The Old Realms

 

I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck

 Touch O' Luck

 

 

II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.

It will be a superior reading experience

to start this story from the beginning

 

 

Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)

Chapter specific maps of the realms 

Maps of the Realms

 

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Glen

No… grease off his brow

 

 

There’s one thing, you don’t want waking ye up, one word, yer not likening to hear, when yer out camping under the stars, not a care in the world. Perhaps one of two things, or even three, second being a ruffian’s rusted blade, the other the stench of a fuckin’ Wyvern, but whatever the case may be, or the order of them, it’s important enough to mention here, and to make ye jump up scared shitless, just like the others.

No distinction.

 

 

“WOLF!”

That was Stiles, with the late night hysterics.

Glen gasped and forced his eyes open, blackness all around, but for some stars on the sky, even those partially dimmed, under the almost full moon’s luminesce. Both of them. The young man stumbled half-blind to his knees, searching for his sword, fingers knocking the leather sheath away once, before getting a grip on it, jaw gleaming wet from drool and heart thundering wild in his chest.

Luthos offer fuckin’ assistance!

“Where?” He bellowed more scared than angry, trying to get his bearings, the only other light coming from the almost out campfire.

“THERE!” Stiles shouted, twice as scared as him. Glen got to his feet, the others scrabbling to wake up all around. “WAS EATIN’ ME BLOODY FOOT!”

Good grief,

Luthos cock, got cockrot!

Glen squinted his eyes to catch a glimpse of the moving predator, hands clasping the handle of the longsword so hard, the knuckles hurt. He heard the animal trotting, which was darn weird and then something jumped over the campfire straight at him, which was right scary; a big mass of pelt, black eyes gleaming on a black head, with two large horns protruding.

What in the…

Fuck it.

The young thief swung with all his might in the beast’s general direction, not really aiming and felt the blade connect with a thud and biting it deep. It was followed by a desperate wail of pain that teared at the stillness of the night, as the animal went flying over his left shoulder and crashed down.

BAA!

More a hapless bleat, than a menacing howl.

BAAA!

Wait.

“The fuck was that!” Glen snapped infuriated, steaming blood all over his coat and face.

Marcus, the one closer to the thrashing animal, stooped over to finish it off, dagger in hand. “A stray ram, I reckon,” He said.

Glen blinked and looked at Stiles with hate filled eyes. The former pirate frowned and sensing he was in trouble, attempted to defend himself.

“Look at its head! LOOK! All black ‘n shit!”

“It’s a god-darn sheep!” Glen blasted him, all the tension from violently waking up, spilling out. “Ye stupid coward! Who gets scared by a plaguin’ sheep?” He added, although Glen had gotten plenty scared himself, not a minute ago.

“That’s unlike any sheep I know!” Stiles insisted, not convinced.

“It has hooves and no plaguin’ fangs!” Glen fired back, wanting to strangle the fool, for scaring the living crap out of him.

Stiles approached, still guarded, the dead animal and looked at it with suspicious eyes. He let out a sigh of relief, when he finished his brief examination.

It was bloody obvious, this was no wolf.

It never was, nor will it ever be.

“Apologies, I’ve been sailing for ten straight years, milord,” He said, bowing deeply.

It took Glen a hot minute to translate ‘sailing’ into common.

“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard,” Marcus commented, beating Glen to the punch.

Stiles turned on him.

“What? I can name ten different fish, afore any animal—”

“I thought ye were a pirate,” Marcus countered. “Not a fisherman.”

“I resent yer innuendo sir! We frequently went on fishin’ runs—”

“Yeah, I’m not buying that,” The ex-sergeant cut him off mid-sentence.

Glen sighed and used a sleeve to wipe some of the sheep’s blood from his face. In a sense Stiles incessant twaddle had defused his anger.

“Right,” He glanced at the night sky, hoping to discern the time, but failed as he knew fuck all about celestial… navigation, or something. “Sleep’s out of the question, I guess.”

Marcus grunted and pointed at the carcass. “I’m skinnin’ that proper,” He said. “And preparing a roast.”

Glen frowned at first, but then his stomach growled alike a real wolf and he licked his lips coming around to the idea.

“Stiles, you’ll eat the leftover dry pork and biscuit,” Glen ordered his manservant, who immediately attempted to protest eagerly.

In all likelihood, because there was more mold than meat, on that stuff.

