Author's Note
If you've read my other Elder Scrolls story, The Sun's Despite, you know that I often write from a different perspective than might be expected. In the case of that particular story, despite its focus on my Imperial Dragonborn Brandon of Cyrodiil, little of it is actually written from his viewpoint. Blade of the Emperor follows that convention; although the story itself revolves around the life and adventures of Brandon of Cyrodiil, the primary viewpoint character - there will be others - will be Eduard of Farrun, a character who will be introduced in the next chapter.
Based on the outline as it currently stands, this story will be divided into three books of around twenty to thirty chapters each. The first book, Shadows of the Past, consists of Eduard's first-hand account of his life up to and through the Great War between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. I intend to write one chapter a week, and will generally upload that chapter on Monday, around 5.00 PST.
The story is rated M primarily for language and violence, though some sexuality will be present later on.
As a side note, the way that I break up my writing is suited for the way I normally read stories: with the 1/2 story width option. I recommend that as the best way to read this story.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this story.
Blade of the Emperor
Book I: Shadows of the Past
Prologue
Solitude, Imperial Province of Skyrim, Summer 4E201
The sun had just set, but its presence still lurked just beyond the horizon, limning the mountains with a golden light. Just down the hill, beyond the high walls of Solitude, where the streets were quieting from the day's business, and citizens were slowly returning home, there stood two individuals of equal stature beside a simple open carriage.
"You're sure you remember the plan?" inquired the woman, her voice, tempered with an audible air of age and experience, conveyed a deep sense of doubt only brought about through long and painful experience. She was tall for a woman, and the years she had obviously seen lay lightly upon her; though her fifty-sixth winter had passed only months ago, she seemed no more than a day over thirty - it was her eyes alone which carried the weight of years. Her long, lustrous, blonde hair was bound in a severe ponytail, and her lissome shape was revealed even beneath the thick leather armor she wore.
The man - barely more than a boy - across from her sighed indignantly and, in dismay, ran his hand slowly through his short brown hair. "Of course, Delphine; we've been over it a hundred times."
"We have not," came the annoyed reply, "though we would have done, if this was a proper operation..."
"Come on," yelled the impatient driver, "I haven't got all bloody day." Delphine tossed him another septim to shut him up.
"That reminds me," she added, "you can't go to a party at the Thalmor Embassy dressed like that." She gestured towards his armor with a dismissive hand and held out a bundle of clothes with the other. "Put these on," she directed firmly.
Brandon's eyes widened, and looked worriedly at their surroundings. "What, here - now?"
"I have seen a naked man before, Brandon," Delphine remarked airily, but she turned her back and motioned towards a concealed area which offered the opportunity of refuge. Brandon gratefully retreated to it, and after a few moments, emerged divested of his arms and armor and dressed formally in simple but elegant attire.
Delphine took his gear with a silent reassurance of their security.
"Now," she said, turning to face him, "from the beginning." Brandon sighed loudly, but complied.
"I arrive at the embassy-"
Delphine raised a hand and cut him off. "Cover first; then execution." She chose to ignore the exaggerated roll of his eyes as he continued.
"Velus of Bruma, twenty-three, leader of a small mercenary band come to Skyrim to offer our services; obtained an invitation through contacts with the East Empire Company in order to find wealthy employers seeking security in these troubled times."
He paused until Delphine nodded her head in approval, and then continued.
"I use the invitation to get past the door, mingle for a while and make a few business propositions, then cause a disturbance somehow. Under that cover, Malborn will sneak me out, I'll get my gear, find Elenwen's office, find out what she knows about the dragons, and then sneak out."
"Good enough, I suppose." Brandon grimaced; the carriage driver yelled that they would be late for the party.
Delphine sighed. "Good luck, Brandon. Gods willing, I'll see you soon back in Riverwood."
The young man nodded and, unused to the delicate material of his new clothes, climbed gingerly into the wooden carriage's seat. The night was fully upon them now, and the moons shone brightly above, promising to light the road ahead.
Soon enough the carriage disappeared down the road, leaving Delphine alone in the night. She remembered another time, many years past, when it was she who had been the young novice beginning her first clandestine operation.
Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned, and with her mind still trapped within shadows of the past, her eyes widened as a ghost seemed to walk down the path towards her: the same walk, the same build - she blinked, and then he was gone, a city guard in his place with a guttering torch in one hand.
"Are you all right, miss?" the guard asked, genuine concern in his voice. "We'll be closing the gates soon - you'd best get inside the city if that's where you're headed."
The guard watched cautiously as Delphine, unable to speak, shook her head.
"Are you sure, miss? I'll walk back with you, if you like."
