(AN: Sometimes you really need to have your hero do some fantastic feat that would be worthy of song. Eirik gets plenty of such moments, slaying Alduin, traversing the Soul Cairn, saving the Companions, breaking the Imperial blockade of Windhelm, etc. While Crixus certainly has several such moments, he also needs something big. Here is one such moment.)
(Thank you for the reviews. I can't say that I've read anything by Goodkind or Rand [i've heard good and bad things about Atlas Shrugged], but i was surprised that you picked up so much. I feel like i haven't been describing Cyrodiil enough, visually as well as politically. Like i watch - via proxy - shows like The Following and realize that my enemies are rather tame compared to those featured therein: hell, even Benjin seemed small time compared to some of the bad guys in The Following.)
The Pursuit
Crixus turned about and saw Pelagius standing there, hands folded together in front of him and a knowing look upon his thin, pinched face.
"How much did you hear?" were the first words out Crixus' mouth.
"Every word, unfortunately," Pelagius replied. "And I understand why you keep secrets. People like us often have to."
"People like us?" Crixus asked.
"Dangerous people," Pelagius stated.
Crixus scoffed. "You, dangerous? You look like a strong wind could knock you down."
"Yes, it's true," Pelagius admitted. "I'm not possessed of a strong physique like those gladiators in the Kvatch Arena, or of a soldier of the Imperial Legions, but I have suffered much in the service of the Empire and the House of Nobles. I know what it is to feel true pain. Do you?"
"Do I what?" Crixus asked.
"Feel pain?" Pelagius continued. "Any kind of pain. Some of us can be scourged with whips of iron hooks or stretched upon the racks of the dungeons of the Counts and the Thalmor for years and yet have one brief moment that is worse than all the rest. Have you had such a moment, Servius Crixus? Did you feel that pain when you slew your cousin?"
"No," Crixus replied without hesitation. "I didn't want to know him or his family. I was quite content with them being nothing more than a memory, one that would remain perfect, untouched and untarnished by time or experience. Is that what you want to hear, is it?"
"I asked you if you were looking for someone," Pelagius replied. "You know, I've been here for quite a while. I was here before you and your companions arrived. That Boderic Vesnia, you should keep him close. Religious men are very useful, especially to people like us. Viator Matius I have heard of as well: a hedge knight with loyalties to no one but himself. You should be wary of him, but not discount him on account of his crass behavior. An irreligious man may be just as useful as a religious one, and their loyalties are much cheaper to buy than those of the religious persuasion."
"Uh-huh," Crixus murmured. "And what about you, sir? Where do you stand?"
"I serve the interest of the Empire, as I have said before," Pelagius stated. "And it is my task to look after her, especially if you will not."
"What do you mean 'if I will not?'" Crixus retorted.
"Weren't you the one who refused my offer the first time?" Pelagius queried. "And now you've done worse than refuse, you've threatened the very safety of the realm by robbing Kvatch of strength."
"I thought that was the plan all along!" Crixus hissed. "Get rid of Varro, make Platorius the chancellor."
"Oh, that may have been your plan," said Pelagius. "And, what it was, has now gone awry. Brachus Romulus is one of the least competent lords of the House of Nobles, and without the strength Varro provided, the other lords will swoop down upon Kvatch like vultures. Or do they not have vultures in Mournhold?"
Crixus' face blanched. "What did you say?"
"You're not nearly as clever as you think," Pelagius replied. "And my ears are as keen as your own."
"I wonder just how many others know as much about my business as you do, Lucan," Crixus grumbled. "If that's even your real name."
"If it makes you more comfortable to call me Lucan," Pelagius replied. "You may call me that. It's certainly not my name, neither is Pelagius. As for how many others are as informed as you are, well, I would say the number is small but significant. The Dominion are certainly curious about you."
"About me?" Crixus asked.
"If you were indeed active in Skyrim recently," Pelagius continued. "Then the Thalmor there had some record of your activities. With the dismantling of the Skyrim Thalmor agency by these...renegade lawmakers, these Sons of Skyrim, there has been much consternation along the Thalmor channels of information."
"And how do you know all of this?" Crixus asked. "Are you a Thalmor spy?"
"Hardly," Pelagius grinned. "I have many agents in my employ, and they tell me many things. Such as, after the Siege of Solitude, the Dominion agents tried to smuggle as many documents out of their little embassy in Haafingar before it was raided and raised by the Sons of Skyrim. If any of those documents made it to Cyrodiil, and a wise man would assume they have, then it is plain that the current Thalmor Ambassador is in possession of all that there is to know about your actions of late."
"And who is the new Thalmor Ambassador?" Crixus asked.
"Lady Arannelya, my sources tell me," Pelagius stated.
