2. Dead man's gold (2/2)

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Glen

Dead man's gold

part II

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The corpse glared at him with one milky eye, the other an empty black cavern. The fish had eaten part of the man’s face down to his neck. It was hard to look at him in the light of the moon, because he had frozen in death, part of his half-eaten black lips pulled back in a grotesque smile. Glen got up groaning, his knee a hot cauldron of pain and looked around for his bag. He stumbled eyes tearing, waves soaking his pants and boots, eyes darting away from the drowned man. He located his bag, hefted it on his shoulder, then walked slowly towards the dinghy and pulled it partially out of the water.

He never stopped listening for sounds coming from the docks. No one had seen him fortunately, but it was a matter of minutes before someone came that way. This was a small island.

I could use the bloody boat, he thought. Sail around Conant’s Refuge towards Cliffson Cay. With little luck, he’d be at Bayspell before morning. Of course people knew him there, sort of. He owed money to a couple of taverns, had a Lord or two after his arse but he’d the coin to remedy all his problems now.

It was a good plan considering he was hard-pressed for time to think of anything better.

His eyes returned on the corpse. The dead guy had a fantastic pair of leather riding boots on his feet. Wore a fancy, also leather, redingote jacket with silver buttons on the right side. Lordly attire gone to waste. Glen’s old coat had eight holes, three of them med, none of them for buttons. He smacked his lips, hand rubbing his stinging knee. Looked at the boat, then at the corpse. The dead man wore a sword belt, the blade still in the scabbard. Golden handle ending at a beautiful horse-shaped pommel. A leather satchel strapped on the other shoulder.

Whatever you were, Glen decided. You were important.

Getting the dead man on the dinghy turned out more difficult than he’d envisioned. He managed it huffing and puffing in the third try, then pushed it again in the water and climbed on himself almost toppling over. Drowning because he was laden with gold, while trying to recover a well-dressed corpse, would have been the ultimate slight to the Gods. Old and New.

Glen didn’t drown. He opened the small sail instead, grabbed the rudder and headed towards the open sea. Ten minutes later, with Colant’s Refuge lost in the darkness, he remembered that Crafton was the navigator, himself a glorified rower. The moon shone brilliantly over his head, not a cloud in the sky, the weather surprisingly good after the storm but he couldn’t see anything but the sea. He’d no idea how to reach Bayspell by himself.

Abrakas take me, he cursed.

This was the stupidest plan he’d ever hatched.

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The morning found him sleeping in the dinghy, half frozen, legs and arms stiff as boards, soaked to the bone, face red and eyes burning. He looked like a corpse and that said something considering he’d a real stiff lying right next to him.

And dark blue waters all around them.

“Well, at least we lost those Crafton ruffians huh?”

The corpse’s still smile called him an idiot. He’d turned a strange shade of green and blue with white spots here and there during the night. A strong cadaverous stench came from the fast rotting body.

“I’ll take the jacket,” Glen told him. “And the boots. Hope you don’t mind.”

The corpse answered him with that same freakish grin.

A decent northern wind kept pushing the dinghy some place and he locked the rudder to examine the corpse in the light of day. The man was aged between forty and fifty. Black thinning hair, square jaw far as he could see as he was missing a lot of flesh, robust despite his age. A Lorian probably. He’d a golden brooch shaped like a shield on the left side of his jacket. Glen unclasped it and gave it a closer look. It wrote something on it, but he couldn’t tell what it was since he couldn’t read. A black stallion decorated the center of the shield.

He had to break both arms to detach the redingote off him, not an easy task. An hour was spent to remove anything of value from the corpse and by the end of it, with the sun up in the sky, the stench had become unbearable even for the greediest thief. Or is this corpse-robbing? The better part of that time went in the removal of the boots. Thrice he almost toppled over. When he at last returned the smiling corpse to the sea, Glen felt sick in his stomach. He washed his face with sea water, wishing he could drink some. Among all the other deficiencies of his rushed escape was the fact that he had no provisions or drinking water.

Where in Luthos whore is Cliffson Cay?

The dinghy kept traveling fast, the wind blowing its sail full, dancing on the waves and Glen settled down to examine the dead man’s things. He wished he could read the words, it probably has his bloody name on that brooch, he thought.

