is it something pleasant?" Glen queried calmly and heard the sentry barking for someone to identify himself in the dark.

"It's debatable milord," Alan admitted.

"Let's debate it some more on the morrow," Glen offered in a lame lordly manner and then puffed out a lot of smoke to give his words more gravitas. He was also in the process of finding a better spot for his arse on the plain wood divan to stretch his hurting back and it took him a minute to discover that placing his feet on the lip of the large heavy bucket for purchase would do it. The Monarch relaxed to enjoy the warm summer night, the night breeze tickling the wet soles of his feet and a spicy but pleasant smell came from the cracked –once granite hard quartz- floor of the old ruin they had camped inside.

Glen went to close his eyes, but cracked them open noticing that the ancient floor was now covered with flowers. They had sprouted on the spreading roots, out of the chasms created where the earth had spilt out and in the pale moonlight the buds appeared to be a deep red color with touches of black.

Small dots of orange and white on the thick petals.

A bard from the nearby camp started playing a lute for the visiting Governor Vaelenn, melodic notes and rhymes in the Zilan tongue dancing with the breathing air. Alan's armour creaked as he stood up, the knight's scabbard clanging on the divan across from Glen and the eight meters away seemingly asleep or dead given his poor color Larn, cracked one gleaming eye open.

"I was given permission," a female voice said to the knight and a comely Mori-Zilan paused about three meters away from the relaxed Glen. The Monarch angled his head left so he could spot with one eye the Abarat sentry 'guarding' that approach beyond their visitor's silhouette. Sure enough Glen saw him standing there talking with Mylael without a care in the world, whilst the dexterous Monarch used the other eye to keep the Zilan with the long white hair in full view.

Her dirty cloak and the leather outfit underneath it. The stained skirt riding high over the knee and the feet dressed in a pair of muddy sandals that had seen better days. Lots of dark skin exposed between the skirt's hem line and the sandals, a good amount between the exposed waist and the start of the front-laced leather bustier top.

"Let her through," Glen told the nervous Alan and pointed with the pipe on the cheap wood divan the knight had used. "Take a seat," he told the unknown helpful healer and friend of the tensely watching them from afar Soletha.

The shapely Mori-Zilan, not as wiry as Valydra but quite taller and well-packed in all the right places, walked past the tensed Alan Kirk, reached the divan situated across from the one the Monarch used inside the roomy pavilion, and plopped down with a small gasp, making sure to keep the bucket between them.

Many soft parts moved when that mature bottom hit the divan, the laced front of the leather bustier creaked, tied cords straining to the point of breaking and the healer's long curly hair were guided behind her shoulders with a casual wave of her hand.

A severe tick appeared on Glen's face but the Monarch puffed a lot of smoke out to get his brain working again. He had the dagger at the near to avoid falling for cheap magic tricks and Soletha had just given him a lecture about how 'all Zilan know simple stuff'.

Glen had little trust on the dagger's loyalties and even less on Soletha being truthful.

All Gods damn it, he thought maintaining a professional expression through sheer will. That's too much bloomin' tit squeezed in there for the space available! What are you doing woman?

"Hardir O' Fardor; may the goddess hear our thoughts and prayers. Return her kindness and offer salvation," the strange healer said in singing Imperial sounding genuinely surprised. Maybe Lenar is just one of those common Zilan names, like John or Billy, he thought pursing his mouth in the attempt to remain mysterious just in case he was indeed wrong and not to appear an illiterate plebe.

If she's a Mori-Zilan then she's of the provinces, he immediately scolded himself. Given she's a Zilan, probably the opposite of Jinx.

Turn the tables by going where she can't follow and make her uncomfortable.

She'll crack like an oyster.

He reached under the divan and plucked out one of the many flowers that had sprouted out of the ground. The flower's stem oily and with tiny thorns prickling his skin.

"Soletha told me you asked for this healer," she added with a flinch watching his fingers violently crash the flower and then letting it drop.

He had it imagined more impactful in his head.

Anyways, moving on.