"No. Thank you, you're very kind." She wiped a hand across her eyes before turning away from the guard and walking back down the road until finally turning from the road and slipping noiselessly into the trees.
The guard watched the strange woman all the while, his thoughts turning over past experiences and wondering what business had brought her to Solitude and that now sent her into the wilds of its surroundings. Soon enough, though, his thoughts turned to the warm barracks behind him, and a soft bed and warm mead, and he slowly turned and went back towards the warmth and shelter of his comrades.
Night animals sounded in protest as the carriage's iron-rimmed wheels clattered harshly against the cobblestone road, and Brandon unconsciously clenched and unclenched his fingers in a reflexive attempt to relieve his nerves; never before had he been so anxious - not even at Windhelm, when the Stormcloaks had so bravely faced them across that silent field of snow.
The lights of the Thalmor embassy began to grow in the distance, and far more swiftly than he might have wished, the carriage slid to a halt in front of the buildings entrance. A pair of Thalmor guards stood watch over the door, their brightly plumed golden armor glinted sharply in the moonlight, and Brandon hesitated before leaving the carriage.
The driver swiveled in his seat and directed a final question at his passenger. "Do you want me to wait for you, sir?"
"No," Brandon replied, shaking his head, and turned back towards the embassy; the driver shrugged, and clattered off down the road. Finally, Brandon was alone. He breathed deep of the chill air, the cold burning his lungs invigorated him and gave him the strength to push forward.
"Whups!"
Brandon felt a shoulder strike his own, and staggered from the impact; a wave of stench wafted over him: the breath of an alcoholic.
"Sorry friend, I'm a little … hips … hips …" the other man paused to find the correct word. "Tipsy!" he concluded, his voice a chorus of triumph.
"A fellow late-comer," he continued making a sweeping expansive gesture which managed to include Brandon, the embassy, and the Thalmor guards in one broad stroke.
"Yes," came Brandon's stiff reply as he straightened and brushed an errant bit of snow from his clothes.
The redguard, undaunted by the distinct chill Brandon was emitting, had apparently become convinced that they were comrades-in-arms. An arm extended itself around Brandon's shoulders. "Name's Razelan, friend. What brings you to Elenwen's little soirée?"
Brandon glanced desperately around for an escape, but the heartless Thalmor wizard refused to meet his eye.
"Business," he finally replied, hoping that such a vague and consequently impolite answer would discourage further inquiry, but it merely spurred the other man on.
"Ah! I as well, my friend - though if you keep it between the two of us, I'll wager few people come to these parties for any other reason." Razelan smirked, and this shared secret became further glue on their relationship. Brandon sighed, and gave up. The pair turned, Razelan's arm still wrapped around Brandon's shoulders, and crossed the short distance to the Thalmor gatekeeper.
"Lost my way coming up the hill," Razelan explained his tardiness to the Altmer before extending his invitation, "couldn't find the damned road in all the snow." Brandon rather expected that his state of intoxication had far more to do with it than the light snowfall, but chose to say nothing; the Thalmor simply nodded disinterestedly and deposited their invitations in his voluminous robes.
"Enjoy the party, gentlemen." They nodded a civil, but wordless response as they swept past.
"Now what kind of business do you do, my friend?" The Redguard's gaze was cunning, and Brandon's previous anxiety began to creep back into the edges of his mind.
"Services of all kinds," he began expansively, then paused, trying to get into character, "but mostly I provide... security, in troubled times. And these are troubled times, would you not agree?" This question was delivered with a meaningful glance, and Razelan received it knowingly.
"Indeed, my friend, indeed. Shadows crowd around us daily, and such men who may stand against them are in great demand these days." Razelan nodded sagely before continuing; they had almost reached the embassy's ornate doorway. "I, however, am merely a simply official of the East Empire Company. It is a humble calling, but one which possesses certain... perks."
Brandon arched an eyebrow, but at that moment they passed through the doors and were greeted by the bright light of lamps and the sound of a party in full swing. He gently disentangled himself from the other man and straightened, relieved of the burden of Razelan's weight. There, standing before him in robes of splendid black cloth and gold trim, was she who could only be Elenwen - the Thalmor ambassador. She greeted Razlan first, with evident distaste, but the cheerful and intoxicated Redguard took no notice and after perfunctory pleasantries ambled towards the bar to drink in isolation.
When her gaze turned to Brandon, he finally understood why the Thalmor were so feared: her eyes, set deep within high cheekbones, were cruel and penetrating; the kind of eyes which seemed to reveal everything which you had once thought hidden.
