A/N: Eight weeks... eight long weeks since my last update. This chapter was a bugger to write at times; various parts were big stumbling blocks, and writer's block hit hard. Still, I must apologise for taking so damn long; I know quality will always take precedence over speed, but you loyal readers will always deserve better. But anyhow, the anonymous review replies:
TehEpic: That's very high praise... praise I'm not sure I deserve, but at least it means I'm doing something right. And don't worry, that Dremora's not dead; he'll be reborn in Oblivion soon enough. I know what you mean, though. And yes, this fic will definitely be finished by the end of 2013; at least, I hope so.
Rokibfd: Not too much time for a strategist to make an impact at this stage, though a spymaster can always be helpful. Eldamil was doubtlessly one of the Mythic Dawn members helping Kathutet and Gorgoth, but he'd have been trapped by the rockfall, and Gorgoth wouldn't have recognised him anyway. As for that Dremora... did he really need a name? He certainly didn't think of any reason to inform Gorgoth of it.
A Reader: Again, high praise that I feel is undeserved... but at least it's good to hear that the BaS universe is well-received, because it'll be the setting for all my future TES fic. And it's good to hear my characters aren't boring (the exception, Camoran, isn't my character, thankfully).
Random Reader: Good to hear; I always did like the Nerevarine, and I feel he has much untapped potential for dealings in the Fourth Era... but that's theorising for another time, another fic.
Underpaid Critic: Whenever I've reviewed something anonymously by accident, I've never been crippled by a character limit... then again, you might be on a phone. Anyhow, yes, I do prefer Oblivion's storyline, but I do feel there's potential in Skyrim's world... as for Callia's plotline, read on and find out. ;)
Anonymous: Yes, magic is very powerful; the effect of me adding realism to the ingame magic, as far as the term 'realism' can be applied to magic. The balancing effect is that most of the population of Tamriel is completely mundane. And apologies for the long wait; hopefully the last chapter won't take so long...
Yes, the last chapter. It crept up on me suddenly, but you're about to read the penultimate chapter of Blood and Steel. Read on...
Chapter Fifty-three: Torment
Gorgoth woke slowly from a deep sleep, shifting slightly as he opened his eyes. The light of the sun was mostly blocked by the thick curtains over the windows, but he knew that it was well past dawn. In truth, he could use several more hours of sleep; his physical and magical exertions over the last few days had tired him, and his body was pleading with him to just roll over and go back to sleep. But he shrugged off such weaknesses and sat up, the blanket tumbling down his torso. Mazoga was gone from his bed, but he could hear movement in his antechamber. Shoving aside his blankets, he got up and walked over to the window, throwing back the curtains. Cloud Ruler Temple was mostly silent despite the relatively late hour; Steffan had ordered most of his exhausted Blades to rest, and so most of the sentries were legionaries that had came with Ocato. Thirty of them were currently housed in the fortress of the Blades.
The Orc grunted and turned away from the window, pausing to reach behind him and run his fingers through his silky black hair. It felt odd to be wearing it loose after so many years of wearing the war braids, but it was still far too short to braid yet. Mazoga had taken her sword to it last night at his insistence, after he'd finished healing all the wounded he could find. Now, his once waist-length mane barely touched his shoulders, but Gorgoth was not one to hide the shame of his defeat from those who knew what it signified, even if Mazoga had insisted that there was no shame in it; some who wore the braids would not even class it as a defeat, but he knew differently. She was the only one who knew the details of what had happened in Paradise, and he was unlikely to confide in anyone else. Most of the others he'd seen before retiring to bed merely seemed satisfied with the fact that Camoran was dead and the Amulet returned.
He had already put his defeat behind him; it was in the past, and there was never any sense in dwelling in the past, especially when there were important matters immediately at hand. Martin and Ocato would be making preparations for the journey to the Imperial City; they would have to leave as quickly as possible. Over thirty Gates had been closed around Bruma, and as the barriers continued to weaken there was no reason why Dagon couldn't throw thirty more at them. The Dragonfires had to be lit as soon as possible.