Shaped like a shield.

I want the shield, the girl had said. Is that what she meant?

What manner of lunatic prefers a piece of jewelry over a couple of hundred pieces of gold?

All seemed strange to him.

Crafton probably knew more, but he’d said nothing.

Old man seemed damn right guilty as sin to his eyes.

They tried to kill me, Glen thought angry. Sons of whores.

He opened the bag and checked on his treasure. That calmed him down some. Remembering the satchel, he opened it too and found a scroll sealed with wax inside, some other stuff. No water. He filled it with coins as well, emptying his pockets and worn out boots. Then he wore the dead man’s boots. Soft well-made leather. A bit stinky, but a good fit. He threw his own in the sea.

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Glen saw the mountains first. The rocky shore next. Huge boulders cutting into the waters, sharp and unforgiving. This isn’t Cliffson Cay, he thought with a frown. The closer he came to the misty land the surer he got.

“Oh, for slovenly fuck’s sake.”

He’d gone completely the wrong way. The mass of land that unfolded before his eyes, still covered in that strange mist, was the one patch of ground in the Shallow Sea everyone avoided like the plague. The Lazuli Peninsula.

When he was a young boy, he’d dreamed of making the short journey. Boys are stupid like that. They like to go where the grownups won’t.

It seemed his luck had run out.

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Glen’s face had taken a nasty red color. His stubble was itching him like hell and his lips had cracked and turned white from salt. There wasn’t a spot protected from the high noon sun in the small dinghy, no shade whatsoever and he was taking on water. He’d fixed one hole under the rudder seat with a part of his tunic only for another two to pop up minutes later. The old boat was coming apart, too rotten to stay afloat for long.

No surprise it was abandoned, he thought his mood worsening with every new mishap.

He’d give up all his gold for a cup of clean water.

At least his feet were wet.

I just need a place to land gods help me.

All he could see was rocks, boulders the size of houses and razor sharp basalt inclines no man could climb without wings. He circled the coast ever so slowly an eye fixed on the water level gradually flooding the dinghy, whilst praying for the wind to pick up.

Just give me a good solid gush darn it.

The red-leafed colored pine appeared out of nowhere on the unforgiving terrain. He’d never seen the like before and at first he thought it a hallucination. Then another appeared and two more, then three. The rocks gave way to washed out shingles that carpeted a small beach cutting deep into a great red-leafed pine forest.

Glen’s dinghy barely made it ashore.

At least he’d found water. A small stream coming down a great rock that poured into the sea, not a hundred meters from where he’d landed. He drank fast as he could and so much, it came back up again and he puked the meagre contents of his stomach all over his freshly borrowed boots.

He stood on his knees for a long time waiting for his sickness to subside. Then he washed his face and mouth, drank extra carefully some more of the cool water and walked back toward the half sunk dinghy to pick up the stuff he’d dragged to shore.

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Upon seeing his bag holding the gold coins intact next to everything he’d taken from the dead guy he started laughing in a mad manner. Glen was one of the richest men in the Free Isles for all he knew. He also knew he was probably going to die alone in the blasted lands either from hunger or the horrors left behind by the old cobalt-haired demons. People had gone lost since forever where these creatures had first settled, the stories said. Although it was almost two centuries since Reinut the Great, Lord Protector of the Issirs, the Lorians and the Northmen, Foremost King of the three Kingdoms and shield of the Realm had beaten and root them out these lands, the places they had built and lived still stood. Twisted, abandoned ruins of unspeakable evil. Unhuman.

He was still half-laughing half-crying when the bloated corpse, he’d tossed overboard half a day back, washed ashore. The gods were having fun with him, he decided. Failing to be amused the whole matter got him angry at first. It didn’t last long, though it helped him snap out of his dark mood.

The first thing he did was bury the body under a pile of rocks. It was hard honest work. Tiring, but also rewarding as much as cathartic. He felt better afterwards, even spoke a small prayer to the unfortunate man. It was a few words really, since he didn’t know any real prayers but he decided they would have to suffice.

It’s probably better, than what I’ll get when my turn comes here.

