Prologue III
28 Heartfire, 4E 0
Southeast of Skingrad, 11:04 PM
The torch flickers, sparks sputtering as the Bosmer stumbles through the maze of shadow and stalagmite. Rats squeal in the darkness, and a distant rumble of water and secrecy emanates from deep within the cave. The discoloured curve of a rib cage cracks under his feet, and he shudders, steadying his grip on the torch.
"Damn cave. All looks the same," he grumbles. "Should be 'round here somewh—"
The serrated dagger is an icy wraith, darting from the shadows, silently biting into the surface of his flesh. The torch falls, fizzling into darkness. Serpentine tendrils of smoke wreath the air as a vicelike grip restrains his sword arm.
"Make a move, and I'll carve your heart out," a voice hisses at his ear.
"G-greet the new day," the Bosmer rasps. The knife blade hesitates.
"Acolyte," the voice concedes, with a hint of disappointment. The pressure at his neck lessens. "For a moment, I thought we'd been discovered." The voice chuckles, wistfully sheathing the dagger. "But if you made it back in one piece, you must have good news."
He scowls, fingers slowly tracing the thin crimson moon oozing at his throat.
Wide red eyes blink in the dark, and a vicelike grip grabs his robe-front.
"Damn ashborn," the Bosmer growls, spitting the word and shrugging away from his assailant. She chuckles darkly.
"Give me a reason to slice you ear to ear, little boiche, and I'll take it. Gladly." The Dunmer smiles sweetly, her crimson eyes narrowing. "The golden brotherhood may be scattered, but I'm sure that her ladyship won't mind losing one snivelling tree rat. Or having your ears for a trophy." She grins, baring white teeth; a stark contrast with her ashen complexion.
"Her ladyship will have to be deprived of my gods-blessed ears today, Sedris," the Bosmer retorts coldly. "Because, fact is, these gods-blessed ears not only made it back in one piece –no thanks to you—, but have heard things that would make Dagon himself build a shrine in my honour. By Azura, there could be an entire temple dedicated to the Golden Lobes of Faldil—"
"Blasphemous of our Lord, Faldil?" A voice booms, reverberating across the cavern. The Bosmer flinches. Sedris's scarlet eyes widen in recognition. Clad in the helm and garb of a cult assassin, a man coolly crosses the cavern. "Perhaps Lord Dagon will build a shrine in honour of your tongue, as well?" He continues softly, "He could slice it off—" The tip of his dagger hovers under the Bosmer's nose "–and put it on display."
Faldil swallows nervously.
"F-forgive me, Lord Stonearm," he mutters.
"My Lord," Sedris bows her head in reverence, "May I have the privilege? I'd be honoured to relieve him of his tongue…or his ears…or any other part of his body."
The man laughs.
"By Mephala! Of all of the remaining members of the Mythic Dawn to survive, I'm left with a blasphemous spy and a blood crazed sentry." He grins, flashing ivory teeth. "We may have use of you yet, Mistress Sedris. But come. Both of you. Lady Adira is waiting."
"Stonearm. You've returned." The woman's voice is cool, echoing across the chamber. Shimmering Welkynd stones cast a blue light upon the walls of the ruin, and a tattered banner hangs on the wall, bearing the insignia of the Mythic Dawn sun. "And what is this you've brought me? Strays returned to the fold? How delightful." With hooded eyes of ice, the Altmer woman rises fluidly, her scarlet robes billowing. Ebony hair shorn close on the sides crowns her pale, haughty face with a fierce beauty.
"Not strays, milady, but an informant. Faldil the Bosmer was perched on your doorstep. Claiming news to make the Daedric lords themselves worship at his feet." Lord Stonearm indicates Faldil. "Pray it is worth her ladyship's time, boiche."
The Altmer woman's eyes narrow shrewdly, observing the two elves.
"Then, for your sake, I hope that you bring worthy news, Bosmer," she settles onto a carved stone platform, turning to Faldil. "My time is precious."
The wood elf nods vigorously.
"I do, Adi—my lady. It's the survivors. There are more than expected. They're scattered, but mostly willing to regroup under a leader. What's more is—"
"What's the point? Mankar's Paradise is lost, bioche fool. The royal bastard made certain of that. The gates are sealed and Dagon banished to Oblivion, along with the Oblivion gates," Sedris spits, scarlet eyes narrowed.
"Silence," Adira's voice is a blizzard, eyes flaming at the Dunmer. "Continue," she commands. The Bosmer clears his throat.