“Milord, I’d also like to partake—”

But Glen would have none of that.

Ye mess up, ye pay the piper.

“Nonsense, we can’t have ye dive into red meat so soon,” He declared with a sly smirk. “Better to be safe Stiles, than sorry.”

“Measure thrice, but cut once,” Norec agreed, with Marcus adding another nugget of wisdom.

“Hasty climbers, have abrupt falls.”

Glen whipped his head and glared at him. “What does that even mean?”

Marcus shrugged his broad shoulders.

“It’s a Legion dictum, milord; of the engineerin’ corps.”

And that was that.

 

 

A week into their journey the group broke out of Norhwall Heights, the wind picking up, but the cold lessening. On their right stood a barren plateau, the mountain spine continuing on their left and straight ahead the land opened up as far as the eye could see. An endless dry grassy plain, the land flat, with not even a single tree visible for miles. The Cofol Steppe dominated the center of Eplas, the water sources scant and much sought after. While there were caravans following the few roads, most of the expanse was empty savage space, where once upon a time the Horselords rode free.

“Good grief,” Glen, his coat collar raised and buttoned high to combat the blasting wind, griped. “Now what, mister Fikumin?”

The dwarf standing next to him, his head just over Glen’s left knee, snorted. The sound produced by that nose, thunderous.

“It’s obvious, the Aken escaped us.”

“Or ye know, he’s fully dead,” Glen retorted, with a grimace. “Not surprising, if ye consider you pulverized his head, after ye killed him!”

That part of their story, never sat right with him.

“A task, no one enjoyed,” Norec commented, with a scowl. That dwarf was a barrel of laughs, Glen thought shaking his head.

Empty.

“Right then,” He noted, checking about him, before spotting the pirate hiding behind Marcus. “Stiles!”

“Ye need me, Milord?”

“No, I called to see if yer sleepin’ on yer feet again!”

“Not recently, milord.”

“That’s enough!” Glen barked, grinding his teeth. “We need a bloody horse,” He explained to speed this along, pausing to think about it some under everyone’s scrutiny, before adding. “Make that several. That’s a lot of… ground to cover on foot.”

As a matter of fact, he refused to walk another meter.

“Where yer goin’ to find a mount?” Marcus probed.

“Ahm, a town?” Glen turned to Fikumin. “Where’s the nearest town, dwarf?”

“I don’t know,” Fikumin deadpanned.

Glen blinked.

“You don’t? Is this a joke?”

“No Lord Reeves, it’s not.”

“Don’t ye Lord Reeves me, ye sneaky piece of shit—”

“Milord,” Marcus interrupted him.

Glen turned his head to the veteran, furious.

“Next he’ll tell us, he has no clue where we are!”

“I haven’t visited Eplas before,” Fikumin admitted, looking at them. “It changes naught.”

Huh?

“Of course it does!” Glen exploded, his eyes watering, the wind blasting in them. “Fuck! What the hells are we doing here? What is this shit?”

“Milord,” Marcus cut in again and a vein popped on Glen’s temple, his knees weakening, as if he just had an aneurysm.

“WHAT?” He blasted the ex-sergeant.

The man pointed a finger towards the plateau.

“There’s smoke rising over there,” He explained. “It could be a village, I reckon.”

Glen couldn’t see anything, through the tears. Small pieces of cut grass and dirt kept bombarding his red eyes, all but blinding him.

“You sure? Well, ahm…” He managed to say, trying to wipe his face and failing again, lowered his neck even more under the raised collar of his coat, leaving only the top part of his unruly head showing.

A trick he’d learned from Jinx.

It was surprisingly quiet in there and Glen felt safe.

“Is there another plan, milord?” The man tacitly inquired a moment later, realizing the young thief wasn’t going to speak again.

There wasn’t.

 

 

The best thing these dwellings had going for them was being round. It was an unusual choice and that was just about it. They had no windows, but for an opening on their thatch roofs that let the smoke come out. The doors were narrow, crudely made, the walls out of mud and a bit of stone. Everything a washed out brown, the color of sickly gold. The village had one dirt road running through its middle point sort of, and the number of dwellings that was around twenty, were all different from each other, both in size and architecture. The latter an euphemism, if there ever was one.

Glen puffed his cheeks out, looking over his raised collar, less than impressed. Shroudcoast was a grant city in front of this, he mused gloomy.

