A/N: I'm ba-ack! This summer was sooo jammed full of work and swimming and kayaking and more work, but I still found time to miss uploading chapters for you guys and reading your amazingly kind reviews, so I started to pick up writing more seriously again. This first chapter is just going to be a kind of trial run, I'm still working out the kinks in the storyline. In the meantime I wanted to get your guys' opinion on it so far. Martin and Katryn are back but it's definitely with a twist. I'll let you found out what that is on your own: Enjoy!!
PS- I forgot to add that this is the sequel to Oblivion's Sacrifice so it would probably make more sense to read that one first, just so you understand what's going on here.
It seemed there was an unsettled air over the whole of Morrowind and not just over those gathered. The wind had risen again laden with the threat of yet another sand storm. Usually cheerful stars were glittering half-heartedly in the hazy sky as though they, too were fearing the weather and the evil that was meeting beneath them. Inside the cavern these bright eyes watched, the air was even more volatile. It was a group made up of mostly Dunmer with the odd Altmer or Bosmer thrown in. Any others would have been tossed out immediately with throats cut first, being outsiders and therefore at fault in the eyes of this cult.
"There is a Nord claiming to be Nerevar reborn," The reedy, nasal voice echoed around the dry, stale air of the cavern and immediately captured the others attention without needing a command, "This will be our best chance."
Two dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on the small brunette Bosmer. His own hazel eyes were fiery and there was a thick warning note to his voice that told them he was not to be trifled with. Several of the other Elves present could dispatch the Bosmer easily but at the moment he was their only hope if the plan was to fall through.
"A Nord?" An arrogant female voice, one of maybe four, repeated, "Nerevar reborn a barbarian dog?"
"That is the rumor," The Bosmer was calm, his voice soothing. Nothing gave away the inward fury and indignation he felt at this information, "With the focus being entirely on this, we will be able to act freely. Septim himself will never suspect this. Our players have been strategically placed and we are slowly learning the pros and cons of our plan. His daughter is well guarded but it is nothing we cannot handle. Once she is taken care of and the body disposed on Vvardenfall's shore, we will be free to make our move."
"Which is?" This from another token female.
All eyes flickered to her and away again just as quickly. She was seated calmly, relaxed, but everything about her screamed 'Dangerous!' Tall and lithe, the Altmer's blue eyes were so pale they were practically white; at one time she was probably quite beautiful but life had hardened her features and numerous battles left their marks. The most noticeable and frightening was the one that had been left by a badly swung mace 10 years prior. The swing had occurred well after her opponent knew he was done for and there had been nothing but desperation behind the blow. But desperation was enough and she had made a mistake that she never would again. Her duck and attempted weave to get away was her downfall. If she hadn't ducked quite so low or taken into account the fact the mace was swinging on a chain, she would have been quite unmarred. What happens, happens however and she was not going to live in the past. The razor edges of the mace had caught the soft flesh above her eye and proceeded down, carving long, deep gouges into her face and forever disfiguring her. Infection had made the healing process longer and for a time she herself was afraid to look at her own face. The sliced third of her eyebrow never would grow hair again giving her face a comically quizzical look that no one remotely considered smirking at; the almond shaped eyes were mismatched and one corner of her full lips was pulled down, finishing the lopsided features.
While the gazes of everyone else shied away from this intimidating figure, the Bosmer examined her with interest. Her Netch hide armor was tooled beautifully and the ebony short sword at her hip was one of finest quality. It had to be considering that he could see masterful smithing from his perch 7 yards away. Her auburn hair was twisted into a heavy coil and pinned up with a grace that came from breeding. He studied her face next, pitying the scars blemishing an otherwise striking expression: her nose was straight and fine and the pale eyes were eyeing him with as much interest as she would eye a slug in her garden. The arrogance in the face suddenly struck him and he smothered his surprise quickly, wondering how he couldn't have recognized her right away. Hazel eyes returned to the scars and he changed his mind again.
"All in good time, Bargth," He answered and enjoyed the effect that his words had on those gathered.
Nema Bargth's jaw clenched momentarily before she got firm hold of her temper and she inclined her head to the little Elf. Her parentage was not something she wanted to discuss now but she knew it was only going to be a matter of time before someone realized. The lean figure beside her sat up even straighter, if that was possible, and a snarl rumbled in his throat. Nema barely lifted a finger and he eased back, glaring maliciously at the Bosmer.
"Well, I for one, would like to know what I am getting myself into before I agree to place my highly valued life in your hands, Heidl," Speaking softly, Nema saw that several of the others nodded their agreement and looked expectant when they glanced at Heidl.
