Blade of the Emperor
Book I: Shadows of the Past
Chapter Six
Thalmor Embassy, Kingdom of Daggerfall, Imperial Province of High Rock
The Ancestor Moth: rare and mysterious. Their cult had been first practiced by the ancient Nibenese, and in earlier days their monks could be seen across the Empire. An odd mix, Lylim thought, death and eternity: the Moth and the Scrolls.
On the face of it, anyway, he mused, letting his thoughts ramble. But truly, what was more eternal than death? And what of the legends ascribing power and permanence to the Moths: to the capture of dying souls in their silk? Certainly the Argonian's statement implied a belief in the truth of it, or at least in the existence of the legend.
Lylim had traveled far in his time, across many strange lands and done many things, seen many things beyond description - but only once had he seen an Ancestor Moth.
The Colovian had died well, giving his family a chance to escape the net. Lylim bent to retrieve the feathered helm which lay in the dust beside the corpse. He looked down into the face of it, holding the bronze between his hands as the brave man's blood stained the floor beneath him.
He stepped back absently to avoid the widening circle of gore, still looking into the faceless void. The three black feathers - once proud, now crumpled - marked the corpse as a sergeant. The others began going through the home, looking for things of value, but Lylim stayed, bound by the helmet.
Lylim wondered what oath had he sworn - to lord and land, to die for either or both? What kind of man had he been? In another time or place, might there not have been a statue builded for him? It was a cruel god who cast his fate so widely from the mark.
There was a silence, unnatural and distinct, a silence that was filled with the fluttering of tiny wings, world-shattering in their reach. A moth, unlike any he had ever seen, alighted on the helmet, folding its wings in a beautifully elegant motion, gracile and pure: no form or function could have been more perfectly melded one to the other.
When he tried later, it was impossible to describe; the shape of it, the color, its features faded away from him into nothingness, like the memory of light held by a man consigned to eternal darkness.
Lylim found that he could not breathe - for how long, he did not know. At last the moth spread its wings and lit into the air, carried off by some stray zephyr into the deeping twilight.
Silence settled over the room for a time, and the tall, lithe Altmer considered his Breton prisoner: the cold blue eyes, and the long, lanky brown hair, the unshaven face. What drove him, Lylim wondered, to live beyond such things? And there was more to come, he knew. The life of Eduard of Farrun was known to him, in its broad strokes, and little of it was happy: long life with long hardship - the full story appeared to be even more accentuated.
The encounter Eduard had described merely confirmed the suspicion which had been planted in Lylim's mind since their first encounter. Fate was a funny thing.
Lylim looked down at his hands to preserve his character, remembering the note he had received from Maenan just that afternoon, demanding that harsher measures be taken against the prisoner. Upstart brat, he spat internally, to presume so much. There was so much more at stake here than the gratification of an overripe urge for blood.
In the silence of Eduard's pause, Lylim sensed more than saw him take a sip of wine, and his mind drifted to the object waiting outside the cell: even within, he could feel its malignant presence. Perhaps it was nothing, part of him demurred, but the other part, a wiser part, knew differently.
Maenan would have rushed to the flame and found his wings scorched; but Lylim was a wiser moth. Time alone would reveal if he was wise enough.
No man with the attention of a Daedric Lord was one to be trifled with, especially the Prince of Plots.
The goblet clinked slightly as Eduard set it awkwardly down with his left hand - though Lylim could see he was becoming more dextrous with it as each new day passed. A dangerous man.
"The governor was made of sterner stuff than the Mad King reckoned with, it seems."
"Yes," Eduard dryly replied, after a moment of consideration, "You may imagine our mutual surprise."
"They must have moved very quickly to reach Farrun."
Eduard shrugged and looked over at the two guards standing motionless beside the door. "I suppose," he had seen armies move faster during the war, far faster, but those had been legions in a high state of readiness, combat-hardened, the High Rock legions had been left to rot for years: half-strength and months behind their pay.
"What happened when they reached Farrun?"
Lylim felt the icy eyes shift back to him. "Jehenna's army had run wild: a mad army for a mad king; they were caught still inside the city and the legions butchered them," he paused, "or so I later heard from Mokir." There was a pause in which Eduard stared down at his plate and then, catching Lylim's apparent disbelief, continued.
"The city was taken, justiciar, and the whole army was occupied with plunder and spoil. When the Imperial cavalry arrived they took the camp without a struggle; the main body following behind was able to surround the city and enter through the gates - there was no organized resistance to speak of."
"And how did the cavalry find you?"
"Luck, I suppose," answered Eduard, "Or perhaps the Goddess was watching over me; I know not." There was a long pause and Eduard reflexively reached up to finger the amulet that no longer rested about his neck; his fingers closed on air, bringing him back to the present, and fell down to his side once more.
Lylim watched as he shrugged dismissively, "Mokir always did have good eyes; they saw the trail of my uncle's men and followed to investigate."
"Why?"
Eduard shrugged again. "'Just curious,' was the answer he gave me when I asked him, years later. There was some saying about the Khajiit that he always used to quote, something about them and curiousity…" His voice trailed off in pursuit of the memory.
For some reason, unknown even to himself, Lylim allowed Eduard to remain there for a long while. "Did you believe him?" he asked at last, startling Eduard from his remembrance.
It took a moment for the Breton to collect himself and give a response. "Not really," he began, "but I never pressed him. Mokir always was far more serious than he let on. I think it pleased him to subvert the expectations people held about him; I think Still Waters was the only one who ever truly knew him, as he really was." He paused, "And I suppose the reverse was true as well."
"The Argonian, you mean?"
Eduard nodded.
"They were Blades, then?"
Another nod.
"What were they doing with the army?"