Walking over to the large wardrobe in the corner, he wrenched the doors open and fumbled through the clothing that Mazoga had organised for him, ignoring the reek of blood and sweat that reached his nostrils. He probably smelt worse; the last time he'd had a bath was back in his house in Orsinium. Bretons and Imperials and other 'civilised' races would likely call him an unwashed savage; other Orcs would know he had been in battle recently, and there were more important things in the world than making sure he was clean. He was pulling on a thick fur vest when Mazoga shoved the door open and walked in. She never had learnt how to knock.
"Good to see you awake," she grunted as he sat down on the bed to pull on the leather boots he wore under his steel plate boots. "Talk is, half the Temple will be leaving just past noon. Best get something to eat first, and Aerin's here to see you." The warrior-shaman nodded, rising and taking the unstrung Trueshot from where it rested beside the window. It had served him well, but the thought of keeping it had never even crossed his mind. It was rightfully Aerin's, and she deserved it more than him; she was a far better archer than he would ever be, and most importantly, he'd sworn to return it to her. A foolish oath, given how close he had come to defeat, but an oath nonetheless.
The Wood Elf was waiting nervously in his antechamber, her hands clasped behind her back as her eyes darted around the room, taking in the various bits of armour strewn about the place. As he emerged from his bedchamber, her uncertainty vanished and she darted over, throwing both arms around him and burying her head in his chest. "It's good ta see ya back, big guy," she said, her voice muffled by his furs. "Kept us waiting, but I always knew ya'd be back."
"I didn't," he responded as she pulled back from him. "Tamriel came perilously close to destruction." He looked down at her, studying her features, noticing differences. She had certainly changed from the innocent teenager he'd first met in the Arena. Her features seemed harder now, the set of her jaw more resolute. Rips and tears marked her boiled leathers, which were showing other signs of age and hard use. Her eyes still held the sparkle of youth and humour, but there was a harder edge to the Bosmer. She even carried herself differently, more wary than she had before. Aerin had grown up. But then, war had a habit of ageing people quickly. "I told you I would return this," he said, holding out Trueshot. "Your bowstrings are on the table."
The archer's grin grew even wider as she took it from him, running her hands almost reverently over the silver-worked wood. "Was it useful?"
"I used it to inflict the first wound on Camoran. He died easily after that."
Aerin laughed. "Always knew it would come in handy some day." She stepped over to the table and scooped up the bowstrings that Gorgoth had left there before looking back at him and raising an eyebrow. "Did Camoran give you a haircut?"
"No." Gorgoth did not intend to elaborate. Instead, he looked around for the layers of his armour. "I did not have time to learn much last night; I simply handed the Amulet to Martin, healed all the wounded I could find and went to bed." He motioned to Mazoga, who started to collect his boiled leathers. "Help me don my armour and fill me in on what you know."
There wasn't much to tell that he hadn't already worked out or heard from Mazoga. High Chancellor Ocato had led two legions up the Silver Road, destroying any Daedra and closing any Gates they came across. Once they had reached Bruma, Ocato had placed his men at the disposal of General Phillida and continued on to Cloud Ruler Temple with his personal bodyguard. The Legion had taken casualties, but had heavily outnumbered the Daedra; by dawn, there had been no Gates left in the area, and no new ones had opened for hours. Straggling Daedra were being mopped up by the Legion's cavalry.
The body count was grim, however; the legions had lost a thousand dead between them, and the defenders of Bruma had an even longer butcher's bill. Before the battle of Bruma, nearly eight thousand soldiers had been in or around Bruma; of those there were now only two thousand, most of them exhausted and not fit for combat. Many of the surviving sellswords had collected their pay and were planning to leave as soon as they could find a horse. Many of the officers were also casualties. Gorgoth was relieved to hear that Modryn Oreyn was alive – he would need a strong Champion to help him in the first few months of his rule of the Fighters Guild – but Gurbol gro-Rugob and all but eighty-six of his horsemer had fallen, along with most of their horses. Gothren Sadri was dead and most of his Dunmeri with him, and so were Captains Ulrich Leland and Dion, along with the Grand Champion of the Arena. Arch-Mage Merissa was on the brink of death, and most of the Fighters Guild had been decimated. Captain Burd had lost a hand, but insisted on continuing his duties, pointing out that it was only his left hand. The military arm of the Blades had almost been wiped out; just over forty remained who were fit for battle.