"Soren is my friend," Glen replied a little annoyed some of the petals had stuck on his palm, but appreciating the heady aroma produced from the pulverized bud. It was much stronger than the burning Redleaf. "You have the Monarch's gratitude."

"The big Nord must have had such an interesting journey to reach us," she said a little more relaxed with his welcome. Soletha had probably warned her to be careful around him, since female Zilan were pretty rude around strangers. Even with Glen, unless they worked inside the palace or wanted something from him. "I'm certain you are well aware of."

"Of course," Glen replied, although he'd no idea what she was talking about. Whatever Soren had told her was probably nonsense, or words fueled by delirium.

"I couldn't help Morthil," she added sadly.

Glen didn't really care about the recently deceased Zilan, but nodded not to appear callous. Healers were sensitive with their patients. He rubbed his stained with flower juices hand on the side of his pants and the healer of the lost Isles spoke again, keeping her large Zilan eyes on him.

Shiny black and dots of silver dominating the curious orbs. Her stare hypnotic.

"It only comes out at night, when it sprouts above the earth," the healer said and Glen grimaced, as the aroma had spread to his clothes. "It lives until the morning and dies when the sun is fully up. To find it you must search the dark and follow its scent. It mostly grows inside caves and people use it to make healing potions. It is very rare."

"Doesn't seem like it tonight. Seen some folk walk all over them."

"Alas, not everyone knows their usefulness. The seeds were already there and the wyvern's magic brought them out."

Nah. You lie… prettily. I'll give ye that.

"What is it? The scent?" He asked curious.

"Peppermint with a touch of lemon," she replied and smiled. Perfect teeth and bright white canines' splitting a coal black face. More tanned than pure dark, her skin was. Dirty and it showed on her gathered under the divan legs, where the sweat had washed some of the grime away from her thighs. Had Glen not seen a real Mori-Zilan up close, or knew of the dark-skinned Zola, he would have been mistaken.

"Where did you get it? The scar on your foot?" she asked breaking his thoughts. Glen stared at his maimed toes.

"In a lion's den."

"Hardir hunts lions," the healer blurted out disapprovingly and then sighed. "They are just big cats with cute teeth."

Nothing cute about Raro's choppers.

"It was an accident," Glen murmured and slotted the pipe at the side of his mouth annoyed. He stared at the nervous healer and then smiled. "You can use the water to clean yer feet too. It's dirty but nicely scented and has a lot of soap in it."

Lenar stared at the bucket unsure and Glen heaved it with his legs to slide it over to her side.

"I shouldn't use the Monarch's water. It's too intimate."

Not where I'm from, it isn't.

It's a bucket. You pass it around.

"I insist," Glen said puffing smoke out of his nostrils. "Let the skin breathe girl."

"Hmm. My feet are too dirty, your grace," Lenar warned, not against the idea.

"You haven't seen mine before."

"Oh," Lenar chuckled not expecting the quip.

Glen puffed a couple of pretty decent smoke circles out and shrugged his shoulders while the white rings travelled towards the ceiling of the pavilion. The smiling healer removed her sandals, caked mud falling from the cords, revealing real gems underneath. Far from an inexpensive pair for sure, he thought trying to keep his eyes away but failing again and again.

"Hardir is different than the stories," Lenar said, merrily splashing her feet inside the bucket. "Or the elder's tales."

"Tales have lies woven in them," Glen murmured, remembering Emerson's words and the memory soured his mood a bit, as he still hadn't solved Ziba-Ra's problem. He glanced at the Jackal's sword, resting inside its scabbard on the same chair as his outer weapons harness and then returned his amber eyes on the healer's feet now resting close with each other, in a modest manner, right at the lip of the bucket just like his earlier. Painted familiar toes and very-tanned Zilan skin, a series of scribbled calligraphic words tattooed down her shapely ankle –not visible earlier, married with intricate patterns and contours peeking under the soles of her wet feet.

The memory returned so fast it could have toppled him over the other side of the divan, had he not been so quick to react.

Or not in this case.

