The Dunmer woman disappeared into a shimmering blue light, and the two Altmer were quick to follow. Frenrik knew enough about intervention and teleportation spells to figure that the Dunmer had given them some variation of one of them. The magic imbued in the thick paper licked at his fingers, begging to be used, but Frenrik himself was loathe to activate the precious last resort.
He was a Nord—if he was going to flee like a milk-drinker, it wasn't going to be by using damned magic. He'd sooner jump in the Sea of Ghosts in mid-Frostfall.
Now without any backup or weapon whatsoever, Frenrik had to improvise before the corprus stalkers recovered completely from the magical firestorm that decimated the docks only moments before. The scorched stone was still warm, steaming as the calm sea waves continued to ebb and flow independent of the ongoing topside horrors. Frenrik's eyes watered from smoke of smoldering remains of crates and barrels, but he forced himself to concentrate on the narrow strip of stone separating him from the city of Ebonheart.
From what he could tell, the men and women at the other end of the pier had erected temporary barriers of whatever the guard and citizens could grab a hold of—mostly cargo that was originally intended to go to the warehouses, but Frenrik could also make out pots, benches, pillows, and someone had even managed to wheel out a giant brass Dwemer clog from somewhere unknown. Frenrik couldn't help but be a little impressed at what was surely no easy feat.
Either from sheer stupidity or inability, the infected men and mer couldn't climb over the hasty barricades, which the other legionnaires were using to their advantage. Archers along the towers of the docks picked off the worst of the rabble with relative ease, and even a few commoners were able to take out a few from the rooftops with well-aimed rocks. From the ground, swords and spears defended any and all gaps in the barriers, but there was only one man openly fighting the monsters from outside safety. Even from afar, Frenrik knew the Imperial Legion lord from the silver glint of his armor: Varus Vantinius, the Knight of the Imperial Dragon, famous across Tamriel for his ingenuity and strength in battle. It was hard not to be impressed at the famous knight cut through corpus stalkers like butter.
Even though the distance from the end of the dock to safety was only half a dozen meters at the most, too many monsters still remained between him and the barrier to force his way through them all unarmed. Thinking fast, Frenrik looked to the water, which in itself wasn't was best plan—no, he had no idea how many of those things still lurked beneath the murky waters, and no water walking potions to help him on his way. It was evident, however, that the monsters had stopped emerging from the water; perhaps the chaos was nearing an end.
Instead, he turned his attention to the ships. The local dunmeri transportation had long since pulled out of port, but the two Imperial trading vessels were still anchored in place despite the screams of angry sailors and terrified captains. The closest ship was just a few feet away from him, with only two mobile corprus sufferers between him and easy access to the deck.
He knew from a glance that it was a Nordic vessel, as the long length and low deck were key features of his home region's design. Peeling green paint at the bow proudly read Shor's Fury in big, blocky letters, with a carving too weathered to make out the original shape of the figurehead. But more importantly, the ship was a longboat—if he could jump onto it, he could make it down a good distance to the warehouses without having to face significant danger. Some of the corprus monsters had managed to climb aboard, but they were slow and wandered aimlessly about the dock. The crew had made itself scarce, though Frenrik prayed to Talos that casualties weren't the main cause.
Refusing to miss an opportunity, Frenrik broke into a mad dash past the two obese stalkers before they had any chance to react to the furious Nord. He landed with both feet firm on the deck, then continued his relentless bolt down the wooden deck. At first he did well by jumping over the abandoned crates and dodging the lingering zombie-like creatures in his path, but the perils of ships were an unknown to him. His foot caught itself in a stray piece of rope, and Frenrik had lost his balance and smashed into a barrel before he could even react. It exploded into splinters on impact with the heavily armored legionnaire.
However, the misstep wasn't without its merits. As Frenrik took a moment to reorient himself, he took in the situation on the pier opposite from the one where he just came. To his relief, he caught sight of his partner, who had previously been hidden behind the bulk of Shor's Fury. Norring, in all his Nord glory, was smashing through the remaining monsters with a massive steel war hammer, apparently having had much better luck with his weapon than Frenrik had with his own in the battle. With every strike, he bellowed with laughter and screamed insults and challenges incoherently, as if the corprus stalkers could have understand him anyway. Blue war paint peeled off and smeared from the sweat on Norring's face; Frenrik's wouldn't have been surprised if the man had kept up the onslaught from the very moment the corprus monsters crawled out of the depths.