Some of Aerin's light-heartedness gave way to sobriety as she recounted the grievous losses the Imperials had suffered, but hints of awe were evident in her voice as she spoke of acts of individual heroism. "Huzei says Saliith killed at least a dozen Daedra even with their blades sticking out of him," she said as she checked over his heavy chainmail shirt. "Ulrich Leland was a corrupt bastard, but he fought on with a dagger when his sword broke. When he lost that, he fought on with fists and teeth until they chopped his head off. Uriel Signus supposedly killed over twenty Dremora before getting killed saving Gnaeus."
"They fought well and died bravely in a battle that will be sung about for ages to come," grunted Mazoga as she picked up his breastplate and backplate. "Can't ask for more than that." She leaned forward to secure the plate armour over his chest and back, her fingers working expertly at the straps. "The Orcs you took from Burzukh are dead, every one. At least they died honourably."
"True. But it is the living that concern me more at the moment." He kept still, letting the two of them work at his armour; helping himself would only impede them, and once he returned to rule in Manruga he would have to get used to multiple battle-servants doing this for him. "Tell me of Martin and Ocato and their plans. They must leave to light the Dragonfires sooner rather than later."
"We'll be leaving before noon with considerable strength, but that's all we know so far," responded Aerin as her small, deft fingers tightened straps that Mazoga's thick hands were having trouble with. "And noon's only two hours away, so ya'd better hurry up with whatever you're planning, big guy."
"I am planning something?" he asked her, looking down at her and arching one eyebrow slightly.
She blushed slightly and turned her head away. "I might not know ya as well as some, big guy, but I know when you've got something on your mind. I think." Mazoga snorted but said nothing.
Gorgoth shook his head. "I plan to find Martin and Ocato and learn their plans for getting to the Dragonfires as quickly as possible. Camoran might be defeated, but until this war is over, Martin still needs me at his side." Mazoga fastened his steel-link sword belt around his waist, the Thornblade and his Akaviri dai-katana already attached, along with several potions. The oath he had sworn to Jauffre required him to place that katana at Martin's feet when the war was over, but he wouldn't miss being part of the Blades; he had a guild to run and a province to rule.
Aerin stepped back from fastening his greaves and looked down at her feet, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Now almost fully armoured, Gorgoth sat down on the nearest chair and pulled on his steel boots himself as Mazoga fetched Blood King and Sinweaver. "What is troubling you?" he asked the Bosmer.
She looked up and met his gaze. Her eyes were nervous, and held fear, but also held a hint of steel in them as well. "Would you ever rape me?" she asked bluntly. Mazoga whirled so quickly that Sinweaver almost slid from her hands.
He folded his arms and returned her gaze, tilting his head slightly and tapping one of his canines. She didn't flinch or blink. Yes, she truly had grown. He liked that. "No," he replied eventually. "Not you. Not ever you."
"Why?"
The hint of a smile threatened to pluck at his lips. He forced the urge down. "Lurog was a good Orc. A good soldier. No, better than good. I would never betray him. I would always watch his back in battle, and he would always watch mine. I would suffer for him. I would do much for him, no matter the cost, through fire and defeat. Because I liked him, and respected him." He leaned back in his chair. "No, Aerin. I would not rape you. I would bring death and slaughter down upon those who would. Because somehow, in our months of fighting together, you have wormed your way under my skin and earned my friendship and respect." He paused. "Somewhat. You are no Lurog." And no Urag, nor a Dura, nor a Krognak, nor a Burzukh, before he betrayed me. But his mercenary company was dead or scattered, and it would be unfair to compare a barely-mature Bosmer to battle-hardened Orcs.
Aerin gazed at him blankly for a few seconds before a grin spread across her face. "That's... good ta know, Gorgoth," she said, turning to the side and scratching at her nose as if embarrassed.
