A/N: More than three weeks for another chapter... again? Yes, yes, I know, but inspiration has been woefully lacking for me at times. However, with clear material to work with for the next chapter, hopefully it won't take as long. Anyhow, thanks to all those who reviewed (particular thanks to HunterAzrael, who clearly has bionic eyes as he read the entire thing in under twenty-four hours, leaving a much-appreciated review for each chapter). As for those of you who didn't review... well, you know what I'm going to say. Reviews can only help me, people. Let's see more of them.
Underpaid Critic: It's MEANT to be mundane; daedra-humper assumes that the humper in question is strong enough to make a daedra his bitch, so it might actually be complimentary, whereas I doubt anyone but the sick-minded could find anything to admire in humping a simple goat. Anyhow... Mazoga, Gorgoth's weakness? Come, you should know him well enough by now... in any case, thanks for the review.
Scytherian Poetry: It's times like this I wish some of my anonymous reviewers had profiles so I could reply properly... I guess I'll just reply to the most important bits. Anyhow, Oreyn's letter; it wouldn't do him good to be insulting when he badly needs Gorgoth to do something both efficiently and quickly, given the respect he now has for him. You might see more insults in future, though; he'd insult Uriel himself if the situation was right.
As for that 'rouse', it meant that the presence of daedra were failing to get Farwil and Bremman up for a fight due to Gorgoth's intimidation. Also, I'm assuming Bruma has a population in the high thousands. That would give Burd a sizeable Guard, and in this time of crisis, he would probably be getting quite a few volunteers without even resorting to conscription. Expect the Bruma Guard to get even bigger.
Rambling? Maybe, maybe not; I've always liked commentary, though there's also a lot to be said about concise advice. Review the way you prefer, as long as you actually review. Thanks for that one, by the way.
Random Reader: That probably saved your sanity, as that damn Dunmer is a pain to keep alive... a lot of people hate him, for good reason. And... Saliith as Sheogorath? That won't happen, purely because the SI plotline is moving along in the background. Ilend mentions it in Chapter 25. There'll be a new Sheogorath, but don't expect them to take much of the limelight.
And so here is your new chapter. Don't forget to review.
Chapter Thirty-six: Rising Tensions
It was known as the Forsaken Mine by residents of the nearby city of Leyawiin for good reason. The ore had long since ceased to be profitable, and the subsequent abandonment had left it easy for trolls of the Blackwood to take up residence. This was a concern to the residents of the nearby city, and they had contracted the Fighters Guild to eradicate the infestation. Oreyn had dispatched a squad of several Guildsmen who had entered the mine a few days before the attack on the city, and nothing had been heard of them since. They had been largely forgotten by Leyawiin, but not by Modryn Oreyn. It was easy to see why he had called it a 'sensitive' assignment; Viranus Donton had been among their number, put in command by the Champion to give him more experience.
The Dark Elf had taken Gorgoth to the privacy of his office in the Chorrol Guildhall and explained the delicate situation; ever since the death of her eldest son, Vitellus, Vilena Donton had become increasingly unstable and ineffective. Oreyn was managing to hold the Guild together, but if she lost her last remaining son, it would almost certainly push her over the edge and spark chaos within the Guild. As the Dunmer dispatched Gorgoth on his mission, he'd seemed resigned; he knew that there was little chance of Viranus still being alive. He'd had the look of a man who knew something cataclysmic was going to happen soon.
Swinging himself from the saddle, the warrior-shaman tied his horse to a nearby rock, absently patting her mane as he studied the entrance to the mine. He'd stolen the black mare from a newspaper courier and she'd served him well so far, having both speed and stamina. Making sure she could reach what little sparse grass there was amongst the mud of the Blackwood – it had rained for two days – he squelched over towards the entrance.
The half-rotted wooden door opened to his push and the Orc stepped into the mine, summoning a globe of light above his head to banish the darkness. Walls covered with moss and slime met his gaze; no part of the cavern was dry. Moisture hung in the air, clinging to his armour, and a stench reached his nose. Trolls always left a foul smell wherever they stayed, but there was also the scent of blood, both human and elven. Crouching down, Gorgoth's fingers touched a bloody footprint illuminated by his light. It had been made by someone leaving; that much was evident by the direction. Scraping a finger through the dried substance, the Warder grunted. It was crimson; it hadn't come from a troll.
Straightening, the warrior-shaman moved further into the mine, casting a powerful spell of life detection. Several shimmering figures appeared in his field of vision; all were hunched, short but bulky. Trolls. No men or mer. Walking onwards down the passage, he came across the first body. A troll lay sprawled in the centre of the passage, numerous wounds dotting its torso, its head lying several feet from the body. Another denizen of the mine was further up, with most of its brains decorating the support beam it was lying against.
The passage opened to admit Gorgoth to a larger room, with several long-disused shafts descending far into the earth. Several trolls lay dead, along with three of their assumed killers; an Altmer and two Imperials. He recognised one from the Chorrol branch; Ashtus Chenius, a fair swordsman but more noted for his abilities in Restoration. Their wounds – crushed ribcages, smashed skulls – indicated that they'd been killed by trolls. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. It was possible that the squad might had simply been overwhelmed by the creatures, but Oreyn wouldn't have sent anything under-strength with the Guildmaster's son.
Moving on, the Orc started down the nearest passage deeper into the mine. He stayed alert for any danger – as always – but parts of his conscious mind descended into deep thought. On the ride down, he'd mulled over the question of how he'd come to Cyrodiil. Had it been fated? Was it his destiny? Whatever the means, Gorgoth had welcomed the change. Years of rotting in Orsinium, a mere mercenary by trade, had been starting to get to him. He'd had no cause to fight for, no direction in his life. Never in his imagination had he thought he might find a worthy cause outside Orsinium, much less get involved with saving the entirety of Tamriel.
Maybe fate or even the Nine had taken him to Cyrodiil. Uriel had seemed to believe that the Divines had something to do with it. Maybe the Emperor was right, but a devotee of Malacath – a murderer and a rapist - seemed like an odd choice to be the champion of the Nine. Whatever the reasons behind it, the warrior-shaman wasn't about to question his destiny. He would just get on with it as he always had done. And right now, getting on with it involved searching a mine for signs of what had become of a group of his fellow mercenaries.