Once again Crixus was brought to a pause. He had heard the name mentioned quite frequently. It was she who made constant battle with the Legion forces in Hammerfell during the War and was the chief enemy of the Ninth Legion while they were in Hammerfell after the War. It was rumored that she had made an allegiance with the Alik'r to drive the Empire out of the deserts of Hammerfell, though this was still unconfirmed. She had also led the Dominion forces to pursue the Ninth Legion and drive them into the mountains, especially that one, narrow, bloody pass where the Red Dog had risen. Yes, Crixus knew her all too well.
He knew Her all too well.
"I see," Crixus mused, trying to keep his face neutral in light of this news.
"Therefore I extend to you my offer yet again," Pelagius stated. "Together we can save the Empire. You need my contacts and my expertise as much as hedge knights and holy orders."
"I know," Crixus replied. "Perhaps we will meet each other again once I arrive in Chorrol. I was invited there, to meet a friend who may be useful in this endeavor."
"My quarry still lies ahead," Pelagius replied. "And I am of the belief that she did not leave Skingrad."
"She?" Crixus asked.
"Yes, but I can say no more," Pelagius added. "Now, then, about my offer..."
"I'm still considering it," Crixus stated.
"Nevertheless," Pelagius replied. "I would advise haste in this matter. Already time has been lost. Kvatch stands upon the brink of annihilation while Skingrad stands on one foot alone. A strong, united Empire is what we need."
"Yes, I know," Crixus nodded. "So, then, tell me this, before I go. If you have such knowledge about me, what do you know of my friend, the wise animist Larth?"
"Personally, I know nothing about him," Pelagius said. "He's no nobleman's son or influential person of his own. A bumpkin bedazzled by the fine words of these animal worshipers. In the end, however, he is harmless."
"Harmless?" Crixus chuckled. "Didn't think you'd be saying that about anyone or anything."
"The animal worshipers are harmless," Pelagius clarified. "Oh, it's true, they have become a nuisance of late, but a strong, united Empire would drive them deep into the forests, cutting them off from the roots of plunder and supply. They would be forced to live off the land, starve or return to the fold of the Empire. They are harmless."
"I see," Crixus stated. "And do you happen to know where this harmless man went off to? One moment he was with me, the next he was missing."
"Yes, an unfortunate side effect of living so close to the city of Skingrad," Pelagius stated. "Normally, I would advise against putting stock in old wives tales, but in this case, it seems the old wives of Skingrad knew what they were talking about when they warned their children about vampires in the woods at night."
"Are you saying he was abducted by vampires?" Crixus scoffed.
"If he was," Pelagius replied. "You can be certain he's dead. However, as it turns out, I saw that he was captured by another kind. Death by his hands would be much more painful than the vampire, if I might say so myself."
"Another kind," Crixus repeated. "Do you mean the bandits? This...Benjin the Bold?"
"Perhaps," Pelagius shrugged. "There are many bandits in Skingrad, taking advantage of the chaos caused by the plague these days."
"But the city's surrounded by the Legion," Crixus stated. "How am I supposed to get in?"
"The city is surrounded," Pelagius nodded. "But the legate in charge of the blockade is not wholly without mercy. Though he was given the order to keep those inside the city from leaving, and those outside the city from entering it, he runs supply caravans right up to the walls of the city and into the no man's land."
"Why are you telling me this?" Crixus asked.
"There's an old Dunmer proverb," Pelagius stated. "I'm sure you're quite familiar with it: don't look a gift-guar in the mouth."
"You mean you're just giving me this knowledge?" Crixus asked. "For free?"
"I am giving you this knowledge, yes," Pelagius nodded. "But not for free."
"Name your price," Crixus returned.
"I can't," Pelagius stated. "I haven't decided on a price."
"So you can give this to me without a price?" asked Crixus.
"I'll name my price when it is convenient for both of us," Pelagius stated, a sly grin on his face.
"No, I want to know what it is right now," Crixus retorted. "I haven't got any money. My fucking rescuer stole all my money."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to earn more," Pelagius winked. "You certainly seem like one who finds money in the most unlikely places."
"Right," Crixus nodded, remembering the sign of the Tower, his own birth sign. "Hey, now, can you answer me something?"
"What is that?" Pelagius asked.
"What can you tell me about the Tower?" Crixus asked.
"I know that it's a birth sign," Pelagius stated. "But while I know that there is more than just that, such knowledge is beyond me. Tending to the needs of the Empire in the here and now are more than sufficient for a man of my talents. A word of caution, however."
"Caution?"
"Beware who you talk to concerning the Tower," Pelagius warned. "Men have died asking questions about it. Died in such ways that no one who outlived them were able to discern that they had died in any other way besides suicide. I hope that will not be your fate."
"Uh-huh?" Crixus asked. "And why would you be so considerate towards me?"