He got up so Mazoga could fasten the steel-link belt that crossed his chest, holding Blood King and Sinweaver to his back. "You talked to Callia." It was not a question, and her wince was answer enough. "Yes, her mother's blood is on my hands, though it was not my intention to kill her. I have raped many times, and would willingly do it again; women of a conquered enemy are spoils of war to do with as I wish. This, and so many other things, are as old as war itself." He shook his head. "You will form your own opinion of me, Aerin, untainted by what anyone else thinks of me. That is all I ask. Should you wish to have nothing more to do with me, I will understand. Your way is not the way of Malacath." He might not agree with any other ways, but he did respect the right of others to choose their own path, however weak it was. So many Orcs lacked that kind of empathy, but he knew it was a strength; forcing others to ways of thinking that were not their own would only alienate them.
The Wood Elf blinked, unable to completely conceal her shock. He thought he heard her mutter something about layers as she rubbed her nose, her eyes darting around the room as she thought, looking anywhere but at him. Mazoga finished securing his belt and stepped back, his helmet in her hands.
"Ya know..." Aerin finally looked back up at him, stepping closer. He could smell the dried sweat and blood on her leathers, relics of the battle. "Has anyone ever compared ya to an onion, Gorgoth? Every time I think I'm getting to know ya, another layer peels off."
He resisted the sudden urge to smirk. "I have never heard the comparison made before. But I can tell you that you have peeled most of my layers back."
She pouted. "Most? Not all?"
Gorgoth shrugged. "Not even Mazoga or my King knows my heart. Not truly. I doubt anyone ever will." He would recount his entire past to someone if he felt the need, but his own personal torment... that was his, eternally locked within his heart.
The archer rolled her eyes and stepped closer, beckoning for him to lower his head before rising up on her tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek. She dropped back down onto her heels and smirked as he cocked an eyebrow. "I've been thinking, big guy, and you might just be the best thing that's ever happened ta me."
This time, he raised both eyebrows. "Even after all the pain you've been through? Even better than Ilend?"
She snorted. "I'm not in pain right now, am I? I survived. And I love Ilend with all my heart, but I wouldn't have met him if you hadn't come along. If I hadn't met ya in the Arena grounds, hadn't been so damned bored that I persuaded ya ta take me along, I'd... still be there, probably. Or most likely rotting in the sewers." She shook her head. "It was hard at first, Gorgoth, but ya saved me from a base existence, scraping what I could from the Arena, and actually gave me purpose. And I fell in love with an unshaven, unwashed half-bear along the way." A broad smile crept across her face as she took his gauntleted hand in both of hers. "Gorgoth, ya gave my life meaning. How could I not like ya?"
"You might be giving me too much credit, Aerin," he replied. "Yes, I offered you a different path. But you could have stopped and gone back at any time, and life back at the Arena might well have been easier. You had the strength to keep going and realise that your life's calling did not involve rotting at the Arena."
"And I'd have been mad ta go back. Either way, Gorgoth... I wanted to thank you. From the depths of my heart. Truly. If..." She hesitated before dropping to her knees and bowing her head, still holding his hand. "If there's anything ya ever need, I'll... I'll try ta help ya. Just let me know."
The warrior-shaman let a slight smile curve his lips upward as he pulled her back to her feet and placed his free hand on her shoulder. "I'll keep you in mind, Aerin," he promised. "I'd advise you to join the Guild. It would be easier for me to find you there, and I am already planning-"
She laughed, cutting him off. "Don't worry, Guildmaster, Ilend already convinced me there. I'll be going with him to Kvatch; he's reforming the Guild branch there. I'll join as soon as the war's over."
He nodded. "Good. We've taken heavy casualties in the battle, and rebuilding will take time." Withdrawing his hand from hers, he looked out one of the windows, taking his helmet from Mazoga and hanging it from the hook on his sword belt. "Time is pressing on, my friend. Is there anything else you wanted?"
"Apart from trying ta convince ya to take a bath?" She wrinkled her nose before laughing. "Nah, I haven't washed in ages either. Ilend doesn't seem ta mind. Then again, he smells even worse."
"We all smell better than we would rotting in a mass grave." The warrior-shaman looked over his armour again despite knowing that it wouldn't have changed from when he'd given it a thorough examination the night before. There were scratches in various places on the dark steel, and a few small dents, but nothing that would compromise his protection even slightly. "Come. We should make preparations to leave. You will be coming with us, I assume?"