"I do not know. It is not typical to see Blades attached so independently, but Mokir and Still Waters often did as they wished, and perhaps they were sent to inspect the Legions in High Rock - an independent assessment delivered directly to the Emperor." Eduard paused, "Perhaps it was due to their influence that the army moved at all."
"Was that typical?" Lylim asked quietly.
"Typical of what?" Eduard replied, a little sharply, "Of the Empire? You know, justiciar, do you not, that the Empire encompasses the entirety of the domains of Man: what may be typical in High Rock may not be so in Skyrim."
Lylim's eyes widened for a moment and then he laughed loudly. "You are right, of course," he answered when his mirth had exhausted itself, "forgive me.
"What happened to the two kingdoms, Farrun and Jehenna? Surely they might have descended into civil war, or anarchy, unless stabilized."
Eduard frowned and stared down into his wine goblet. "As to that," he began, "I could not truthfully say; the political arrangements of High Rock have always been… fluid. And I was in no position at the time to be kept current."
There was another long pause as he considered his answer. "I believe a provisional official was installed, and Imperial troops garrisoned in each kingdom to ensure order until a new king was chosen and stability restored." He shrugged, "I could not say more."
"And you went with them willingly?"
"With Mokir and Still Waters? I didn't have much choice, I suppose. I was lost; I'd seen my home, my family laid low and they offered me a home, a place, and…" Eduard trailed off. When he showed no sign of continuing, Lylim prompted him.
"And?"
Eduard shrugged. "And a family," he concluded.
A silence settled over the pair for a long while, until at last Lylim decided that it was time. "Give me your sword," he said to one of the guards. The mer immediately drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the justiciar.
Lylim could see Eduard's mind spring into action, eyes widening as he prepared for action: a last, desperate stand.
"What do you think of this sword, Eduard?" he asked after the tension had grown palpable. It took a moment for Eduard to formulate a response.
"It seems a serviceable enough weapon," he observed, affecting disinterest. His eyes had never once left Lylim's.
"You said something about magic swords some days ago, did you not?"
Eduard's eyes narrowed, their cold blue hardening into ice.
"All swords are magic," Lylim continued, "in their way. Consider their purity of function, the melding of their form with the need of their duty: to kill, to take a life; this is a magical function, is it not - to snuff out a bit of creation?
"As you said, magic swords are often sung of in myth and legend; but all swords possess a bit of magic: the power to take a life. Perhaps we do not acknowledge it because it is so commonplace: all weapons share this common magic; it is not so special. So we call magic swords those things which are particularly adept at killing; does that not seem odd to you?"
"It is just a sword, justiciar."
"Perhaps," Lylim replied, "Perhaps it merely came from the armories of Alinor, or perhaps it is an ancient blade, laid over with fell enchantments. Who is to say? Could you?"
"I am no mage, justiciar, but I can tell one blade from another. That is nothing but a simple sword worked up for a bare recruit."
"It could kill you."
"Yes."
"But this is not a magic sword?"
"No."
Lylim made an odd motion with his head and returned the sword to its owner. When it was sheathed, he turned in his seat and motioned to one of the guards with a hand. The guard left and returned with a long unadorned wooden box. This was set down before the impatient justiciar, who stood and looked significantly at Eduard.
Their eyes held each other for a long moment, green fire contesting with blue ice; at last Lylim looked down and opened the case. "Do you recognize this, Eduard of Farrun?" he asked softly, lifting up a long, sheathed sword of Akaviri design.
The widening of Eduard's eyes and the sharp intake of breath told him all he needed to know.
"Do you, justiciar?" The Breton breathed at last.
Lylim simply nodded, and Eduard's soul shivered as he saw the lust in Lylim's eyes. "Then you are a fool."
"Am I?" the justiciar asked, his eyes gazing fixedly down at the sword. "And why would that be, Blade?"
And with that he grasped the hilt and drew the sword full from its sheath, and held the curved golden blade high aloft, where it glinted and shone in the magelight.
Eduard jumped backwards, overturning his chair and sending it tumbling as he jerked away from the table. "That sword is not yours to draw," he said warningly, his good arm outstretched, a finger pointing in admonition.
"Is it not?" Lylim replied, not taking his eyes from the blade. "It is mine by right."
"If that is what you think," Eduard hissed, "you are a bigger fool than you seem."
A long silence engulfed the room, swallowing them all in its suffocating hold. A strange light filled Lylim's eyes as he looked the golden blade up and down, digesting every detail in its cold, lethal perfection: a sterile beauty. Had Lylim been able to tear himself away from the sight he might have seen what was in Eduard's eyes: fear and hatred, mixed with wonder and despair.
For Eduard saw something else: to him the sword breathed, shimmering and glowing until it was lambent with glory; in that sword he saw his soul.
"It is not yours," he insisted at last, his voice little more than a croak, and shattered the long silence which had lain over them like a spell. In the almost-echo of his voice Eduard saw Lylim's merciless eyes turn back to survey him: the eagle was back in the justiciar's face, and fear gripped him.
"And what would make it mine?" replied the justiciar, his eyes still flashing with light; but Eduard gave no answer, and after what felt like a sip of eternity, Lylim sheathed the sword and replaced it in its box. One of the guards immediately retrieved it and left the room.
"You should have left that sword where you found it."
"Do you know the story of its forging?" The Altmer asked, ignoring the admonition.
"Of course," replied Eduard after a moment.
"Not concerning the Prince of Plots," Lylim said with an impatient wave of his hand, "but the original, the founding myth."
"I do."
The aquiline eyes inspected him closely. "And what do you think of it?" Another significant pause preceded Eduard's answer.
"You ask if I believe it?" Eduard finally replied, receiving a silent nod in answer. "Then yes, I do."