He felt a slight bond with these fellow Guildsmen of his. The Fighters Guild was flourishing in Orsinium – helped in part by the small stretch land he had gifted to it – but as it was still small and new, he hadn't taken much notice of it. But now, he felt more solidarity with his Guildsmen than he ever had with most fellow mercenaries. They were more close-knit, a formation with at least some honour. Worthy of his respect, at least, even if the regional Guildmaster was incompetent. But Oreyn was holding things together, and the Guild as a whole was worth fighting for. Pride was one of the few things Gorgoth allowed himself to feel, and even that was limited, but he would willingly go to great lengths to make the Guild something he could be proud of.
Pride. He'd never felt much of it in the past; there'd been precious little in his life to feel proud of. Casting off the shackles of his father's dominance might have been one of them, but he had accomplished little else. His dealings with the Dark Brotherhood had been strictly necessary, and his battles had been for the most part simple affairs that other Orcs could have won. While his efforts in turning himself into a living weapon had succeeded, they would be worthless until he accomplished something truly significant.
Dust cascading from a support beam as he passed focused his entire attention back on the mine for a moment; apart from a few more bodies of trolls, there had been no other indication of past events. Certainly nothing to indicate that this was anything but a routine result from a routine mission. Keeping most of his mind alert, the Orc let his thoughts return to deeper matters.
They settled on Mazoga, who'd been plaguing his thoughts ever since he'd seen her again. She hadn't changed much, but she did seem... harder now. More focused. The death of Ra'vindra had clearly affected her, as had his actions when she'd last seen him before departing Orsinium. He regretted nothing, however. Even if he did love her – he was still unsure what his exact feelings for her were - he'd never allow himself to feel it. Love was one of the biggest weaknesses in existence, and Gorgoth did not intend to fall victim to it. He had enough vulnerabilities that he could do nothing about; there would be no sense in adding to them. Romance was pointless in any case; comradeship was more than enough for him, and even that was by no means essential. Mazoga would have to make do, because he would never create a gap in his armour. Not for anyone.
Entering a large room brought his full focus back onto the matters at hand. Two trolls had been killed near the entrance, but three other corpses caught his eye. Two - an Imperial and a Redguard – were Guildsmen for sure, but the Breton lying near them was a Blackwood Company man by his armour. All three had been killed by blades, and Gorgoth had yet to meet a troll who could grip a sword, let alone wield one. It was obvious what had happened; the Guild had been fulfilling the contract when the Company arrived and killed them all.
The Orc crushed the rage that briefly threatened to bubble to the surface and folded his arms to think the situation over dispassionately. Viranus was almost certainly dead, killed by the denizens of the mine or, more likely, the Blackwood Company. If the Guildmaster could see through her grief, she would share his immediate view that there could only be war. An unprovoked attack, when combined with hostilities over the past few months, went far beyond rivalry. It was murder without cause. At the very least, Gorgoth was already starting to feel the desire to see his comrades avenged. But first he needed proof. He had yet to see Viranus's body, and with only his word to back up his claims he might well be brushed aside. Kicking aside the corpse of the Company man, he moved further into the mine.
Troll blood was staining the warrior-shaman's dai-katana by the time he came across more bodies; neither the Guild nor the Company had dealt fully with the infestation, though most of the population had undoubtedly been killed. Three more Guildsmen lay mingled with the corpses of two Company men, and a blood trail had been scraped along the floor of the cavern. Kneeling to study it, the Orc observed that the scrapes along the rock had probably been made by plate armour being dragged over the ground; few of the Guildsmen he'd seen were wearing anything like it.
Following the trail, Gorgoth eventually came to stand beside the body of Viranus Donton. The wound that had killed the young swordsman was obvious; blood had stained most of his armour red around the stomach, and more crimson fluid had been choked up as he approached death. In his gauntlet was clutched not his sword – which lay a few feet away, most of its length stained red - but a book. Sitting down on a nearby rock, the Warder plucked it out of his fellow Guildsman's hands and flicked through the pages to the last few entries. His hatred of the Blackwood Company, suppressed yet still present, solidified.
Standing, he looked down at the dead Imperial. He'd had potential; he had known how to follow orders, and he was at least decent with a blade. Above that, he was a good, honourable man, and would have been a credit to the guild had circumstances altered the passage of his life. Gorgoth knelt and slowly closed his eyes. "He may have been defeated, but he died well," he intoned, speaking in Orcish. "Watch over his soul, Malacath." He straightened and saluted his dead comrade before leaving with the journal tucked securely into his belt pouch. It was time for action.
It took an enormous effort of self-restraint for Modryn Oreyn not to snap and either throw something against the wall of his office, kick something, or attack the Guildsman who'd just brought him bad news. The latter option would be particularly bad in this case as the Guildsman in question was a seven-foot bulky Orc who likely weighed twice as much as the Dunmer. Also taking into consideration that it was of the utmost importance that the Guildmaster upstairs did not hear his cursing, Modryn simply took out his rage on his pitiful-looking desk, pounding it repeatedly until the wood splintered and blood started to leak from his knuckles.
"Why the fuck did this happen?" he grated, glaring down at the splinters now perforating his grey skin. "They're already taking all the jobs in and near Leyawiin and making a ludicrous profit. Why slaughter the competition?" The Dark Elf pounded the table one last time before marching around and stopping inches from Gorgoth, made even angrier by the fact that he had to bend his neck backwards considerably just to meet the Warder's gaze. "They were good men," he growled, his voice growing dangerously quiet. "They deserved better."
"The Blackwood Company needs to answer for its crimes," replied the warrior-shaman, returning his superior's gaze evenly. "It must pay. We need to discuss a plan of action with the Guildmaster."
Modryn snorted. It was too easy to forget that the Orc was a newcomer to the Guild, and thus mostly ignorant of Vilena Donton's reduced ability. He turned away, waving a dismissive hand that belied the immense worry churning in his gut. Ever since hearing of Viranus's death, the Dunmer had known that he would answer for it; he alone had been responsible for sending the Guildmaster's son on the mission. He sighed, leaning heavily on his table, facing away from Gorgoth and staring at the bloody journal he'd brought with him. "Vilena is past it," he grunted. Harsh words, but they had long been true. Ever since the death of Vitellus. Even after the intervening months, he felt a pang of loss. Vitellus had been a good man, and a good fighter. A worthy successor to his mother, even, and a good friend. "She will not recognise the true danger, being blinded by her grief. She'll lash out at those she holds responsible. And that means that you and me are going to be hung out to fucking dry." His fist pounded the table again.