She nodded as all three of them walked towards the door. "I've come this far. Me and Ilend are both going ta see it through ta the end." She grinned as she preceded him through the door. "Might even hear ya laugh before the end of it. I've never heard ya laugh, big guy."
"And I doubt you ever will. It's been so long that I might have forgotten how." He had been serious even as a child, apparently, but he'd have laughed even then. All his humour had died with his mother. He shook his head as he left his chambers. "I need to find Martin and Ocato. Where..." His voice trailed off as Ilend hurried up the long hallway of the Royal Wing.
The Imperial had clearly fought long and hard; his chainmail was torn in several places, his shield almost destroyed, and his bearded face was still slightly haggard even after resting, but his eyes were still alert. "Good to see you, Gorgoth," he said, nodding in greeting. "I was looking for you. Two people just entered the temple looking for you. Dralasa and a big Orc called Krognak."
"Krognak? Krognak gro-Durak?" Ilend shrugged. "I thought he was dead," muttered Gorgoth, pushing past him and walking swiftly for the exit. The last time he'd seen Krognak – a loyal friend and one of the best swords in his old mercenary company – had been just before Gorgoth's head had been caved in by a mace several months ago, leading to his transportation to Cyrodiil in chains.
"You thought he was dead?" asked Mazoga, quickly catching up to walk beside him. "What happened after I left for Skyrim?"
"He was in the same traitorous ambush that saw me captured and sent to Cyrodiil. I assumed they'd killed or executed everyone, and King Gortwog didn't mention it." He only remembered parts of that fateful day; the mace blow to his head had done damage, but he distinctly remembered his entire squad getting cut down around him by the well-placed enemy battlemages. Silenced, and a victim of the most deadly weapon in warfare – the element of surprise – he could dimly recall smashing several legionaries aside as he attempted to fight his way towards the battlemages. He couldn't remember what had happened to Krognak, but he hadn't expected him to be among the living.
A light snow had started to fall as clouds spread across the sky, but the warrior-shaman ignored it as his gaze fell upon the two elves standing by a brazier in the nearly deserted courtyard. Dralasa Helas appeared completely unchanged by the war; her cream silk dress was barely wrinkled and she'd even had time to apply a bit of makeup before making the journey from Bruma. She seemed a bit tired, but there was no other sign that she had driven herself to exhaustion in a pitched battle just two days ago.
Krognak gro-Durak, on the other hand, had clearly been fighting recently; his dark steel plate armour was scratched and dented in various places, and dried Daedric blood was still evident in folds in the steel. The warrior was a heavily-built Orc, just two inches shorter than Gorgoth and almost as wide. He was young – only twenty-four – but his black war braids were long, hanging down to the middle of his back. His broad, rugged face bore a few scars already, and his large yellow eyes had seen more fighting than many Orcs far older than him. The massive greatsword on his back was taller than most Bretons, and his skill with the blade was considerable for one so young.
Upon seeing Gorgoth, the warrior's grin almost split his face in two. "Gorgoth!" he bellowed, quickly striding across the courtyard and enveloping his old friend in one of his characteristic crushing hugs. The entire fortress had probably heard him; his powerful voice could easily be heard on the battlefield. "It's been far too long, my friend," he continued in a quieter tone. "I almost thought you'd forgotten about me." He laughed as though to indicate the absurdity of that thought.
The warrior-shaman allowed himself a small smile as he returned his comrade's embrace. Krognak was a rarity among the Orcs who he had gathered to live with after leaving his father's influence; he actually had a kind soul. He'd never raped a woman in his life and he even gave to beggars on occasion. Lurog had often commented that Krognak's big heart had more than made up for Gorgoth's apparent lack of one. While the warrior was an implacable enemy on the battlefield who often fought with unbridled ferocity, his mighty voice was far more often raised in song and laughter than in anger, and he was free with the wealth he'd earned as a mercenary in Gorgoth's company. "I hadn't heard any news of you in months," he said as his comrade's grip finally loosened. He could almost feel the curiosity of Ilend and Aerin behind them; they were speaking in Orcish.
