The nord grunted as he hefted the young lizard-man onto his shoulder yet again. He lifted his right arm and wiped his shaven head on the cloth bracer as he continued to wade through the waist-high swamps of the Black Marsh. "You couldn't get injured and pass out any closer to civilization than this, could you?" he said to the lifeless body. "Come on, stay with me. We're almost there and no one will ever think to track us through a swamp."
The argonian on his shoulder groaned a wordless response. Though it didn't inspire confidence in him, Hovkismod took it as a sign that his ward was not yet completely dead, despite the blood that continued to drip down his back. He redoubled his efforts through the marsh in spite of his heavy armor and the large battle axe slung over his back. "When you recover," he said, trying to be encouraging, "You must tell me about your family. I'll bet they're interesting people."
Just as he finished the sentence, his right boot got stuck in the muck. "May Stendarr show mercy upon this swamp," he shouted in a characteristically brutal cry of frustration. Though he would never admit it, being of a proud people, he had to admire the tenacity of the local argonians that they had become so adept at making trails through the swamps themselves. This was the third time he had found himself stuck in the mud, but he counted many more times he had regretted not taking the path.
Just before he could finish cursing, however, he was interrupted by a spray of water from all sides as four green-scaled figures erupted up out of the water, each of them brandishing either a spear or an Imperial long sword. Without a word, they surrounded him and one pressed the tip of a spear to his neck.
Keeping one arm on the wounded argonian, Hovkismod lifted his free hand. "Whoa there," he shouted, though he was sure the nimble hunters of the swamp could have easily killed him on the spot, taken by surprise as he was. "I come in peace! I'm not an officer of the Imperial law, but I am an ally of it!"
"What'Sss your purpoSsse here?" one of the argonians asked. This one had a scar down one side of its face which just barely missed its left eye. It held itself higher than the rest, and Hovkismod guessed that it was the superior among the group, and probably male. Even naked, it was hard to tell.
Hovkismod put his remaining hand on the argonian body and gently lifted him away, but not off. "I found Skinny here lying on the side of a road about a mile behind me," he said truthfully. "Had a big sword wound in his belly—well, still does. I was able to patch it up, but I figured there would be a healer in town who could do better than me."
"Why are you taking thiSss path inSsstead of remaining on the road?"
"I found this." With that, Hovkismod pulled a blade out of his belt. It was obviously very old, with construction dating back to before the Second Era, but still looked quite sharp. The blade itself had a yellowish tinge to it and stretched out to about two feet long: a perfectly respectable short sword, but too fine of a metal-smithing task to be used in a war. This blade clearly belonged to someone rich, and the carvings on the hilt confirmed that.
"A dwemer blade," the argonian muttered.
"Dunmer!" shouted one of his younger companions.
"Now I'm not the sharpest knife," Hovkismod said, nodding in agreement, "but I'm guessing a blade like this goes to someone rich, probably someone working for one of Morrowind's big Houses. Telvanni, I reckon. Now, I had to take a gamble and assume that I'd get to your village first if I cut through here; I can't run very fast, and they're probably mounted. Besides, I had to get this little one to a healer."
The argonian shouted a command which started off in an alien language but quickly turned to the tongue of Cyrodiil as he said "GuardSss-HiSss-Home, you go with him! Give me the boy, outSssider."
Not wasting any time, Hovkismod hefted his live cargo into the leader's arms, and just like that three of the argonians ran ahead through the marsh. One of them, bearing a spear and with a tribal design painted over its right eye, remained with Hovkismod. "I will eSsscort you to the village," he said. "If you are correct, we may need your help."
"Lead the way," the nord said. "If these are the slave-trading bastards I think they are, I would be glad to let them taste the fine end of my steel!"
Although Guards-His-Home could have easily gone faster without the muscle-bound and well-armored nord behind him, they nevertheless made good time. Hovkismod was able to work some small talk out of the young warrior as they shlepped through the swamp to the small village, which he learned was under the control of Stormhold. They traded life stories, Hovkismod talking about his ascension in the ranks in Skyrim before his retirement and subsequent tournaments in the arena in Cyrodiil, and Guards-His-Home sharing how he got his name defending against a slave trader's raid against the village in the past. In spite of the great honor of the name, Guards-His-Home was the only surviving member of his family on that naming day.
Finally, they got to the village, which turned out to be a small series of huts on an exceptionally small spit of dry land in the middle of the swamp. In order to make room for the residents, some structures were built up trees and accessed by a ladder. If Hovkismod had to guess, this was a village that wasn't visited very often and as such hadn't experienced many of the conveniences of modern living. Some dry roads stretched off in two directions away from the village, one of them supported by wooden boards to stop anyone with a cart from sinking into the mud. As soon as Hovkismod and his escort emerged in the village, they were swamped by the residents.