Stiles standing next to him, raised a hand holding a cut of roasted lamb from the other day, a white piece of bone still attached and chewed on it carefully. Seeing his glare, he paused unsure.

“It’s almost stale,” He obviously lied.

“Have at it,” Glen replied, not in the mood to start another row with him.

“Let me do the talkin’,” Marcus said from the front of their group, Fikumin standing next to him, with Norec bringing up the rear.

One of the Cofols that watched them approach, broke out of their group to talk to them. He’d a woolen cap on his head, his grey hairs thinning and wore leather armour that was once decent.

“Where are ye fellas going?” The man asked in passable common.

“Greetings,” Marcus replied, a good head taller than the local and twice as big, he looked nigh intimidating. “We’re adventurers good people… is there a name for this place?”

“Refuge Moon,” The man replied. “I’m Sameer, son of Talwar.”

“I’m Marcus Saunio, former Decanus of the Legion,” Marcus introduced himself.

Damn, Glen thought. All this time I thought the man was a mere sergeant, haha.

“Is that a Folk you have there?” Sameer queried. “Haven’t seen one, in a long minute.”

“Fikumin Flintfoot, is our guide,” Marcus explained.

“That so? Well, it’s yer team, I suppose,” Eyeing the rest of them, all curious. “Ye lads walked from…”

“Altarin,” Marcus replied. “We had horses, but they didn’t make it.”

“That’s a big journey,” Sameer commented, looking back towards the group of unsavory Cofols watching them like hawks. “Ye have done lots of adventuring, I reckon.”

“We’re looking for horses, if ye had any to spare.”

“We have a troop o’ them, lots of horses on the plains,” Sameer remarked. “Ye plan on payin’ for the trouble?”

“Depends on the price,” Glen intervened, being fresh out of coins kind of forced his hand.

Sameer shrugged his shoulders, scrunching his mouth. “Are ye the leader then, lad?”

“Are you?” Glen countered.

“No leaders here. On the plains, all men are free.”

“I thought this is Khanate land.”

There was a murmur from the men at the back.

“We’re Horselords, young lad. Not Khan’s lackeys.”

“Name’s Glenavon.”

“Planning on payin’ for the horses, Glenavon?” Sameer inquired. “We’re a small community here, plagued by bandits. Both Khan’s men and others.”

“We’re no bandits,” Glen replied confidently, without batting an eyelash.

“All bandits claim that,” Sameer replied. “But the moment we turn our head, they knife us in the back and steal our animals.”

“How recent was this?” Fikumin queried, with a frown.

Sameer spared him a glance.

“Just yesterday, they stole Banspal’s herd.”

“Aye! They did,” Banspal presumably, called from the back. A thin man covered in old leathers, skin not much different from his weather-beaten face.

Glen narrowed his eyes, not likening where this was going.

“When ye say herd,” Marcus probed sounding oblivious. “Ye mean, yer horses?”

“I mean our cows and our sheep,” The man corrected him and Glen flinched though he expected it, catching out of the corner of his eye Stiles stop chewing on the roast and putting the incriminating piece in a side pocket. It was impressive how the former pirate kept his composure, but not as impressive as him swallowing whole, what he had in his mouth.

 

 

“Wow,” Glen exclaimed, his being the better overall reaction, from their small group. “Who would do that?”

His expertise on the topic of lying your arse off, showing.

“Hmm,” Marcus murmured, scratching his short beard genuinely uncomfortable, with Stiles just staring with a wet, ogling eye, as if he was appalled with the dastardly deed.

Was that idiot crying? Glen wondered, fighting to keep the worry from his own face.

“We killed your outlaws!” Fikumin boomed breaking the awkward spell, with a sledgehammer. Sameer frowned and regarded the small creature, all astounded.

“Is that so?”

“That’s right. We buried their bodies, up on them mountains.”

The group of men behind Sameer murmured their disbelief.

“You lot, caught them?” One of them asked.

“When was this?” That was probably Banspal, taking a closer look.

Son of a whorin’ goat, is going to blow this whole thing wide open, Glen thought and decided to intervene.

“We caught a group of them,” He explained stepping forward, despite not really wanting to get involved. Never divulge information, but for the fear of imminent torture, or as Lith had said. Stand back and learn to listen.

“When?”

“A couple of weeks back.”

Banspal grimaced. “Lost several good animals since then.”