Krognak snorted. "The same can't be said of you," he replied, stepping back and looking his old captain up and down, his gaze lingering on the belt buckle of his sword belt, fashioned in the shape of a clenched steel fist. "When I first heard of the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch, I was too busy fighting Daedra to pay much attention. Then I heard more about him, and I knew it was you." He grinned again, exposing his full set of impressive teeth. "There aren't many seven-foot stone-faced Orcish warrior-shamans in Cyrodiil, after all. You always do seem to leave a pile of smoking, dismembered corpses behind you wherever you go. Easy to follow the trail." He laughed, slapping the warrior-shaman's shoulder. His eyes slid sideways and settled on Mazoga. "And look who it is! Haven't seen you in years, Maz!" He shouldered past Gorgoth and grabbed Mazoga in a hug so tight she was lifted off her feet.
"You took your time," Mazoga managed to wheeze, creditably not even wincing as the air was forced from her lungs.
Behind them, Aerin cleared her throat. "I assume ya know this guy, Gorgoth?" she asked, looking on with a raised eyebrow as Krognak put Mazoga back down.
"You could say that," responded the warlord. "Aerin, Ilend, this is Krognak gro-Durak of Wrothgaria, a friend of mine for five years and a good warrior. His Cyrodilic is not good, but he believes that if he shouts loud enough that won't matter." He stepped back and indicated the two of them to his old comrade, switching to Orcish. "Krognak, these two are Ilend Vonius and Aerin. She's one of the best archers I've ever met and is almost as deadly in her own way as Arathor. Ilend is a good soldier who's probably closed more Oblivion Gates than you have. They've both been good companions to me for months now."
"Any friend of Gorgoth's is a friend of mine," announced the Orc, stepping forward and gripping the shoulder of each of them, his wide smile breaking any confusion that the language barrier might have caused. "Not that he has many friends. Ha! Took me long years to earn the right to be called that."
"I've got no idea what you're saying, but ya seem like a friendly Orc," Aerin told him, returning his smile even as she winced at the pressure on her shoulder.
Gorgoth was distracted by an insistent tugging on his arm. Dralasa never had been the most patient of Dunmer. He turned towards her and found his vision blocked by her fiery mane of hair as she leapt up and wrapped her arms and legs around him in typical Dralasa fashion. "I missed you," she told him in between kissing him on both cheeks.
"I can tell," he replied, one of his arms snaking around her slim body to squeeze her against his armour. He'd always thought it would be uncomfortable for her, but she never seemed to mind. "I heard you did something useful for once." From what he'd heard, the Dark Elf had been throwing death and destruction at the Daedra until the very end of the battle, at which point she'd collapsed from exhaustion.
She pulled back and snorted, her eyes mere inches from his own. "Well, I had to prove I'm more than just 'that Dunmer who fucked half the army'." Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to rest on Krognak briefly. "Besides, that big bastard over there made it all worthwhile afterwards." He was used to seeing that wicked smile spread across her face; it often did when she referred to Krognak. The two of them were so close and had shared blankets so many times that they might as well have been lovers.
"He often does." He unwrapped her legs from around him and put her back down onto the paving stones of the courtyard. "When did he get here?"
"When the Legion did. Turned out he'd fallen in beside them on the Silver Road after closing a Gate almost by himself."
The Orc nodded. "He would." Krognak was a fighter of immense skill and a complete lack of self-preservation if he saw something worth fighting for. Turning, he resisted the urge to smile. The large Orc was between Ilend and Aerin with an arm wrapped around each, attempting to teach them Orcish. From the bemused expressions on their faces, he wasn't having much success. "Krognak. Could I have a few words in private?" He turned away as his old friend extricated himself, moving up towards the outer wall of the temple as the warrior fell in beside him. Mazoga stayed back with the others; she knew that 'in private' would exclude her, however much she resented it.
He was straight to the point, as ever. "The ambush that felled me was perfectly executed and well-planned. How did you escape it?"
His comrade snorted, looking out over the Gate-strewn valley. "They Silenced you, but not me. I'm no shaman, but that magic you taught me helped me get away." He shook his head, his grin fading. "It didn't feel good, running away like that, but when I saw you fall... someone had to tell the King. And he had his revenge, but we all thought you lost." His grin returned quickly. "Ha! More fools us, eh? It takes more than a mace to the head and a trip to prison to kill you."