Though it was hardly the first time Hovkismod had been thronged, the context of the situation made him a little bit uneasy. Hardly screaming fangirls, he was now surrounded by concerned parents, fearful children, and angry men. The frantic cries of "How many did you Sssee!?" and "Why didn't we have any warning!?" were not calming his nerves at all. A stint in the military and in the arena weren't enough to change one simple fact: The fear of the anticipated battle was not something that could be cured or outlived.
Guards-His-Home quickly shooed the mob away, barking orders to set up barricades and put the children in the second level and release the ladders. As he disappeared into the crowd, Hovkismod felt an arm pull him away and quickly recognized the leader of the guard that had intercepted him in the beginning. He let the weaker creature pull him along to a large hut in the middle of the village and pull him inside.
"EkSssplain everything to the elder," he said crossly, then pushed Hovkismod towards a bed in the center of the hut. The young argonian he had carried through the swamp was laid on the bed, the bleeding stopped and the wound closed. An old argonian with graying scales was bent over him, still shaking a clear liquid over the body and mumbling an old incantation. The young one had passed out a while ago.
"They tell me," the elder said, his voice clearer and his accent less thick than the usual, "that you found the boy. What makeSss you think that it waSss the Ssslave trade that was reSssponSssible?"
"Argonians are strong folk, sir," Hovkismod said, holding himself straight and proper for the older man. "Any one of your warriors would have proudly stood their ground against an invading enemy, and as I saw him lying on the ground I said to myself that's exactly what he must have done. He's a brave soul."
"But you found evidence that it waSss, as you Sssay, House Telvanni?"
"At least one of them was carrying weapons and armor that would only have been available to a member of one of the 'Great Houses,' and not many dark elves would be caught dead in a foreign land unless they were specifically looking for something they would gain from. The Empire isn't ignorant of your plight, village elder; we know that the dunmer have been raiding your lands for slaves for many years. I can only help you by acting outside of the law."
"But you will help uSss?" The elder put down his instruments and came around to look into Hovkismod's face directly, his old eyes sagged from many sleepless nights and his face bearing the telltale signs of weariness. "ThiSss is an old fiSsshing village," he continued, "and haSss alwaySss been. The people here are poor and know only the Sssimple life. Our fatherSss and motherSss and their fatherSss and motherSss lived the Sssame life. We do not want to lose our home."
"I was a lieutenant in Skyrim, and briefly in Cyrodiil," Hovkismod said. "I've seen better fighters than the mercenaries and bandits that slave traders use, and slain them. I will gladly help you, but if this is a problem you will have to move your citizens out of here and closer to Stormhold; they'll be safer there."
The elder nodded. "I have Ssseen these raiderSss before. Long ago, they found thiSss village and Sssacked it for workerSss to put in their ebony mineSss. We Ssstayed Ssstrong, and we rebuilt. I knew even then that they would not Ssstay away forever, but the elderSss of the village wanted to Ssstay. I will not be Ssso fooliSssh again."
Hovkismod bowed in a show of genuine respect. "If I'm right," he said, "the raiders will have sent scouts ahead and seen your men preparing for battle. They'll wait until nightfall before attacking."
"We will be ready," the leader of the guard said, appearing behind them, "and we will fight them back."
Three hours passed. Hovkismod, being stronger than a number of the villagers, found himself useful barricading the doors and fixing up the weapons and armor, for the few guards employed by the Empire who had Imperial swords and chain mail. Before sundown the village looked much more formidable, with crude palisades constructed along the roads and archers up in the trees. The village elder had also made himself useful, crafting a number of potions to keep the warriors strong. In particular, each archer was given three potions of Night-Eye to help them watch for the expected intruders.
Soon, Hovkismod was sipping booze with Guards-His-Home and the others, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He was very surprised when he turned around to see the little argonian he had dragged through the swamp, now looking good as new and brandishing a weapon of his own.
"Skinny!" Hovkismod shouted, perhaps a bit too loud but certainly jovial, and opening his arms up to offer an embrace.
"My name iSss actually Sssswift-Feet," he said in the argonian's trademark deadpan. "I wanted to thank you for helping me. You were right; it was Ssslave traders who I interSssepted on the road. If only I'd come back inSsstead of fighting them, we would have had more time to prepare..."
"Think nothing of it," Hovkismod said, extending a hand to shake. "My name is Hovkismod. In the arena they called me God-Hammer."
Though Swift-Feet hadn't understood the hug, he knew to shake the larger human's hand.
"God-Hammer?" came a voice, that of the leader of the argonian guard. "But you fight with an axe..."
"Yeah, I never understood that either. What's your name, anyway? I've certainly heard enough from you."
The argonian leader leaned against a tree and rubbed his chin on one hand thoughtfully. "It waSss the naming day when raiderSss attacked our village the firSsst time," he said. "I waSss never given a name that day, Ssso I chose one for mySsself: Ssstrong-Sssword."