A mysterious veiled woman covered from head almost to the toes in a sheer white mesh, riding a beautiful ashen destrier in the fields before the walls of Rida, watching the Prince's men talk with the city's defenders. Tanned small feet encased in shiny, tall and strappy heeled sandals. An exotic sensual singing voice speaking in common and a pair of half-hidden silver and gold eyes looking right through him.

'Winfield's life is forfeited,' the mounted sorceress had declared and she had been right of course.

Glen stood back on the divan, still staring at the sword's pommel and felt the witch's eyes raise from tending to her feet to stare at his profile.

And there she is, the dagger's sinister voice whispered coming alive.

"What tales?" 'Lenar' asked hoarsely, forgoing all formalities and Glen realized she was prone to making mistakes. Her personality always spilling out of her clever disguises. The harsh mistress and the vile spouse, the naïve Cofol healer and the valiant girl from the lost Isles.

So many things packaged in one.

No matter how far away, once added up…

They all become parts of you.

"The Zilan never destroyed the realm," Glen said. "It was all pure chance and random acts of nature, because such is the manner of things. We are not heroes, but common creatures trying to survive and justify our actions. Sometimes we are petty, others just plain wrong. We run to escape the sins of our past, straight into bigger problems. In order to not burden ourselves with simple tasks we take on even more responsibilities. I understand greed and ambition, but pure evil I can't condone. Can I really see it, though? Evil. Still, the tales persist… what is truth? What is the lie?"

"What else?" she asked groggily.

"Magic never left this realm. People just forgot all about it, most people." Glen continued. "Some outright lied. Most tales are like that. Nicely told untruths. Like the one about another Lenar who perished in a fire back in Rida. Aye, it's the simplest answer in the end. The one that solves you the most intricate riddles. Most decent crooks learn this simple fact at a young age."

He sniffed at the air, the breeze bringing the sorcerer's pleasant scent to his nostrils.

Coal paint, lime and tangerine oils mixed with incense burning.

Peppermint at the near and brimstone from above.

Unlike any other creature of Wetull, he had never feared her.

"You hold the dagger," Aelrindel noted and Glen turned to look at her with a cocky smirk. "I can still cast now that I'm aware. It is my dagger."

We need to talk about that.

"There's a wyvern parked right above our heads. He hates hovering because it's taxing, and honestly quite boring," Glen countered and the sorceress closed her fist extinguishing the small flame burning there. If it hurt her, she didn't show it. "Why risk a visit?"

"I wanted to save him," Aelrindel said and the listening Larn groaned in frustration at the witch's unraveled, poorly thought-out plan.

"Surely, you knew it'll be nigh impossible to fool me a second time?"

"Why not? You're a mere human and not a wyvern," the sorceress retorted.

Glen furrowed his brows annoyed.

"I wasn't fooled at all, merely played along," he grunted.

To get into yer pants.

"That would be quite shameful," Aelrindel bristled in disapproval, as if she was his mother, probably showing her years there. "I liked Rhu better than you," she added with a pout, losing all those gains and devolving into a teenager again.

Still it rattled Glen a bit.

Her scorn.

"Hah-ha!" Larn burst out laughing. "You're fucked!"

"Just so we are clear, I don't like him at all," a scowled Glen replied in a threatening manner.

"He's the only family I've left," she countered sadly and Glen grimaced a little affected by the raw emotion spilling out, then raised a finger to scratch the area behind his left ear thoroughly.

"Whilst I find it difficult to see the resemblance. Any, even with all this paint," he told her raspingly. "I can respect the sentiment of a familial bond, as a devout family man at heart."

Eh.

It was a calculated reply.

"You'll let him go?" A stunned Aelrindel asked stooping over her knees with renewed interest and Glen pursed his mouth firmly, pretending to think about it for a long moment. Sneaky eyes looking in the general direction of the comely sorceress, just below her chin that is.

Down the long neck and up to the swell of her trapped but fighting back valiantly breasts.

Good grief.

The struggle is real!

"You are asking for too much, with very little leverage," Glen started after clearing his throat, talking slow to keep her focused and invested in his words. "But I'm willing to listen."