"I am just one man," Pelagius stated. "With great ambitions. But ambition alone cannot save the Empire in her time of need. If I am not mistaken, you also have ambitions of your own, ambitions that run in concert with mine. Alone we are each only one man, but together..." He grinned. "We may be the last hope for this Empire."
"If you say so," Crixus nodded.
"Now, then," Pelagius commented coyly. "We must get back to the feast, right? Dessert should be served shortly. Only the best foods will be served, I hear: the finest pastries and sweet-rolls between here and High Rock, brandies, ice-berries from Hammerfell and all other rare delicacies."
"Right," Crixus grinned.
Without uttering another word, Crixus turned and left the store-room. He made his way towards the feasting hall, but stepped back as he saw Neramo walking through the corridors. Next to him was a hooded Thalmor agent, writing words on a roll of parchment, while Neramo had on his gloved hand a hooded raven. Crixus was about to step out when he saw Urtius hobbling after them. Hearing his words at the dinner table, he paused and paid heed.
"Lord Urtius?" Neramo asked. "I thought you would be enjoying the feast. I hear the Sixth Canon is regaling the audience with tales of his journeys into the realms of Oblivion."
"Oblivion take the College of Whispers," Urtius muttered. "I'm here for the Maro problem, the one I spoke of at dinner."
"Yes, yes," Neramo groaned. "So, what is it you need? Be quick about it, my time is very valuable."
"Well, I was promised the support of your organization in taking the throne of Anvil," Urtius replied. "Instead I am forced into hiding like a common thief and sit at banquet with the very scum who was responsible for my exile! It's insulting, degrading and infuriating! And your organization does nothing about this!"
"If you talk of this nameless spy," Nermao muttered. "He is of no concern to us. We've gotten all the information out of him that we could over the years. Now, if you are referring to this other one, this Servius Crixus, then perhaps my organization could be of assistance in this matter?"
"I can't believe," chuckled Urtius. "There are actually people who hate your kind! You Altmer are the most helpful, thorough and respectful of all peoples I've met since leaving Anvil!"
"Of course, as you know, we have our prices," Neramo stated.
"Whatever price, I will pay it," Urtius replied. "I must have the throne of Anvil!"
Crixus tried to move, when suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning about, he saw Pelagius still standing behind him. The man shook his head, then disappeared down the hallway. With a grimace, Crixus followed after him. It would be a long walk back to Blackberry Hall.
Late that evening, he found himself walking through a field of grape-vines shrouded in darkness. Ever and anon fire-balls would soar towards him, but, out of no command of his own, ward spells were conjured to reflect the fiery projectiles into the fields, setting them ablaze. The one throwing the lethal pyrotechnics was none other than the tall, lanky bald Procurus Florius, Sixth Canon of the College of Whispers. Though he was in greater shape than Marius Imbrex or Brachus Romulus, Crixus seemed to be moving faster. Then, to his surprise, he saw the Canon vanish in a burst of emerald light.
"Wuld...Nah Kest!" he heard his own voice Shout.
The vines around him swayed and blew back as the whirlwind carried Crixus forward farther and faster than he had ever seen Eirik move using that particular Shout. Procurus fell to the ground before him and he, halting from the pursuit, turned around and gazed down at his quarry. He spoke, but his voice sounded dull and lifeless, trapped within his ears and going nowhere else. A deeper voice, thickly accented, spoke in his stead.
"Procurus Florius," said the voice. "Tell me all you know about Mysticism."
The narrow man laughed. "You fool. No one studies Mysticism anymore. It's a dead art. Even the College of Whispers no longer consider it viable, even for historic research."
"You lie!" the voice replied.
"I know nothing else!" Florius replied defiantly. "Your search is in vain."
"Gol...Hah Dov!" the voice shouted. Procurus' dark eyes glazed over and a vacant expression filled his face. "Now, tell me all that you know about Mysticism."
"I know nothing, my lord," Florius shook his head. "It was never my place of study. It was discontinued, said to be too dangerous. The wanderer still practices it, as far as the College and the Synod knows."
"Who is this wanderer?" Crixus demanded.
"He never stays in the same place twice, my lord," Florius replied. "Always evaded capture. No one has even seen his face!"
"How do you know there is such a wanderer?" Crixus asked.
"Rumors, my lord," Florius answered. "They say he appears, mostly around Cheydinhal or in the Valus Mountains, helping out those he deems worthy, then disappears without a trace."
What happened next vanished into darkness as Crixus found himself lying in a field, still dressed in his traveling gear, sore and filthy. Only the echoes of a voice crying out in agony could he hear, still ringing in his head. The phrases 'Mysticism', 'the Wanderer' and 'the Valus Mountains' were somehow burned into the back of his mind, and never left even if he tried to forget about them.