"Many others have tried and failed since then." Some almost succeeded. "I'm sure you've heard much about my accomplishments. What about yours? You will not have been idle."
Krognak laughed. It was often said that only his battle roar was louder than his laugh. "Sat on my arse for a few weeks. Drank a few taverns dry in your memory. Then Oblivion Gates started opening up, and I went in and closed them. Soon enough I was leading a company, like you did with us back in the good old days, except all we did was fight Daedra and close Gates." He patted the hilt of the greatsword on his back, smiling fondly as they approached a watch tower. It was manned by a legionary; most of the Blades were still resting and recovering from the siege. "Then Dagon finally learnt that he wasn't going to crack Orsinium. King Gortwog, in all his wisdom, sent an army to help clear eastern High Rock of Daedra. We were bloodying them when I first heard news of you. Packed my bags and left at the first opportunity."
"I knew you would be in the thick of it. It was always like you to throw yourself where the fighting was thickest." He stopped and leaned against the outer wall, looking sideways at his comrade. "Some of those scars on your armour are new."
"And your lack of hair is new is well. Never thought I'd see the day when my hair was longer than yours. Who defeated you, Gorgoth? Remind me never to cross him."
"You won't. He's dead by my hand." He noticed the other Orc's raised eyebrow. "Mankar Camoran, the leader of the Mythic Dawn, the cult behind assassinating Uriel VII and letting these gates open across Tamriel. He struck me down and forced me to my knees, but made the mistake of giving me the opportunity to get back up."
"Wasn't really a defeat then, was it?" Getting no reaction, Krognak punched his shoulder and laughed again. "You always were too stiff in your honour, you old statue. Well, you can still beat me bloody in the practice yard, and that's all I need to know. And you're a lord now to boot. Should I bow and scrape and call you Lord Gorgoth?"
Gorgoth finally let a small smile curve his lips upward. He had missed Krognak. "Malacath himself would have trouble taming you," he said. "All I ask of you is that you keep your sword sharp and watch my back. And keep your wits about you; everyone thinks you have less than you actually possess. You never know what may be lurking in the shadows, and a warlord casts a long shadow."
The warrior chuckled, gazing out over the landscape. Smoke was still rising from the charred ruins of Gates, and snow was melting before it even reached the ground anywhere near them. "That he does. My sword is yours, Gorgoth. As it always has been. I'll swear a Bloodguard's oaths, if you'll have me. Not good for you to have no one to watch your back." His tone grew serious, and his wide mouth turned down at the corners. "Dralasa told me about Lurog. The old bastard died well, but how I wish he'd lived."
"What we wish is of no concern to anyone, least of all me. What concerns me is reality." The warrior-shaman started idly tapping his canine. "Dralasa claims you closed an Oblivion Gate on your way here, almost on your own."
Krognak snorted. "You know Dral. She exaggerates everything. I had eight sellswords with me who'd fallen in beside me on the journey, and only one of them came out alive with me. I had to drink most of my potions as well, and my magicka ran dry." The Orc's magic was both a blessing and a curse to him; he was passable in Destruction, Mysticism and Alteration, and had a small magicka pool to call upon, but being born under the Atronach had stunted its regeneration. "I saw that even more were ahead of me, between me and Bruma, so I sat down on a nearby rock and started to think about how I could get through them when the Legion's outriders found me. I offered them my sword and we punched through. Daedra are good fighters, but they can't stand against fourteen thousand of the Empire's finest."
"Indeed they could not. All the soldiers in the world will be of no use, however, if we linger here too long." Gorgoth took one last look over the scorched earth below them then turned away, walking off in the direction of the Great Hall. "This war should end soon. Martin will be lighting the Dragonfires as soon as he gets to the Imperial City. That will stop Dagon from opening Gates."
"And as we both know, anything including 'should' is never as simple as it sounds." Krognak chuckled. "Well, I've had a bellyful of Oblivion. Dagon can go bugger himself with his razor. Give me back enemies who stay dead and I'll be thankful." He always had been an elf of simple pleasures; Gorgoth might have been envious of his carefree, unburdened lifestyle if he allowed himself to feel envy.