"Some of us would consider it a great honor to give our lives for a cause that has meant everything to us," The comment came from the first woman that spoke and her orange and red eyes glittered with malice.
"If you are so enamored of causes, you should go and join your barbarian dog and give your life for him. Unless of course that would be asking too much?" Nema didn't raise her voice and her eyes barely smouldered but the effect was like she had done both and than some.
The Dunmer's dusky skin flushed grey and she let out a hiss of anger, her hand dropping to her belt where several knives were snug in their scabbards. The menacing figure beside Nema reacted instantly, rolling to his feet so he towered over all the rest and placing himself between Altmer and Dunmer before advancing on the latter. Her eyes didn't have time to even flicker with fear before Heidl stepped in.
"Enough," He said sharply in a tone that was meant to be obeyed. Eyeing the silent, red skinned, black eyed Dremora distastefully, he added, "Bargth, get him under control and, Lothan, shut up. If we start the violence amongst ourselves, we will be destroying any chance of fulfilling our plans. Once Septim's daughter is killed and Morrowind blamed, war will be launched. The Imperial Legion and Cult will be no match for Septim's Blades and they will be wiped out."
"And what happens after the Legion and Cult are taken care of?" Nema questioned as her Dremora sank reluctantly down next to her once more, "The Blades are some of the best warriors that Tamriel has seen in generations. They will not be cast out easily."
"We must have patience," Heidl spoke lazily and his eyes glinted with something like mischief, "We will wait for them to trickle out and during this time will strengthen our own forces. The Imperials are a proud, suspicious lot and Septim will not like leaving his domain unprotected for long."
"Are you counting on this 'Nerevar' claim to be a distraction?" Nema once again seemed to voice the question that was on everyone's lips.
"That is all part of the political side, Bargth and has no bearing here," Heidl was choosing his words carefully, conveying that now was not the time for that discussion.
Nema leaned forward and her eyes never left the little Bosmer.
"That is what I happen to be most interested in. The politics of this may factor very highly in my ultimate decision."
Heidl remained silent for a moment. Now was not the time to reveal his entire hand, but he could not deny Nema's claim. She came from the fairly prominent Erabenimsum tribe, her father being the Ashkan, or leader, of the Dunmer Ashlanders. He had caused quite a fervor when he brought home an Altmer bride instead of holding to tradition and marrying a daughter of an ally. Nema, before her wounds, resembled her late mother greatly and wanted nothing to do with her Ashland ties while so many of them depended on ancestors and tradition. Nema placed strength in her own abilities and nothing else, though she was not above using these ties to get her what she wanted. And she was right, everything may indeed come to rest on whether or not her tribe accepted the Nord's proclamations.
"That will all be revealed in time," He answered finally.
"So until then we're just supposed to trust you?"
"It's not as bad as you may think," The Bosmer's smile was amused and sly, "The most important thing is to get that false warning to Septim and going through step one. Everything beyond that will be worked out well enough."
Nema was not comforted, but it seemed the rest were, for the most part. A few were nodding agreement and others looked less troubled. The Altmer glanced sidelong at her companion and arched her brows. The Dremora's face was unreadable, which was usual, although the black eyes were questioning. He knew that Nema would never be completely satisfied with anyone else's plans and he wondered what her decision would be. Not that it would mean much to him; their understanding was such that he would follow her to the ends of the earth. He leaned closer as those around them started getting to their feet and talking excitedly about the future. A future that would not involve the power and money hungry Cyrodiil Empire.
"Will this be worth our time?" He asked in an undertone as his black eyes roved disdainfully over the crowd.
Nema was idly stroking the hilt of her ebony sword as she leaned back against the dirt wall. She was staring into space, thinking on exactly that subject. There had never been a moment in her life where she didn't try to undermine her tribe at every turn and now that there could be a very real dilema and not just a petty enterprise on her part, this would not be an easy decision. She knew that if the tribe went along with this Nord, she would be given the chance to lash out at her oppressors like never before; and if not... well she may just have to turn revolutionary. There was nothing wrong with taking sides with the strongest: she had done so in the past and her number one priority was her own neck. If things had been any different, she wouldn't be alive now.
"Let them have their moment," She answered finally, nodding to the others. The Dremora was so used to her brooding silences that he wasn't surprised she had taken such a long time, "Heidl likes to have his secrets and he can't stand for others to take his credit. He will not keep this one long and we can afford to wait. Who can say, Yvex, this may be what we've been waiting for."