Suddenly he heard cart-wheels rumbling near at hand. His first instinct, especially after what had happened to him before, was to crouch down to the ground as low as possible. The rumbling grew closer and Crixus dared to look up to see what was before him. To his surprise, he found a cart filled not with bodies but with heavy burlap sacks. His mind flashed back to what Pelagius-Lucan said and, thinking fast, he whispered for Nocturnal's shadows to hide him. Carefully he rose up, ready to sneak through the grape-vines and climb into the back of the wagon. He then immediately thought otherwise: there were six men around the cart, two servants driving the horse that led the cart, and four city guards around it. They would certainly see him if he climbed atop the cart as it was.
An idea came to mind and he, feeling on his person a bit, found the knife he had been given by the shrouded figure that stole his purse in the city. Taking it out, he threw it at the side of the cart, then crept underneath the wooden undergrowth on the row of grapes as the cart came to a halt and the guards stood their ground near where the knife struck. With their backs turned, Crixus crept into the lane, around to the other side of the cart, then climbed inside and covered himself with the heavy sack-cloth rain-tarp that lay inside.
A foolish ploy in hindsight, but Crixus hoped to be well within the no man's land and out of range of the Imperial archers of the blockade by the time he was either discovered or climbed out of the cart.
For the next thirty minutes, Crixus was the sorry passenger inside the supply wagon. He felt with profound agony every bump, wine-branch, rock and pot-hole the wagon-wheels rumbled over on their way eastward. He kept his soreness to himself, for he was still under their watch and any noise would give him away.
At long last, the cart came to a halt and he heard Nibenay voices just outside. Apparently the cart was going to switch owners now, and Crixus bit his lower lip in consternation. As he heard no sound of battle and warfare, he assumed that these were neither bandits nor whatever had the red eyes the night before. Though relieved that he would be in Legion hands, he was still concerned that he was not thoroughly safe. What if they pulled off the tarp? Surely his invisibility had vanished by now.
Only a minute and a half passed until the cart moved again: for Crixus, it might as well have been all day. The rough jostle as the wagon drivers, who remained, cracked the whips on the backs of the horses tossed Crixus, but he kept quiet. All around him now he could hear the familiar sounds of the Imperial camps around him. With nothing else to do, he listened as bits of conversation wafted through the seams between the wagon's beams and into his ears.
"...rumors of a Wild Hunt of some kind in the woods near Valenwood," one said. "Heh, should give those layabouts in the border forts a nice distraction."
"If you ask me," another interjected. "We might be moving out there as well. Those border forts couldn't keep out a child, much less anything else."
"Watch it, them words is treason."
"Bah, treason my arse! The Elder Council don't care about the southern border, that's why they've been bowing to the Placators, moving us away from the Dominion borderlands..."
"...screamed like a girl for fifteen minutes," one proudly boasted. "So much for 'strong Nord women', eh?"
"Ha ha ha, nice," another complimented. "So, how was she?"
"Hairy and smelled like fish," the first one grumbled. "Let the boys have her once I was done..."
"...could have been over sooner if they'd let us go north with General Tullius," another stated.
"The Elder Council was too concerned about the southern border," a second replied.
"Bah! They don't care about the southern borders none. Constantly undermanned, short of supplies, and now they're moving more troops to Cheydinhal and Bruma? Elder Council can't be bothered with the North anymore than the White-Gold..."
"...hear of this Wanderer fellow?" asked a fourth. "They say he goes about the woods, helping folk in need."
"You've been hittin' the skooma pretty hard, ain't you?" his comrade replied. "There ain't no such thing."
"Wish there was, though," the former grumbled. "Wish he'd wander over here and conjure us up some women. Damn the Empire and their laws for keepin' women out of the Legion..."
"...not sure I like all these Nords in the Legion now," another muttered. "General Tullius should have sent them back to Skyrim once he was done with them, back where they belong."
"Nords this, Nords that," grumbled his companion. "Fuck the Nords and fuck Skyrim! I've heard far too much about Skyrim for the past two years. Oblivion take Skyrim for all I care! And good riddance if it does! They're nothing but trouble and if it weren't for us, they'd fall into disorder and chaos..."
Inside Crixus groaned, for he heard with his own ears what the common folk, the regulars of the Legion, were saying. However, he believed that any pejorative comment made about Nords was, by nature, warranted and truthful. Furthermore, he wanted to believe that there was nothing wrong with his beloved Empire. They were right in griping against the Nords: he had had quite enough of Nords for one life-time with his two years in Skyrim. Therefore he shut his mind to all the other comments about the state of the Empire and paid heed only to those that attacked the Nords which he hated. Ignoring inconvenient truths was always a fine way to remain obstinately convinced of his rightness and infallibility.
