A/N: And in the midst of hundreds of new Skyrim fics, this one keeps going... hopefully, my new-found determination will reduce update times further. Always remember to keep up the reviews: they can only help me.
Random Reader: Indeed, Gnaeus against the lich IS comparable with a child attacking a grown man. In fact, he's more of a buzzing fly, a mere irritant. Hmm... Gorgoth's great-grandson, eh? Gorgoth himself would disapprove of his descendant, methinks, but a lot has changed in 200 years...
Simple Thought: Well, Skyrim HAS impacted on my writing times recently, but it's not as significant now, as I've kicked the initial addiction. Yes, you're right; some skeletons might be weak, but these skeletons have Ayleid magic in them. They're hardly going to be brittle.
Underpaid Critic: I do see what you mean, but for me personally, Selene would have been hard to develop more. I can see how I could have done it, but... killing her was still fitting, and she'd had long enough. Still, there's more than enough characters ripe for 'plucking' now.
Rokibfd: Ah, computer problems... I can empathise. Yes, not many of them are going to survive. That said, Ilend's lack of magical talent won't count against him; most of the Blades are mundane, and they're equally well-equipped to take on daedra. They 'die' to swords as well as magic... Hmm... I see what you mean about 'shock', but 'electricty' is even worse, as it doesn't exist as we know it in Tamriel (the Dwemer might have had steam engines, but they're long gone and their knowledge with them) (I've since replaced it with 'lightning'). And as for Aerin... she's always like that. It takes a lot for her to be serious about much.
Mephala's Sibling: Happy Birthday. ;)
Anyhow, thanks to everyone who reviewed. They are, as always, much appreciated and valued. Keep it up, and here's your latest chapter...
Chapter Thirty-eight: Matters of Honour
The fire was crackling in the large stone hearth in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, filling half the hall with its warmth. Callia was glad for the heat; the snow was coming down thick and fast outside. Fortunately, she'd been assigned to guard Martin today, and as the heir was relaxing next to the fire after a session of translation all she had to do was stand a few feet away from his chair and remain watchful. Guarding the Emperor had always been an honour, but now her compatriots, standing frozen outside, had all the more reasons to be envious.
It was ten days since Gorgoth had left for Miscarcand, and four days since the Knight Sister had been deemed fit for duty. Now the only mark of her ordeal was a small, jagged scar just beneath her left breast; the arrow had been in too long for the healing to completely repair the skin. While physically fine, however, questions continued to gnaw at her in every waking moment, questions that could not yet be answered. She owed Gorgoth her life, yet she hated him with every fibre of her being. But how could she kill him, even after the crisis, if she was so obliged to him? She was desperately hoping that the Orc's own strange sense of honour would work in her favour, but until she talked to him, she'd remain in this horrendous suspense.
"Callia?" The Breton instantly took a few steps forward and snapped to attention. "Take a seat." She nodded and slowly sat down in the armchair next to Martin's, letting herself relax as much as she dared. With ten other Blades in the Great Hall, high alertness wasn't required quite so much. "How are you feeling?" inquired the heir, looking sideways at her with a curious expression.
"Perfectly well, sire," replied the Blade, frowning uncertainly. He'd asked this question of her every day since she'd woken, and none of her answers ever seemed to satisfy him. "If I didn't feel up to anything I'd have reported as unfit for duty. But I'm fine."
He frowned, rubbing his chin. Fine wrinkles had appeared at the corners of his eyes, and he didn't look as youthful as he had when he'd first arrived at the Temple. The Xarxes and the stress of his sudden new situation was clearly taking its toll. Those brilliant blue eyes, however, were as sharp as ever as he met her querying gaze. "The thing is, Callia..." He sighed. "You barely eat these days. What sleep you do get is restless. You're getting thinner, and you look constantly tired. I wouldn't call that 'perfectly well'. What's troubling you?"
The Knight Sister grunted. He was right, of course; fatigue was swiftly becoming her constant companion. Not only did she have her duty, but she'd made her training with Lathar even more intensive recently, and combined with a lack of sleep and appetite, her body was starting to rebel. But the distraction in her mind in the shape of a massive warrior-shaman refused to let her rest no matter how much she tried to ignore him. Her duties kept her out of action, and it was that idleness that allowed her mind to dwell on those damaging thoughts. Martin's gaze had her pinned; she had to be honest. At least she trusted him. "It's Gorgoth," she grunted. "I owe him my life."
Nodding slightly, the Imperial's gaze turned to the fire. He knew about their history, of course; apparently, Jauffre had found him within minutes of hearing it from the Orc. "I cannot speak for him, Callia, but I do trust him," he told her. "It might help if you were to do the same. And talk to him. He might be able to help you. He is a... hard man to understand."
She snorted, almost saying something impertinent before her companion's status checked her tongue. "You are right, of course," she said. "I know I can at least try to resolve this when he gets back. But the waiting is... it's hard." Reaching up, the Breton removed her helmet, letting her brown hair fall freely down to her shoulder blades. It was against regulations, but she was starting to feel suffocated.
"They'll be back soon." Martin's words were truer than he realised; within a few minutes, the doors had banged open. The freezing gust of wind brought snow and cold into the warmth of the hall, chilling the air considerably before the draught was eliminated. Callia instantly leapt to her feet as Gorgoth and Lurog marched the length of the Great Hall, intent on the heir, who had also risen. What appeared to be a foot-long splinter of crystal glowed faintly in the warrior-shaman's hand as he held it out.
"The Great Welkynd Stone of Miscarcand," he announced as the Imperial took it from his fist, studying it intently. Ignoring the artefact – others would decide if it was valid and how to use it, not her – Callia stared at the massive Orc. He was wearing Akaviri-styled plate armour now, presumably to replace his previous battered suit of plain steel. His green face, however, remained the same; cold and impenetrable. His yellow eyes flickered towards her briefly before returning to Martin. "Will it work?"
The Imperial nodded distractedly, still poring over the crystal. "If Dagon is to be believed, then this will be fine," he muttered, finally tearing his gaze away and smiling up at the Knight Brother. "You've done well," he praised. "All of you. Miscarcand could not have been an easy conquest." His smile slipped as he noticed something for the first time. Selene's glaive was clutched in the Orc's free hand as he rested the haft against the floor. "What..."
"As you said, not an easy conquest. The price was paid in blood. Selene died honourably, fighting for the cause to her last breath." Gorgoth might have been talking about the weather for all the emotion showing on that hard face. Even his deep voice was unchanged.
Martin sighed heavily, gritting his teeth as he slowly sat back down in his chair. The Great Hall was now silent save for the fire. "Are there any other casualties?" Callia couldn't see his face, and his voice was well-controlled; no hint of any inner turmoil that might exist. As for herself, she regretted the death of such a fine battlemage, but she had barely known the half-elf. Her death couldn't touch her as it could touch the heir, who had spent hours at a time alone with her during translation.
The warrior-shaman shook his head. "None of us escaped unscathed – I have never faced an opponent who wielded such power – but the rest of us are all alive and fit for battle." Beside him, Lurog nodded emphatically; the warrior would always be up for anything. He, too, seemed unfazed by Selene's death.
"I should have-" The Imperial was cut off by Gorgoth's fist slamming down on the arm of his chair as the Orc pushed his face to within two feet of the ex-priest's.
"Do not regret anything, Martin," he snarled, his eyes chips of yellow ice. "You sent us there fully prepared, well-equipped, and powerful enough to overcome anything that stood before us. There was nothing more you could have done. There are always going to be casualties in war. Look to the future and the present, not the past. Do not dwell on the dead when you have the living to care for." The Orc straightened. "You still have translation to take care of," he reminded. "Remain focused." He slammed his fist to his heart in an inch-perfect salute before turning and marching off towards the canteen, the glaive in his hand tapping on the stone floor at every step. Lurog nodded respectfully before following him.