"Forgive me, but I do not remember having the pleasure of your attendance before." Her thin lips pressed firmly together at the conclusion of her statement, and Brandon knew that here was a woman to be cautious around.
"Velus of Bruma, at your service. And I assure you, Madame Ambassador, that the pleasure is all mine." Brandon gave a slight bow - a courtesy she did not return - and caught a flash of amusement in her eyes at his blatant flattery.
"And what kind of services might you be a provider of, Velus of Bruma?" Brandon straightened and, after a pause, decided on a simple answer.
"I am the captain of a small band of mercenaries, madame ambassador; we have come to Skyrim due to the recent... conflagration. Work surely will find us in Skyrim, and what better place to look than here, at the center of the province's politics?"
"Surely," she questioned, "a mercenary would much prefer a contract without the possibility of violence?"
"That is my position entirely, madame," Brandon replied earnestly, "but such plums are only appetizing when one's company is full of seasoned men; such men are rare these days, and I am ashamed to admit that mine are in some need of tempering."
"And the only true test..." she left the thought unspoken, but Brandon nodded in affirmation.
"Very good," she concluded, and seemed on the verge of broaching another topic when a voice broke in and interrupted their conversation.
"Excuse me, madame ambassador?"
Elenwen sighed deeply and closed her eyes, as if summoning up the last reserves of an almost-depleted patience. "What is it, Malborn?" she asked, as Brandon breathed an internal sigh of relief.
"Forgive me madame ambassador, but we've run out of the Alto Wine - do I have your permission to uncork the-"
"Of course!" she said stridently, "I've told you before not to bother me with such trifles!"
Appearing suitably chastened, the wood elf lowered his eyes and replied with a meek "yes, madame ambassador."
Elenwen turned back to Brandon. "My apologies," she breathed, "we'll have to get better acquainted later." Brandon nodded his head in quiet acceptance, but as she turned to go he had caughts something very like hunger in her eyes - whether of lust or a hunger of another darker, more insidious and calculating kind, Brandon did know. His traitorous mind briefly imagined he and Elenwen entwined on a couch and - when the subject of his involuntary imaginings had her back safely to him - he shuddered, and approached the bar. Malborn eyed him disinterestedly.
Checking surreptitiously around to ensure no eavesdroppers were within easy hearing, Brandon quietly inquired as to whether Malborn was ready.
"Yes sir," came the loud reply, "one colovian brandy coming right up." And then, more softly, "We'll need a distraction. I can't sneak you out otherwise."
"What?" demanded Brandon, but Malborn silenced him with a gesture, and Brandon was forced to move out into the party itself. There must have been thirty guests, and none that Brandon knew - fortunate indeed.
But how to create a distraction? Brandon turned the problem in his head over and over but came up blank. So deep in thought was he, as he threaded his careful way through the partygoers, that he almost collided with General Tullius and Legate Rikke - who had apparently just arrived.
"Brandon," said the general in evident, but mild, surprise, "what in oblivion are you doing here?"
Brandon, surprised in his own right, started so much that he almost spilled his colovian brandy.
"Sir?" He glanced at the Legate, and just barely resisted the urge to salute. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elenwen take notice of the meeting and begin to slowly move her way towards them.
"It's Velus, now, sir - ma'am," he whispered desperately, and nodded to the legate.
Tullius' eyes narrowed. "Just what are you playing at, son?" But before Brandon could try to answer that question, Elenwen descended upon them, her hawk-like eyes missing nothing, Brandon was sure, not even the drops of colovian brandy which were sliding gently down the side of his goblet.
"I take it you three have met before." It was not a question.
The general began to answer, but Rikke was there before him. "We have, Madame Ambassador, Second-Spear Centurion Velus commanded a century in my third cohort some years back."
Elenwen simply inspected Brandon more closely. "Indeed?" she said lightly, "I am very happy to have brought about this reunion of old comrades-in-arms. Please, do not let me interrupt this moment." She retired gracefully, her eyes lingering on Brandon's.
The three drew aside, away from prying ears. "What in oblivion is this about, son?"
"I can't tell you sir, I'm sorry. Please, you must just trust me." Tullius held his gaze for several long moments before turning to Rikke, who gave a subtle nod of her head.
"All right, Brandon. Is there anything we can do to help?"
"I need a distraction, something that will draw everyone's attention." They were speaking softly, beneath the growing buzz of party-talk and ebullience of alcohol.
Rikke frowned, her blue eyes casting about the embassy's interior. "I don't know, Brandon, subterfuge isn't really my thing..." She unconsciously chewed her lip, deep in consideration. "Certainly a flamboyant drunk might do the trick." She grinned. "It's not a Nord party without at least one drunken rant - maybe even a fight." A light was in her eyes, but the general quickly intervened before her Nordic enthusiasm could run away from her.