Fifteen minutes passed and then there was not a sound heard but the rumbling of cart-wheels. At last there was a sudden jolt and the cart came to a halt. He heard hooks being set onto the cart, then it suddenly rumbled. How this could be possible was beyond Crixus' mind, though he had little chance to ponder it. He realized that he was being carried high up above the ground and was now dangling in the air in the little cart. He wondered where he was going and if he would be able to escape once the cart halted.
Suddenly there was another jolt and the cart came to a halt. The tarp was removed and he heard voices cry out. Crixus rose up and saw the ledge of a stone wall before him with a small crowd of people waiting for him. Without another word, he leaped off the cart and into the crowd, which dispersed as soon as he stood among them. No one in that crowd spoke to him, and there were many who turned their faces away, covering their faces with their cloaks as if they were Imga who had the displeasure of meeting a human.
Crixus had not long to realize which part of the city he was in. The sun and the sky were covered in a deep reek of black smoke. The air around him was thick and stifling, and the smell of death wafted from every direction. Here in the streets, he saw, as he had seen in the Imperial City, in Solitude and on the road to Skingrad, piles of ashes littered with bones. But lying in the filth and muck of the streets, he also saw bodies left to lie where they had fallen.
Without a second thought, Crixus ran away from the crowds, keeping his head down so as to not be noticed. He ran and ran until he saw a tall structure that seemed to stand out above the ash and smoke: that was the Chapel of Julianos, the Divine of Magic. Into this he went, and found that there were many people, young and old, women and children, huddled inside it, praying alone or in small circles. It angered Crixus inside to see their sincere and earnest faith, even in the face of death and pestilence beyond. It shamed him for he had not such great faith and could not take comfort. For him there was only sadness, regret, shame and anger. Sadness that he had forsaken the path, regret over the choices he had made to leave the path, shame at his own weakness.
But he hardened his heart, turning from the pain and sorrow and filling himself instead with anger. He told himself that he had no need to be sad: the path was well forsaken. Regret, he deemed, was for those indecisive enough to doubt themselves, which he claimed he never did. His shame he lied and said was not shame, but condescending sorrow at the blindness of those around him. This then brought about his anger, anger at those he blamed for not saving the city of Skingrad from this pestilence.
He walked over to the altar, unhindered by those around him. They bore no weapons and could not have stopped him if they knew his full mind. He picked up one of the votive candles and threw it towards a banner that hung from the wall to his left. Picking up two more, he threw them at the nearest things he could find that were flammable, then made his way to the door, which he shut behind him and shoved a broken table leg between the hands. If the chapel burned and there were those left inside, so be it. The only desire in Crixus' heart was to circumvent the Divines in his own way, with no care to who was hurt in the process.
"That's what you deserve," Crixus scorned, gazing up at the tall tower. Without another thought, he turned his back on the Chapel of Julianos and went on his way. He would have to go to the other side of the city, where the bandits lived, in hopes of finding Larth.
When Skingrad was first built, the Gold Road going between the two districts caused problems during high traffic in the days of the Empire's former glory. To remedy this, skilled artisans of Bruma and Cheydinhal were brought in to construct bridges and walkways to crisscross over the highway and the crowded streets of the city to allow traffic to flow freely. These bridges were maintained throughout the Third Era and the majority of the Fourth Era, though the plague now threatened their usage. With the southern side of Skingrad caught in the throes of the plague, those in the northern side tore down many of the bridges in a vain attempt to keep the plague out of their city. But the breaking of the bridges didn't stop the bandits from taking advantage of both sides.
But for Crixus, he had scaled through dangerous places before all on his own, even as he was now. He stood now upon one of those bridges that once connected the northern half of the city with the southern half; only it had long since been broken and the space between was too far to leap, even for him.
Here Crixus was brought to a stand-still. He was without his bow, ironwood arrows and rope, and he had certainly forgotten if he had ever learned the Whirlwind Sprint Shout in Apocrypha. He distinctly recalled speaking it last night in his visions, but the desire to execute it now was faint. The span was great and he feared that it would be too great, or that he might miss his mark and fall down to his death and crippling into the highway below. Eagerly he looked about, straining to see if any bridge or rope had been left behind that he might use to climb over to the other side. While he was thus looking around, he saw, standing on another broken bridge about fifty feet to his right, a black shape. Suddenly the shape leaped up and, to Crixus' surprise, reached the other side of the bridge in a single bound. Before he could move, the black shape turned towards him and looked at him for a while. As it remained steady, Crixus got a closer look at it - as close as he could see from fifty feet away - and saw that this black figure was exactly the same one who had robbed him before. He called out to the figure, but he made no answer of words. Instead, he drew a bow and pointed it back the way he had come and not towards Crixus. Before Crixus' eyes, he saw the black figure fire an arrow with a rope tied to it, then fastened the rope to his side and disappear. Warily, Crixus made his way back off the bridge and down the street to the other bridge. An arrow with a rope tied to it was stuck in the side of a house on Crixus' side, hanging over the span caused by the broken bridge. He turned towards the other side, where he saw his black-clad quarry wave to him, then vanish through the city streets.