Callia stared at the Knight Brother's retreating back until the adjoining door swung shut behind him, jolting her back to her duty. She glanced down at her charge to find him rubbing his chin absent-mindedly as he stared into the fire. Putting her helmet back on, she moved to stand a few feet behind his chair, guessing that he would want what little privacy she could offer. Instead, he beckoned her forward again. Somewhat self-consciously positioning herself at his elbow, she realised that he had lost many more friends and acquaintances at Kvatch, many of whom had been lot closer to him than Selene had been. Losing just one more would not be... the Breton tried to imagine it, but failed. People dealt with loss in different ways. She could not assume anything. Her future Emperor's voice broke through her thoughts. "I know you wish to talk to him. Go on." His tone was slightly more restrained than usual.
It was only her professional reserve that kept her jaw from dropping. "I can't desert my post, Sire, not when I'm your bodyguard," she managed to say. "Not only would I be-"
"Go." He turned to look her in the eyes. There was a grim, hard, assertive edge to his expression, one that had been seen more increasingly as he grew more used to his role as Emperor-to-be. "That is an order."
She was still tempted to protest, but an order was an order, and there was no higher authority than Martin in Cloud Ruler Temple. Instead, she nodded and briskly set off towards the canteen, leaving Martin to his thoughts. There was hardly going to be a successful attempt on his life with over ten off-duty Blades in the Great Hall.
Gorgoth and Lurog were easy to spot, two mountains of steel and green flesh among the smaller, paler-skinned inhabitants of the Temple. They were busily chewing through small mounds of food that covered their plates, eating as though they'd been starved despite the Breton knowing that Aerin could easily hunt enough to sustain all of them. The warrior-shaman glanced up as Callia marched over, and nodded slowly as though he understood why she was here. "I need to talk to you," she informed him, stopping next to him and folding her arms. "In private."
The Orc glanced back at his plate. "Go and wait in my quarters," he ordered. "I'll be with you when I've finished eating." He grabbed two rashers of bacon and stuffed them into his mouth, ignoring her and leaving her with a view of the side of his head as his powerful teeth got to work. She grunted and reluctantly dragged herself away, heading off towards his quarters in the Royal Wing.
Predictably, she was intercepted by an officer the second she entered the courtyard, where the wind and snow were still battering the temple. "Callia, aren't you Martin's bodyguard today?"
The Breton spun, barely remembering to salute before answering. "Yes, but he ordered me to take care of some personal business, Glen- Captain Varsis." Glenroy's recent promotion – for a variety of reasons, including personal valour, achievement in the face of adversity, and long service with distinction – was taking some getting used to. It was still slightly odd seeing him in the more elaborate armour of a Knight Captain.
He smiled slightly and waved for her to relax. "Well, I'm sure he has his reasons," he grunted, his smile slipping slightly. "Carry on. I'll just make sure he's never alone." The Imperial nodded in response to her salute and walked off, shielding the uncovered part of his face from the wind with his hand. His subordinate turned and hurried into the Royal Wing, brushing off the snow that had already started to settle on her shoulders and helmet.
Gorgoth's door was unlocked – he had little of value inside, and trusted that no Blade would resort to petty thievery – so Callia slumped down in an armchair next to the table in the middle of the outer room, placing her helmet and gauntlets on the table before running her fingers through her hair. Now that the Orc was finally back, the confused mixture of emotions in the deep recesses of her mind had manifested themselves in a tight, nervous knot in her stomach. She clasped her hands firmly together in her lap to stop them from fiddling with everything within reach and attempted to content herself by looking around the room. Its inhabitant had barely changed it; the only addition were some dents in the furniture and some mud on the carpets. Interestingly, there was also a sealed note pinned to the bedroom door by a dagger. The Breton was curious, but, remembering that he was her Knight Brother, restrained herself from prying even further into his life.
The minutes were stretching out agonisingly – how long does it take for an Orc to eat some bacon? - before the door banged open and swiftly shut again behind the warrior-shaman as he walked in. She immediately leapt to her feet and stood stiffly as he passed an analytical eye over her while placing his gauntlets on the table beside hers. "It is good to see you made a full recovery," he remarked, folding his arms.
Her lip curled. "Why would you care?"
"Because you are a valuable warrior for the cause. Your loss would not be celebrated by any of us."
She should have seen that response coming. Angrily shaking her head and taking a step forward, she glared up into his eyes. "You saved my life." He nodded, those emotionless cold eyes returning her stare. The Breton grimaced. "Thank you." She'd had to force the words out, but at least they were genuine; she was truly thankful to the Orc for saving her life. Gorgoth nodded again, knowing that she had more to say. "I am in your debt," she muttered through gritted teeth, though her glare was more than enough to show him that she was far from happy about that, should he need such a reminder.
The Orc turned and walked slowly over to the window, leaning on the sill and looking out. "Yes, you owe me your life," he confirmed. "But..." He shook his head before turning back to look at her. "That should not preclude any attempt at vengeance on your part after the Oblivion Crisis is over."
Callia frowned. "I can't kill someone I owe my life to," she growled. "I doubt even you could do that. Even you have some sense of honour, for all the good it does others."
"I have done that." The Breton hissed in frustration and grabbed a clump of her hair in frustration. Of course he would have done something like that. Ignoring her evident displeasure, he continued. "When I was six, I fell into a large pond. I would have drowned, if an Orc named Orakh gro-Matuk had not risked his own life to save me. There was no doubt that I owed him my life." Gorgoth started pacing the length of the room, his deep voice never faltering. "Years later, however, I tortured him to death. He was in agony for several hours before he succumbed. I was looking into his eyes, and I felt nothing but contempt. I never felt any regret. I owed him my life, but that did not signify." The warrior-shaman turned and looked her in the eyes. She recoiled from that gaze; his eyes were frozen fire. "He had raped and tortured my mother to death in front of me. So, Callia..." He walked forward, stopping a mere foot from her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your situation is identical to how mine was."
It took her some time to formulate a response while barely stopping herself from backing away from his touch. She was no coward. "You are not me," she muttered, though she was realising the wisdom in the Orc's words. His saving of her life had been completely unconnected to his murder of her mother; he had not done it to try to make amends, and she knew that he would never feel remorse for what he'd done. "But I still feel obliged to you."
"Forget about it," replied Gorgoth, waving a dismissive hand. "You are no longer under any obligation to me. I was merely saving the life of a comrade in battle. I have done it dozens of times. Just ask Lurog; he owes me his life several times over, yet he is under no obligation. It is not something that often arises between true brothers of battle."
She grunted and turned away from him, emulating his earlier action by leaning on the windowsill, looking out. Her honour demanded that she oblige anyone who did her such a service, but if he was dismissing that... "You still don't object to me killing you after this war is over?" An unusual question, but her Knight Brother was an unusual Orc.
"You can make an attempt on my life the second Martin no longer requires my services. Always remember that you will never be in my debt. Unless you want to be."
Finally, his message sunk in, and the dread, despair and other mixed feelings that had been tearing at her for the last week dissipated. The Breton barely stopped herself from slumping as overwhelming relief almost overcame her. She didn't have to betray her family's memory. A smile spread over her face as she looked out into the snowstorm. Gorgoth left her be, starting to remove his armour. The sound of his actions replaced her smile with a frown. She was feeling not only relief, but gratitude. Gratitude towards the Orc she hated. He had done her a service, she realised. Without his release, she would have been forced to do as he asked. To her horror, she found herself respecting him; she would have been hesitant to do anything like what he'd done, if their roles had been reversed.
Spinning from the window, she found herself face to face with the warrior-shaman. The look he gave her was completely unreadable, but Callia somehow knew that he was fully aware of her increasingly conflicting opinions of him. "I still despise you," she whispered. It was true; she would hate him until one of them was dead. But that hatred would not stop the growing respect and trust she found herself reluctantly feeling for her comrade-in-arms.
"Of course you do," he responded, undoing one final strap before removing his cuirass. "I would expect nothing else." She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the old sweat deeply ingrained in his fur vest. As he removed that as well – clearly preparing for sleep, as the day was drawing to an end – the Breton noticed a painful-looking scar running across his stomach before it disappeared into his greaves.
"How did you get that?" she inquired. She should have been getting back to Martin – her questions had been answered – but her curiosity kept her there as Gorgoth sat down to remove his boots.
"The same man who was responsible for that scar near your heart," he replied, pointing at her chest. "The only difference is that he gave me mine personally." The Orc shoved his boots out of the way and started loosening his greaves. "It left a scar because I could not fully heal it; Sinweaver is truly a malevolent weapon. Dark death indeed..." the last three words were delivered in an undertone, as though he was talking to herself.