“Maybe another group?” Stiles managed to say and everyone turned to look at him. “Ye know, another group of cutthroats?” He attempted to elucidate under the unwanted scrutiny.

“Hmm,” Sameer thought about it, with Banspal remaining unconvinced.

“Excuse me words, but ye look like a brigand yerself son.”

Someone hidden at the back picking it up. “Damn right he does!”

“Never harmed a fly in me life!” Stiles protested, oozing righteous indignation, his unshaven jaw gleaming still greased with the hapless ram’s fat.

“He’s right,” Fikumin said, although Glen’s manservant clearly wasn’t.

“Yer adventurers, as you said,” Sameer noted, curling his lip upwards. “Hence all the weapons.”

“It is true. There was an Aken leading them,” Fikumin continued, strong voice forcing the small crowd, gathered around them by now, to listen. “We’re on the lookout for it. Him that is.”

Sameer smacked his lips and glanced towards his friends.

“An Aken ye say?” He asked.

“Fuck is an Aken?” Probed a young boy, with the hard face of a killer.

“Is that like the Folk?” Asked another and not to be seen as a bigot he added, a little self-consciously. "Ye know them little people.”

“Fikumin is a dwarf,” Glen stepped in to clear it up, before this devolved into chaos. “Norec, the other small guy, too.”

“Aye,” Marcus added. “On the other hand, an Aken is a lanky thing… with copper skin, snake-like eyes and a forked tongue.”

“Copper skin,” Sameer repeated, none of the other details troubling him apparently.

“Reddish gold, was my meaning.”

“He’d most of his body painted white,” Fikumin added and got a reaction from the villagers. Horselords, or whatever the hells these people were.

“Like Qanuq?” The boy said.

Who the fuck was he? Glen wondered.

“The man’s a priest, what’s this drivel?” Another man stepped forward, himself coated to just below the jaw in badly smeared white paint.

Obviously a human.

Wow.

We have an imitator.

Is this going to turn into a trend?

What’s next?

People wearin’ cat ears and meowin’ under windows?

“What’s he preaching?” Marcus asked, looking at them all tense, his hand dropping to his sword handle.

“Didar, son of Gulian, has it correct,” Sameer said. “Ye claim, the priest has something to do wit it?”

Fikumin narrowed his eyes, constant frown turning more vicious, as the small crowd erupted with wild speculations. Then the men and few women parted and a thin man, wearing a long woolen tunic, his hand carrying a long staff appeared standing at the back. Long nose, round rodent eyes and incisors large enough to belong to a camel.

Or a gigantic rat.

Looking nigh uncomfortable at all the attention.

Is that an Aken? Glen wondered, a little amused and less than impressed. Haha, he just looks like the other painted dude!

Man looks just about to faint from scare.

“The Painted God, has no need of yer animals,” Qanuq managed to croak, returning the stares of the people surrounding him.

Who?

Haha!

Luthos hairy ears, dis is nigh ridiculous!

“That’s right!” Didar bellowed, supporting the claim. “Tell him priest!” He added, although it was obvious the priest wanted nothing of the sort.

“What is he called?” Glen probed, greatly enjoying the turn in their fortunes. “Surely he has a name!”

“He shall remain nameless, boy,” Qanuq retorted, sounding strained and nervous.

“That’s Lord Reeves for ye,” Glen snapped back and the crowd’s buzz grew at the revelation.

“Yer claims… are just that,” The priest tried to get back at him weakly.

“I just asked for the god’s name,” Glen answered playing to his audience, in his best Dante’s imitation. “When ye want to speak of Uher, ye don’t pray to a god in general. Else anyone could pop up and ye don’t want that!”

“Aye!” The easily swayed young boy said. “The Lord is right!”

Damn right I am.

“How do ye know, he’s a Lord?” Banspal the sheep herder argued, always the one to spoil everyone’s good time and Glen eyed him warningly.

“It’s the god-darn truth,” Marcus declared and put an end to that, in a non-nonsense kind of way. “Lad is the Lord of Altarin.”

Qanuq blinked and took a step back, seeing the tide turning against him and Glen seizing the momentum, pointed an accusing finger on him, a set of wild eyes glaring over the rim of his collar, and even those partially hidden behind a mess of hair; then shouted to the heavens above and all the Gods listening.

“ARREST THIS FOOL!”

 

 

His words getting a lukewarm reaction from the gathered onlookers.

At best.