Anyone else might have been disquieted by seeing a friend and drinking buddy become a bloodthirsty beast, but Frenrik only welled up with a fierce respect and pride for his countryman. Norring was roughly fifteen years Frenrik's senior, and he had had more than enough time to master the heavy weapon he swung with ease at his foes. The tough flesh that had given Frenrik so much trouble before instantly caved to Norring's hammer, and he flattened skulls seemingly effortlessly. Furthermore, it wasn't Legion-taught skill that Norring wrought on his enemies—no, the man had joined the Legion only a month or two before Frenrik had. This display of prowess, Frenrik knew, was the unbridled combat from the heart of Skyrim. Norring didn't even need to worry about his flank, or so it seemed; one swing could knock back the toughest bastard along them if they dared approached this dealer of death.
Grabbing a long, jagged piece of wood from the barrel he had destroyed to make for a makeshift weapon, Frenrik answered Norring's battle cries with one of his own. He leapt over the side of the ship onto the deck, whacking one of the disgusting shamblers square in the back of the skull, knocking the stunned monster into the water. Frenrik didn't stop to see if the thing would reemerge from the depths, instead opting to close the distance between him and safety while surprise was still on his side.
He hadn't noticed there was a second person fighting alongside Norring, though that was more the fault of the person's chameleon spell than Frenrik's own oversight. The spell was wearing off, evidently, so by the time Frenrik was close, he could clearly see whoever it was without much difficulty. It was a Breton, Frenrik could tell from a glance, who also wore the red and gold armor of a high ranking individual. While Frenrik couldn't place his superior's name, it was clear that the Breton was another legionnaire with serious combat expertise under his belt.
While he had seen more than enough magic today than he had ever wanted to see in his entire like, the Breton's strategy was wholly different from the immense explosions cast earlier in the battle. Armed with a shortsword and small shield, the Breton slipped between his lumbering foes with unsettlingly grace, then threw himself at whatever weaknesses he could spot. Magic came into play when the monsters lurched around to retaliate. The Breton's gauntlets would faintly grow, and from there all it took was a single touch before the corprus stalker recoiled away in unadulterated terror. As Frenrik watched, the Breton nodded in the young Nord's direction once before reinforcing the faded chameleon spell—in only took one blink for him to disappear without a trace from Frenrik's vision.
It was just as well, as Norring had somehow managed to take off more than he could chew with the remaining corprus stalkers. Being the loudest and most visible warrior left on the docks may as well have painted a bullseye on the older Nord's face rather than his Skyrim-style war paint; though to his credit, it looked like Norring welcomed the challenge with zeal. In either case, the seaside stalkers were funneling into a crowd in front of him, which kept him from watching his rear. It might not have been a problem if Frenrik had been just a bit further up the ship when he jumped onto the pier, but as it was, the stalkers now formed a solid wall between him and his ally. As Frenrik watched in horror, a corprus stalker lunged at Norring from behind before the man could defend himself.
Akatosh must have been with the both of them at that moment, as a small opening between the stalkers opened up in the crowd between him and Norring. Without thinking twice, he gripped his wooden weapon and ran mad for the momentary opportunity. Once more he found himself diving into the stone wharf of Ebonheart, but instead of an explosion, it was the whistling of Norring's war hammer that he could hear swinging just inches from his head. Rolling to his feet with the shattered plank in hand, Frenrik didn't even pause before leaping onto the monster that was now clawing and biting Norring.
The sharp end of the splintered wood went straight into the stalker's gooey, cloudy eyes with an audible squishing sound. The pure momentum of Frenrik's leap knocked both man and monster over, and with all the strength he could muster, Frenrik pushed the makeshift weapon through the monster's skull. Cackling could be heard from within the thing's head, but Frenrik didn't dare guess at whether or not it was from the skull or the wood shattering under pressure. Whatever the case, the monster let out one final gurgle of agony before its last moments were spent twitching under the Nord's weight.
"Ha! So you do know how to kill more than mudcrabs, Battleborn!" said Norring, glancing back from his own struggles to assess his comrade's grim kill.
"And I plan to kill many more before Sovngarde!" said Frenrik with a grin, kicking another approaching corprus monster over the side of the pier and into the water. "But now, fall back to shore—I don't want you knocking me into the water with that oversized excuse for a hammer before I've had a chance to prove myself!"
"Har! Who are you to give orders, boy?" said Norring as he crushed yet another enemy with ease.
"Someone not keen on swimming while those things lurk the depths. C'mon!" said Frenrik.
With a mighty roar, Norring barreled into the remaining corprus monsters, swinging his weapon ferociously. It was a risky gamble, even for the musclebound legionnaire; numbers could best even the strongest warrior in combat. Nonetheless, the gamble paid off, as several corprus stalkers were crushed underneath the mighty war hammer, and those that survived were knocked off the pier into the cold depths. Frenrik couldn't decide whether the attack was a legitimate strategy or if Norring was simply showing off.