Callia nodded then started edging towards the door. "I should be getting back to Martin." He nodded and waved her away. The Breton swiftly marched to the door and left the room. Predictably, the Royal Wing was still empty, so she hurried off to find the heir, with a mind that was far more clear and positive than when she'd woken that morning.
Gorgoth watched the door close behind his Knight Sister before going back to removing his greaves. Finding heavy plate armour that actually fit him had been a rare stroke of luck, and it was just as high quality as Gin-Wulm's suit, which had served him well. Neither could compare to his Orcish battle plate, of course, but the armour of the Blades would suffice for now. Finally removing the last of the elaborate steel, his thoughts returned to the Breton who'd just left him. He respected her for her honour and devotion to her cause, to the extent of welcoming her eventual challenge. But he probably never would have any desire to kill her. The world needed more women like Callia Petit; strong, honourable, and determined, not to mention a good fighter. It was ironic that he thought so highly of someone who would attempt to kill him at the earliest opportunity.
Putting her out of his mind, the warrior-shaman rose and walked over to his bedroom door, wrenching the small dagger out of the wood and taking the note it had pinned. The seal was plain, and any number of people could be writing him letters, so he opened it immediately and conjured a few magical lights, spreading them around the room to cast more than enough illumination.
Gorgoth,
No leads on the Blackwood company yet – no solid leads, anyhow. Those sodding weasels are hard to pin down. But my digging has uncovered something which could wipe some of the crap off the Guild's much-mocked reputation.
A while back, I took twenty good men – Vitellus Donton was one of them – to kill Azani Blackheart and take his sword, Sinweaver, to a mage, Argoth. We failed. I barely got of there alive, and I saw that Redguard goat-humper kill Vitellus himself. Next thing we know, the Company has waltzed in there and done what I couldn't do with twenty of our best fighters. Then Argoth shows up dead, with Sinweaver missing. It doesn't take a shit-for-brains cretin to work out what happened.
I've located Blackheart, but he's got a sizeable army. I'll have a few men with me, but I still need your help. Get your green arse down to the Drunken Dragon Inn, double-time. Bring a few reliable men with you if you can. We'll think up a plan when we meet. Azura knows we need one. Now get moving, boot.
Oreyn
The Orc grunted as he lowered the letter, clenching his fist around it, feeling the paper crumple against his skin. Burzukh would be with Azani; a meeting was now inevitable. He'd always known it would happen, but he had never anticipated it happening this quickly. Keeping the letter – it could be of use – he strode over to his bed and started pulling his trousers off, his mind starting to work. Modryn had mentioned bringing a few reliable men. Gorgoth could do better.
A shattered ribcage, perforated ribs and several other fractures were severe injuries for an old man, and Gnaeus hadn't woken until they were two days away from Miscarcand. Even so, he'd still had time to reflect on the death of the only person who had been remotely close to him for nearly four decades. He felt older now, not only because of the crippling trauma of his wounds, but because now he truly had nothing left to live for, if he ever had in the first place. There was no grief in him – hard experience had long ago taught him that grief was completely pointless – but he knew it would now be impossible for him to find a sense of purpose that didn't involve fighting. His life would consist of mere existence from battle to battle as he attempted to go down fighting, rather than end his life dribbling and senseless like so many men his age. He'd do what he could to help against Dagon, but all he wanted now was the eternal, well-deserved rest that Aetherius offered.
The ex-hermit was resting, for the moment, in one of the more comfortable armchairs in one of the communal rooms of the Temple. He was alone apart from Lurog, sitting just as quietly in the far corner with his eyes closed. The Orc might well have been asleep, save for the lack of snoring. Silence was good for thought, but the Imperial did not care for thought at the moment. He wanted action. The waiting irritated him.
Saliith walked in, dumping himself down in a nearby chair and loosening his wet armour, exhaling heavily. "Bloody freezing out there," he growled, glaring at the small fire as though willing it to grow hotter. "It's times like this that I miss Black Marsh."
"Why don't you crawl back there?" snorted Gnaeus derisively. Never one for civility, his impatience for action and increasingly bad mood made him even less desirable for conversation.
"Because unlike you, old man, I still have a purpose here. I can still fight and make a difference, unlike some people who don't know when to retire." The Grand Champion's dislike for him was evident, but that was to be expected; the Imperial never had been anything other than caustic his entire life.
"Retire?" Gnaeus swiftly cut his hash laugh short. "I've had my retirement, lizard-rat. Thirty-five years of sitting on my wrinkly arse on a barren rock, doing nothing. Now, finally, this upstart of a Daedra has come along and forced me back into the real world."
Saliith rolled his eyes, rising to his feet and unbuckling his sword belt. "Unfortunately for the rest of us," he muttered. "If you're going to die, at least do it quietly."
"So that everyone can quietly ignore my death?" growled the ex-hermit. "I'd rather Dagon noticed that I'd created a pile of his minions around me before I finally died."
"In your dreams, old man," snorted the Green Tornado. He threw his sword belt onto the chair behind him and turned to start unbuckling his scale armour, only to find a calloused fist slamming into his face. Staggering back from both the force of the blow and the shock, he was momentarily powerless to respond as Gnaeus, seething with irrational anger, swept his legs from under him and punched him again, sending him falling back into his seat.
"What the f-" Saliith's snarl was cut short as the Imperial leapt on top of him, forcing his knee into the Argonian's ribcage and repeatedly pounding his fists into his face, ignoring the blood that swiftly started to fly from his knuckles as the scales cut into them. These repeated vicious attacks were stopped as the lizard lashed out with both feet, kicking the ex-hermit off in with such force that he flew across the room, colliding with another chair. Both recovered within seconds, not even wasting time on rational thought before they were exchanging blows again.
Gnaeus had always known that he stood no chance against the far stronger, faster, younger Grand Champion, but at least he felt that he was accomplishing something as he felt the Argonian recoil against his attacks. Better than sitting around and complaining. Better than thinking. A spin-kick slammed into his ribcage, staggering him and expelling most of the air in his lungs. His opponent seized the opportunity and punched him twice in the stomach before delivering a stunning uppercut that laid the Imperial flat on his back, dazed and disorientated. Saliith promptly knelt astride him and started systematically pummelling his face before two thick, green arms wrapped around his torso and dragged him away.
"I'd say that's enough for the both of you," growled Lurog as he restrained the furious lizard. "Calm down, you fool. You wouldn't want to kill him."
"You might be mistaken," snarled Saliith, but he stopped resisting and instead wiped away a trickle of blood from a cut just above his eye. The Orc turned and shoved him away before looking down and offering a hand to the prostrate ex-hermit. Gnaeus – half-blinded by blood in his eyes - grunted and took it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet, almost staggering as the pain of a cracked rib made itself known. Rubbing a hand over his face, he found several gashes and a broken nose; he'd undoubtedly came off worse, as he'd always expected. But he'd needed that.
Lurog, his arms folded, was looking at him with something that might have been understanding in those yellow eyes. Saliith had long since grabbed his sword belt and left. "If you want to die honourably, you could go and find the closest Oblivion Gate," suggested the Orc. "There's sure to be one opening soon around Bruma, if the Guard is to be believed."
The Imperial shook his head, considering a healing potion but dismissing the idea. He could deal with the effects of pugilism. "I'd rather not get slaughtered," he muttered. "No, when I die, I want it to be in a battle where I've made a real difference." He bent double and spat a large gob of blood onto the stone floor.
"You'll get your chance," responded the warrior, watching him dispassionately. "We're in one of the biggest wars I've known. There'll be a lot of battle before this is over. I'm sure of it." An eager gleam entered the Orc's eyes. "I'm sure of it."
If the sound of his outer door creaking open wasn't enough to wake Gorgoth, the sound of the magical alarm he'd set – audible only to him – made sure that he was awake and alert within seconds of the intruder's entry. Casting two quick spells of life detection and night vision, he lay still, appearing asleep. The door to his bedroom slowly swung open then shut, and the intruder silently padded over the floor to his bed. Dispelling his two spells, the warrior-shaman offered only a grunt in response as she slid under the blanket, pressing her naked body against his back.