He wore the man’s jacket and it fit fairly well but for the shoulders. Strapped the satchel on one shoulder, the sword belt on the other and put the brooch in his right pocket. He hefted the bag with the gold once more and started walking up the slope following the stream. The white-barked pine trees turned into a forest that shaded him from the sun and here and there normal green scrubs appeared amidst the alien red.

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Six hours later he collapsed exhausted under a single giant fig tree situated amidst a score of fat-leafed maples and some others he hadn’t encountered before. He picked up a mature fig from the ground and pressed it open. Tenderly he sucked its contents unsure if he’d get poisoned. The fruit had a sweet taste and burned his larynx going down. He ate another one. Glen was contemplating on whether tasting a third was prudent when sleep claimed him.

When he woke up again, the first rays of sunlight poured through the foliage above his head. His back hurt, legs and hands felt numb from sleeping outside but he didn’t mind it so much. He was alive still, which was as close to a miracle his likes would ever get. Not eaten by animals, or poisoned by snakes. Figs even! I call it a great success, he decided. He reached for another fallen fig, then gathered three more and put them in his satchel. Even considered to empty some of the gold coins to make room for more.

His greed overcame his hunger.

That and the snap of a twig coming from the trees.

“WHO GOES THERE?” He boomed in his manliest manner too scared to think intelligently. Whatever moved towards him stopped dead for a moment and then he heard it dashing the other way, heading east.

A boar? Glen wondered as he went after it. Whatever it was he’d scared it. Can you kill a boar with a sword?

He’d no bloody idea.

But surely it’s worth a try, he thought.

Glen jumped over a wild-berry bush, turned to avoid a fallen trunk almost tripping over another, his boots pumping heavy at the ground, a newfound energy born of hunger and desperation swallowing him whole. A breath later he broke through the forest, trees turning to green and bluish scrubs, the ground hardening, sound of his feet changing. He realized he was running on stone floor tiles, weeds growing where the limestone edges met, cut beautifully by human hand. They led him between the marble columns of an ancient street. They were arranged in order parallel to one another, at least a dozen on each side. Glen slowed down and then came to a complete stop before the huge structure that appeared in front of him at the end of the ancient road. Stairs led upwards, to a large open entrance of a flat top pyramid-like building that shone brilliantly under the morning sun.

It looked like a temple of sorts. But he didn’t know this god. What looked like the horned head of a Wyvern was sculpted above the entrance. Glen wiped the sweat off his face and breathed once more deeply. The place was long abandoned. He was still hungry. Men don’t eat stones, fancy or not. He turned to look back towards the forest he’d just emerged from hoping to see a wild pig, grinded his teeth frustrated when he didn’t and set his eyes again on the ancient structure.

A lithe creature dressed in a forest green attire of sorts had popped up between him and the temple, large eyes the color of molten gold, striking blue hair braided in elaborate patterns leaving two pointed ears uncovered on an adroitly shaped head. The newcomer had a small nose with tiny nostrils on a narrow face, its finely shaped mouth pressed into a disapproving pout. Armed with a pale white longbow.

What in the…

Glen unsheathed his sword and the creature hissed something raising the bow, arrow nocked. They were less than twenty feet apart. A blind man couldn’t miss.

Luthos provide fuckin’ aid, Glen ‘prayed’ silently.

Then dropped the bag he carried over his left shoulder.

It hit the paved street opened and gold coins spilt out. The eyes of the creature, a strange blue now, followed the fall for a fraction of a second as Glen moved the other way sword in hand. He made a quick step and rolled immediately eating up half the distance between them. Left side of its mouth twitched in a smile as it followed his impressive acrobatics. Then loosed its arrow the moment he stopped in order to rise up. It went in his left forehand below the elbow, missed the bone somehow and went out almost all the way but for the fletching’s. The force of the impact pushed him to his knees.

Screw you Luthos, Glen cursed dropping the sword to grab his injured arm, a pathetic shriek of pain escaping his mouth cut short from another even more thunderous cry.

“LET GO. FOUL DEMON!”

The creature/demon snapped its head towards the voice, let out another hiss full of indignation and bleached-white pointy teeth, then moving faster than a fainting Glen thought even remotely possible moments before, disappeared into the woods.