The Elves gathered stayed long into the night and between conversing with Heidl and a few others that were brave enough to confront her with Yvex present, Nema noted that an Altmer slipped unobtrusively out the door and into the dust storm. She allowed a crease of a frown and became silent once more. The Altmer was one she had spotted earlier and kept an eye on, not sure why. He had sat by himself, a little apart from everyone else, which was nothing; she herself sat apart save for Yvex. But there was a decidedly suspicious air about him, he just simply did not belong and now he was leaving far too soon to truly be a part of this gathering.
Yvex was frowning at her, reading her as if she was a book and she jerked her head to the door at the same moment that she motioned him forward. She told him in a murmur what was going on and his frown grew as he glanced at the door.
"Should he be followed?"
"I think that's been taken care of," Nema replied, her blue-white eyes fixed beyond him.
Two Dunmer were leaving the cavern as well, straight and erect, and fully armed. The wind howled by the door and blew dust into the entrance of the cave before it was closed with a snap. Heidl met Nema's gaze and he quirked his mouth sardonically with a small shrug. Nema inclined her head and turned her attention back to her Dremora. If the interloper was taken care of, she would think nothing of it.
The Altmer got maybe 300 yards down the road before the Dunmer caught up with him. If the night was still and the wind calm, he would have stood a better chance to get off the road and hide, as it was he didn't hear them until the first blow came. A hammer-like fist crashed into the back of his skull and sent him sprawling to the dirt. Before he could even begin to defend himself, a sharp kick went to his ribs and he felt the sickening crack of bone. The breath went out of him and stars danced behind his closed eyelids. He could barely hear the murmur of voices above him as he gasped for breath and tried to struggle to his knees. A hand knotted into his hair and a second later the same fist slammed into his cheek. There was an explosion in his head but the merciful blackness that overtook him spared him the knowledge of a broken jaw and several shattered teeth.
The two Elves didn't allow his state to stop them and they made quick work of turning the Altmer into something looking less than human. When they had spent themselves, the taller of the two glanced at his companion, talking loudly over the wind.
"Would you like to finish the cretin off or should I?"
The other shrugged unconcernedly and turned the body over roughly with one boot. This business was something that had been part of his life for years and when the end came it always left him wanting more.
"Let's leave him for the animals," He said roughly. A knife in the neck had almost killed him 7 years ago and left his voice hoarse and low, "After this damn storm, they'll need something."
They dragged him off the road and dumped him unceremoniously down a sharp incline. He disappeared in a haze of dust that the wind caught and spun crazily up in front of them. They didn't wait for it to settle, wanting to get out of the storm and back to the shelter of the cavern. If they had, they would've seen that there had been another quick enough to get off the road; another that carefully eased from his hiding place and crept down the incline to the prone figure.
He shook his hands from his sleeves, not jarring the scarf that was wrapped around his face, and felt for a pulse under the bloody, battered face. It took a moment but he could feel it, very feeble against his fingers. Though it was hard to see through the storm, blood was pouring thickly from several gashes and splits in the Altmer's face. His jaw was hanging awkwardly, obviously broken, and when his saviour slid one hand gently around his shoulders to lift him, a pained groan burst from split lips. His head lolled, but naturally, and the other knew that these few moments of intense pain were going to be worth it to the Altmer in the long-run.
He struggled to heave the Elf as best he could onto his shoulders and winced as the man let out a whimper of pain. It felt as though the ribs on his right side were gone and he prayed that the Altmer would stay oblivious: it was not long to the rescuer's cave, but it would be very slow going.
Memories were wonderful. They kept one sane in times of trouble and despair. Memories of good times and friends, of those moments that were so precious and intimate that to speak them would make them disappear, of family gatherings that meant everything after someone you loved was gone. Well, perhaps keeping one sane was a stretch. There were bad memories as well, memories that haunted your dreams and waking hours so that even the smallest task was made impossible. And these were the memories that Katryn Gwynyth could do nothing but dwell on.