"You know I'll never love you, Mazoga," he told her as she started to unbraid his hair. It was true; even if he did love her, he'd never let himself feel that love, let alone display it. She merely snorted and continued to work, her fingers releasing his hair, the silky black mane spreading down his back.
"Doesn't mean we can't get some enjoyment," she muttered, wrapping her arms around his chest and rubbing slowly against his back. He lay completely still, ignoring both her and the uncontrollable throbbing in his groin. "Come on, Gorgoth," she growled, growing more insistent. "At least do this much. It's not like that bloody 'emotional armour' of yours will ever break, even now. At least do something for me."
She was right. His actions now would not weaken him unless he allowed them to. He turned around and took her.
Morning brought an end to the snow, and when Ilend ventured out the sun – still hovering just over the Jeralls – was burning brightly in a near-cloudless sky. Even the wind had dropped, but the temperature was still well below freezing, and snow lay knee-depth on the ground everywhere, save for where the on-duty Blades had carved trails. Aerin had taken one look at the conditions and swiftly retreated back inside the East Barracks, so Ilend was left alone to contemplate Bruma and its surroundings. The city had withstood three Oblivion Gates now, and the Guard was still at full fighting strength, but it would need reinforcements, and soon. Fortunately, word had come from some other cities; several had promised aid.
It wasn't just the cities; the Imperial was sure that his fellow Guildsmen would come to aid Bruma, once the nature of the threat became clear. He'd known that Gorgoth had some clout in the Guild – he was a Warder, if Ilend remembered correctly - though lately he had been quiet concerning Guild matters. The swordsman himself was only a Protector, but he was certain that it would only need a good word in Ah-Malz's ear to get most of the Skingrad branch hurrying up to Bruma. Yes, the city would have the aid it needed. Of that, he was confident.
He heard boots crunching slowly up towards him, but didn't turn until a polite cough reached his ears. The Guildsman turned to greet Jauffre, who had thrown a thick cloak on over his armour. He was looking older with every passing day now, but there was still life in those brown eyes. "Are you seeing this through to the end?" he queried, stepping up to join the Imperial in leaning on the battlements.
Ilend nodded. "Of course," he replied. "Dagon's going to pay for Kvatch. I'll be here to see to that. You can count on me."
"Spoken like a true Blade, yet you are only a mercenary. I wonder..." The wizened Breton turned to face his companion. "Do you want to join the Blades?"
Raising an eyebrow, the Guildsman did not reply at once. Instead, he scratched his chin, gazing in the direction of White Gold Tower. The delay was merely a show of politeness; he knew that he was never going to desert the Guild, not even now. He'd turned down a similar offer from Dion to join the Skingrad Guard, and while serving the Emperor directly as a Blade was a great honour, it wouldn't suit him. He preferred having at least some freedom, rather than being chained to a fortress or wherever the Emperor was. To his knowledge, the Blades didn't get much leave. "Thanks for the offer, Jauffre," he started, speaking carefully. He had no desire to be turned out of the stronghold, which the Blades had every right to do. "Being a Blade would be a great honour. But I feel that I would be able to serve the Emperor's interests better as a mercenary under his charter, rather than as a personal bodyguard. The Guild is just... more attractive to me."
The Grandmaster of the Blades held his gaze for several moments before nodding. "I understand. The way of the Blades is not for everyone." He nodded civilly. "I wish you good fortune in whatever you do."
"And you, Jauffre. Should the Blades ever need my services, all you have to do is let me know." He returned the Breton's nod and turned to admire the view again. The crunch of receding footsteps faded away, leaving him alone in contemplative silence once more.
It didn't take long for another pair of boots to break that silence as Aerin finally decided to join him, swathed in the thick brown cloak she normally wore every time they went north of Chorrol. "You look deep in thought, guardsman," she observed, pulling her hood back slightly to reveal her face as she relaxed, leaning on the battlements beside him.
"That's because I am deep in thought, you cold-hating treehugger," he replied, smirking. He himself was wearing nothing over his chainmail, and while he was cold, the thick clothing he was wearing underneath was more than enough to keep him comfortable. "I just turned down an offer to join the Blades, in fact."
Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Why would you ever do a thing like that? I'd have thought it'd be what ya always wanted?"
Ilend shook his head. "I've always wanted the less complicated things, myself," he claimed. "The Blades could get a lot more complex than I liked, and much more... sneaky. I don't like sneaking, or deception, except when it's needed. In a city guard, you've got uncomplicated duties. In the Guild, the contracts can get interesting, but never anything like the Blades. Besides, I've always felt loyal to a city. I like being provincial."
She arched an eyebrow. "Never would have thought it. Didn't ya always hate the boredom of guard duty?"
"Yes, but Blades duty would be more of the same a lot of the time. You're just meant to feel more honoured or more important. Well, for me, there's not much greater honour than the respect of my kinsmen. That's what I need, not an Akaviri katana." The Imperial looked sideways at his companion. "Besides, I wouldn't get much leave. And I know you'd never join the Blades, so..." He shrugged. "Almost a no-brainer." Her warm smile made him all the more convinced that his decision was the right one.
"Well, it's good ta know that ya won't be locked away in some snowed-in fort or a palace for most of the year, at least," she said, sounding thankful as she clasped her hands together behind her back. "And you're right; Masser and Secunda will be bright pink before Jauffre lets me into the Blades, even if I wanted ta bore myself ta death. So..." She smiled and nudged him gently. "Good choice, guardsman."
"You know, Aerin, I-" Ilend cut off at the sound of heavy boots ploughing through the snow towards them, and both of them turned to see Gorgoth and Mazoga easily making their way through the snow to lean on the wall beside them. Both were wearing their armour, which in Mazoga's case was looking decidedly unhealthy; the ebony plate was very high quality, but a large portion near her right shoulder was scorched, and large dents perforated the metal. Even so, it would still hold up admirably in battle. The Orc was looking less surly than usual; there was none of the usual resentment in her gaze as it rested on her larger comrade. Aerin opened her mouth – to make some comment on her temperament, no doubt – but she was cut off by the warrior-shaman.
"Are you aware of recent events in the Guild?" he asked. In contrast to his companion's changed attitude, Gorgoth was the same as ever, giving nothing away through his expressions or voice as he leaned on the battlements.
"I heard a bit when we passed through Skingrad, but... not much," admitted the Imperial, frowning. "I think Donton might have lost her second son, or something similar... I couldn't be sure." He glanced in his comrade's direction. "Why?"
"You are right. Viranus Donton was killed. Modryn Oreyn and myself were expelled because we were apparently responsible for his death." The Orc's face was completely emotionless, but Ilend made up for the lack of expression by jerking his head around, disbelief evident in his features. Gorgoth, expelled? It couldn't be possible; he was exactly what the Guild needed. The ex-Guildsman dismissed his questions with a wave of his hand and continued. "We were innocent, of course. The Blackwood Company murdered Viranus and his squad in cold blood. You know of the Blackwood Company?"
Yes, he knew of them. The mere thought of those treacherous, backstabbing blackguards angered Ilend. Ah-Malz always had been vocal about them; he'd been in Black Marsh when their expedition had failed, but failed to specify what had happened, only expressing an extreme loathing of anyone and anything connected to the Company. "Bastards," he snarled, his face contorting. "And Donton kicked you out? You and Oreyn, two of the best mer in the Guild?" He shook his head in disbelief. He and most of the Guild knew that the Guildmaster's grip had been loosening, but to such an extent...
"She is incompetent. But Oreyn and me can still help the Guild, even in exile. Read this." The swordsman took the proffered crumpled parchment and smoothed it out, skimming through it as the curious Aerin rose on tiptoes to attempt read over his shoulder. Still finding herself too short, she peered around his elbow instead.
"Azani Blackheart? Ain't he the bloke that gave you that scar?" inquired the Bosmer, looking up at Gorgoth. He nodded. "It says ya can bring a few reliable men," she observed, arching an eyebrow. "I take it that means I can come as well?"
"You can. Lurog is coming; not only is this personal for him as well, but he knows the area. Ilend, as a Guildsman, I felt obliged to inform you of the situation."