"What are you up to?" Crixus mused.
Curiosity got the best of him and he clung to the rope, going hand over hand until he reached the other side. A little bit farther and suddenly he heard a woman's voice cry out in horror. Crixus crouched low and made his way through the street on the other side of the highway, the sounds of clamoring that he had heard before growing clearer. He could make out the taunting, arrogant drawl of Benjin Surilie as he was torturing his captives.
"Oh yes, circle yourself, good lady," the rich brat taunted. "See if the Divines will help you. Here let me show you something. Crusher, you and the others make sure these two don't leave." There was suddenly a loud cry heard and footsteps, one pair belonging to heavy boots and the other to dragging shoes, could be heard coming close to where Crixus was. Thinking fast, he ducked into the alley between a ruined tower and one of the houses. He looked back out towards the main highway and saw Benjin dragging a young Colovian woman by her hair over to the edge of the bridge.
"Do you see that smoke over there?" he gestured, pointing at the Chapel of Julianos. "Those poor, plagued bastards finally burned that eye-sore down. Do you know why?" The woman shook her head in vain. "Because there are no gods here to help you. The only one you should be begging to for mercy...is me."
Shortly, Benjin came stomping back down the lane, dragging the woman behind her. The footsteps faded, then he heard loud screams coming from further down the main lane that were suddenly stifled. At last Benjin spoke again.
"And what about you, brave sir hedge knight?" he asked. "Your kind think they have the run of the county? You think that you can just go wherever you will, killing whoever you want, just because the Count doesn't care?"
"I serve the people of Skingrad," a man's voice defiantly replied. "I protect them from the likes of you, boy!"
"Oh, listen to you!" Benjin exclaimed, talking as though this were a game and not a matter of life and death. "You know I can't abide rudeness in any fashion! And you're being rude, sir hedge knight!"
"I speak the truth about you," the hedge knight retorted. "Impish, cowardly poultroon! Haven't got the courage to fight me yourself, have you?"
"Oh, when will you idiotic knights get it through your heads?" Benjin asked, after which there was heard a banging noise. "Chivalry is dead! The orders are dead! No one gives two shites about honor and loyalty anymore. It's all about the gold." There was heard the sound of a small hinge being turned, then a trickling of water and the knight groan in disgust.
"Crusher!" Benjin called out. "I believe our dear knight has a dent in his helmet. Be a good lad and fix it, will you?"
But Crixus hadn't been standing still during all of this. Carefully he made his way back out of the alley and down the lane, where he found the group of Benjin's bandits in a city square. In the center, about ten yards away, he could see the crowd of bandits gathered around two prisoners while another were busy with something else in a corner by themselves. Of the two strangers, he saw one was a knight clad head to toe in steel armor with a steel bucket helm upon his head. The giant Crusher was standing before him, squeezing the helmet together with both hands. Crixus heard the poor dying man's last, agonizing screams as hardened steel crushed in his head, then there were no more screams. Blood squirted out of the helmet's visor and the knight with the crushed helmet fell to the ground, dead. After a while, he saw Benjin walk over to the next captive: a bald Nibenay man with darkened skin, clad in fur and animal skins.
"And what about you, beast-lover?" Benjin asked. "Where are your animal gods now? Let the bear and the owl save you from me!"
Crixus made a start: the one about to be offered up on the altar of Benjin's cruelty was none other than Larth. He looked ahead and saw that there was nothing in his way but a few bandit guards, and only straight ground ahead of him. Now would be the best chance to execute his Shout.
"Wuld...Nah Kest!" Crixus shouted.
From his hiding place, Crixus burst forward, crashing through the guards and knocking down Benjin. In the confusion that followed, Crixus sprung to his feet and pulled Larth up with him.
"Run, Larth!" he shouted. "Go on, hide yourself! I'll deal with these!"
Larth shook his head, and Crixus, acting on instinct, pushed the man aside as three bandits leaped upon him, holding him down. Once he was in their power, they began punching, kicking and spitting on him as hard and as furiously as they could. He had endured worse during his days in the Legion, but it was not to Crixus' liking to be held down and beaten without a fair fight. He lifted his eyes to see if Larth had escaped, but was struck in the face with something hard and metallic. His left eye swelled shut as his head reeled from the concussion of the blow.
"That's enough," he heard Benjin call out. The young man walked towards Crixus, that hungry, wolfish glare in his eyes and the sadistic smile on his face. He cradled his right hand before Crixus, showing that it only had four fingers on it.