"She will punish the two people immediately able to make the true guilty party pay for its actions?"
Nodding, Modryn turned back to Gorgoth. He was starting to like the Orsimer. Blunt, to the point, and brutally effective. Much like himself. It would be a shame to see such a talent go to waste. "I'll be the one informing her," he told the Warder. "That way, I'll absorb most of the heat. If you go lay low for a while, chase up a few contracts, whatever... you'll survive. I doubt I will whatever the case." He'd been Champion for decades now – Vilena was his third Guildmaster – and he knew he wouldn't come to terms with the inevitable loss of his position for a while yet. He loved the Guild, yet he would have no place in it now. Forcing personal feelings aside, the Dark Elf poked his companion's cuirass. "You have to survive. I need effective people in this guild. Leave."
"No."
"What?" Modryn glared incredulously up at his subordinate, unfazed by the Orc's level gaze. On the few occasions that he'd been disobeyed, it had been by a malingerer who he'd verbally flogged to within an inch of their lives. This was different. "When I give you an order, Warder, I expect it to be obeyed, especially when it's for your own fucking good!"
"This is my fault as well as yours. Had I been faster, this would not have happened. We will tell her together. Hopefully then we can salvage something from this." Gorgoth's voice was completely flat, his face expressionless. Modryn got the sense that he wouldn't be budged an inch. He was one of those people. Nevertheless, it was in the Dunmer's nature to argue.
"That's ludicrous and you know it," he spat, walking over to his armour stand and tapping his ebony breastplate. The fine suit was a stark contrast to the warrior-shaman's battered ruin. "You couldn't have got there any faster, unless you learnt how to teleport." He snorted; the Orc probably did know how to teleport, but though Modryn's knowledge of magicka was shaky, he knew that teleportation without a Mark was prohibitively costly. "You know you got there as fast as you could. You merely brought the bad news to me. Now I'll bring the bad news to Vilena." The Dark Elf turned back to the Warder. "Get out of here, and you'll probably retain Guild membership."
"I will not run." Gorgoth folded his arms, his eyes firmly fixed on Modryn's. For the first time since meeting that gaze, the Champion felt a slight sense of unease. Dismissing it, he sighed and picked up Viranus's journal. The dread he was feeling started to increase. He ignored it; focus and tact was what he needed now. They would be impossible to achieve while consumed with worry, though tact at the best of times was quite foreign to him.
"Suit yourself," growled the Dark Elf. He turned to point the book at his companion. "When we get in there, make your account as pro-Guild and anti-Company as you can. While we can't avert her wrath, maybe we can help her focus on what's really important here." He didn't have much hope of that; he'd seen Vilena when she'd been informed of the death of Vitellus, and it hadn't been pretty. Rolling his shoulders, the Dunmer pushed his door open and walked out, followed by the Orc.
He walked straight into Vilena, managing to stop himself only inches from her face. Gorgoth almost walked into the back of him. Instantly, Modryn's mind started racing. She'd been standing just outside his office; how much has she heard? He wasn't to know that the warrior-shaman behind him had cast a Silence spell around the room that had prevented any sound leaving it. Fortunately, the expression in Vilena's aged, weather-beaten face was one of annoyance, not one of anger or grief.
"My son has been missing for over a week now, Champion," she grated, her brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you sure you don't know anything about that?" Tall for a woman, she could easily look Modryn in the eyes, and at the worst of times her gaze could unnerve him slightly.
"We... should discuss this in the privacy of your office, Guildmaster," muttered her subordinate, knowing that ears downstairs would be straining in their direction right now. The Imperial pursed her lips and nodded, turning and leading the way upstairs, the skirt of her dull green dress rustling before the sound was drowned out by Gorgoth's considerable weight making the stairs creak and groan. She jerked the door to her office opened awaited for them to enter before slamming it shut again, turning to face them with her hands on her hips, the impatient gesture aided by her stocky build.
"Well? What's going on?" she demanded, her stare switching between the two of them.
Modryn sighed and squared his shoulders, adopting a determined expression. "Viranus has been out on a contract given to him by me," he told her, holding up a hand to cut off her furious retort. "Let me finish, Guildmaster. It was a relatively simple assignment; he was leading a sizeable squad to clear the Forsaken Mine of trolls. When I didn't hear back for a while, I sent Gorgoth to investigate."
Vilena turned to Gorgoth as he stepped forward, dropping her eyes to his throat after a few seconds. Modryn wasn't surprised; the Orc's cold eyes were among the most chilling and menacing he'd ever seen. "I entered the mine long after the action," he started. "Apparently, our Guildsmen were fighting the trolls well, but then the Blackwood Company appeared in a frenzy, attacking everything that moved. I learnt this partly from my own deduction, and partly from Viranus's journal." He held out the mentioned book, placing it on Vilena's desk when she didn't take it. "He's dead," the Warder told her to hammer the point home.
Vilena looked at him without expression for a few moments, her eyes flickering to the bloodied pages briefly. "Dead?" she asked, her voice completely flat. Modryn sighed. He'd heard that tone only once before. He nodded.
"He's dead, yes. But it was the Blackwood Company who murdered him. We need to-"
"It was you who sent him there, Oreyn! He wasn't ready for that kind of thing! You know that!" The Guildmaster's face was rapidly turning an unsightly shade of puce, in tandem with her rising voice. "He should have been safe at home, on easy contracts, instead of sneaking around behind my back because of you!" Her volume lowered dangerously as she thrust a finger into Modryn's chest. The frustration, anger, and hint of guilt felt by the Dunmer meant that he glared back in response. "You have taken my son from me." Her last sentence was uttered in a whisper filled with loathing.
"Stop getting over-fixated!" growled Modryn, unwilling to be pushed around by this deluded old woman any more. "Yes, I sent him out on the contract, but he'd have survived and done well if the Blackwood Company hadn't murdered him!"
"He was there because of you!" shouted Vilena, stepping forward. He refused to step back, so the result was that their furious faces were mere inches apart. Searching that face, Modryn could see that there was no way through that delusion. Her grief was finally sending her around the bend.
"At least I was doing something to help him, instead of wrapping him in cotton wool and treating him like a fucking child," snarled the Dunmer, folding his arms. No point in diplomacy now. "Who can become a true man when treated like that, eh? At least he died well. Like his brother."