Need to start avoiding such perilous places, Glen thought coming about some time after. These were supposed to be empty lands but it appeared even the myths lied. The sun had moved on the sky and he had hard wall on his back. Someone had moved him nearer to the entrance, atop the stone stairs. Dressed his wound as well, after removing the arrow. The man responsible came walking slowly towards him. Over six feet tall, broad backed with greying hair and a hard face hidden behind a rich black beard. Eyes the color of coal. He wore a gorget and chainmail hauberk over a hard-leather shirt, complete with iron vambraces and greaves. On one side he carried a dagger and had a longsword with a soft leather-wrapped grip on the other.

He held the dead man’s sword in his hands. Glen searched for the bag carrying the larger portion of his gold biting the inside of his cheek to counter the pain of his throbbing arm.

“Gold is secure with the horses,” the man said in the common tongue. “Think I found everything that spilled, lost the demon though.” He grimaced as if the latter pained him as much as Glen’s injured arm.

“Dear Sir, I thank you,” Glen said and tried to get up. “You saved my life.”

“Well, you did scare it out in the open,” he examined his face closely. “Charging out of the woods like that against a bow carrying foe—”

“I know,” Glen said pretending it was nothing sort of routine gallantry for him.

“Is sheer folly lad,” Glen blushed. “Name’s Sir Emerson Lennox,” the man said after a thoughtful pause. “A knight’s Errant. This here is Reeves sword.”

Glen gulped nervously the information taking him aback.

“What’s your name lad?”

“Glen,” He croaked averting his eyes.

“Sir Glenavon Reeves was your father,” Emerson said soberly, as if he’d figured it all out. “You’re named after him,” His conviction absolute.

Glen bobbed his head up and down.

“Aye.”

“I knew the man,” Emerson said, then paused ominously. “He had no legitimate son,” he stilled his eyes on him. The lie probably unveiled. “Is he dead then?”

Or not.

“Aye.”

That seemed to sadden him more.

“Are you his bastard?”

Bastard works fine.

“He named me heir with his dying breath Sir Lennox.”

Emerson nodded and offered him the sword hilt first. “He was a bastard himself before Lord Elliot Reeves took him in. Gave him his name but not the family castle and lands, these he’d already bequeathed to his brother Sir Victor. He’s the Duke’s Chamberlain.”

Glen listened to the information without commenting.

“I guess the gold and the arms is what you inherited boy. What do you intend to do? How old are ye anyways?”

“Seventeen almost Sir.”

“Hmm.”

“Never hoped for anything more but to follow in his footsteps.”

His face hardened.

“And here you are. Middle of nowhere.”

“Sir Lennox, I intended to reach Issir’s Eagle and squire for a Knight truly,” Glen said quickly, making it up as he went along.

“What happened?”

“I shipwrecked, barely made it to this accursed land. The Gods were cruel.”

Emerson frowned.

“My squire died,” he said after some thought. “Gods take, same time as they give. So there’s a position open if you are still interested.”

Glen nodded with his head.

“I am. Thank you Sir Lennox.”

“It’s done then.”

Hah, he thought his injury forgotten. Who would’ve believed this? Glen the thief from Shroudcoast is going to be a freakin’ Knight! Wit a surname no less! Freakin’ Sir Glenavon Reeves!

“Don’t think I will go ahead and dishonor your father’s memory being lenient on you,” Emerson cut his reverie short. “So don’t expect it. Do as I say or you’ll get a cuff on the head wit no warning.”

Glen narrowed his eyes.

“There’s a demon in ‘em woods,” Emerson continued not minding him. “We’ll rest today, eat some, but tomorrow we go after it. Why?”

Glen had no intention to go after that creature and the question caught him unawares.

“It’s very dangerous?” He asked hoping to goad Sir Lennox down the safer path.

“Of course it is. That was a Zilan spawn,” Emerson spat down a fat blob of phlegm at the word. “Damn things almost killed the whole realm once,” Glen blinked slowly a knot tied in his stomach. “But since we are Knights of the three Kingdoms we will go after it.”

“Thought they were extinct,” the whole knighting thing had pretty fast lost most of its appeal.

“Don’t believe the stories boy. They have lies woven in ‘em.”

“Mayhap then, they didn’t?”

“Didn’t what boy?”

“Killed the whole realm?”

Emerson snorted loudly at that. Then cuffed him hard on the side of the head, right above the ear.