"Don't be foolish, Rikke," he broke in, "it can't be one of us." The legate looked disappointed, but bowed to the wisdom of the statement. An Imperial Legion officer starting a fight at a Thalmor ambassador's party was quite simply a recipe for disaster, one which would draw further attention to this particular instance, and the guests which had been in attendance - attention which Brandon did not want.
But what about a regular drunk? Someone the Thalmor were accustomed to tolerating, and who, by chance, had just one drink too many...
"Wish me luck," he said, and with a parting look at each of them, he slipped away into the party.
"Well," said the legate, "he always was a fickle soldier - smart though, through and through."
"Hmm," grunted the general, and shrugged his aging shoulders, in a gesture which seemed to say that though Brandon certainly was clever, he was unpredictable, and sometimes that threatened to be his undoing.
The general had very expressive shoulders.
By the time this exchange had run its brief course, Brandon had made his way across the room to where he had spotted Ravelan seated on a bench by the wall, drink in hand.
"Ah! My friend," he slurred as Brandon approached and took a seat beside him, nodding in greeting. Brandon sipped his brandy. They sat in companionable silence as twos and threes drifted by them, consumed in politics of a business or personal nature.
"Would you do me a favor?" The rather blunt promulgation of this somewhat bald and unusual request - in circumstance, at least, and certainly in the brevity of their relationship - did not seem to be registered by the listing Redguard, who merely nodded happily.
"Anything for you, my friend, anything. What do you need?" His breath nearly knocked Brandon from his seat, but he persevered.
"I need a distraction. I need everyone's eyes on you."
"Aha! I knew it," said Ravelan, rather more loudly than might have otherwise been preferable, causing a few indignant glances to be shot their way. Brandon ignored them, and leaned back in his seat, the picture of nonchalance as Ravelan tapped a sly index finger to the side of his nose before poking Brandon in the chest with it. "So you can make off with that pretty serving-maid, I'll wager. I thought I saw your glance stray her way." Brandon flushed involuntarily and looked away; causing Ravelan's grin to grow only broader as he winked conspicuously. "You've come to the right man, my friend. Causing a scene is something of a specialty of mine."
He staggered to his feet and began making his way towards Elenwen, shoving guests aside and spilling brandy in such a wide arc that Brandon found it hard to believe that so much liquid had found a home in such a deceptively small container.
Brandon slipped back towards the bar, where Malborn was waiting, catching the eyes of Rikke and Tullius as he went.
"Attention please!" Shouted Ravelan. "Attention!" A general muttering had begun amongst the guests, as Elenwen turned her baleful glare to the boisterous Redguard.
All eyes were on Ravelan as he began his toast, and Malborn and Brandon slipped unnoticed through a door and into the kitchens. The large room was dimly light by a flickering fireplace and a few small lamps. The Khajiit cook, standing by a wooden table near the fire, raised her head and pricked her ears at their entrance.
"Who comes, Malborn? You know I don't like strange smells in my kitchen." Her low voice, strangely accented, carried clearly across the silent room.
"A guest feeling ill," explained Malborn, not taking the time to stop, "leave the poor wretch be."
"A guest?" objected the cook, "in the kitchens?" She paused as Malborn opened the larder door and motioned for Brandon to enter. "You know this is against the rules." A latent threat lingered in the air behind her words, but Malborn had done his work well, and was prepared.
"Rules, is it, Tsavani?" his tone was cutting, "I didn't realize that eating moon sugar was permitted. Perhaps I should ask the ambassador..." he trailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging.
The Khajiit hissed sharply and turned away. "Get out of here. I saw nothing."
Malborn shut the door and handed Brandon a bundle of clothes. "Here, put these on." Brandon unfolded them; it was a Thalmor robe.
"You can't be serious."
"Put them on! If I'm missed at the party we're both dead." He indicated the hood of the long, black garment. "Pull that up, and from a distance no one will be able tell the difference."
"Do you have a weapon for me, at least?" Malborn wordlessly thrust a large sheathed dagger and a pair of lockpicks into Brandon's hands, and closed the larder door behind him. Brandon was on his own. He inspected the dagger briefly: an elven piece, and sighed.
The robes fit him, barely, but they wouldn't stand more than a cursory inspection, even from a distance. Steeling himself, he opened the larder's other door and entered the embassy proper.
As he crept slowly along the wall, Brandon let his hand stray to the hilt of the elven dagger strapped about his waist. He clenched it, his knuckles whitening beneath the black leather Thalmor gloves, his footfalls softened by the supple leather soles of his boots.