"Back again, I see," he greeted. "I suppose you didn't learn your lesson the first time."
"What's wrong with your finger, boy?" Crixus asked, knowing full well what had happened.
"I hate you," Benjin replied; no explanation, no reasoning, just those three words.
"What the fuck have I ever done to you?" Crixus asked.
Benjin shrugged. "Nothing. I don't hate anyone particularly; they just have to die. My men expect it, Crusher expects it, and, besides, it's fun. But you..." He pointed with his left hand to Crixus. "...I just can't..."
"Put your finger on it?" Crixus retorted.
"Shut the fuck up!" Benjin exploded in an uncharacteristic showing of rage and kicked Crixus in the mouth. Blood filled Crixus mouth as his head leered back from the blow. The young man gasped from the exertion, then calmed himself before turning back to Crixus.
"...I just don't know," he finally answered. "There's something about you that I don't like. The smug grin on your face, that 'I've seen it all' swagger in your voice, your looks, your stance. Something that makes me want to hurt you..." He lowered his voice, his lower jaw quivering as he spoke. To Crixus' disgust, he saw the right hand, the one that was wounded, reach down and seize his groin. "...and go on hurting you...over and over...and over again."
"Is that the only way you get your cock up?" Crixus retorted. "By causing pain to other people?"
"Pick him up, Crusher," Benjin ordered. The huge man picked Crixus up and flung him over his shoulder. Inside Crixus was boiling: no Colovian had ever made him feel so small, impotent and useless. In fact, no race in all of Tamriel, save for the Altmer and the Nords, made him feel like this. And it angered him and caused him to flail and curse and spit try to struggle free: but Crusher's arm held both of Crixus' from moving. The large man and Benjin brought Crixus over to the brink of the broken bridge and halted.
"If I were you, which, thankfully, I'm not," Benjin stated. "I'd pray, to whatever you pray to, that the fall kills me." At that, Crixus felt his beard seized by Benjin, who came within an inch of his face and continued. "Because if you survive, then the pain begins." With a violent tug he pulled out some of Crixus' beard, then cast it to the ground and shouted to his muscle: "Throw him over."
In one instant Crixus was heaved into the air and was now falling. He heard a cry, but for him his only thought was on his predicament. His arms, free at last, began flailing about in vain as he knew that he would hit the ground hard. This was not how Servius Crixus was supposed to die, he knew.
How it happened he never guessed. Perhaps his hand had touched the amulet while he was thrashing and flailing about. Or maybe the powers that controlled the destiny of Servius Crixus had use of him still. Yet again, it may have been the will of the slave of the amulet or the one who owned it last. Nevertheless, out of the air the black horse Shadowmere appeared, catching Crixus on its back as its hooves hit the pavement. Crixus jolted awake as he felt the creature beneath him, then suddenly he heard a voice from above.
"Find that little bald wretch and bring him back alive!" Benjin was ordering. "You, get your bows over here and shoot this arrogant fucker down!"
"Larth!" Crixus shouted. From nearby, he saw the bald man's head appear out of a window in reply to Crixus' call. "Jump!" Crixus brought Shadowmere up along the edge of the wall, right beneath the window where Larth had appeared. The Nibenay man fearfully climbed to the edge of the window, and then leaped. He never reached the horse. At the last minute, a black shadow bounded across the ledge of the window and snatched Larth out of the air. Before Crixus could reply, he saw the one he had followed into the city scaling down the wall of the northern half, Larth in his hands. Upon reaching the ground, he ran off eastward, towards the edge of the city.
"After him!" Crixus shouted, kicking Shadowmere into action.
Shadowmere reared up on its hind legs, as if anticipating the great chase that was to come and roaring defiantly to meet the challenge, then sped off towards the black shape. Crixus knew that this would be over shortly, even without his bow, arrows, knives or the blade of the Nightingales. Shadowmere could outrun any horse - perhaps even Frost, the horse of Louis Letrush which he had stolen and given to Eirik as a peace-offering - and the black-hooded stranger was on foot. But then, as if the very fortune that had been following Crixus since he came to Skingrad had suddenly run dry, the black shape turned a corner behind a tree that had fallen and broken part of the wall of the northern half of the city, and came out again atop a horse: a dappled grey horse with a grey mane and a white tail. On the back of the horse was Larth and, even as Crixus was thus surprised, the grey horse took off eastward.
"Hyah!" Crixus shouted to Shadowmere. "Go! You can catch any horse, my old friend! Let's chase this fucker down!"