The end result was the same in either case. The pair made their way down the weathered stone dock, which was now covered in corpses and rotting bits and pieces of flesh. The stench was unbearable, and it only grew as they drew closer and closer to the blockade by the warehouses. It was clear that the remaining forces of legionnaires and sell-swords had gained the upper hand in their fortified position, as more of the Legion's elite climbed over the barricade to join the fray.
The Breton commander, whoever he was, reappeared from thin air beside them. He was about a foot shorter than either of the two Nord men, and his big brown eyes had a mischievous glint to them. Even covered in dirt and sweat, the Breton had a lordly look to him that shone through with an uncanny calmness. In any other situation, he may have even been considered handsome. Up close, it was hard to believe that someone so delicate looking could have sent any stalkers to their death without sustaining serious injury, but Frenrik had already seen the Breton's lethalness firsthand and knew otherwise.
"You there—" said the Breton, looking directly at Frenrik as they ran, "You're the boy transferred in from Bruma, yes?" He didn't give Frenrik time to do anything but nod before continuing. "Thought so. You and Norring are due for a promotion after this, mark my words. And since I can tell from the look on your face that you have no idea who you're speaking to, I am Alodie Jes, Knight Bachelor. –Hold, what have we here?"
The trio stopped to watch what the remaining corprus stalkers were doing. Unlike the aimless wanderers from before, these handful left were swarming around something, seemingly oblivious to the arrows, axes, and blades mercilessly cutting down their numbers. As more fell, it became clear that the horde was trying to get at a crate, probably one that had been unceremoniously dropped in all of the confusion. Even so, Frenrik could have sworn that there was something evil emanating from the box. It was a dread in his gut that vanished when he tried to concentrate on it, sort of like waking from a terrible dream that one cannot remember.
It was then that Frenrik realized that the scroll that the Dunmer had given him was still in his hand, albeit it crushed from his firm grip. The magic burned at him now, as if it had taken a life of its own and was demanding to be used. Frenrik knew at this point that Alodie was ordering him and Norring into battle, and he was dimly aware of shouts and cheers of the soldiers on the other dock as they finally cleaved down the last monster, but Frenrik could barely hear them through the bizarre sensations that he was feeling.
Reality was rudely thrust upon him as Norring tore off the lid of the crate, though whether it was on orders or because of mere curiosity, Frenrik did not know. Snapping back to attention, Frenrik approached his friend and the crate, eager to discover what could draw a mindless beasts' attention and manipulate his own emotions. The immediate string of swears from Norring didn't prepare him for what they found. The box was filled to the brim with little red statuettes like looked almost daedric in origin. Each statuette varied in design, but it was evident that they weren't depicting men or mer; if they were, it was some twisted variant that shouldn't exist. There was one thing all had in common, nonetheless: growing red eyes.
Others were now beginning to gather around the crate, most notably the famous Varus Vantinius. Norring picked one of the statues up and growled while inspecting it, but something else count Frenrik's attention. Between the statues and the side of the crate was a crumbled piece of paper. Fishing it out, though careful not to brush against one of the pieces of disturbing cargo, Frenrik could quickly see that it was some sort of shipping order. What he read made almost him drop the paper in shock.
The four names who had apparently ordered the package were very familiar.
They were all of fellow legionnaires: Norring, Furius Acilius, Honthjolf… and his very own, Frenrik Battleborn. Scribbled on the top of the paper was a message that only added to the disturbing nature of the crate and the letter. Written in a blood red ink were the words: Blight the Legion, Blight the Empire, Blight the Divines.
"What is the meaning of this?" yelled Frenrik, the fury boiling anew in his veins. The letter was yanked out of his hands by Vantinius, whose serious face didn't reveal what he made of the letter. His words, however, did. Frenrik didn't know the other two named legionnaires by sight, but a quick glance around the crowd made him realize that almost everyone from the Fort Hawkmoth garrison was present. Whatever this letter meant, it was going to be dealt with in front of everyone Frenrik knew in the entire country of Morrowind.
"The implications of this letter are very clear," said the legendary soldier after a long pause, "As much as it pains me to believe any of our brothers could commit such a heinous act. Could it be forgery? Perhaps. It's convenient, if nothing else. But good men died today, and no one in this garrison can afford the risk if this paper speaks true."
The famed warrior drew his sword and pointed it at Frenrik and Norring. There was an audible gasp from the onlookers.
"By the power of the Empire, I place Frenrik, Honthjolf, Furius, and Norring under arrest for suspected treason."