"Listen the twofaced cretin says. Oras hells!" Larn hissed now irate and Glen signed discretely for Sir Alan to shut the half-breed up with cloth or club.

"You'll lie to me?" Aelrindel sort of repeated what she had told him all those years back. She was wrong back then of course, but strangely right on the money now.

Oh, well, the seriously aroused Glen decided.

"Sometimes, but not this time," he told her in a truthful manner and a sudden distant crackle erupted from the skies. The wind picked up, clouds gathered and a thunderstorm came not half an hour later out of nowhere.

For an arse-clenching minute the startled Glen seriously thought the lighting might come down on him.

But it didn't.

-

A day later

Nym

"Blood in the soil," the skittish Arachne hummed and Nym paused still feeling sickly from trekking such a distance across the continent via the in-between realms. She reached to touch the moist trunk with a shaking hand, the remnants of the sudden downpour that had doused the fires and saved the garden still lingering on the trees. "Much death and turmoil!"

Nym run her fingers down the soaked bark and found the hole where it had cracked against its will. Where it had allowed for a sharp blade to penetrate it. She knelt to feel the muddy soil at the base, near the exposed by the downpour roots, sniffed it sharply and discovered the hint of iron.

The scent of blood.

Szilhali had climbed up the rotting spiked head and sunk her forward legs into the dead Varg's eyes to reach the decaying brain behind it. Nym stood up and walked towards another pool of washed out watery blood, what remained of the ravaged body unrecognizable, but for parts of the clothes and a bloody pendant of Oras still lodged in what was a gore and mud covered piece of spine.

"Dar Eherdir," Szilhali reported and Nym clenched her jaw tightly. "Witch's magic," the Arachne continued while Nym retrieved the pendant and placed it inside her satchel. "And something else."

Nym stood up. "What else?" She asked not in the mood for riddles. A twig snapped and the wind brought to her a familiar clammy scent. Sweat mixed with dirt in his fur, reeking with fear. "Come forth, Bragur," Nym ordered the Varg austerely and he came out of the bushes. Not her little cub anymore, but nowhere near his father despite what he believed.

Some smarts mean nothing, without valor.

Had Bragur been born in Mistland, the other Varg would have torn him apart.

You need a lot of brains and equal amounts of strength to make it.

"I came… hrr… too late," he growled keeping his distance, despite now towering over the silent Nym.

"Where's Labriel?" She asked him and the werewolf frowned not expecting the query.

"I don't… hrr… know."

"She was here," Nym insisted. "With them. Stop playing dumb and answer me!"

"Big group, working together. Zilan and humans," Bragur argued sounding confused and even terrified.

"The real Hulanor sold Nym out?" Szilhali touted merrily. "Find the lackeys to erase doubt?"

Nym stared at the ravaged pieces of broken bones, part of a half-eaten skull buried in the mud and grimaced. A crushed curl of hair still attached on it. Stupid girl.

It's your fault, Aenymriel accused her and Nym snapped angrily, forcing Bragur to retreat several meters and cower behind his staff.

"Where is Ralnor?" Nym hissed at the heavy-breathing Varg.

"Hardir's people took him," Bragur replied hoarsely. "He won't be spared."

"Easy to convince greedy Hardir to have the half-breed killed," the Arachne sang soothingly, leaping from Draug's mangled head to the ground and twirling around. "Offer cherished gift to make him thrilled."

"What about the witch?" Nym asked averting her stare from the gruesome sight.

"What does the witch possess, Hardir doesn't already have in excess?" Szilhali wondered aloud with a drawn out shriek.

There was something back there. Between those two, Aenymriel whispered and Nym let out an angry snort not wanting to listen to her nonsense. Still her alter ego continued repeating what she had felt that night inside the Monarch's private quarters. Lord Elas forbidden old books, her younger self had read eons back.

Soul bonds weaved with witch-thread, forged to endure and persist through all times. All different futures and all different endings. What a child's sorrow preserved in canvas, still lingering and reflected beyond our reality, like a scene captured on a liquid mirror's surface.

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