Clenching her fists, the Imperial looked like she was about to attack her subordinate, but collected herself. "Get out of my sight," she hissed. "You are not fit to lick the boots of the lowest Guildsman. Show your face here again and you will be killed." Turning away from the Dunmer, she thrust a finger in Gorgoth's direction. "And as for you-"
The Orc pre-empted her by picking her up by her throat and slamming her into the wall of her own office, shocking even Modryn, who instinctively stepped in to help Vilena before remembering the situation. "As for me, I have not lost sight of the true direction of this Guild, unlike its Guildmaster," growled the warrior-shaman, his freezing gaze boring into the Imperial's eyes. "You are deluded. You refuse to pursue the people who killed your son. You are not fit to run this Guild." He slowly set her back on her feet. Modryn grunted. He was right.
Rubbing her throat, Vilena glared at the Warder's chest. "And what do you know about running a guild?" she rasped. "You, in the Guild for a matter of weeks, dares to question my long service? I will be getting the proper authorities involved to see if what you say is true, but until then, I will stick with what I know." Those last words were directed at Modryn along with a snarl.
"Then you are a fool," growled Gorgoth. "Action needs to be taken now. We cannot let the Company get away-"
"Get out of my office and out of my Guild. Both of you." Sighing, Modryn nodded to Gorgoth as he moved slowly towards the door, a sinking feeling in his stomach. The Orc didn't move. "Get out!" screamed Vilena, shoving him in the chest with all the strength she could muster. The warrior-shaman swayed an inch or two before turning and marching out, followed quickly by Modryn. As he slammed the door behind him, there was a thud as something heavy was thrown at it. The Guildmaster's sobbing started to resonate around her otherwise silent Guildhall.
As the two ex-Guildsmen moved down the stairs towards the exit, they were greeted by silent stares from what seemed to be half the population of the Chorrol Guild. No one could have failed to hear that. Some eyes were accusing, some sympathetic, some angry. It was not until they reached the door that Lum gro-Baroth stepped forward. "I'm with you, sir," he muttered, bowing his head towards Modryn. "Always." There was a murmur of assent through the assembled ranks. Grunting, Modryn turned to face them.
He was no longer one of them. The reality hit him, forcing him to grimace. For several decades he'd been a living, breathing part of this guild, effectively running it for the past few years. He genuinely loved it; it was his life. His dedication had always been noted by Vilena in the past, and now she did this to him. The despair rising within him was tempered by the touching gesture of his old comrades; even when he was cast down, they stood by him. Rank could be eroded; respect was more enduring. "I..." Used to his gruffness for so long, it was unusual for the Guildsmen to see their old Champion hesitate, to be at a loss for words. He set his mouth in a grim line, his features determined. "I'll be back," he grated, turning on his heel and marching out of the Guildhall into the cold night air. Gorgoth nodded to the assembled congregation and followed him.
"So what do we do now?" asked the Orc as he caught up with Modryn, who was walking quickly back to his house. He seemed unaffected by his expulsion, but, then, the Dark Elf doubted there was anyone in the world who could tell what the warrior-shaman was thinking. His face remained stoic and emotionless.
"Firstly, I'm expecting a few of them to rescue my armour before Vilena decides to sell it to fill the Guild's coffers," spat the ex-Champion. That ebony would be worth a fortune, for sure. It had been his for countless years now. "And secondly... well, I still know a few people. I'm not letting the Company rest, Gorgoth." He stopped and turned to the Orc. "I'll see what I can dig up. I'll send for you when I've got something. For now, there's not much you can do; I doubt the other Guildhalls will turn you away – their heads aren't up their arses for the most part - but it's best to be on the safe side."
"I have other dedications, but if you need me, I will do my utmost to help you," responded the warrior-shaman. "I've come to value the Guild; it might pain me to see it torn apart by incompetence and the honourless dogs of the Company. If you send a message to Cloud Ruler Temple, I will get it eventually."
"Good to know I can trust someone, at least." Modryn held out his hand. Gorgoth shook it firmly. "I'll be in touch. Now go hurt something." The Orc nodded and saluted before turning on his heel and walking down towards the Grey Mare. Continuing on towards his house, the ex-Champion ignored any greetings and sped up as his face grew even more grim. Barging into his house, he slammed the door behind him and bolted it shut.
Looking around, he checked that the simple house was empty except for him before sinking down to sit on his bed, looking down at his hands. No longer was he Champion Oreyn of the Fighters Guild; now he was plain Modryn Oreyn, a citizen of Chorrol. Burying his head in his hands, he groaned, sinking briefly into the misery that he'd never let himself show in public. The Blackwood Company would pay for this even if he died trying. In an effort to cheer himself, Modryn started to visualise the graphic and brutal torture of some of their members. Yes; they would pay, for sure.
As he walked away from Modryn, Gorgoth kept his anger firmly under control. He had known that confronting Vilena would mean his dismissal from the guild that he had grown to respect, but he would have done exactly the same thing a thousand times over. The Guildmaster had been bringing shame and dishonour to the Guild, and for that, he and Oreyn had been dismissed; a deliberate slur on their honour. Life had never been fair to to the Orc, but he'd had a habit of landing on both feet. At least he and the ex-Champion could operate freely. The Blackwood Company would get their comeuppance soon enough.
He threw open the door to the Grey Mare and strode in, sitting down carefully at a table. It was too late to begin travelling, and his new horse needed the rest. He'd named her Baluk, 'need' in the Orcish language, as it had been need that drove him to damage the Black Horse Courier's delivery service by stealing one of their horses. She'd been driven hard since he came into possession, and to make sure she didn't come to loath him, he'd be taking it easy on her for a while now if the situation allowed for it. The North Country Stables had already received a premium payment to ensure she got the best quality services.
His large beer arrived and he downed half of it in a few gulps, barely thinking about it. His mind was still mulling over the problem of the Blackwood company when he noticed a figure in the shadows watching him. A Khajiit. A Suthay-raht with amber eyes and fur that was deep gold apart from a black streak over his right eye. Just like the last time the warrior-shaman had seen him, the cat stirred something deep within his memory. Their eyes met, amber on amber. The cat's expression did not change, nor did he move a muscle. It was as though he was almost daring the Orc to walk over and confront him.
Gorgoth searched harder for that memory, but it remained frustratingly out of reach, and fled entirely as a Breton sat down at his table. She was wearing a nondescript dull green tunic, and her shoulder-length brown hair was hanging loose around her shoulders, making her pale face look prettier than it ever had been when she'd been in full armour. However, that face itself was unchanged, and the look of intense dislike it wore was also familiar. The Akaviri katana on her back served as a final reminder. "I resent being sent to give you a message," grated Callia.