Voices emanated softly from a room, several individuals, and Brandon froze to listen, but it was just the typical rumor-mongering common to all soldiers everywhere. The small group of elves - the room was evidently the barracks for Elenwen's guard - were clustered around the bunk of the one telling the story, something about a new Thalmor agent who had arrived a week ago to interrogate a prisoner.
Slipping past the barracks door, he pondered what he had learned. A prisoner? Might it have something to do with the dragons? There had been little other than gossip and speculation, but from the way they were talking, it sounded like the prisoner was being kept at some place outside of the embassy - in Elenwen's solar they had said.
There was only one other building in the compound, but that meant going outside, with only the slim disguise hiding him from discovery. But that was probably where Elenwen kept her sensitive materials anyway - and information on the return of the dragons would almost certainly fall into that - admittedly loose - category. And could he really leave someone to the mercy of the Thalmor?
Fortunately, the embassy was deserted, its staff all involved in the party. Brandon found a side door which was unguarded, and emerged into the chill night. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the courtyard to the rear of the embassy.
Two guards stood silhouetted against the starlight, but they did not turn, and Brandon reached the door to the tall, slender building without incident. It was locked, of course, but Brandon swiftly picked the simple lock with a few quick motions and slipped inside. The door shut behind him without a sound, and there was a Thalmor guard, seated at the table, his back carelessly to the door.
It all happened so quickly for Brandon: he drew his dagger, crossed soundlessly to the seated soldier, and drew the blade across the elf's throat. The half-loaf of bread that the elf had been eating dropped to the floor as his lifeblood flooded out over Brandon's hand; a sad, pathetic gurgle emanated from the soldier's mouth, and he slumped against the back of his chair, a hand clawing weakly against the killer he could not see.
Then he was dead, and Brandon wiped the dagger clean of blood on the hem of the tablecloth. Still streaked with blood, he thrust it back into its sheath, and drew the dead elf's sword from its scabbard, and advanced further into the solar.
A voice called out: the soldier's buddy, no doubt. Brandon froze, and when an answer was not forthcoming, the voice called again, soon followed by another Thalmor soldier - hand on sword. Brandon rushed her, but a table was in the way, so she had time to clear her blade and bring it up to block Brandon's first blow.
She beat his blade and made her own attack, going for Brandon's abdomen, trying to take advantage of his unarmored state. He moved with the blow, evading it and then striking it with his own, adding force to swing; she lost her balance, turning away from Brandon and he twirled to bring his stolen sword streaking down on the unarmored joint at her elbow. The blade cut through the cloth and flesh and tendon between the bones, and the elf woman screamed as her arm fell to the floor. She closed her eyes with the pain, and did not see the blade that pierced her throat and ended her life.
Had someone heard?
Brandon searched desperately, every fiber of his being tensed to the danger of discovery. In a desk drawer he found a key carelessly stored, which he pocketed, and a bookcase full of files. They were thick, bulky, and crudely band - clearly working documents, and Brandon rifled through them, discarding those without interest to the floor in his haste.
After what felt like an eternity, he found two that answered his needs: one entitled simply "The Blades" and the other "Dragons." There was no time to read through them now; he would have to wait until he was reunited with Delphine in Riverwood.
Now to find the prisoner.
Partitioned from the rest of the solar was a wooden stairway, leading down to a darkened door. The steps creaked under Brandon's weight as he descended, stolen sword in one hand, files in the other.
Placing an ear against the wood of the door, Brandon listened intently for any sound of movement; there was nothing. Slowly, Brandon inserted the key in the lock, turned the handle and pushed the door forward. Within lay a row of cells, only one of which was occupied; the pathetic form of the occupant was wasted and bloodied. The faint smell of blood and urine lingered in the room, though it was clearly cleaned daily.
Torches guttered along the wall, occasionally emitting spurts of sparks which crackled and drifted their way to the rush-covered floor. The man quickly registered Brandon's presence and began to shout in protest. His voice was cracked and broken as he pleaded with Brandon, seeing only the Thalmor robes, and not the man inside them.
Brandon pushed back his hood and the man froze, then started shaking his head slowly.
"Go away," he begged, "I know you're not real. Please just leave me alone."
As Brandon carefully picked the lock, he observed the prisoner. Average height, lean, with the whip-like build of a thief or pickpocket. Bruises and small cuts covered his body, and his eyes had a haunted, defeated quality.
The lock clicked and Brandon swung open the heavy iron door; the man hung his head, his spirit clearly broken - he had surrendered already to whatever Brandon wished to do with him. He only looked up when Brandon released the fetters holding him upright against the brick wall of his cell.