This surprised Lylim, for to him Eduard seemed not to be the type of man who would easily fall under the sway of myth and legend. It frustrated him when Eduard was able to read the emotion in his eyes: the Breton shrugged laconically, and said, "Still Waters believed it, when I asked him."
Lylim chuckled, "That is not a particularly convincing argument."
"In such cases one must choose to believe, or not; as is one's choice in most things."
Cloud Ruler Temple: a wonder, even in those later days. The headquarters of the Blades; their stronghold and center of their operations, preserved over generations to appear as it had in Reman's time. It was a beautiful place, despite its military purpose: the Akaviri had that skill, that gift, to make a thing both ornate and functional, beautiful and deadly, without diminishing the one in favor of the other.
It is destroyed now, of course, along with all its history and grandeur: diminished to a pile of rubble; did the Thalmor leave one stone standing on top of another when they razed it? I do not know; I have not seen it since the end of the War.
But even though the Blades were diminished in that time of weakness, it still took my breath away when I first laid eyes upon it. It was alien and magical to me, clad in shining stone and filled with those who seemed almost from another age.
The journey to Cloud Ruler I will not describe, for my mind wandered often, thinking of the souls of my dead family. I talked little with my companions, for Mokir and Still Waters left me to myself, and I did not, in truth, desire any company. But they cared for me, looked after me, made sure I ate and drank and slept, and that I was able to sustain the pace of our journey.
My time with them truly began when we reached the temple.
Mokir woke me that morning before dawn, and lifted me, struggling - for Mokir always insisted on hoisting me by the scruff of my neck - up into the saddle, his own lanky body following shortly behind. Still Waters watched this process with phlegmatic stoicism: it was a sight he had seen many times already, and the novelty of its ridiculousness had soon worn off.
"When I was a cub," Mokir opined to his companion, who turned to regard him with benign interest, "we never struggled when our betters picked us up-" he turned to look at me, "-it is very ill-mannered." I frowned, displeased at the - in my mind - unwarranted accusation, and looked away, missing the grin Mokir bestowed on his reptilian comrade.
Unbeknownst to me, we had reached Cyrodiil, the Imperial Province, and were all the way onto the Silver Road, headed toward the great city of Bruma, through which we would pass in order to reach Cloud Ruler Temple.
Bruma was - and still is, for all I know - a city like most others: large, dirty, and overcrowded; some manage to be beautiful in spite of their press of humanity, but Bruma was merely a squat ignoble addition to the landscape: a harsh and unremitting reminder of the presence of Man. The fortifications were formidable, built in the same functional, inaesthetic style as countless others across Tamriel: the legacy of empire.
The gates were closed when we arrived - though the sun had cleared the horizon - and we sat atop our horses for a long while as we waited for someone of sufficient authority to open the gates. Mokir began to hiss quite alarmingly, and turned to Still Waters to suggest that we simply go around: what good were roads anyway? But the Argonian blinked languorously and raised a gauntleted hand in calming, and Mokir quieted and returned his eyes to the gate.
An officer of the guard was brought at last, and Mokir impressed upon him the folly and indeed the real danger of needlessly delaying two Imperial servants - members of the Blades, no less, damn their eyes. There was a stir as the officer berated his subordinates, and the gates quickly opened.
The Imperial City never sleeps, it is said, and people wander its streets from dawn to dawn, various and ephemeral; but Bruma slept, of a certainty, its people abed with an almost deathly insistence, and even as we rode through the main concourse of the city, we saw few citizens awake even at that late hour.
We passed through without incident, the far gate had been alerted to our passage, and we continued on up the road towards Cloud Ruler Temple. I do not know what I expected to see, but the truth of it took my breath away. I was accustomed to great works of stone and artifice, but Cloud Ruler was a wonder matched by few others - even in those days of its decline.
Our coming had long been known, and the gates stood open for us, and a small party was there to greet us; more stood on the walls, looking down, and within I caught a glimpse of many more going about their daily business.
What I supposed to be the leader of the welcoming party approached us and spoke quietly with Mokir, who answered in short, measured tones. Much of it concerned me, my age and provenance, and their purpose in bringing me here. After several minutes the man was satisfied, and we passed quietly into the great fortress.
As we halted in what appeared to be a large central courtyard, I stared around, awestruck by what I saw: the great, monolithic, alien architecture was wholly new to my experience, and I barely noticed Mokir and Still Waters dismounting.
Mokir let me gape for a while, and then, growing slightly impatient, he lifted me gently from the saddle and set me before him. "Well then, Little Cub," he began, as Still Waters' calm eyes settled on me, "welcome home."
Still Waters patted me reassuringly on the shoulder and left us, probably to make his report. Steering me gently, Mokir and I made our way to a large, heated room where I was remanded into the custody of several servants, who treated me kindly but distantly. I was made to strip and my clothes were taken (and probably burned) and I was allowed to bathe at my leisure; though I had not fully internalized it, I had been traveling for weeks, if not longer, and the account of those days was laid out in the amount of dirt and filth which had accumulated on me; the chief servant had berated Mokir quite severely for my condition, and had hustled me away from him like a protective mother. I had looked back, seeking aid, but Mokir had merely shrugged helplessly and grinned.
In the end, though, I had not realized how long I had been without bathing, and I was somewhat ashamed to see how dirty the water became as I sluiced the wonderfully hot liquid across my skin. A soreness I had not even acknowledged seeped away, and as I lay quietly in the steam and heated water, I felt myself relax.
But with that relaxation came a price: my mind, now free of the trials and pains of the road, drifted to the loss of my parents and brothers, and I believe I became quite inconsolable. I was alone for quite some time, long enough to regain some semblance of control, and at last the servants returned, drying me, and bringing with them clean, white clothes for me to wear.