"But you are a good enough soldier to carry out the order nonetheless," remarked her fellow Blade, studying her. It was interesting to note that, out of her armour, the small, slim Breton was actually fairly attractive by Breton standards, which Gorgoth had some scattered understanding of. Her build was not one of a warrior, but she undoubtedly had both determination and motivation, which had rewarded her with skill in abundance.
The Knight Sister's teeth could almost be heard grinding together. "The Emperor has learnt the third item needed for the ritual. You are to return to Cloud Ruler Temple immediately." Message delivered, Callia stood up to leave so quickly that she rocked the table.
"Callia, wait." The Breton paused, her body rigid as Gorgoth stood up. Just before she had turned to leave, the Khajiit across the room had walked out of the door into the street. Given his suspicions, the warrior-shaman wasn't about to take any chances. "If we'll be travelling at night, then we should leave together. There is strength in numbers."
She turned to give him a look of scorn. "And what makes you think that I have any interest in travelling with you?"
"The fact that we are Knight Brother and Sister. Come on." He took a hold of her elbow and steered her out of the pub, ignoring her vehement protests. Short of drawing her katana, there was nothing she could do to escape the Orc's vice grip, but fortunately for her, he released her just inside the gate before the guards started to suspect that he was abducting her. "Keep walking. Act normally. We'll go to the stables and get our horses," he muttered, directing a warning glare in her direction that told her everything she needed to know.
Without turning his head as they walked towards the stables, Gorgoth cast a discreet life detection spell that allowed him to see life forms even outside his radius of vision. Prolonged usage would always cause agonising headaches, but for short-term use it was highly useful. Something slunk out of the gates after them before they closed, following them at a distance. It was impossible to tell the race from the life form itself, but that smooth movement reinforced the Orc's suspicions. He gently tapped Callia's shoulder. "Remain watchful and alert," he told her, his voice a low rumble only discernible at very short distances.
She was frowning up at him, opening her mouth, when the figure behind them moved suddenly. The warrior-shaman wasted no time in diving to the ground, dragging the shocked Breton down with him as a throwing axe whistled over their heads. Spinning, Gorgoth froze the air in a radius of twenty metres around the Khajiit, but he was already sprinting towards them. As the Orc rose to his feet, the cat sprang onto the stable's lower roof, using it as a springboard to launch himself at his target with incredible speed. The warrior-shaman's fist rose to connect solidly with his attacker's ribcage, sending him spinning through the air and crumpling to the ground a short distance away. By the time Callia had her katana out, he had sprung to his feet and darted off into the shadows of the night, swallowed within seconds.
The Knight Sister moved to follow him, but her comrade stopped her with a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. Her furious glance quickly turned to one of shock as she saw the damage done by that one quick attack; the left side of Gorgoth's face had been torn to shreds, the claws of the Khajiit cutting through bone and right into his mouth. He pressed a hand to the afflicted area, healing it before spitting out a mouthful of blood. "If you follow him, he will kill you," he told her. "With the shadows of the night and my weak armour on his side, he would probably kill me as well."
Callia stared up at him, tracing one finger through the thick crimson fluid still splattered on his face over the healed wounds before wiping her hand distastefully on her trousers. "Who is he?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
The Orc grunted. "He is Do'Kazirr," he muttered. "I should have recognised him when I first saw him. One of the most dangerous warriors I have ever faced." His companion folded her arms, her gaze demanding more. "I know little about him," admitted the Knight Brother. "But I do know that he is Azani Blackheart's right-hand man. A powerful position to be in."
Callia grimaced. "Blackheart?" she spat. "I've heard of him. A bandit warlord?"
Gorgoth nodded, waving his hands towards the stables and leading the way over, grabbing a leaf from a nearby plant to rub the blood off his face and teeth. "Yes. He has been operating for a long time now. I've crossed swords with him before. I barely survived." For a moment he was tempted to show the Breton the scar that Sinweaver had left, but decided against it. She fell silent as they entered the building and walked over to an Anvil white; a small example of the breed, but with definite stamina and speed in abundance. The Orc nodded in appreciation before gently waking Baluk, stroking her nose and muttering words in Orcish. She probably didn't understand, but he was best talking to horses in his own language. "Do you have your armour with you?" he asked his fellow Blade.
She shook her head. "Messengers rarely do for such simple assignments. Weighs us down."
The warrior-shaman nodded; that was logical. "It would have meant you would be at least safer on the journey. As it is, we'll travel under the protection of shield spells. I doubt Do'Kazirr was alone, and he is known to be unpredictable when given freedom of operation. We might be safe, or we might come under relentless attack."
"Any more skeletons in your closet?" asked Callia dryly as she led her mare out of the stable.
"None that you need to know about," responded Gorgoth as he heaved himself up into Baluk's saddle. She eyed him reproachfully; his heavy weight was unwelcome after her promising night of rest had been cut cruelly short. The Orc flicked a stray hair of her mane back into place and stared down the road, making sure a Night Eye spell and a life detection spell were both active. "There is not a minute to be lost," he announced, heeling his horse forward in the direction of Bruma.
It was cold in the north, and it had been for some time. Snow was now a constant companion at Cloud Ruler Temple. Every Blade in the fortress had served there for at least two years now, so everyone was by now used to the blanket that covered the Temple every winter. Several of the non-Blades currently residing there, however, would never get used to the cold.
"You know I don't appreciate being dragged out of bed this early, Ilend," growled Aerin as she stood on the temple walls, her arms wrapped around her shivering body despite her thick cloak.
Her companion snorted, his breath billowing out in front of him before dissipating. "It's closer to noon than it is to dawn," he remarked, waving a hand towards the valley below them, where the morning mist had yet to dissipate. He too was wearing a cloak, but he had the hood thrown back, letting the light breeze catch his black locks and redden his cheeks. "Besides, it's best to make the most of such a view than laze around sleeping." His gesture took in the sky; it was a perfect blue, not a cloud in sight. White Gold Tower and parts of the Imperial City were clearly visible.
The Wood Elf glanced at the distant symbol of Imperial power for a few moments before taking a step back. "All right. View seen and appreciated. Can I go back to bed now?"