At the moment she was standing ankle deep in the Abecean Sea, a pastime that had become habit for her in the past 13 years that she had lived outside the town of Anvil. That summer had been a long one and Katryn was as happy as she could be with circumstances being as they were. She had been able to swim practically everyday and it made her feel almost like she was at home again. After things ended so abruptly in the Imperial City she fled to her parents', needing that familiar and comfortable atmosphere more than she ever had before. She had stayed there for two and a half years, looking over her shoulder every minute of it, afraid that everything would be made even more complicated than it was already. But her worry had been for naught and soon she grew tired of the calm and quiet of the family's quaint home, which was understandable. She had been the Blades' errand girl for months and now that it was done, she didn't know what to do with herself. So she had packed her things, gathered up her shadow because Gozrak still refused to leave her side, traveled back to Cyrodiil and settled far from the Imperial City and Bruma. She knew she did herself no favors buying the little cabin on the outskirts of Anvil, where Martin had been raised, but some self-castigating part of her wanted to be there, to feel close to him when physically miles away. It helped that there was still no teleportation platform in the small fishing village and she rationalized that she was living two miles north of town. And the past 13 years had been peaceful, lonely perhaps, but peaceful.
The cool water swelled around her slender ankles, soaking the first three or four inches of her skirt hem and broke her grim reveries. She glanced up at the bright blue sky and saw that the sun was lowering even more into the green-blue water. Fall was coming and she could feel it in the chill of the breeze. Her little bay here was gorgeous in the fall and winter and she could see the storms coming miles out to sea. With a long sigh, she turned back to the shore and the little trail that led through the shrubs and wind stunted trees back to the cabin. Gozrak would be coming by any moment and though he knew where she would be if she wasn't in the house, he still had that decidedly worried look each time he found her again. She moved reluctantly from the saltwater and along the way to the house. It was a pretty little place, nestled into a glen amongst tall, strong green pines and twisted, red barked madrona. The front lawn was lush and a deep green while around the house were flowering bushes that flourished in the salt air and bloomed beautifully against the stones of the cottage. The thatched roof would have to be replaced next year, she saw as she approached the front. She skirted the corner of the house and moved around to the back where the scents from her garden were strong in the air. For as restless as she had been at home helping her mother and father with domestic cares and worries, here she had settled easily into life as Anvil's resident healer. It had taken some time for the men and women to trust her and she had had a hell of a time living down her reputation as the Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil. The titles still made her cringe and there were always those odd few that persisted in treating her like she was the next best thing to a diety. But the people of Anvil had come to love and respect her and they were soon more protective than anything else of the once great hero they had living in their midst. Perhaps they liked that she was so determinedly normal or they worried about the melancholy air surrounding her; whatever the reason, most had been quick to open their arms and homes to her and trust her with their illnesses. What was more, she knew exactly what she was doing and she was excellent at mixing the potions the simple village needed.
As she reached the back door, her wolf-hound, Hecter, picked up his head and his silver-grey tail thumped the ground. She smiled a little and spoke softly in Elvish; Hecter got to his feet at once and pressed himself against her affectionately. She stroked the hound's soft head. He had been a gift from Toben Levin six years ago when Gozrak moved permanently into the city after remarrying. Toben hadn't liked the idea of Katryn being alone in the house two miles from the nearest person, especially with the rogues that had been thick in the woods at the time. She had excepted the puppy gratefully. Her faithful friend Toben: the man that checked too constantly on her, worried too much and had proposed every year for the past five. At times she was so exasperated with the question that she was tempted to tell him yes simply to get him to stop and at times the thought was actually quite serious. Why shouldn't she marry? Hadn't he? And then she remembered just why he had and she choked those unfair thoughts and turned Toben down as gently as she could.
A soft whinny interrupted her and she threw a quick smile in the direction of the quaint, stone barn and large fenced field where Immel's little family was housed. Her loyal mount, aged beautifully and as stubborn as the day was long, was still with her of course and showed no sign of leaving the world anytime soon. His mate, Thera, was a proud, staunch mare and the leggy colt, Fyr, was every bit as stubborn as his sire.
Yes, Katryn had her own kingdom here. Perhaps not as graceful and domineering as what she could have had, but it was wholly her own and she had worked hard to accomplish that, all those bad memories be damned. Most of the work was done while trying to do just that, trying to banish those from the forefront of her mind where they were determined to stay. She could almost manage when working with the townspeople repairing dams and bridges that suffered constantly in the fall and winter storms; the tasks she set about with Gozrak was another escape, though he reminded her sharply of that past age; and then there was the work with Toben who was always willing to lend a hand. He helped her thatch her roof that first time, repaired the chimney for her, they built Immel's fence and the troughs that had yet to break down and leak. He was a good man, would make a fine husband, but not for her. She treasured him too much as a friend and wanted to see him happily settled with a woman that would love him without fail and Katryn was just too broken to do so. The past was still just beneath the surface no matter how hard she tried to fight it and she would too soon be forced to rip open the old wounds and perhaps never let them heal again.