The chief servant was a perceptive woman, and saw that I was distressed. She smiled at me, and kneeled down before me to hug me to her. I was reluctant at first, somehow distrustful, but after a moment I closed my eyes and returned her embrace.
"Come then," she said, rising up and taking my hand, "Let us find your friends." I followed her willingly, and we walked, both of us barefoot, through a series of long and warm stone hallways until we reached a door. Rachel - for that was her name - knocked twice on the door and waited; she smile reassuringly at me as we did so, and squeezed my hand - I believe that in turning me over she feared for my existence.
The door opened and we were confronted with a shirtless Mokir, who looked from Rachel - who blushed - to me and back again. "I hardly recognize you, Little Cub," he said, leaning down to sniff at me; I flinched away and he laughed kindly. Still Waters appeared, pulling the door fully aside, and smiled down at me. I felt warm and safe for the first time in as long as I could remember: my life with my family seemed in another age.
"You feel better, though?" Mokir asked me.
"He ought to," interrupted Rachel indignantly, "after all the neglect you two showed him, I'm surprised he isn't dead."
Still Waters gave me a secret wink, and Mokir replied, "He might as well get used to the road now; he'll be seeing plenty of it soon enough." Rachel huffed and looked down at me; her frown turned into a smile.
"You let me know if these two are giving you too much trouble, all right?" I smiled back and hesitantly promised I would.
"And you," she said, turning to Still Waters, "From you, at least, I had expected better." But he simply shrugged ruefully, giving a quiet grin, and gestured for me to come inside. The door closed and I found myself alone with the quiet Argonian: Mokir and Rachel were still outside, arguing quietly. I turned, and found Still Waters looking at me quite intently.
"Would you care to walk with me?" he asked calmly. I looked up into his big yellow eyes for a long moment; I nodded, outside the argument had ceased, and an intense quiet had settled.
Still Waters gave me a knowing look that I was not then able to interpret, and said, "Perhaps we shall wait a few moments."
I sighed and sat down on the edge of one of the room's narrow beds; when I looked up, Still Waters' eyes were still on me. He smiled again when I met his eyes and he crossed over to sit down next to me. The bed creaked softly under his weight - he was tall and lean, but well-muscled and dense.
"Do you wish to hear a story, Little Cub?" he asked me after a moment. It was a foolish question; all Breton children love stories - especially those about knights and their long quests and the great deeds upon which they embarked. My eyes lit up and I smiled broadly as I nodded emphatically. Still Waters chuckled softly and ruffled my hair, "I thought as much," he said quietly.
"Have you heard the tale of Sir Gerard and the Dragon, and his Sword-Meeting with Jurgen Windcaller?" I shook my head; I had spent many an hour reading and listening to tales, but never once had I heard of this one. Still Waters smiled, "It is an old tale, which few now remember." He paused, inspecting me as if to determine my fitness for the story.
Gerard woke to a brisk, cold morning; the chill as he stepped from his plain canvas tent took his breath away, and hurried his retreat towards the warming fire still lit from the night watch. Holding his hands out to warm them and chase away the cold which had already wrapped its icy nature around his extremities, Gerard looked over at his second, Roland, and smiled bitterly.
"A cold day," he observed baldly. Roland nodded in agreement, his face a stoic mask. Around them, the other men of their warband were beginning to rise, strapping on armor and sharpening swords and axes in preparation. Gerard was pleased to see the presence of a quiet anticipation on their faces. For too long had the Nords held sway over their home; all were pleased to see the invaders set back on their heels.
A horseman galloped up to their fire and looked down at the pair; the sigil on his surcoat marked him as one of the King's men.
"You are Gerard of Daggerfall?" asked the man, the insolence of a young man of high birth written across his features.
"I am," replied Gerard calmly.
"You are to take your men into the pass and clear it for the rest of the army; a Nord band is said to be holding it against us and you are to push them aside." This message was delivered with such a haughty imperious tone that Roland's face clouded and his mouth opened to set forward a rebuke; Gerard's hand on his arm stayed his outburst.
"It will be done," Gerard said quietly, and the messenger spun his horse to depart without bothering to take his leave.
"Insolent pup," growled Roland, and Gerard laughed softly.
"We were as young, once, my friend," he replied absently, letting his eyes drift around the small camp, absorbing the sight and sound of his men readying themselves once more for a long movement. They had been marching for days, pursuing a retreating Nordic army towards the ancient border of the Reach.
The Nordic Empire had spread from High Rock to Morrowind in the early centuries of the First Era, but when King Borgas of Skyrim was slain by the Wild Hunt of the Bosmer, the Empire was plunged into the chaos of secession. Sensing weakness, the Chimer and Dwemer of Morrowind united in rebellion and under the leadership of Dumac Dwarf-king and Nerevar Moon-and-Star began to drive out their conquerors.
When word of this reached the mages and kings of High Rock, they set in motion plans of their own, mustering armies and equipping them with startling speed. Nord garrisons were surrounded, stormed, or starved to death within their walls before a concerted effort could be made in their defence. For several years Gerard and his men had fought a war of their own, guerillas in all but name, until they were able to join with Lord Raul's force of a thousand men moving north-east in pursuit of a smaller Nord force.
Now all that lay between the two armies was a narrow pass, from which a few men might stand against many.
"Get them up, Roland."
Within minutes the warband was on the march. Whispers passed between the men as they moved swiftly up the dirt road; bowmen strung their weapons and counted their shafts; wary eyes peered around them for any sign of ambush.
The tension had reached an almost unbearable level when they arrived at the pass' middle, and there, athwart their line of advance, stood a group of Nords, ranked against them. Their armor gleamed in the pale sunlight, and their breath fogged the air as they stood still and quiet.