Ilend laughed and grabbed her arm, pulling her back forward. "And leave me out here all alone?" He glanced sideways at the Bosmer, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Come on, let the wind play on your skin a bit. It'll feel good." His gauntleted hand pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her pale face in its entirety, with strands of her auburn hair fluttering over it. Her blue eyes were as icy as the wind as she glared at him. The folding of her arms and her pout diluted the intimidation somewhat.
"Think about it; out here you've got me and whoever chances to come along. Back in that warm, snug barracks, you've got Gnaeus and Lurog, each trying to out-snore the other." Aerin shuddered at the thought and moved slightly closer to him, attempting to leech some of his body warmth as she stared down at the rugged terrain surrounding the temple. A companionable silence rose between them as the sun started to burn away the mist down in the valley. Behind them, the fort was still quiet, mostly asleep. The ever-present guard were shivering at their posts, occasionally beating their hands together or looking wistfully at the braziers.
"So when do ya reckon Gorgoth will get here?" asked Aerin. It had been four days since Martin and Selene had deciphered enough of the Xarxes to determine the next reagent. "By my reckoning, he's already late; ya know how hard he pushes."
"Could be any number of reasons. You can't predict him, not really." Ilend rolled his shoulders, shifting his feet around to stop them getting too cold. He'd grown accustomed to the chill that penetrated his layers of clothing and armour; the night watch in winter in Kvatch had been comparable at times. "I take it you're ready to leave as soon as he appears?"
The archer nodded "Within minutes," she confirmed. "Got everything bundled and ready ta go. Hope I've got enough potions this time..." She shuddered, recalling the last time she'd run out of healing potions. Broken legs were painful.
Ilend shrugged. "If you run out, you can always pinch a few of mine. Or get Gorgoth or Selene to heal you." He smirked briefly. "But I'm pretty sure you'll be fine. You'll never be the best swordsmer in Cyrodiil, but you've got enough skill now to kill the average bandit easily enough." Their frequent training sessions had made certain of that.
Aerin's response was interrupted by Selene's arrival on Ilend's other side. The half-elf was also heavily cloaked, but her warming spell meant she had the hood thrown back and her golden hair was streaming out behind her, often plucked by the wind. Translation had barely eased despite the progress; Martin was determined to get the Xarxes fully understood as quickly as possible. Fortunately for his co-translator, however, he had agreed that she needed a break to prepare herself fully for the coming expedition, and so she was looking fresher than she had been for a while. "How long do you think he'll be?" she asked, unwittingly echoing Aerin; she, like the others, were eager to get away while they could. Both Martin and Jauffre were always insistent that there was never minute to be lost, and now they had been waiting for days.
"A few minutes, most likely, if that's him," replied the Imperial, pointing down into the valley at a mounted figure that had just emerged from the mist. "Aerin, you have better eyes than me. What can you make out?"
The Bosmer frowned and leaned forward, thrusting her head over the edge of the wall. "Why isn't Callia with him...?" she asked herself, her brow furrowing. The figure and its mount were now distinct from each other; the black horse was approaching the gates at a fast pace. Faster than would normally be expected.
Selene, who had also leaned forward, let out a gasp before stepping backwards and turning. "Open the gates!" she barked to the Blades on duty, who hesitated only for a second before rushing to obey. The battlemage was already rushing along the battlements, heading for the stairs leading down to the gateway with Ilend and Aerin – both clueless as to the urgency – in close pursuit. Creaking and groaning, the gates were hauled open by the machinery concealed in the walls. The half-elf stopped halfway down the stairs as the horse trotted into view, finally slowing down.
"What..." Aerin's unspoken question died in her throat as the horse wearily slowed to a halt, the large arrow in her left shoulder clearly causing her much pain. A thud resonated off the walls as Gorgoth slid out of the saddle. Five arrows perforated him; three in his back, one in his right shoulder and the last in his left hip. His crimson-stained armour appeared to have done its duty, however, as he was able to turn easily to gently pluck Callia out of the saddle, where she had been sitting in front of him. The unconscious Breton's torso was covered in the blood that had leaked from the wound just beneath her left breast; dangerously close to the heart. Half of the arrow had been cut away, but the deadly point was still buried deep within her.
"We need light, a table, and someone skilled at extracting arrows." The Orc's voice booming across the courtyard seemed to spur everyone into action; several Blades dashed up and took Callia from him, while others rushed off to find anyone who might be of assistance. Ilend walked up and attempted to view the extent of the damage caused by the arrows in his plate armour, but the warrior-shaman brushed him off and followed the Blades carrying his wounded comrade into the Great Hall, where they laid her out on a table that had been swiftly cleared for the purpose. News spread quickly and soon several off-duty Blades were attempting to get closer to their Knight Sister until Selene told them in no uncertain terms to keep their distance before their clumsiness finished her off.
"What happened?" asked Lurog as he strode over to his fellow Orc. "This is not the work of some random bandits." Ilend nodded in agreement; Masser and Secunda would turn bright pink before Gorgoth allowed a disparate band of highwaymen to wound him so badly.
"An ambush in the mist," rumbled Gorgoth. Now that he was in good light, they could see that his face was several shades paler than usual, and that blood was still trickling down his leg and dripping to the stone floor. "I killed them all, but at cost. If Do'Kazirr had been there we would both be dead." The Imperial raised an eyebrow in curiosity; unlike Lurog, who had nodded in understanding, he had never heard the name before. The warrior-shaman was not in a divulging mood, however. "I will explain in full later." He stepped up to Callia's unmoving body. Her normally pale face was now as white as snow, making the few spots of blood over it seem a brilliant red. "She must be healed immediately."
"So do you," Selene told him, leaning on the other side of the table and glaring down at the arrow as she shrugged off her cloak. "How dangerous is the arrowhead?"
"I will survive. She might not; the head bent on impact. Pulling it out crudely would slash open her heart. Even if we healed her in seconds she would have lost too much blood." The slight tightening of Gorgoth's eyes might have had several causes; fatigue, or the pain of having five arrows embedded in his flesh. However, much to Ilend's surprise, he realised that the Hero of Kvatch was actually displaying emotion. What emotion it was he could not tell – it could be concern, frustration, anger – but it was clear that his predicament was loosening his normally impeccable hold on his emotions. "How good are you at arrow extraction?"
The half-elf pursed her lips. "I know the theory, but... I've never done it bef-"
"Then you are of no use. As am I; my hands are too large and clumsy for such an operation. We need-"
"Move aside." Martin thrust his way through the throng of Blades and stopped next to Selene, gazing at Callia's wound. "I have extracted some arrows in my time, but... you say it is complex?"