"Count me in," replied the Imperial, handing the letter back. "You know I'm up for anything to help the Guild. It's my home now." He glanced sideways at Aerin. "I guess that means you're coming too." She gave him a slightly withering look that clearly meant what did you expect?
"Good. I could use some good fighters at my back. Now, as for you..." The Orc turned to Mazoga, only for her to shove a thick finger into his chest.
"The only way I'm staying here is if you chain me up in the dungeons," she told him, a fierce light simmering in her yellow eyes as though she was daring him to deny her. "I'm coming with you, whether you like it nor not." Ilend smirked and exchanged an amused glance with Aerin.
"I knew you would say that. All right, you're coming. I'll see if I can get a few of the Blades interested. Malacath knows they hate Blackheart enough." That was true; ever since Callia had almost died, several Blades had been overheard muttering about the inactivity concerning the bandit warlord, particularly as they knew his location. Gorgoth stepped back, his gaze taking in all three of them. "We leave after lunch. Stock up on everything you need."
"Uh, one thing, big guy," started Aerin, taking a few steps forward. "Ya might want ta take Gnaeus or Saliith with ya. They might kill each other if left cooped up in here alone." She had a point; only a blind man could have failed to notice the old ex-hermit's battered state last night, before the resident battlemage – an Imperial named Lucius Varo – had healed him despite his protests.
The Orc shook his head. "From what I could tell, Gnaeus was stocking up for an expedition to anywhere nearby that might give him a good fight. It's the best thing for him right now. We'll leave him be." He turned and crunched off across the courtyard in the direction of the canteen, Mazoga falling in beside him.
"They make an odd couple, don't ya think?" asked Aerin, folding her arms and grinning at the retreating backs of the two warriors.
Ilend snorted. "I think just about any romance involving Gorgoth will be an odd one," he remarked. Even though he was convinced that the two of them were in love, it still felt surreal every time he thought about it. He shook his head and turned back to Aerin, who had pulled her hood back as the sun warmed the air. "Me, I prefer the simpler things in life."
"I believe ya might have mentioned that a couple of times already, guardsman," she chuckled, playfully poking him in the chest. "But I really hope ya weren't calling me simple..." she tried to adopt a serious look, but her smirk ruined it.
"Well, you're less complicated than a certain emotionally-armoured weakness-hating warrior-shaman, at least," replied Ilend wryly. "In fact, I'd say you're his exact opposite. And you know they say opposites attract..." He laughed as she hissed furiously and attempted to punch him in the ribs only to find that she had to cling to him for support as she descended into paroxysms of glee.
"You're an evil bastard, guardsman," she snorted, finally regaining the ability to speak. The look she gave him indicated that he was probably in for a merciless tickling the next time he asked for a massage. Fortunately, his muscles had been far less tight recently. Odd, considering all the fighting they'd been doing. He was feeling more relaxed these days, however, and he was almost certain that the Bosmer currently leaning on him had something to do with that.
"You know, Aerin..." His expression turned serious as he attempted to put his thoughts into words. Before he could find any suitable speech – he never had been good with complicated talking – their relative privacy was dispelled by the arrival of Lurog on their section of the wall. Does everyone have to stop just here to admire the bloody landscape right now? Ilend asked himself, careful to keep his surly thoughts from his face. It was never wise to anger an Orc who was not only an excellent warrior but a 'brother of battle' to the Hero of Kvatch. The Imperial didn't know exactly what the term meant – Orcs could be surprisingly complicated elves sometimes - but he could have a fair stab at guessing.
"Ya look worried, Lurog," observed Aerin, frowning as she looked up at the Orc. She hadn't thought up a nickname for him yet.
"I am worried," confirmed the warrior, leaning on the wall and sighing slightly as he looked down towards Bruma. "Worried for Gorgoth and this upcoming battle."
The Bosmer spluttered incredulously, leaving Ilend to ask the question that she was thinking of. "Worried for him? Surely he can handle himself." He'd seen Gorgoth mow down scores of skilled enemy combatants, seen him rampage through Oblivion, killing daedra after daedra, seen him kill an ancient lich-king. In his opinion, the warrior-shaman was as close to invulnerability as one could get.
"His sense of honour, while a source of strength and nothing less than what I'd expect, is also a weakness of sorts," countered Lurog, still looking out into the distance. "He will insist on facing Azani Blackheart in single combat. I recall the last time they met." He sighed. "That is the closest I have ever come to seeing my brother of battle die. I hope never to see something similar again."
"But... surely he can take on Blackheart and win?" queried Aerin, frowning. "I mean, he wouldn't be going if he couldn't."
The Orc shook his head. "I truly do not know," he grunted. "Their last battle involved no magic, and Gorgoth was wearing only his boiled leather, only the first layer of his battle armour. Things will be different this time. Both will bring their magic into play." His gaze dropped to the ice-encrusted stone beneath his fists. "And Burzukh will be there. Malacath's blood, I wish I knew what to expect."
"Well, whatever happens, we'll be facing it together," said Ilend, trying to be reassuring. "He'll have you, Mazoga, me, Aerin, Oreyn... and he'll have a plan for Blackheart's army. I'm sure." Some might call his faith in Gorgoth blind, but the Imperial had seen what the warrior-shaman was capable of. He wouldn't have believed it himself, had he not seen it with his own eyes.
"I've known Gorgoth for seven years... seven long years," murmured Lurog, speaking half to himself. "He is a good Orc, a great Orc. A worthy leader for anyone to follow. We've been through battles together, battles in which thousands died and the earth trembled under our hooves. I've been with him through hard times and harsh winters. I feel honoured to be one of his most trusted companions. Yes, I trust that he will think up a plan. But Azani has greater experience, greater knowledge of his surroundings, and quite possibly a greater ability in single combat." He straightened. "We will see."
"Yeah, we will. A hundred drakes says the big guy beats Azani." Aerin sniggered at the incredulous look that the warrior shot her. "Hey, I'm just confident in him. Shouldn't you be?"
He nodded, leaning forward and looking her in the eyes. "Yes. I would willingly follow him anywhere. But he always has warned against overconfidence..." The Orc straightened and shook his head, raising his voice. "But we shouldn't be focusing on what might be. For now, we should eat to keep up our strength. I only hope the canteen hasn't run out of bacon. I'll see you later." He nodded to both of them and walked off in the direction of the Great Hall.
"I'm not nervous," muttered the archer, folding her arms. "If the big guy can take on that lich, then I'm fairly sure he can take on a Redguard with a shiny sword."
"I think it might be slightly... different this time, Aerin," observed Ilend. "But enough about that. Lurog's right. I'm hungry." He started off down towards the canteen, pushing thoughts of the upcoming engagement from his mind. It would be dealt with when the time came.
Gorgoth was swiftly growing used to Mazoga's constant presence. He'd expected it, of course, after last night, and he wasn't about to object. Not only was she an able fighter, but he respected her far too much to hurt her needlessly, and he suspected that any hint of rejection by him would hit her hard. So she was his constant companion, walking beside him as he made his way over to the West Barracks, having eaten as much as his wounded stomach could hold. "I still have no idea how we're going to deal with that army of his, especially if there's quite a few good Orcs there," she was saying.
"We might not even have to. But everything depends on the current situation there. Basing a strategy on predictions alone is foolhardy. Dwelling on it now is therefore useless."
She snorted but nodded in agreement as they entered the West Barracks. Several off-duty Blades were getting some valuable rest, and others were occupied with whatever they could put their minds to. Some nodded in greeting as Gorgoth passed; a few even rose to salute him. Callia Petit did neither; she merely shot him a look of resentment and went back to sharpening her katana. As the warrior-shaman approached the Breton, Mazoga leaned against the nearby wall and started watching for danger. Apparently, she had become his bodyguard as well as his lover.
"What do you want?" growled the Knight Sister as her fellow Blade eased himself down into a sitting position near her bedroll.
"I want to give you the opportunity to get revenge for that scar," replied the Orc, pointing at her chest. The whetstone stopped dead against her blade, and she looked up to eye him with suspicion. "Yes. I am going to kill Azani Blackheart. But the Blades deserve a chance to strike at him as well."