Gerard held up his hand to halt his men, and they quietly deployed into line behind him, ready to meet the Nords in open combat. The two bands stared at each other across the cold ground, grey eyes meeting blue in silent assessment. After several minutes of immobility a tall bulky Nord stepped forth from among the ranks, brandishing an axe and carrying a shield.
"I am Jurgen Windcaller," he said, and his voice carried easily across the long distance.
"And I am Gerard of Daggerfall," came the reply.
"Well met, friend," the Nord said calmly, "I am come to contest this pass with thee."
"And I with you."
Trueheart flashed in the gentle light, unsheathing swiftly as Gerard brought its length into guard. "Your name is known to me, Nord," he said quietly, Trueheart's point unerringly aligned with his enemy's torso.
"Thy name also is spoken of with respect around our fires," answered the tall Nord as he pulled on a dark helmet and took up his weapons once more. "Wilt thou face me in single combat: one man 'gainst the other for stewardship of this ground?"
His men murmured at the Nord's challenge and gripped their weapons tighter: a contest between the two bands would be a near-run thing. Gerard hesitated, hearing behind him the whisper of Roland: "Don't you do it, lord."
But Gerard ignored him and stepped forward to meet the Nord champion. Everything seemed still, and to both warbands their leader seemed frozen in time: motionless but for the imperceptible breath, betrayed by the mist of their exhalation. Then Gerard sprang forward, there was a clash as Trueheart deflected off the Nord's shield, and the two men had exchanged places, facing each other once more.
"It has been many a year and more since last I felt a challenge," came a calm observation from the Nord; Gerard simply shrugged.
An intricate exchange; then another: Gerard's helm fell to the dirt - a hiss of anger from his men.
Trueheart wove in, flashed under the Nord's guard and cut deeply into his side, letting Gerard spin swiftly away from the counter. The two combatants faced each other, eyes fixed.
Then the sky split and Gerard was flung through the air as the ground slipped out from under his feet to strike a massive tree bole. He lay at its foot, gasping, only barely managing to roll away as the Nord appeared over him, driving his heel down to crush the space Gerard's neck had occupied only seconds ago.
The remorseless axe came down, parried by Trueheart, and then a stinging riposte which glanced off the Nord's heavy armor.
Again they spun away, breathing hard this time, and faced each other; their world had shrunk to encompass only themselves.
There was a clash of thunder and Trueheart flew from nerveless fingers to land glittering in the dust: shattered. The boss of the Nord's shield slammed into Gerard's chest and knocked him flat.
"Such is the end of it," said the Voice, and the Nord's boot came down to press against Gerard's sternum, forcing him against the ground. Their eyes met.
Gerard shouldered his pack and continued on down the path. The village would be at the bottom of the next rise, and he wished to reach it before night fell and darkened the road before him.
A warm wind sprang up around him, moving gently through his hair, across his face, between the leaves of the trees around him, and he heard below him, soft and distant, a sound of many voices raised in unison.
He paused, crested on the rise, taking in the sight of the small village nestled in the shallow valley below him. The wooden homes clustered together, broken by little patches of garden here and there, a large swarth of grass that might have been the common, and then long unbroken fields stretching out to brush against the forested slopes of the mountain.
Even in the fading light Gerard was able to see the large group gathered on the common, the long green grass swaying around them, rippling in shallow, rolling waves like a verdant sea. With a small sigh Gerard shouldered his pack and moved down the slope toward the village, glancing over curiously at the gathering from time to time.
It appeared that the entire village had been emptied for its attendance; as Gerard moved into the village itself, no activity was apparent, not even a playful dog or arrogant cat to take notice of him. Wandering for a few minutes, calling out once or twice in vague greeting, Gerard found himself on the common, the people before him, their voices clearer now, calling out in lament and supplication.
Slowly, drawn to them by some unseen force, Gerard approached the villagers; at their head was a man, perhaps a priest, and all around him were men and women and children bent in lamentation.
A little ways separated from the body of the villagers was a small girl. She had long black hair and was skinny and boyish in her build; tears ran silently down her sharp, angular features, and as Gerard stood next to her she raised her head to inspect him with deep, shockingly grey eyes.
"Why do you weep, child?" he asked her kindly. The grey eyes considered him for a while, as the long, slow rhythm of human voices faded and grew in the background.
"We are lost," she said finally, with a grave appearance of absolute certainty. This startled Gerard, for it seemed absurd that anyone could be lost so close to their own village.
"Lost?" he asked quietly, seeking confirmation, "How, child?"
"Our god has abandoned us."
"Your god?" Gerard repeated, feeling stupid and slow under the child's bright, acute gaze.
"Hush child," said another voice, sharper and more adult, "You know not what you say." A woman put her hands on the child's shoulders and looked into Gerard's eyes. "And who are you, stranger?" she asked calmly, her eyes dry, and just as sharp and piercing as the girl's.
Gerard straightened at the challenge in her voice, and then he remembered his belt, naked of a sword, and smiled quietly. "I am Gerard of Daggerfall," he replied gently.
"You come at a bad time, stranger," the woman replied firmly, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"So I see," Gerard answered after a long, considering pause.
"There is room at the inn, stranger," she continued in short, clipped, admonitory tones, "But we are in mourning." They watched each other for a long moment before the woman and her child turned away and melded into the crowd.
Gerard stood there for a long while, and as the sun sank slowly behind the horizon, the lament ceased, and the crowd began to disperse, leaving the priest at last alone in the field's center. The man stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on the summit of the mountain and the wind, grown strong, whipped at his long robes; Gerard watched him stand there, motionless, until it grew too dark to see.
The inn was empty when he found it, guided by a faded wooden sign illuminated by a guttering wooden torch. The door creaked and slammed shut behind him, and there was only a small fire to see by.