Gorgoth nodded. "I would recommend opening the wound so we can see the full arrowhead. We should then take the arrow apart magically and attempt to remove the deepest part of the head. I will not risk a full disintegration when it might be pressing against her heart." A small, delicate dagger appeared in his hand and he passed it over to Martin. "I trust you have a steady hand?"
The heir looked up at Gorgoth as he took the weapon. "I will have to." His steely gaze reinforced the resolve of his words. Ilend instantly knew that Callia was in good hands.
"Good." A flash of red at the warrior-shaman's fingertips and the front of the Breton's shirt disintegrated, leaving no residue or proof that it had ever existed. "Selene, keep the wound clean." The half-elf took a cloth from one of the Blades and carefully wiped clean the area around the wound.
"It's fortunate that the arrow didn't take in any cloth with it," she observed, stepping back as Martin leaned forward. She glared around at those standing too close; Ilend found himself obliged to step back after meeting her gaze; those green eyes, usually soft, were now as hard as iron. He looked down to find Aerin's hand grasping at his; he grabbed it and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry," he told her in a low tone, for fear of disturbing the delicate operation and incurring Selene's wrath. "Martin's good at this kind of thing. He treated a few of us guardsmen in the past in situations like these, when magic wouldn't answer." From the concern in Aerin's eyes, she wasn't entirely convinced. Glancing back at the Breton, he saw why: the future Emperor of Tamriel had laid open Callia's flesh around the wound, exposing both her ribcage and the arrowhead. He had removed part of her bra as well, but only the most perverted could take pleasure in such a sight at that moment.
"I can see where we can make a split," Gorgoth was saying as he examined the position of the arrowhead. From his position, he could actually catch a glimpse of the Breton's heart where the arrow went deepest; the beating was weak and irregular. "Selene, take hold of the shaft." As the battlemage did so, the Orc sent a trickle of very refined Destruction magicka into the arrowhead. A thin line of red, barely perceptible, cut it in half. The half-elf carefully removed the arrow and handed it to a nearby Blade. Martin now had his face mere inches from the wound, some of his hair brushing against the skin of his patient.
"We have to rotate that fragment," he observed. "If we can turn it sufficiently, we can pull it out without too much danger to the heart." Gorgoth nodded his assent; the heir was in a better position than him for the purposes of visibility. "It has to be quick, though; she won't be able to survive much longer." Indeed, blood had been constantly pumping from the wound, directed around his fingers by Selene's telekinesis before splashing onto the floor to create a growing puddle.
Aware of sudden breathing by his ear where there had been none before, Ilend turned to find Jauffre stood next to him, glaring at the warrior-shaman's back. "What in Oblivion has that greenskin bastard got her into...?" he muttered, clearly talking to himself. Ilend forced his face away before letting his shock become evident; it was open knowledge that Jauffre disliked the Orc, but he'd expected a far greater level of professionalism from the man who led the Emperor's personal legion. Aerin was still watching the operation with wide eyes; he was of the opinion that she wouldn't be able to turn away even if she wanted to. The work was now completely hidden from view, being so deep in the Breton's body, but Martin appeared to be focusing intently, his hands glowing an odd off-white colour.
"It's ready to come out," he announced. "Stay ready..." He jerked his hand upwards and in a spurt of blood the arrow fragment flew out of the wound, landing on the floor some distance away. Gorgoth had already clamped both hands down over the wound, sending powerful blue healing magic through Callia's body. "Her heart beat at the wrong time," grunted Martin, clearly displeased with himself. "I think I nicked it..." Selene was at the Breton's head, her fingers at her neck. The warrior-shaman removed his hands to reveal a jagged but small scar, mostly hidden under a smearing of crimson fluid.
"She's still alive," reported Selene. "But she's weak. She still might not make it..." despite her words, there was an incredible release of tension throughout the Great Hall, which was now packed with most of the Blades not on duty. Aerin sagged with relief and leaned against Ilend, but he barely noticed. He was too busy watching Gorgoth, who had for some time been leaning heavily on the table. Such was the Orc's aura of invincibility that it was a shock for the Imperial to realise that he was barely able to stand; the puddle of blood around his feet had gone unnoticed next to the larger pool under the table.
Jauffre had probably noticed it, but was definitely choosing to ignore it as he marched up to his subordinate, anger written into his features. "Hers was a routine mission, Knight Brother. To find you and get you back here. What in Oblivion went wrong?" His accusatory stare and his folded arms were so obvious that he might well have shouted that he suspected the Orc of foul play. Martin looked up and frowned at the Grandmaster as several Blades under Selene's direction gently picked up Callia to take her to a bed for recovery.
Gorgoth turned slowly and stood straight, almost at attention in spite of his wounds, meeting his superior's gaze. "We had left Bruma early this morning," he reported, his voice laced with weariness. Ilend prepared himself to move in and catch the Orc should he collapse, unlikely as that seemed. "We were ambushed in the mist by a well-prepared force. They only got one volley off before I shielded us more effectively and fireballed the lot of them, but they killed Callia's horse and wounded the rest of us. There were ten of them." He took a step forward. "Blackheart's men. I warned you about his army, Grandmaster, and of his threat. Clearly, you didn't listen."
"I knew he had no interest in the Blades!" snarled Jauffre. "His target was you, not us. He is your problem, not mine."
"With all due respect, Grandmaster, he's our problem now," cut in Renault, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the departing Callia. Beside her, Steffan was nodding in agreement. "We can't let something like that go unpunished, even if she was only effectively caught in the crossfire. Blackheart has badly wounded, maybe killed, one of our own; we don't take that lying down."
"The Blades are a tool of the Emperor, not something to descend into fighting not in his interest," growled Jauffre, glaring at her.
"Actually, Jauffre, it is in my interest," remarked Martin. All eyes turned to their heir, who was still standing next to the reddened table, his arms resolutely folded. "Two of my Blades have been attacked by this Blackheart character, whom you have strangely neglected to inform me about. The matter seems simple to my mind. We cannot portray ourselves as a punch bag, to be attacked without retribution."
The Breton's face was now a colourful shade of purple as he started to splutter. "But, sire, we will- we cannot afford to get distracted by this- by this provincial warlord who bears a grudge against this- one of our Blades! I-"
"I think that Blade of yours is going to fall on you if you don't let him get treatment soon enough," barked Ilend. Every eye in the hall darted towards him, but he was clearly right; despite his best efforts, Gorgoth was starting to sway slightly. Lurog immediately darted forward and wrapped an arm around his comrades shoulder's, making sure not to disturb any of the arrows in the warrior-shaman's back. Ilend promptly did the same on his other side; he was just tall enough to stop the action looking comedic.