"I heard about that attack," Hovkismod said. "Guards-His-Home said that he lost his family that day and earned his name."
"We all loSsst family that day," Strong-Sword said coldly.
Their revelry was interrupted suddenly when one of the argonian lookouts blew its horn. It produced a long note which rose quickly: The sign of invaders. It managed to toot this out twice before an arrow struck its chest and it fell from the tree. The first blood had been spilled.
Before long the air was full of arrows, and for a while all anyone heard was the twang and whoosh of bows being fired. The remaining archers managed to hold their own for a while, but they didn't have any chance of stopping the force by themselves.
The sound of a dunmer war-cry filled the air and the invading force made themselves known. Most of them were wearing leather armor and brandishing traditional longswords. Some of them were dressed more lavishly than the others, prouder dunmer from richer families. A few of them were carrying dwemer weapons, but most of them made good with steel. Several crossbowmen lead the front and picked off a few argonians before throwing their ranged weapons aside and joining the melee. The argonians met them with bravery, but were less well-equipped, mostly armored only with cloth and scales.
Strong-Sword's group was just about to move to join the melee, but Hovkismod grabbed his arm. "Stay here!" he shouted a warning. "They may try to flank us from the other road!"
He was only half-right. The argonian defense was valiantly able to hold the raiders back from behind the palisades, but what even the veterans couldn't have predicted was the mercenaries that came from the swamps. Even though the argonians were better-suited to the murky waters, they had been outfoxed by a surprise attack.
The mercenaries charged into the village and quickly overwhelmed the backup lines. Already several houses were burning and those that couldn't arm themselves scattered into the open to avoid being burned or suffocated. Still, the mercenaries from the swamps were less heavily armored in order to aid their progress, and Hovkismod and Strong-Sword were able to keep them at bay... until the front lines broke through.
The argonian guard was completely cut down, and the raiders finally poured in through the palisades. Torch-bearers and berserkers quickly began to burn the huts, and brutes pinned down the civilians to bind them and take them alive.
Finally a single figure stepped into the village. A single, imposing tower of a man clad head to toe in expensive dwemer armor and bearing an equally lavish battle-axe placed his boot on the head of a wounded argonian guard and looked out over the destruction. Soon he was barking orders in the tongue of Morrowind at his men, and routing the mercenaries to best overwhelm the village.
Hovkismod quickly decided he had had enough of that. He grabbed Strong-Sword by the arm. "That's their leader," he shouted over the sounds of carnage and pointed. "I'm going for his head!"
"Not if I take it firSsst," Strong-Sword hissed.
The two of them charged through the melee. Hovkismod grabbed a torch in his free arm and bashed a raider's face in with the burning end, then slashed another in the gut with his axe. Strong-Sword went straight for the leader and leaped upon him, knocking him in the chest with the blunt of his sword. Though it was a powerful blow, and Strong-Sword lived up to his name, the ancient armor had survived worse. The leader pushed him aside with his strong arm and pulled the axe off of his back. Though his face was obscured by the full helm, he loomed over Strong-Sword with the hatred in his soul more than clear.
Hovkismod reached him before he had time to lift his axe. Letting out a nordic battle-cry, he swung his own axe and bashed the invader with the flat of it. This attack was made by a stronger man with a bigger stick, and the force of the blow combined by the weight of the invader's armor and weapon staggered him. Hovkismod took the opportunity to pick up the wounded warrior and shoo him away to the elder and his healing magic. Strong-Sword used it to pick up a blunt weapon and stand up.
"You can't stop us now," the invader shouted at them, his voice metallic and dehumanized from the helmet over his mouth. "We are taking the village, and the slaves that my House is owed!"
Hovkismod didn't waste his breath with a retort. Instead he swung at the arrogant hulk's legs. The invader swung his axe in a counter-attack and managed to swing Hovkismod's axe away. Strong-Sword continued to berserk, swinging a heavy mace and managing to cause several dents in the armor. The invader responded by swinging again at Strong-Sword, but the argonian was far too nimble and managed to duck the blow.
Hovkismod decided against hefting the axe again and instead grabbed the invader by the neck, managing to swiftly grapple him. The invader, however, was ready for that. Though he was significantly weaker, he was still far too heavily-armored for hand-to-hand combat. He ducked and let the weight of his armor drag him down, then pulled a dagger out of its hilt and lashed at Hovkismod's legs. Though the blade tore through him and wrecked him with pain, he managed to hold his grip.
Strong-Sword got on the invader's other side and bashed him with his mace again, this time in the back. This was too much for the old armor, which had been built for frontal combat, and it cracked open. Though it didn't destroy the armor, it made a crack large enough for him to drive a sword through, which he did as quickly as he could.