"Come on," said Brandon, "we're getting out of here."
The man looked blankly at him. "Okay, sure, whatever you say." He was unsteady on his legs, so Brandon helped him to one of the two chairs in the room before he turned to rifle through the storage chests lining the walls. There were several sets of dirty cotton clothes in one of them, and Brandon took one for himself and one for the prisoner.
He took off the Thalmor robes, and dressed hurriedly in the plain clothes before handing the second set to the prisoner. They were lice-ridden and disgusting, but they would blend in far better than an Imperial in Thalmor robes. The other man dressed gingerly, and received the dagger and a torch from Brandon with a questioning look.
"Let's go."
Brandon had to support the prisoner on his shoulder, for he was still too weak to walk. A locked grate in the floor, apparently used for disposing of the water used to mop up the floors, gave them an exit. The elven sword Brandon still carried cut through the rusty iron lock, and they slipped, one after the other, through the hole and into a natural stone tunnel.
The tunnel's chill took their breath away; even in the dungeon above, it had been warm, but here in the native rock, they could see their breath misting in the torch's guttering light. Beneath their feet lay a thick slurry of half-frozen blood, feces, and urine.
At least, Brandon thought, the cold will spare us the stench.
They crept slowly through the widening channel, careful to stay on the higher sides of the cave to avoid wetting their boots in the filth that had collected over long years of disposal. Soon, though, they saw moonlight and stars, and were out in the open air: they were free once more.
The prisoner took a deep breath, and smiled wearily. He was able to stand on his own now, and the two made their way quietly through the forest. Even there the cold was brutal, as the roughspun tunics they wore did little to stave off the frost. It was a clear night, and Brandon navigated by the stars, soon placing them on the main road to Solitude.
Watchfires burned on the walls, and Brandon could just make out the silhouetted guards standing atop the fortification.
And there, below the strong, high walls of the city, were the stables. The pair hurried up to the main building and knocked loudly on the door. A long moment passed without answer, before Brandon again hammered the hilt of his sword on the doorframe.
"I'm up, blast you," came a response at last, and the door opened a crack, letting candlelight flood out into the night. "What are ye wantin' at this hour? Speak! Or I'll call the watch on ye!"
"We need passage to Whiterun," was Brandon's answer, and gold flashed in his palm; the carriage-driver calmed at the sight of it and looked them both over suspiciously before sighing.
"Half a minute, and we'll be gone." The door closed, leaving Brandon and the prisoner alone once more in the night.
Although it really was only half a minute, it felt like forever to them; each night sound was amplified and transformed by their overactive fears into Thalmor soldiers and agents creeping up in ambush. Soon enough, though, the driver emerged and hitched up his team to the carriage, and they were off.
The journey was long and hard; their fears kept them moving at night and without a fire, to avoid leaving any sign of their passing.
When they arrived in Whiterun it was early morning, and both Brandon and the prisoner were sore from the journey; but they were alive.
Brandon tossed the driver a bag of coins, which he caught with surprising alacrity. "You never saw us, understand?" The driver nodded and clattered off to the Whiterun stables, hoping to pick up another ride.
The pair were silent for a moment as they watched the carriage shrink in the distance.
"Listen," said the prisoner, "you didn't have to help me, so... thanks." Brandon smiled. "My name's Etienne. If you're ever in Riften, well, I owe you a drink."
"I'm Brandon. And I'll take you up on that drink."
Etienne waved and they parted. Brandon sighed and turned down the southern road, heading for Riverwood.
He spent the nights under the stars, and though it was still chill, summer near Whiterun was far more forgiving than in the mountains of Haafingar, and he slept well, enjoying the sound of the wind in the trees, and starlight on his face.
By late afternoon a few days later, Brandon reached the town, and saw that the Jarl had sent a company of soldiers to defend Riverwood, but Brandon couldn't really see the point. There might have been twenty men in the new garrison, and there was no way they could defend the town if a dragon actually attacked.
The inn had few patrons when Brandon entered, but a bard was plucking his lyre, and a few disconsolate drunks slumped against tables and benches. A fire was already going in the huge pit in the middle. Delphine was back in her innkeeper clothes, and it took Brandon a second to recognize her; already he was more accustomed to thinking of her in armor with a sword at her hip, but she caught his eye and nodded, leading him towards the attic room.
Brandon closed the door behind him, and asked conversationally, where Orgnar - Delphine's barkeeper - was. She looked askance at him as she opened the bookcase's secret entranceway.
"Is he not sweeping the entrance?"
Brandon shook his head, and Delphine huffed. "That man."
The flicker of a smile creased Brandon's face, but he quickly suppressed it and followed her down into the basement.