"With the Empire so unstable, your ladyship, all it would take is the precise cuts to send it clattering down and establish a new order. The council is weak and Cyrodiilic power is failing. The Septim line of the Dragonborn is no more. The line is ended, and the Dragonfires may not be lit until the new ruler is chosen. Our time to act is now. Retribution is near."
"What are you saying, tree rat?" Stonearm drawls. The man's voice gruff with iron ire. "Even if the remnants flock to our side under Dagon's sigil, we haven't the numbers to overpower the Imperial guard. It could take months…years, even. Who knows what powers will change?"
"True. But what of overpowering one individual? Tell me, my Lord. What is it that holds Cyrodiil together?" The Bosmer pauses, his hazel eyes glimmering with excitement.
"Power and control," Sedris replies, a barb of irascibility piercing the air.
The Bosmer snorts, shaking his head. The piercings on his ear glimmer in the blue light.
"Hope, ashborn. Hope. Even in the face of fire, hope holds the Empire together with bated breath. Hope that Martin will return, or hope for a heroic political answer to the issue of succession." The Bosmer turns to Adira, grinning. She rewards him with a stony gaze.
"I care nothing for hope. It is but an illusion. You spoke of retribution," Adira breathes, a deathly serpent.
"I…well…Isn't it obvious?" The Bosmer stammers. "I speak of killing the Champion." He puffs out his chest, arms crossed. Silence cloaks the cavern, shattering into jagged shards as Sedris lets out a hollow cackle.
"And who will kill her, you fool? You? The Hero of Kvatch is a powerful warrior and a mage at that," Sedris jeers. "Everyone knows it. Not even Mankar Camoran could—"
"Ah ah ah. You ashborn are all the same. Hasty and short-sighted," the Bosmer tuts, shaking his head. "I speak not of the woman."
"No…not the woman. Destroy the symbol," Stonearm interjects evenly, nodding with a hand to his beard. "Find her weaknesses and strike. When you do, you destroy the hope of the council…the hope of the people. Chaos will ensue. Then, when she is broken, kill the woman. With the Septim line gone, it will sow panic. She is the remaining paragon of hope. Destroy hope, and you shatter the Empire from the inside."
A squall of laughter emanates from Adira, a frigid blast of unfeeling mirth. It settles over skin like a glacial cloak.
"This Imperial bitch… the one they call the Champion of Cyrodiil. I presume you know where is she now, Bosmer? My time is so very precious." She asks, thin ice in her eyes. Gloved hands smooth her crimson cloak primly.
"I have my little birds, your ladyship. I was able to track her last known movements."
The Altmer leans forwards, perching on the edge of the chaise, brows furrowed in polite disdain.
"Go on."
Faldil grins gleefully, rubbing his ears.
"While the bards praise the Hero of Kvatch, there are rumours. They say she went… mad. After Martin Septim banished our Lord Dagon and was petrified in his dragon form, Kayta Pelenix's grief was like that of a beast. She broke her ties to Tamriel and took to the wilderness, wandering the wilds like a cur. No one knows why, but she all but disappeared. From Leyawiin to Anvil, the Colovian Highlands to the Nibenay Valley, the Champion is found only in the tales of bards. Never in the flesh."
"She's dead, then?" Stonearm asks brusquely.
"I thought you said you'd tracked her," Sedris spits, red eyes glowering. "Peasant tales of wild women hardly count as information."
"Ah, but I did. I told you my ears are golden," the Bosmer smirks peevishly. "Kayta Pelenix disappeared nine months past. Precisely nine months. And was last sighted six months back, riding North of Bruma, looking quite…" He mimes a rotund curve around his midriff. "It appears as though Cyrodiil's Holy Knight was not so very… holy after all," the Bosmer chortles, a gurgling sound of glee.
"And pray, where did she go? To Skyrim?" Adira's voice is cool, an impassable expression painted over her angular features.
The Bosmer shrugs.
"Perhaps. I cannot say for certain, but my little birds never saw her reach the border. Cloud Ruler Temple, on the other hand…" He shrugs again.
"Well, well. The Blades?" Adira asks. "This is a surprise. I would have thought they would have disbanded in shame at the death of the Septim bastard."
"Officially, perhaps. But it is a formidable fortress. They say only a few men can hold it off against an army. It would be a death trap to assail the walls," Stonearm interposes, his voice foreboding.
"Then we need no army. You know who to send," Adira smiles, a cold curve of ice and steel. "We must find her, and observe carefully. All birds must fly, and when she does, we will strike." She sweeps to her feet, steel and glass. "Dawn is breaking. It is time to greet the new day once more."
Author's End Note: I hope you enjoyed the final segment of the prologue. Stay tuned for the first full Chapter ahead, and please R&R.