"Why are you here, stranger?" asked a woman's voice, and in the dimness Gerard was able to see the shape and vague features of the woman he had met on the common. She was tall and slim, and as she turned to face him, he saw that the years lay only lightly on her features; she was putting on a thick traveling cloak, and her hands were at the hood, lifting it up to cover her face.
"I seek shelter," was his simple answer.
"There is none," she replied, "not any more." She moved to push past him, but Gerard caught her by the arm and held her, looking over to meet her eyes beneath the shadow of her hood.
"Where are you going?" he asked quietly, curiosity overcoming his normal reserve.
She shrugged him off easily, holding his gaze with a defiant challenge. "To the mountain," she answered at last.
Gerard frowned, frustration growing inside him. He had seen many strange villages and many stranger things, but nothing compared to the feeling that suffused him the more time he spent among this seemingly ordinary village. "What troubles this place?" he asked sharply.
Her eyes considered him for a while, and he saw her notice his lack of weapons and his rough attire. At length, she shrugged and turned away. "See for yourself," she replied, opening the door. Gerard paused and turned to look after her; the door shut, almost in his face, and Gerard followed her.
Catching up to her, they walked in silence along the dirt road, turning from it onto a thin path which headed up among the hills towards the great mountain that dominated the village.
The wind grew more bitter as the path wound higher, and Gerard envied the woman her heavy cloak, and as the trees thinned around them, and the moons rose high above them, she began to slow. "He is here," she said simply, without turning to look at him, and passed into a small dell in the side of the mountain.
Gerard began to hear a deep, rhythmic noise, almost at the edge of hearing, and as they passed further into the dell it grew stronger and stronger.
A man lay in their path, dead. The woman ignored him, even spat upon the corpse as she passed, leaving Gerard to stare down at the cold face of death. It was not the stony aspect which so transfixed him, but a subtle sense of the alien: here was a strange face, he realized, but however he tried, he could not quite understand what it was that made him so quietly uneasy.
From far ahead the woman called to him impatiently and Gerard, sparing the corpse only one last glance, hurried to catch up with her.
He passed several more bodies, each provoking the same weird uneasiness, until she took him by the arm and halted him. The soft touch of her hand on his arm startled Gerard, and he looked over at her, surprised.
"Who is there?" came a deep, rumbling challenge, issuing forth from a hollow within the dell. And then, with a tinge of fear that shocked Gerard, the softer query: "Have you come to kill me?"
"No, lord," the woman whispered softly and Gerard thought he saw tears in her eyes. There was a long, pregnant pause.
"Amarie?" the voice called, a gentleness filling it that was at odds with its harsh and rough tones, "why have you come, child?"
She moved forward, her feet flying lightly over the broken ground, past discarded swords and shields and the husks of men. Taken by surprise at her swift motion, Gerard lagged behind and as he entered the hollow he saw the woman, and before her, dwarfing her entirely, was a great creature: leathern-winged, and bronze-scaled; heat boiled off of it, and great eyes followed his movements. The woman's hood had fallen back, and her hands rested lightly on the dragon's neck.
"I came to see you, lord," she seemed on the verge of saying more, but fell silent. The dragon gave a great, shuddering sigh. Around him lay the broken bodies of many more men, their weapons abandoned where they fell: a great assortment of strange swords and spears and other wargear.
"I remember when you were just a small thing," the dragon said, "no bigger than my claw." Amarie only nodded helplessly. Their eyes met for a moment, and then the huge iris turned itself to regard Gerard, who had been standing apart. "And who have you brought with you?"
"This is Gerard of Daggerfall, lord," she whispered.
An awful chuckle wracked the dragon's stationary body, and Gerard saw that he was mortally wounded: a great rent was in his armored breast, and red blood stained the ground around him; but he was long in dying. "Come to see the death of a Son of Akatosh, have you boy?" Gerard bowed slightly and remained silent; the dragon chuckled again. "You may have a long wait."
"What has happened here?" Gerard finally asked the woman, who turned to him, her eyes still full of grief.
"For as long as my mother's mother can remember, our village has been safe, protected from all evil: and so we continued to be, until the snake men came."
"Snake men?"
"Pale men with yellow eyes and strange weapons," said the dragon, his throat rumbling in hatred, "their kind is known to me." A pause. "They caught me here unawares, and dealt me this wound that will be my death."
"Do you understand now, stranger?" the woman asked quietly, her eyes resting seriously on Gerard, who stood transfixed by the dragon's great unblinking eye.
"I have missed you, child," said the dragon at last, his eyes closing for a long tired moment, and then reopening, their yellow gaze turned once more to the slender woman standing beside him. "Time to leave," he continued quietly. "Take our stranger home; he has seen enough of death."
"Yes lord," she replied and turned away, taking Gerard by the hand and leading him reluctantly down the mountain.
The village was still and silent when they returned, and Amarie led him to a small room at the inn, closing the door behind him as he entered. Gerard did not turn at the sound of the door, but stood, motionless, looking down at his hands, held supine before him; he clenched them tightly, his nails digging into his palms, and then he sighed, letting them fall.
It was to clamor and despair that Gerard woke; outside the inn it sounded as if the entire village had gathered all to talk at once in high, terrified voices.
He woke swiftly and pulled on his worn leather boots, groaning softly at the chill as he left the room and exited the inn. A crowd had indeed gathered, clustered around someone or something as the entire village talked one to another, almost desperately. In the distance a great pillar of smoke rose into the sky.
Gerard pushed his way through the crowd and into the small space at its center. A man was there, bloody and bruised; kneeling next to him was the priest.
"We are lost," lamented a man standing next to Gerard, his voice soft and wondering, as if he contemplated a thing inconceivable.
"What do we do?" pleaded another.
"We must go see Him," said the priest as he slowly stood to face the gathering.
"He is dying!" shouted a voice from the crowd, "What can He do now?"