Maps and countless other papers covered the plain wooden table which dominated the room's center; weapon racks and an armor stand covered one wall; a few chests and a bookcase occupied the remaining space.
"So," Delphine began as Brandon surveyed the room, "what did you find?" By way of answer, Brandon pulled the pair of bound documents from his bag and deposited them gently on the table. They rested there for a moment, their thick, crude leather covers carrying errant traces of their weeks-long journey; the road had not been kind to them. Delphine took a visible breath, as if gathering her courage, and slid the twin volumes toward her. The cover creaked as she gently opened the file, and her eyes began to flick across the page with a rapidity which startled Brandon.
She flicked a wrist in the vague direction of one of the wooden chests against the wall, as if in dismissal: "your gear is in that chest over there." Brandon inclined his head in acknowledgement and slowly collected his armor and weapons which - true to her word - Delphine had safely conducted back to her - he still hesitated to say their - hideout. He watched the former Blade out of the corner of his eye as he strapped his sword about his waist; the silvered hilt and chaising of the scabbard glinted even in the torch-lit interior of the basement. In a small, mean corner of his mind, Brandon wondered - truly - how much Delphine was really interested in helping him, and how much of this was just her own agenda.
"Brandon." Her eyes never left the page. "Be a dear and have Orgnar make us something to eat - and a pot of ale too, I should think, or maybe cider, if he has any left."
Brandon watched her for a moment, but she never once looked at him until at last he relented and turned to exit the room. He felt, rather than saw, her eyes follow him up the stairs and out the secret door.
The inn was still relatively lifeless when he reentered it, but Orgnar had returned; the tall man's eyes watched Brandon's approach with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The barkeeper scrubbed the bar intently, ignoring Brandon's expectant air. A long minute passed before Brandon cleared his throat. Orgnar looked up, feigning surprise.
"Something you want, friend?"
"Yeah. Two meals and a pot of beer. Friend." The two men stared each other down; the other patrons of the inn began turning their attention towards the bar - the tone of voice was unmistakable; a fight was brewing.
But Orgnar only shrugged and took up his cloth once more, scrubbing invisible dirt from the spotless bar. "Don't have none."
"Really."
A silent nod was the only response Brandon received. A spare smile creased Brandon's face as he threw a few septims onto the bar; the gold coins clinked and clattered against each other and the hard wood. Orgnar watched them without interest. "How about now?"
"Might do," said the big nord. Brandon arched an eyebrow in mock-surprise, but said nothing. "Just give me a moment; there might be some stew on the fire that I could round up." The barkeeper disappeared into the kitchen and Brandon began to smell a warm, if not entirely appetising fragrance emanating from the same general direction. He drummed his fingers against the wood of the bar, and leaned against it, looking around at the few other patrons, returned now to their own interests.
When Orgnar returned, he held two bowls of a thick, brothy stew, and a small pot of ale that smelled a little sour to Brandon. But when Brandon reached out to take them, Orgnar pulled them back out of Brandon's grasp.
"You watch yourself around Delphine, stranger. I'm not sure what's made her take a fancy to a pup like you, but you just mind your manners and keep your damn hands to yourself. You hear me?"
Brandon only stared at him, speechless; then the moment broke and he laughed shortly. "Of course," he agreed, reaching out to take the food and ale, "whatever you say." The mirth Orgnar had inspired in him lasted all the way down the stairs, and he was still chuckling softly to himself when he opened the door to Delphine's basement.
She was still engrossed in the first volume, but his entry brought her attention away from whatever details she was reading. Brandon handed her a bowl of stew without comment, but her curious look elicited something of an explanation.
"You might want to let Orgnar know that you have no... ulterior motives when we go into this room." Delphine looked at him blankly for a moment and then rolled her eyes in exasperation as she poured herself a glass of ale. "What have you found out so far?"
"Not much," she shrugged, "nothing concrete, at least. It seems the Thalmor are as much in the dark as we are." She paused, considering, and then grinned: a hard, mirthless, expression. "They seem to be of the opinion that the Blades are somehow behind it. How ironic: the two old enemies blaming each other for a common evil." Brandon said nothing; Delphine paused, lost in memories of a different time. The food and ale remained on the table, forgotten.
"What about the other one?" he finally asked, disturbing Delphine's ruminations.
"Hmm?" she murmured as she pulled the other volume towards her and opened it. "I haven't examined it yet." A few moments passed as her eyes traveled up and down page after page. "It appears to be a record of information on all known Blade agents - constantly updated as the Thalmor tracked them down and eliminated them. See," she pointed to a place on the page, "it lists name and status, then a page number for their full entry." She glanced through another few pages. "I am shocked that you were able to find such a valuable document - it is a copy, certainly, but even so..." Delphine shook her head. "Careless."