Shadowmere put himself forward at his top speed and Crixus held on for dear life. Down the highway they ran, coming at last to the eastern gate of Skingrad, which had been broken down and never repaired. A pile of debris lay in the breech of the gate, as if that could keep anything out of the city now. The grey horse leaped over the debris barrier and, hot on his trail, Shadowmere easily copied the move and followed on behind. They were now on the Gold Road again, which turned suddenly southward to avoid a massive ramp of stone that led up to the massive drawbridge of Castle Skingrad. Their path led underneath this drawbridge and, just beyond, they saw the lines of the Imperial blockade on the eastern side of the city.
The black shape on the grey horse showed no signs of stopping in the face of the blockade, and neither did Crixus. He certainly wanted to rescue Larth, for he could still be of some use to him. With his help, he might be able to cause dissent among the animists and bring order and safety to the wilds of Cyrodiil. In that light, he was essential to Crixus' operations here: a strong, united Cyrodiil would prove his merit before all of the people and, army or no, would give them faith in his abilities as a leader. He had to rescue him.
Suddenly the arrows began to fly towards them from the Imperial blockade. But the same luck that had bound Crixus to the Evergloam was with him this time, eager to be avenged. The arrows whizzed past him and his quarry, none of them finding their mark. They were now leaping over the barricades and galloping through the Imperial camp. The disorganized Legions ran from before them, or fell and were crushed beneath the hooves of their horses. Tents were upturned or torn as the two galloped straight through any obstacle in their path.
At long last, they both broke through the Imperial blockade. The grey horse was still galloping, with a strong lead on Crixus, and Shadowmere was following on behind. In the distance, Crixus could see the wooded valleys and fields of Skingrad, dotted with vineyards, stretching out before them. And beyond them rose a great phalanx of trees, thicker than the forests they had passed through up until this time. Here he saw, for the first time in two decades, the Great Forest of Cyrodiil.
Its splendor did not hold Crixus for long, for his prey was still ahead of him and now the Legion would be behind him. Again he kicked Shadowmere into action, riding hard and fast down the road that wound northward, then turned south again, then leveled out before going steadily northeast. His quarry still had a great deal of a lead on him and, to his surprise, the grey dappled horse was fast enough to keep up with, if not outrun due to the lead, his own horse Shadowmere. He was now bringing his horse up along the northward part of the road, looking down the inclining valley towards where the road turned. His quarry was on the southward bend and, for a moment, seemed to pause. Larth then came flying from the saddle and went crashing to the ground, then the horse galloped on at top speed.
Crixus jolted in the saddle at the sight, then turned Shadowmere off the road to cut a straight bee-line down the hill and towards the southward part of the road where Larth had been discarded. This took a while and, as Crixus noticed, the quarry was now back on the road, galloping away. He would have to be quick if he wanted to catch up to him now. Bringing Shadowmere up to where Larth had fallen, he found the young Nibenay man on his feet, waiting for him.
"Sir!" Larth cried out. "I thought you had forsaken me! Bandits grabbed me from behind you, while we were running through the fields. They took me to the city, tied me up, beat me, threw me in a..."
"It's alright, Larth," Crixus returned. "You're safe now. Go, flee! Go back to the Blackberry Hall, find the others and wait for me there."
"But where are you going?" Larth asked.
"After him!" Crixus replied, pointing towards his quarry. Then without another word, he kicked Shadowmere in the flanks and took off. Larth was safe, so long as he didn't get captured by the Legion. He had his orders and, Crixus trusted, that would be enough for one so simple-minded. But for Crixus, he had to catch the black-shrouded figure. It was unlikely that he still kept Crixus' purse with him; but it was not greed that drove Crixus onward. He wanted to know who it was who had robbed him, rescued him and aided him. But it was also pride that drove him to want to catch the only person who had, without a doubt, outsmarted him at his own game.
Thus began the great pursuit of Servius Crixus against the man in black. Those that came after told stories of that pursuit, with the stories growing bigger and more outlandish with each retelling. Yet the truth of that pursuit and how it ended are strange enough in their own right.
(AN: Well, this chapter was certainly long [both in word count and in how long it took for me to get it published]. Mostly because Skingrad is boring to me. I tried to make it less boring, but unless something major happens to get the Count's attention, Crixus will never meet him [this is important] and it will continue to be just another boring Colovian city.)
(I've wanted to say this before, but it usually just fell away to other things. I've mentioned "circling oneself" at least once before, and this was done as a sort of sacred gesture, such as the Catholic Church have with "crossing oneself." As the Cross is not known in Tamriel, I chose a circle done in a clockwise gesture, based on the Elder Kings CK2 mod's emblem for the Faith of the Eight/Nine. The votive gesture [thumb, index and middle finger held up, other fingers held down] is a pagan fertility symbol: in this case, we can say that the central finger, the phallus [not even kidding here] represents "the Tower", and the other two fingers, the female sex, represent the eight spokes of the solar wheel of Aurbis.)