"I agree," stated Martin. "He can answer your questions when he's recovered." He narrowed his eyes as Jauffre tried to protest. "When he's recovered, Grandmaster," he grated, forcing his words out with such insistence that the aged Breton would have been guilty of insubordination if he had pressed his point. The wounded Orc was already being helped over to his bedchamber in the Royal Wing, with Aerin and a recently-arrived Saliith following in their wake.
"My horse... she has to be taken care of," growled Gorgoth, his voice still strong and commanding.
"She's being attended to, brother," reassured Lurog as they entered the Royal Wing. "But her wound wasn't serious; yours are." That much was true: Aerin and Saliith were having to step around the trail of blood that the Knight Brother was leaving. As they reached Gorgoth's room, the Argonian quickly darted around and opened the door for them.
"Can you stay standing?" asked the Bosmer, hovering nervously as the Orc was helped to the centre of the room.
"Of course," he grunted. "I am no invalid." Ilend's fingers started working at the straps of his cuirass, but the warrior-shaman brushed his hands away. "This armour is fast approaching useless weight in any case," he explained as he disintegrated it, leaving him in his ragged, torn fur shirt and trousers. "None of the arrowheads are threatening anything, as far as I can tell. Rip them out."
Before Ilend could comment on this dangerous and foolish - if quick – operation, Lurog had taken a firm grip on one of the arrows and yanked it out of his comrade's back, taking a clump of flesh with it. Aerin squeezed her eyes shut and turned away, but in contrast, Gorgoth's only reaction to what must have been excruciating agony was a slight grimace. "Keep going," he commanded.
The Imperial watched as Saliith took another arrow and tore it out, attempting to remember how to cast a light spell. Eventually, a small globe of light appeared, and he floated it over to lie just above the Orc's back. "Check for fragments and pieces of cloth before healing," he advised, folding his arms. He'd been present at a few of these procedures in his time as a Kvatch guardsman, and while none of the extractions had been as crude as this, it always had been important to remove all foreign bodies from the wound to guard against infection.
The Argonian's thinner, longer fingers were more suited to this task than Lurog's green sausages, so the gruesome task of rummaging around in another man's body fell to him. No doubt he'd seen worse in the Arena; from what Ilend had seen in the Kvatch Arena, injuries such as these were commonplace in a gladiator's line of work. Now mostly redundant – even Gorgoth's broad back wouldn't allow three men to work behind him – he moved over to Aerin, who was beginning to look slightly sick. "You OK?" he asked.
She glanced at him, extending a slightly shaking finger to point at the gaping wounds. "That's what I do to people," she whispered. "Never seen it... like this... before." She was right; Trueshot's enchantment ensured that it would punch through flesh and bone until the arrow reached its limit. The injuries left by such a hit would be at least as bad as these, or even worse. She winced again at the ripping sound made by another arrow as it was torn out.
Ilend patted her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "You didn't cause these ones," he assured her. "And you only shoot people who deserve it anyway, so..." the rest of his sentence was left unsaid as Saliith started to twist the arrow in Gorgoth's hip around, trying to dislodge it from the bone. Having dealt with all the arrows in his back, Lurog started working on the one in his shoulder. The warrior-shaman managed to cast a powerful healing spell, sealing up the holes in his back. Turning his back on the gruesome sight, the Imperial squeezed his companion's upper arm. "Best that you've seen it. At some point, everyone has to face up to what they inflict. Clearly, they never showed you your opponent's corpses in the Arena."
Aerin grunted and turned her face away as the lizard finally wrenched the arrow out of the hip, leaving damaged bone clearly visible. It was swiftly healed by the Orc, despite him now having to lean on the Grand Champion's shoulder to stay standing. "I'm not used to seeing him like this," whispered the Bosmer, echoing the Guildsman's thoughts.
"It was clearly a well-executed ambush. Anyone can-" Ilend was cut off by Gorgoth, who had just healed his last wound.
"Belief in your own invulnerability, Aerin, will only lead to your death." The Orc shook his head, almost staggering before he made his way over to a chair and throwing himself down into it. His clothing was now mostly rags, and through the tattered holes they could all see the drying blood covering his green skin. Those yellow eyes, however, were as sharp as ever. "I understand that we have an objective?"
It took a few seconds for Ilend to realise that he was talking about the message Callia would have given him. By the time he had opened his mouth, Saliith was already explaining the situation. "It turns out we need a Great Welkynd Stone. Some kind of Ayleid artefact. I've got no clue about that, personally." The Argonian paused to scratch his throat. "Anyhow, the only one left in Cyrodiil is apparently in Miscarcand. No idea where that is..."
"Just east of Kvatch, a few hour's ride from the Gold Road," cut in Aerin. "I've seen it before; me and my father camped near the ruins once."
Ilend nodded. "I've been there before; it was once a suspected location of bandits. In fact, no bandit with a decent sense of self-preservation would step inside that place..." He himself had only seen the exterior, but the feeling of the ancient spirits that still inhabited the place watching him constantly still haunted him sometimes.
Gorgoth was tapping a canine. "That does not sound too complicated," he observed. "Anything else?"
"Yes, unfortunately." Lurog sighed, wiping his bloodied hands on a nearby chair before sitting down in it. "The old King of Miscarcand is believed to still exist, in the form of a lich. He won't be easy meat, for sure."
"We will challenge that when it comes. For now, are you all ready to leave?"
Ilend nodded. "Within minutes," he claimed. "But you'll need rest to be-" Gorgoth waved a dismissive hand.
"A few hours sleep and I will be well enough to ride. I'll recover my strength on the way. Make sure you bring all the potions you can carry." The warrior-shaman waved away their protests. "I have survived worse than being shot a few times. All I need now is some rest." He beckoned, and Lurog helped him up, supporting him to the door to his bedroom. "Remain prepared. I get the feeling that this will not be easy."
A/N: You might have noticed that the plot is moving forward quicker now... anyhow, I won't be around from Friday night to Monday night (longer if I crash at Goodwood on Monday; if that happens, you can read about it on page 37 of the Daily Mail), so if you review your reply might be delayed. Don't worry, though; I'm still around. Don't forget to review.