“Milord?” Marcus inquired, as they were outnumbered heavily here.

“Get on wit it!” Glen barked, seeing the moment slipping away.

“Wait!” Qanuq protested. “I had nothing to do with all this!”

Glen whipped his head towards him. “Confess scoundrel!”

“Nothing to do wit what, Qanuq?” Sameer asked, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“We didn’t take your animals!” The priest croaked.

“We?” Banspal queried, narrowing his eyes.

“The priest is telling the truth!” Didar protested, but nobody paid any attention to him.

“Where is the Aken, priest?” Fikumin’s baritone voice inquired.

Qanuq sighed pensively. “I said all I wanted to say. Proceed wit caution, or endure the wrath of the Painted God.”

Yeah, it was a poorly delivered threat.

“Arrest the priest,” Sameer ordered, more mad than intimidated and a determined Marcus stepped forward, getting his sword out.

Qanuq gestured with a hand, looking defeated. “There’s no need for violence.”

“Ye give up?” Marcus grunted and the priest nodded, looking truly scared.

Thank you, Glen thought and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Can we go inside now? Rest our feet, while we deal wit this in a non-violent manner?” He asked those present.

This blasted wind in going right through me for fuck’s sake!

“Take him to my house,” Sameer agreed with a nod. “Ye lads are welcomed to join us around the fire.”

There ye go.

 

 

“We could start wit the fingers,” Stiles suggested fully invested to the task at hand not twenty minutes later, with Glen trying to warm up, all but glued over the crude fireplace located in the middle of Sameer’s homestead.

Wait what?

“I can use them pokers,” Marcus argued, eyeing the one Glen had in his hand to work on the embers. “Seen ‘em used aplenty in the Legion.”

“Wait a god-darn minute!” Glen protested to those present inside the large and mostly undecorated large dwelling. More a stable, than a house, if one was being honest about it. “We said non-violently, right?”

“Milord, did mention it,” Stiles said, wanting to slither his way back into Glen’s good graces.

“He won’t talk,” Marcus countered, Sameer agreeing with him with a nod of his head.

Glen turned to a visibly anxious Qanuq.

“You will though. Talk that is, right?” He asked the priest and the man grimaced and licked his lips, thinking about it for a breath, before replying.

“I’ve said, all I was—”

“There,” Marcus declared vindicated, cutting into his answer.

Glen sighed and stared at the iron poker he held in his hand.

“Listen, friend…” He started, in an attempt to reason with him. “…they are going to do it. These people, are right vicious.”

We’re talking crashin’ skulls enthusiasts, limb dismembering monsters here.

Stiles beamed at the praise, with Fikumin throwing Glen a glare.

The priest gulped down nervously, a tick appearing on his right eye.

“I shall not divulge my God’s wishes.”

Don’t be a plaguin’ idiot!

“See now, I don’t think ye know them. This god’s wishes,” Glen replied, a little disappointed. “You don’t know his name, ye got nothing going for you man. I respect yer fanaticism, but it’s pretty pointless.”

Qanuq bravely set his jaw, sweat on his forehead showing his inner turmoil.

Glen smacked his lips and looked at Fikumin. The dwarf glared back unmoved. Marcus shrugged his shoulders and Stiles wiped at long last the incriminating grease off his jaw, with a sleeve, apparently not overly bothered about torturing a man.

Glen turned to Sameer. “Yer the leader here,” He told him and the Cofol stood back with a frown.

“There are no leaders in Refuge Moon,” Sameer repeated his mantra again and eyed Glen expectantly. “To hurt a man outside of battle, even outright maim him, is a Lord’s order, milord,” The Cofol said. “And a Lord should give it.”

You know, I’m glad I ate yer ram, Glen thought, looking at him with hatred. Ye conniving, duplicitous ‘n slanted eyed sheep-fucker.

“Lord Reeves?” Marcus inquired, after he cracked his broad neck this way and that. Glen blinked and stared at the iron poker again, darn thing right heavy in his hand.

“Ahm… right,” The former thief mumbled, his mouth turning bitter at the thought of what he was about to order. He looked first to Stiles and then to the ex-legionnaire. Decanus, he corrected himself. “Let’s… not do, ehem… something too permanent here,” Was all he could manage to say lamely.

Marcus grunted in understanding. Then his face hardened, a feat easily accomplished by the veteran, and pointed a calloused thick finger his way.

“Hand over the poker, milord.”