"I'm in," she grunted, rising to her feet with a look of determination spreading over her face. Clearly, he was not the only one she was eager to kill. "But... have you cleared this with Jauffre?"
"Yes. Captain Varsis is forming a squad of volunteers. I told him to keep a place for you open. You'll find him in the courtyard." The warrior-shaman also rose to his feet, towering over the diminutive Breton. "We will be leaving soon. You had better hurry."
She made to leave, then paused, frowning. "What do you plan to do about his army?"
"We will deal with that when we get there. Now go and prepare. The sooner we leave, the better." The Knight Sister nodded and quickly strode off, sheathing her katana. Mazoga shot a hostile look at her back as she passed. It was inevitable that she would hate someone who had effectively sworn to kill her lover, but Gorgoth trusted her enough not to go against his will. Then again, love could do odd things to people. Yet another reason for him not to let this particular variety affect him. "Are you ready to leave?" he asked.
"Always. So are Lurog, Ilend and Aerin, from what I heard. The old man has already buggered off in search of action." She snorted. Her abrasive personality meant there was mutual dislike between her and many people; Gnaeus was just one of many. "Promise me something, Gorgoth." All dislike was now gone from her face, replaced with something approaching worry, and she walked up to him, placing both hands on his shoulders. She was tall enough not to have to reach up far to do it. "Promise me that you won't... do anything stupid." He searched her face and found a tangle of differing emotions; love, anxiety, and a hint of the stubbornness that would never desert her.
"You know me, Mazoga," he rumbled, folding his arms. "I will not act until I have thought up a plan of action. I will promise that." Seeing that she was still concerned, he continued. "You know that Azani is a match for me. He might kill me. But I will be far more prepared this time." That was true; the memories of their last fight always burned in his head when warning against the dangers of not setting a rigorous enough guard at night.
"I just... don't want to see you like... that again," she growled, shaking his shoulders slightly. He knew exactly what she meant; for an entire week his body had been racked and ravaged by Sinweaver's cruel enchantment. He'd borne it with his typical fortitude, but even then Mazoga had cared for him, and she had witnessed every minute of it.
"It won't happen," he reassured. "Either he will not cut me, or I will die. This time, if he lands a debilitating blow, he will finish the job." That much was certain. Their previous encounter had been too uncertain, but this time, one of them would die. Taking her hands, he removed them from his shoulders and placed them back at her sides. "We should leave. I want to be sure that we won't get stuck here by that storm." Ominous dark clouds had been spotted over Skyrim, driven towards them by the north wind. Steffan – an expert on the local weather – had remarked that it would be a bad one.
The Blades were already assembling in the courtyard, preparing their horses. Jauffre – aware of the mood of the garrison - had been willing to let as many as twenty volunteers go, but even so, Glenroy had been forced to turn away a few eager Blades. As the two Orcs approached the stables, the Knight Captain ceased bellowing orders and fell in beside Gorgoth. "We'll be ready in a few minutes," he told them. "Best get away quickly; I don't like the look of those clouds." Several of his comrades shared his sentiment; cautious glances were frequently being directed to the north. "Once we get past Bruma, the travelling will be fine."
"We'll ride hard," responded Gorgoth, nodding in thanks to Lurog as the Orc brought him Baluk, who was saddled and eager to be out of the stables. Mazoga walked off to deal with her own horse. Glenroy looked around him at the Blades under his command and grunted.
"I really hope you've got a plan," he muttered. "Twenty Blades and whoever you and Oreyn bring along aren't a match for over seven hundred men."
"You might be surprised."
They need not have worried about the storm; Gorgoth's furious initial pace meant that they were well beyond Bruma and in a sheltered camp for the night before it hit. They had been able to continue without much delay in the morning when it had largely blown itself out. Three days from Cloud Ruler Temple to the Blackwood was impressive, given the size of their party. Having reached the Drunken Dragon Inn just before sunset, the warrior-shaman and Glenroy had agreed to camp most of their force in a good campsite a short distance away from the inn; it would never have held all of them.
"Bloody Orc," muttered Aerin, understandably irritated by Gorgoth's insistence that they stay with the Blades. "Why couldn't us two at least have got rooms? I'm sure they've got space." She was undoing the straps of Firebrand saddle with more force than was strictly necessary.
"He'll be sleeping here as well," pointed out Ilend, placing a feed bag over Javelin's nose. "Besides, it's better to sleep with the men. Means you don't get resented for your superiority."
"Well, I ain't in the Blades, and I ain't in charge of them," growled the archer. "I should be able ta sleep where I want to. Bloody Orc..." her voice trailed off into angry, incomprehensible mutterings as she finished with Firebrand. Her Imperial companion turned away to hide his smirk. He had no doubt that the Bosmer would be taking up her complaints with Gorgoth directly if he had still been there, but he had left swiftly - along with Lurog, Mazoga and Glenroy – in order to meet Oreyn at the inn.
"Look on the bright side," he told her, leaning back on a tree and watching the Blades set up the camp with the efficiency and skill he'd come to expect from them. "At least we're almost in what's effectively a bloody jungle. You'll be in your natural element while I'll be sweating my arse off." That much was true; winter had yet to come to the Blackwood, and though their camp was only on the fringes, the heat and humidity was still uncomfortable after the cold of the north, particularly as he was still dressed for that climate under his chainmail.
She smirked slightly and joined him in watching. "Yeah, I guess ya could say that, guardsman." The Wood Elf breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the jungle. It probably reminded her of her native Valenwood, but Ilend was more interested in her chest as her lungs expanded. She noticed him looking and gave him a sly dig in the ribs before nodding behind them. "Come on. I think there's a spring over there."
There was no spring in the tiny clearing, but at least the cold of the advancing night cooled the Imperial somewhat. He slumped down with his back against a tree, loosening his sword belt and leaning his head back. In the break in the otherwise thick canopy, he could make out Secunda overhead, its silvery light providing illumination in place of the dying sun's rays. Aerin slid down beside him, also looking up. "Nice view," she murmured. "Reminds me of when my dad used ta point out the stars ta me when we camped for the night out in the wilderness..."
"Yeah... I remember once when my parents – Arkay watch over them – took me out to visit one of my uncles in the country. I spent hours on his balcony, just looking up..." The Guildsman sighed contentedly at the memory. His companion's warm side pressed against his was equally contenting, and a tranquil silence developed. Ilend, however, was slightly nervous. He'd been blessed with a lot of time to think recently, a rarity in war, and he'd finally reached a conclusion. "Aerin?"
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking... we might not have long left in this world." She turned her head to look at him sideways, a look of slight confusion on her face. "I mean, Azani's forces aren't going to be a pushover. And then we've got to get whatever Martin says we need next. I just..." He sighed; his heart was already beating faster. It sped up even more as the Bosmer slipped her hand into his, giving it an encouraging squeeze. "I just thought we'd better enjoy things while we can. So..." He cleared his throat. "Do you love me?"
The Wood Elf stared at him for the merest fraction of a second before laughing in delight. "Finally he gets around ta asking," she chuckled, rising slightly before twisting around to dump herself in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his. "I was wondering if I was gonna have ta give ya any more hints." Before the slightly befuddled Ilend could respond, she was kissing him.
Coherent thought returned after a few minutes, by which time the sun had fully gone down. The Imperial, pulling back slightly, squeezed her slim body in his arms. "No paralysis?" he asked, frowning in mock curiosity. "No freezing? Am I dreaming?" She snorted with laughter and buried her face in his neck.
"You ain't gonna let me forget that, are ya?" she growled, playfully punching him in the ribs.
He grunted, smirking. "Nope. Never." He sighed, removing his gauntlets. "I will echo your earlier complaints, though. A warm bed would be very nice right now..."
Aerin looked up and shot him a devilish grin. "Who says we need a bed?" she purred, tracing his jawline with a finger. He could already feel his body starting to ache with desire, and she did have a point; the grass in the clearing did look soft... but then a cleared throat reminded him that other beings did indeed exist in this universe.
"Dinner's on the spit if you want it," muttered an embarrassed Ferrum Moniel, who was already turning to leave, his cheeks significantly redder than normal for a Breton.