"They will burn our fields and pillage our homes!"
"Where are the Mages and their promises now? A pox on them and their whoreson Kings!"
"Peace," the priest said mildly, his hands raised in calm quiescence, "peace. The Nords may come, perchance, but we will find no solace in despair. Let us see what He has to say. Come." And with that he turned and passed through the encircling crowd toward the mountain. The others hesitated, and then followed, until Gerard was left alone with the wounded man.
"You are from the next village," Gerard observed, his voice breaking the sudden quiet; the man only nodded in affirmation.
"What happened?"
"What do you think?" the man hissed softly, wiping blood from his forehead with the back of his hand, "the Nords came and burned our village."
"And what of your lord?"
"Dead," came the bitter response, "by some Nord magic." Gerard stiffened and looked at the man more intently.
"How?" Gerard asked, his voice coming out strangled and harsh.
"I don't know," spat the man in utter disgust, "I've never seen the like of it."
"Can you walk?"
"I ran from the next village didn't I?" the man bit back as he struggled to stand. Gerard gave him his hand and together they began walking towards the mountain, following the crowd that had left them behind.
The dell was just as he had found it: dead men surrounding a dying god; but now the people stood around him in a wide ring, the priest conversing in low tones with his lord.
"I cannot," Gerard heard the dragon say, "I have not the strength."
"What are we to do, lord?" the priest asked, "There are none among us able to stand against the Nords; we are but farmers."
"And you have grown soft under my protection," answered the dragon sternly. The priest let his gaze fall to the ground at his feet. "But enough. You have few options: stay, or leave."
"What of our homes, lord?" pleaded a supplicant, and a murmur of support rose through the crowd, inspiring a deep, resonant sigh in the dragon.
The dragon made a great effort and lifted his enormous head from the ground, his eyes fixed on Gerard. "You have, maybe, a third option."
The crowd slowly turned to face him, until Gerard could feel the weight of the entire village's gaze.
"Will you help my people, Gerard of Daggerfall? Will you stand in my stead?"
Gerard swept his eyes across the crowd: men, women, and children gathered here in hopeless attempt at the chance of safety. Amarie's eyes caught at his, and he paused, meeting her look with his own.
"I cannot defeat a warband," he heard himself protest, the words rising almost without thought from his own throat, his mind screaming at him to run, run, and not look back.
"No," said the dragon, "perhaps not. But their leader…" the rumble of his voice trailed off.
"Not even that could I do," Gerard replied, hanging his head in shame, "He is a Tongue, and I could not best him in a trial."
The dragon gave a deep laugh, harsh and full, and the sound echoed broadly in the dell.
"He has the Voice then," he said at last, "that is as it should be, I suppose." There was a pause, where only the wind might be heard in the trees around them. "Come forward," he continued, "my eyes grow dark."
As Gerard stepped forward the crowd parted to let him walk through their middle; and then it was simply he and the dragon, face to face. The great maw moved down to rest at his level, and Gerard felt the hot breath on his face.
"I cannot fight a man with such power," Gerard whispered, subdued by the presence of such a great creature.
"You have faced it before," the dragon observed in what for it was a quiet tone that was not a question. "Remember, boy, that this power is only a way to impose your Will on the world; it is a way to shape and form the fabric of reality into a manner of your choosing." A great, gravelly cough racked its way up the dragon's throat. "If you have the will to resist it, to deny another man's version of the world in favor of your own, he cannot touch you."
Their eyes met and a long silence settled over them.
"I cannot force you to help my people," the dragon said finally, in answer to Gerard's unspoken question, "but I ask it all the same. I will give you what aid I can."
"I do not even have a sword."
The dragon's gaze swept slowly about, until his eyes caught the cold glint of a sword lying in the grass. "There," he said, "take up the sword of my enemies; armor yourself in their steel, and defend my people, if you will."
Gerard felt the eyes of the entire village follow him as his feet crossed to the sword: it was strange, slightly curved, but as Gerard stooped and held it aloft in his hand, gazing up along its razor-edge, it felt right.
"This will not save me if I face the Nords," Gerard said, despair creeping once more into his heart, "it will not save your people."
"All power is sacrifice," the dragon murmured in his great rumbling voice. "Come here, boy."
Gerard's eyes fell back to the dragon, and their eyes met once more. Slowly, a mounting dread growing within him, he crossed back to stand by the dragon.
"What would you give," he asked, "to save the life of your woman, your family, your home?"
"I would give my life," Gerard answered after a moment.
"As would I," responded the dragon, "as would I."
"For many years I sought power and domination, and in my pride I was laid low, and I felt a change come over me. I found myself seeking… different things, different hurts, different worlds." Gerard looked at him curiously. "And what I have come to value most, above all other treasure, is this little village I have lived above for so long." He fell silent for a while, his eyes moving over the assembled villagers; Gerard wondered how much he truly knew of them: was he a benevolent god? "And now, when they truly need me, I cannot help them."
There was a long, deeply serene calm.
"You must put the sword through my heart," the dragon said at last; Gerard merely stared at him. "I am dying, boy; let me have an end and be done: I am weary of lingering."
Gerard hesitated. "Do it," the dragon hissed, "Let my death preserve my people."
Slowly at first, with the sword gripped tightly in his hand, Gerard stepped toward the dragon, watching those terrible eyes as they followed his motions. When he stopped, Gerard could have reached out and touched the dragon's skin he was so close; the heat boiled off the scaled hide, and the smell of the dragon's blood nearly overpowered him.
A great rent had been torn in the dragon's armored chest, and if he listened Gerard could hear the distant thump-thump of the creature's massive heart.
"All power is sacrifice," murmured the dragon, and Gerard plunged the sword deep into the wound.