The invader let out a cry of agony as the blade ran him through, coming out through his belly and clanging against the front side of his cuirass. Enraged, he swung his axe through the air. Though it didn't connect, it did knock Strong-Sword away, and the momentum broke even Hovkismod's strong grip. Before either of them could recover, the invader flipped the dagger in his hand and threw it at Strong-Sword in a retaliatory strike.
This time, Strong-Sword wasn't so lucky. The blade sank into his chest and caused him to stumble backwards. He let out a shriek of agony as he fell onto the body of a dead comrade. No, not just agony... dismay.
"No!" Hovkismod cried uselessly. Enraged, he drew up everything he had inside him and unleashed his right arm at the invader's head. To a normal human, this would have only broken the arm, but there is something special inside the people of his Skyrim homeland that makes them stronger in their time of need. In that moment in time, the gods smiled upon Hovkismod, and his fist drove through the invader's helmet, destroying it instantly.
The invader stumbled out of surprise and looked at Hovkismod. His red eyes widened in shock, and his mouth dropped open as if to utter a word of confusion. The word never came. In one more burst of strength, Hovkismod lifted his axe and swung it. It connected with the invader's neck and his head sailed off in an arc, blood spraying all over the useless body and Hovkismod.
"Ha," Hovkismod called, and he let out a war cry. "Take that, you dark-skinned bastard! We can beat your little rabble of mercenaries any day! Nothing stops God-Hammer!"
Suddenly, something blunt struck the back of his head, and he fell to the ground.
Hovkismod woke many minutes later, surrounded with the dead bodies of argonians and dunmer alike. The scene had gone eerily quiet, a silence only broken by the sound of burning wood. With difficulty, he managed to lift himself up. He groaned loudly and felt the back of his head. It was bleeding and felt cracked, like he had been attacked with a blunt weapon.
Staggering upright, he quaffed the one healing potion he had accepted from the village elder. It managed to stop the bleeding and fixed the concussion he had incurred. As his vision became clearer, he heard a loud moan. Looking down, he saw Strong-Sword still lying where he had fallen, the dagger in his chest wound now covered with blood. The argonian coughed violently and spat blood onto the ground.
Hovkismod went to the guard's side and knelt to his eye level. "By the Nine Divines," he said, speechless.
"Everyone..." the argonian muttered, barely able to speak louder than a whimper. "They took everyone..."
"Don't try to talk," Hovkismod said, digging through a nearby body looking for more healing potions. "The blade has pierced a lung, but you'll be fine."
"HovkiSss... cough, cough"
"Stay with me! I'll find a healing potion! The elder was giving them out like candy before the invaders came... one of the bodies here has to have one!"
"It'Sss too late for me... leave it."
Hovkismod let out a cry of frustration and kicked a dunmer body. A wound in the dead soldier's belly opened up and his guts spilled out. Hovkismod looked down at the gore, breathing deeply and growling. His warrior spirit couldn't mask his own shame, and neither could he summon the courage to look at his broken comrade.
"They've taken the village," Strong-Sword continued. "The guard fought valiantly, but we couldn't Ssstop them. We loSsst. They rounded up the SssurvivorSss and killed the elder right in front of them... the women, the children, and the wounded... all gone. I only eSsscaped by playing dead."
"Listen," Hovkismod said, going to his friend's side. "We haven't lost yet! They can't have gone far transporting so many wounded. They'll still be on the road between the Black Marsh and Morrowind by now!"
"HovkiSss... cough!" The guard spat more blood onto the ground. "The real reaSsson I waSssn't named all of those yearSss ago... even though GuardSss-HiSss-Home was... GuardSss stayed and fought... and I ran away."
"You didn't run away tonight," the nord said. "You stayed and fought. You earned your name! You can earn it again!"
"It iSss too late," the argonian replied simply. "I can not be Sssaved. Let me die in my home, with my family."
Tears soon covered the warrior's face as the argonian slipped into unconsciousness. He remained in the village for many hours, looking for survivors among the wreckage. Instead he found only bones and bodies. By morning, all of the huts had burned to the ground. Bodies still littered the soil, and the once-dry spit of land had become drenched with blood.
Finally he fell to his knees and let out one desperate cry, as if hoping that, if he shouted loudly enough, the gods would hear him and right this wrong. His simple prayer was answered in silence, and he doubled over and cried.
Over an hour passed before he could bear to lift himself off the ground again. Searching through the wreckage, he finally found his axe. With a shaft six feet long and two blades each a foot long, it was an imposing weapon of his homeland, gently shimmering with the power of magic. He looked at the engraving on the blade. In the language of his home, it said "Forever Mighty. Forever Brave. Truth. Justice. Freedom."
He hefted the axe onto his back. It clattered against his armor for a moment before finally resting in its scabbard. Turning down to the road, he began his next journey. "To Morrowind," he said, "to glory and war."