Ilend looked down at the Bosmer in his arms. "I guess we do need to eat," he muttered. "Best keep our strength up. Not only for tomorrow, but..." He smirked as they rose to their feet. "I do seem to recall Gnaeus telling me you'd be a handful."
She sniggered as she slipped her arm around his waist, walking back towards the now fully-built campsite. "Ya'd better believe it, guardsman."
Modryn Oreyn looked up irritably as the door to the common room of the Drunken Dragon Inn flew open. He'd had various annoyances on his mind recently; first and foremost was his expulsion, but apart from that there was the confusing sprawl of the Blackwood, making travelling off the roads hazardous; the fact that Blackheart had forces far superior to his own; the inn had no notion of what a good ale was, and, finally, his ebony armour was uncomfortable for sitting in. All of those irritants, however, shrunk as the hulking, massive figure of Gorgoth gro-Kharz stomped into the common room.
Even better, the warrior-shaman was not alone. Another Orc, clad in chainmail with a formidable shield on his back, followed him in. Sizing him up in an instant, Modryn could tell that he was a veteran fighter who would fight to the end and love every minute of it. Exactly what he – and the Guild, coincidentally – needed. That warrior in turn was followed by a slightly more interesting Orsimer, this one a female, though that was only evident due to her slightly softer-looking face and the fact that she wore her black hair in a multitude of thin braids, as opposed to the two men who wore two thick braids hanging to mid-back. Her armour was ebony, the same as his, though by far the worse for wear; parts of it were seared and badly battered. But it would do, given that she seemed to be just as confident in her own fighting abilities as her two male comrades.
The last person to enter, closing the door behind him, was far smaller than his elven companions, but no less interesting. For one thing, he wore the armour of a Knight Captain of the Blades. The Dark Elf had seen armour of that kind before, back in Morrowind, but it was entirely unexpected here. He'd known that Gorgoth was a member of the Blades, of course, but as there was no Emperor he'd never paid it much attention until now. The Imperial wearing the armour deserved it, from what the Dunmer's experienced eye could tell; he looked every bit as dangerous as the Orcs, with that same grizzled demeanour that marked a veteran of conflict.
"I believe you owe me a drink, S'kasha," said Antus Flonius, smugness evident in the Imperial's voice. "I did say he'd bring bruisers along." The Journeyman – somehow at ease in his old suit of iron plate armour - was seated to Modryn's right, drinking some of that swill that passed for ale from a battered mug. He and S'kasha were both from the Leyawiin Guildhall, and had jumped at the chance of some action, even if it did mean working openly with a disgraced exile. He appreciated them for that, though he suspected that they'd have been slightly more reluctant if the Blackwood Company hadn't eroded all Guild work in Leyawiin.
"Antus has not won yet," growled S'kasha, the Khajiit glaring across at him. "S'kasha does not see any proof of these so-called bruisers being any good at bruising yet." She was far more at home in this environment, it being close to some parts of her native Elsweyr, and her studded leather armour was probably more comfortable by far than the heavy plate worn by her companions. The Protector's golden fur was matted and untidy in places, but she never had been one for personal appearance. As one of the best hunters in Leyawiin, she'd never had reason to care.
"Shut up, the pair of you," barked Jongar, slamming his empty tankard down on the table to empathise the point. "Do you want to look like a load of bickering morons in front of that lot?" They fell silent; their respect for the Nord was evident. It was not for his skill with the warhammer slanting across his back – though he was a fearsome and highly skilled combatant – nor for his rank. Instead, they respected him because he had survived Kvatch. Few among the Guild could boast of that. He'd been promoted to Protector the moment he turned up at the Anvil branch. His presence here was welcome, but a complete coincidence; he'd been visiting friends in Leyawiin and had happened to be staying the the Inn just as Modryn had arrived. Always one for preserving the honour of the Guild, he had insisted on being included.
The ex-Champion stayed silent as Gorgoth and his three companions eased themselves down into the wooden seats at the now-crowded table, relaxing slightly as it became clear that the creaking chairs would take the weight of them and their armour. One of the Orcs – the female – waved over to Andreas Draconis and called for ale in a voice loud enough to make S'kasha wince.
"Good to see you brought some fine warriors with you, at least," grunted Modryn in greeting. "Though I'm not sure if that makes up for the three days we spent sitting here bored, waiting for you to haul your green arse down here." He emptied the tankard in front of him and grimaced. Jongar must have a stomach of steel; the Nord had downed barrels of the foul stuff since they'd been here.
"Numbers might make up for that," responded the warrior-shaman. The Dark Elf frowned; surely the ex-Warder could count? "I also have with me Protector Ilend Vonius of the Skingrad Fighter's Guild, and his companion, a skilled archer," he continued. "Additionally..." he let his voice trail off and directed a nod in the direction of his Imperial comrade.
"I am Knight Captain Glenroy Varsis of the Blades," announced the swordsman. "I have with me twenty Knight Brothers and Sisters from Cloud Ruler Temple." The abrupt end of his announcement left a somewhat shocked silence. Gorgoth had managed to bring over twenty men along? And not just any men, but Blades. Modryn's hand unconsciously rose to scratch his chin. Interesting indeed. He nodded distractedly as the warrior-shaman introduced his Orcish companions – Lurog gro-Brugh and Mazoga – and motioned for his own people to state their names before speaking himself.
"Azani Blackheart and his army are camped in and around the Ayleid ruins of Atatar," he began. "We don't know-" The Knight Captain interrupted him.
"He has about seven hundred men under his command with varying levels of aptitude. He additionally has up to a hundred veteran Orcish warriors attached to him, who are under the command of Burzukh gro-Ghash. That Orc is Blackheart's employer, in fact."
Modryn merely raised a curious eyebrow, but S'kasha couldn't contain herself. "How does the Imperial know these things?" she blurted incredulously.
"We are the Blades," stated Varsis simply. "Information gathering is our business, especially when this... warlord had threatened some of our own." A dark cloud passed over the Imperial's face.
"I know Blackheart personally," claimed Gorgoth, looking dispassionately into his tankard. "We left our marks on each other." A hint of emotion crossed that stony face. Was it anger? Apprehension? Any emotion shown by the Orc was so rare that it was impossible to tell. Ignoring it, Modryn leaned forward.
"Tell me everything," he growled. "What happened the last time you met him?" The Orc looked up and met the Dark Elf's eyes.
"He almost killed me."
"Get those thrice-damned horses unharnessed, you hopeless gang of sheep-kissing arse-lickers!" The sharp tongue of Dralor Tedran, the master of the small trade caravan, lashed at his retainers with a ferocity that had swiftly become common. It was not that they were unskilled – far from it – but the irritable Dunmer seemed to think that giving those under him verbal encouragement would always make them work faster. After all, to a merchant, time was money.
Gorgoth, of course, paid barely any attention to the traders as they started making their haphazard camp for the night just off the road from Orsinium to Sentinel. He and his mercenaries had been paid to see them safely to the border of Orsinium and Wayrest; they would protect the caravan, but need not lift a finger for anything else, no matter how frustrated Dralor became. The warrior-shaman had already removed the two outer layers of his battle armour, leaving him only protected by his boiled leather armour as he slid down with his back against a tree. Lurog, Urag and Mazoga had the first watch; all three could be trusted to stay awake and alert. He himself wished to contemplate further on the new paralysis spell he was close to perfecting. A pair of boots crunched behind him; it was autumn, and no one could move without disturbing a patch of frosted grass or fallen leaves.
"Nothing out of the ordinary to report, Captain," stated Dura gra-Gor, his third in command. Gorgoth commanded a force of fourteen mercenaries, all Orcs, hand-picked by himself. He'd known each one of them for at least a year or more, and was willing to trust each of them to at least some extent. Best of all, they were all veterans who knew exactly what their duty required of them.
"Carry on," he ordered, without turning around. She saluted and spun on her heel, marching out to where the first sentry would be. Some of his old comrades from the army had commented that discipline in his small force was tighter than it ever had been in the military. In some ways, they were right.
Leaning his head back, the warrior-shaman closed his eyes, losing himself in the theories of Illusion magic. Around him, the chaos of setting up camp continued, the workers cautiously stepping around the seemingly sleeping Orc. He might be the mercenary least prone to anger, but at the same time he managed to be the most intimidating. Even so, they trusted him and his company implicitly. Fifteen battle-hardened Orsimer would be enough to defeat any bandits. They were wrong.