A certain paleness came over Delphine's features as she continued to read through the Thalmor's handiwork. "All dead," she whispered, "I had thought that some, at least..." she trailed off, barely restrained agony deeply coloring her tone. Brandon moved closer to her, but she waved him off and continued.
From his new vantage, Brandon could see that each page consisted of long lists of names, each one, without fail, drawn through with a thin red line - a line whose meaning was unmistakable.
"All those people were Blades?"
Delphine shrugged. "Not really. There's a misconception about the Blades - one we do our best to perpetuate. Not every Blades agent is an actual Blade. The Blades - the real Blades - were-" she paused and corrected herself, "-are descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard, who defended Reman Cyrodiil and all those emperors who followed him. The others, our agents, comprise the list here." She pinched a few pages together and held them up; Brandon estimated that many hundreds - perhaps thousands - of names lay coldly upon that parchment.
"But for the most part they were not inducted into the Blades; they were tools, instruments, servants: agents. I do not know for sure how many we maintained throughout the empire; I do not believe anyone knew, exactly, perhaps not even the Grandmaster." She sighed. "Now we have none."
"And the others?"
"The others?" she echoed, and met his questioning eyes, "My brothers... there were perhaps five hundred spread around the empire, mostly in groups of fifty to one hundred, concentrated at places like Cloud Ruler Temple, or Sky Haven here in Skyrim. But they were the real Blades, the ones in Akaviri armor, dedicated to guarding the emperor and his line down through the ages."
Delphine flipped the page and began reading anew. From over her shoulder Brandon again saw the long lines of red, telling of the far-off, lonely death of one of Delphine's comrades. "Lorkhan's Heart," she swore, and Brandon saw her shoulders slump a little.
Suddenly she froze, her eyes glued to the page she had just turned.
"What is it?"
Delphine shook her head to silence him, and flipped forward many pages and began reading intently. She flipped forward again, to the second entry.
"Lorkhan's Heart," she swore again, and sank back into a wooden chair; to Brandon's shock, he saw that she was trembling.
"Delphine. What is it?" Brandon's voice was tense, he had never seen her - could not have imagined her - to act in this way.
She passed a hand across her eyes before looking up at him.
"I need you to go to Riften," her voice was soft, almost weak; she seemed suddenly very tired. Brandon stared at her. "There's a man there, Brynjolf; find him and ask him about a man named Esbern - he was a Blade before the Great War, and this" she gestured to the dossier, " says that he's been hiding in the Ratways with Brynjolf's help, but the Thalmor have found him out. You need to hurry or they'll get to him first. Esbern was always fascinated with dragon lore, so it's no surprise the Thalmor would take even more interest in him. It's a miracle he survived this long at all..." She trailed off, leaving Brandon still stunned..
"Why should he trust me?" he managed, finally.
Delphine frowned, considering. "True," she agreed, "he always was a paranoid old codger," she grinned and looked up at Brandon, "even more than me." She paused again. "Ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall - that ought to do it."
"Why not come yourself?" Delphine looked away. "Delphine. What is it?"
"I am sorry, Brandon, I have... other matters to attend to. It's... personal."
"More important than finding the answers we've been looking for? More important than stopping the dragons?"
"You'll be fine. Find Brynjolf; find Esbern; protect him from the Thalmor. He will be able to answer your questions."
"And what about you?" Brandon's voice was flat and cold.
"If I'm not back in a month... Esbern will guide you." She finished firmly, and began packing: a small purse, her armor and sword, a few supplies. Her smooth efficiency still startled Brandon; the firm set of her features and calm swiftness impressed upon him the many years of experience she possessed.
A few minutes was all it took and they were out the door, into the cool night. The gentle rumble of the river was punctuated by the song of a nightbird, and given harmony by the sound of the wind rolling through the trees.
"Good luck, Brandon. May fortune find you well."
Brandon nodded in acknowledgement, and watched as she mounted the horse she had retrieved from the inn's stables.
With a final look, Delphine spurred her horse down the road. Brandon watched her until she vanished into the darkness. The road ahead was unclear, and Brandon felt that with Delphine's departure, his only stay had been torn away by some unforeseen wind, leaving him adrift in a tumultuous sea.
The stars wheeled above him; tiny pinpricks of light, cold and uncaring, constant and lifeless; they would remain long after he was gone, Brandon knew, but he shouldered his own pack, loosened his sword in its sheath, and headed north along the road to Whiterun; and from there, to Riften and beyond.
UH