Hot, acrid blood spewed forth from the wound, thick and noisome: Gerard's arm was covered to the elbow with it, and it burned where the blood enveloped his skin. He heard a sound like a cry of pain.
The dragon gave a deep, shuddering sigh, echoed all around by the forgotten people of the village as they watched the end of their lord.
Gerard could bear the heat no longer and pulled the sword from the dragon's breast, holding it aloft as the red blood covered the bright steel in its viscous flood.
There was a shift, a change in the world, and deep in his soul Gerard heard the reverberation of three incomprehensible words: the blood flowed and shifted along the blade, beginning to shine with a deep golden light, lambent and glorious. Gerard watched, motionless, as the blood became golden instead of scarlet, and seemed to sink into the blade itself until all had vanished; the sword was no longer a grey steel but a deep and shining gold, and the hilt also - but his hand was still red, though there, too, the blood had disappeared.
The sword caught the shining light of the sun as Gerard stared up at it, and it was only as the dragon's massive head came crashing down in the repose of death did his eyes break from the sword, and he turned to see that all the people were gone, save one.
Memory of Amarie's tear-filled, hateful eyes followed him to the end of his days.
A single man stood against them, astride the rough dirt track. They had come, confident of victory, ignorant of any chance of resistance. Their leader halted them some twenty yards from the village's outskirts and stepped forward to meet the village's champion.
The other man watched him motionlessly as the Nord approached and removed his helm that his enemy might see his face.
"I am Jurgen Windcaller."
"And I am Gerard of Daggerfall," said the Breton, removing his helm also.
The two men watched each other for a moment, Gerard's deep grey meeting the Windcaller's bright blue; the Nord's warband shifted restlessly behind him, impatient to be off.
"It will be thy death to face me again, Gerard of Daggerfall," the Nord warned quietly, his voice low and soft.
"Perhaps," was the emotionless response, "yet I will face you all the same."
"I do not wish to kill thee."
"Then take yourself away from here; you will not enter this village."
Jurgen restored his helm and silently raised his weapons; his men murmured in protest. Gerard unsheathed his sword and raised it; the gilded light which flashed from it narrowed his opponent's eyes, but he came on unstayed.
Their weapons clashed, the sound ringing off the hills and slopes around them. Gerard pressed his enemy back, pushing him to the limit of his skill; he felt the world gather and shift, and the Nord shouted, fire issuing forth to consume him.
The sword sang in his grip, the golden blade echoing in his soul. No, they said, joined in mutual denial, and the fire washed over them, leaving them unscathed.
All was still for a moment, and even the wind had died; the Windcaller stared and so too did his men.
Gerard moved forward, beating aside the Nord's weapon and thrusting his sword deep into the other man's shoulder, slicing through armor and bone and flesh. A deep groan issued forth from the other men, and the Windcaller slumped to the ground as Gerard withdrew the golden brand from his enemy's flesh.
His booted foot rested firmly on the Nord's chest, and their eyes met once more; a razor edge between them, just above the hollow of his throat.
The wind howled, whipping at the pilgrim's heavy robes.
"Here," he said to his followers, "here is where we shall build it."
"You are certain, lord?" a man asked, looking doubtfully at the steep, snow-swept slopes.
"What better place?" was the calm reply, his bright blue eyes lifted up into the sky, toward the cloud-wreathed summit of the Throat of the World.
The door creaked, bringing me out from under the spell of Still Waters' voice and letting Mokir slip inside, a quiet grin on his face; the grin turned into an exaggerated frown as he saw the two of us.
"Filling his head with some of your worthless stories?" he asked, his tone biting and willful. Still Waters winked at me and stood.
"Some people appreciate them," he replied as Mokir scoffed in derision - but his eyes danced, and I smiled in spite of myself. Still Waters motioned for me to stand as well and I obeyed, looking up curiously at Mokir.
"Well, Little Cub," Mokir said, turning to face me, "I have a present for you." And so saying he brought out a long one-handed sword, akin to those I had seen born on the belts of my guardians.
My eyes went wide, and I looked for a long moment at the offered sword before reaching out my hands to hesitantly take it. It was lighter than I had anticipated, but still heavy, and they silently showed me how to hang it about my waist in their strange fashion: very different from the way my father and his men had carried their swords.
"Come," Mokir beckoned when we had finished, "Time to go for a walk."
We received several odd looks as we reentered the courtyard - as well we might have done: it is not often you see a young Breton noble in the care of a Khajiit and an Argonian. But Still Waters and Mokir bore their curiosity with the ease of long habit, and as we left Cloud-Ruler behind and climbed up a steep, narrow path into the hills around it, the sounds of that busy and lively place faded, giving way to the singing of the wind.
Unaccustomed to the weight, my new sword was heavy at my hip, and I struggled to keep up with their long, lanky strides. Often I tripped or made some misstep, but always one of them was there to catch me before I fell, hoisting me gently to my feet without a word of remonstration.
Though it had grown chill, I was sore, hot, and breathing hard by the time we stopped at the crest of a grassy hill. Mokir folded himself to the ground, his legs crossed in an elegantly effortless way; Still Waters remained standing.
Mokir caught my eye and it was clear to me that I was to do as he was; I sat on the ground and tried without success to imitate his posture. He smiled quietly and showed me a form which required less flexibility; this I was able to accomplish, and with Still Waters' gentle aid I removed my sword and laid it across my folded legs.
From our high vantage point we could see far out across the countryside: rolling grass, trees swaying gently in the wind, the sun shining gently down on all that lay below it. We sat there together, looking at the land for a long, long time; my legs grew tired and ached, the sword bit into my legs and still we watched.
Mokir looked at me as the sun began to set, his eyes gentle and calm. "You see, Little Cub," he said at last, "this is our charge."
UH