Gorgoth opened his eyes. Something moved in the deeper forest, beyond the borders of the camp. Urag gro-Urzog had seen it as well and was frowning in that direction, slowly sliding his battleaxe off his back. He was so focused on the possible threat that he barely had time to move when the arrow came from a completely different direction, burying itself in his temple. The crash of the heavily-armoured warrior falling to the ground alerted everyone, but the man responsible for their protection was already on his feet.
"Ambush!" he roared, tearing Blood King from the strap running across his torso. "Look alive!" His mercenaries needed no further stimulus; they were already surging to their feet. But it was too late; the ambush was well-prepared, and a dozen bandits of all races were already charging into the camp, with more behind them. Gorgoth blew one unlucky Redguard apart with a fireball then raised a hand to summon bound plate armour from Oblivion; his own armour was uselessly leaning against a tree a few feet away.
Just before the spell could be completed, a green orb hit him squarely in the chest. He felt his magicka desert him, all his incantations and knowledge now useless as the Silence spell took hold. The caster stepped out in front of him, ordering two of his underlings to go around, leaving the two leaders of the opposing sides facing off. He was a Redguard, tall and powerfully built, clad in plate armour made from a gold-coloured metal that Gorgoth had never seen before. Sharp brown eyes peered out at his opponent from under a helmet made from the same material, and in his hands was a large claymore, with elaborate engravings running the length of the blade. The air around the edge appeared to shimmer slightly, and the steel itself was glowing a dull, ominous red.
Moving forward quickly, the warrior-shaman immediately swung powerfully towards the Redguard's ribs. He needed to end the fight quickly; without his armour or his magic, he would be vulnerable to that enchanted blade. The sounds of battle were all around them now, but his enemy stayed detached from it as he parried the attack with ease, stepping back to absorb the force of the blow. A few sparks ran over the blade's edge, but there was no other reaction to the powerful enchantment of Blood King. It was a rare sword that could withstand Malacath's power; if the wielder deserved that weapon, then he would be a worthy opponent.
"I am Azani Blackheart," announced the Redguard as he watched the dark mace warily. He'd felt the bite of the enchantment, and would know now that it was no ordinary mace. "Yours will not be the first long-braided head I've taken." Having never been truly defeated in battle or in combat, Gorgoth had never cut his hair, which by now hung almost to his waist. He'd heard of the bandit before him; he'd been preying on merchant caravans in his native Hammerfell for years before moving north. The Orc did not doubt his claim; the land of the Redguards had always produced fine swordsmen, and Blackheart appeared to be a master of his trade.
"If you wish to take my head, stop wasting time," growled the warrior-shaman. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lurog struggling to contain the rapid attacks of a golden-furred Khajiit, who was relentlessly beating at the Orc while attempting to find a way through the plate armour that rendered his claws near-useless. Refocusing on his opponent, the Orsimer had to move quickly to block an overhead slash towards his midsection. Forcing the Redguard back, he kicked at his knees before swinging down at his head. Both attacks were dodged.
Their personal duel began in earnest, each determined to put a quick end to the other as dying screams echoed around the campsite. Neither could gain an advantage; unencumbered by his armour, Gorgoth was faster than normal, fast enough to counter Blackheart's even greater agility, and his superior strength was undiminished. But the greater freedom came at the cost of security; more than once, he'd had to block or evade an attack that he could have ignored when wearing his plate armour. Minutes flashed by.
The end, as it often did, came suddenly. Blood King parried the claymore upwards before both of them recovered simultaneously; the mace head swung into Blackheart's side just as his blade cut deep into Gorgoth's stomach. The Redguard was thrown into a nearby tree, several of his ribs shattered, while the Orc staggered backwards, an involuntary gasp torn from his lips at the sheer agony of the deep gash stretching from chest to leg. He was still lucid enough, however, to recognise that his opponent's Silence spell had died. Falling to one knee, he instantly sent his most powerful healing magic running through his body, focusing on the mortal wound. Nothing happened; the pain did not abate, the wound did not close.
Above him, the Redguard had staggered to his feet, raising his sword, but before he could land the killing blow he fell back, growling angrily. Lurog, bleeding from a hole in his greaves, glared at the bandit, his left hand gripping his fellow warrior's shoulder almost as tightly as he was gripping his mace. Krognak gro-Durak stepped up beside them, his huge greatsword red with blood. Coughing up blood, Blackheart shot one last wary glance at the three of them before turning and staggering away.
The danger gone, Gorgoth collapsed onto his back, dropping Blood King and fumbling for a dagger to cut away the leather. Lurog beat him to it; within seconds, most of his armour had been sliced through, baring most of his body and the injury that could not be healed. It pulsed venomously, spurting darkened blood with every beat of his heart. Surrounding the wound, reaching about an inch from the cut, was a band of dark grey flesh, colder than ice to the touch. And it was expanding in tandem with the increasing pain.
"You need an alchemist, brother," growled Lurog, glaring down at the wound before waving to some survivors that his superior could not see. He was right; by putting every last scrap of his concentration into the spell, the warrior-shaman could halt the dark spread, but he could not remove it.
"Find me-" He coughed violently, doubling over. A second's loss of concentration, a mere wobble of the spell, and the darkness gained another inch. Soon it would claim him. "Find me some black lichen and... and crushed roobrush. I... I must get back to... Ors-" His voice failed him again, but his companion would know what he meant. Lurog raised his head and repeated his orders in a deep shout. Krognak sheathed his sword and ran off to organise the remnants of their company. Gorgoth put his head back on the sparse grass and snarled. He was probably going to die, but he would fight it every step of the way.
"Hang on, brother."
"He hung on for a week before we could finally get the dark spread to recede," recalled Lurog, finishing Gorgoth's tale for him. For obvious reasons, the warrior-shaman could not recall the details of large parts of his recovery, but potent herbs combined with the constant magical aid of the best healers in Orsinium had been enough to nurse him back to health. He'd paid, though; his stomach had been permanently weakened, and the dark scar still hurt from time to time. "I, for one, don't know how he did it. Any cut from that blade will kill within twenty seconds." The Orc sliced the air with his hand as though simulating an imaginary death.
"How do you know that?" asked Modryn, his eyes narrowing. Throughout the narrative, he'd been ever-attentive, searching for any possible weakness in Blackheart that could benefit them. He had found none. The man had powerful magic as well as skill with a very deadly sword. He was a near-perfect warrior... but everyone had a weakness. Everyone.
"We found some corpses on the road back to Orsinium. Black and bloated, every last one. Killed by Sinweaver's foul enchantment." Lurog shook his head and buried his face in his tankard.
"It is the work of the Ayleids," added Gorgoth, staring into his ale. "Constant powerful healing magic was required simply to halt the spread of the effects. I do not know what they used to enchant that blade, or how they did it, but I have never seen the like. Blood King is just as powerful, if not more so, but different. It is the work of Orcs and Daedra. But the Ayleids were always magically powerful."
"Well, at least you broke Blackheart's ribs," boomed Jongar, slapping the table. He'd had several ales too many, but at least he hadn't fallen off his chair yet. "And you'll have us at your back this time. He's beaten."
"Jongar should not be so over-confident," hissed S'kasha, glaring across Modryn at the Nord. "This one thinks Jongar should spend more time planning a battle than getting drunk and boasting about how easy it will be."
"Shut it," growled the ex-Champion. "Whatever he wields, we can take him. His army is what I'm worried about."
"Leave that army to me," muttered Gorgoth. Modryn didn't like the cold fire burning in the Orc's eyes. Forcing any unease out of his mind – he could trust the warrior-shaman – he leaned forward and spread his map out on the table. Pushing their drinks to the side and dragging their chairs closer to the table, they started to work out a plan of action. Tomorrow, the Guild would get its honour back.
A/N: I truly have no idea how this chapter ended up as long as it did. Initially, I thought I'd struggle to reach 10k words, but I've ended up with over 14k. Odd how these things work out... Anyhow, be sure to leave a review. They're always welcomed.