The warrior-shaman nodded agreement then pushed open the doors to the Great Hall, striding in and looking around for the Emperor. Several of the benches were occupied by Blades in various states of readiness, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the armchairs around the fire. Two Blades standing guard behind one betrayed Martin's presence, and another of the chairs was occupied by High Chancellor Ocato, still in full armour. Gorgoth walked up and saluted them. "Emperor. When are we leaving for the Imperial City?"
Martin looked up. His face had more lines than when the warlord had first met him, and his eyes still spoke of fatigue, but there was determination there as well. He too was wearing his armour, and Goldbrand was attached to his sword belt. "Within the hour," he responded, rising. "You needed your rest, but I was going to send to wake you soon enough. We'll be ready to move once you have eaten. You need your strength."
Gorgoth nodded agreement, taking note of the feeling of hunger gnawing at his wounded stomach. "What's the plan of action?"
"Ocato will leave part of one of his legions here and take the rest back with us as escort, with General Phillida in overall command. We'll move too slowly if we stick to the infantry's pace, so our personal guard will consist of cavalry only, but there'll still be at least two thousand of us, with nearly seven thousand close by. Dagon won't stop us." Martin's voice full of confidence, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he placed a hand on Gorgoth's shoulder. "The war is all but over, my friend."
"It's over when the Dragonfires are lit and the barriers are restored. Not a minute sooner." The warrior-shaman's hand closed over the Thornblade's hilt. "Do not let your guard down, my Emperor. Wars can be won and lost in the last minute of a conflict."
Martin nodded. "Have no fear on that count. Even if I intended to relax my security, the captain of my bodyguard wouldn't let me get away with it. She even insisted I don my armour as soon as I got up this morning, for fear of a last-ditch assassination attempt." Behind him, Captain Renault was wearing a small, satisfied smile.
Ocato cleared his throat and stepped forward, studying Gorgoth intently."Yes... you definitely have the air of a Hero about you," he said after a few seconds. "I've met four in my time, and you've all been alike in some way..." He shook himself and adopted a more businesslike demeanour. "But enough about that. It is good to meet you, Gorgoth, Saviour of Cyrodiil."
The Orc snorted. "Is that what they're calling me now?" The truth was growing increasingly ironic. "No, do not tell me. It's not important. Your arrival was most fortuitous, High Chancellor, though you certainly delayed long enough." He saw Martin's curious glance over his shoulder to where Krognak was standing. "Emperor, this is Krognak gro-Durak, an old friend of mine. He came in with the Legion after closing a nearby Gate. Do not expect much courtesy from him, though." Krognak smirked at him and nodded informally to Martin as though greeting an equal on the training field. "Or speech. His Cyrodilic is limited."
"Every sword is welcome," responded Martin civilly, returning the Orcish warrior's nod before turning back to Gorgoth. "But now, head to the canteen. I won't have you collapsing from weakness or hunger during the ride south; we won't be stopping much." He paused. "I didn't mention it, but it's good to see you back, Gorgoth. At points, there were doubts..." He shook his head and let his voice trail off.
"I do not blame the doubters. From what I hear, you seemed to be on the brink of defeat here. Hope often fails in such circumstances. That is why I put no trust in hope." He placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. "It might seem like the worst is over, but Dagon will throw whatever he can at us. We must remain vigilant."
Panting, Gnaeus let his arm drop to his side, the wooden practise sword held loosely in his grasp. Sweat stained his clothing, and his body was a mass of bruises – both half-healed and fresh – but at least he'd shaken off the rust from his left arm. He'd never be as good as he used to be – his body was growing weaker – but at least he could now acquit himself reasonably well in practice. His opponent, Roliand, bore his own bruises, though he wasn't breathing nearly so hard.
"You getting tired, old man?" asked the big Nord jovially as his opponent stepped back and let his sword slide to the floor. They had the practise chamber to themselves; even Lathar was still resting, exhausted from battle. Roliand had been the only Blade willing to spar with the ex-hermit, largely because he was more rested than his fellows after being taken off combat duty early in the battle. His comrades were already starting to call him Roliand One-Eye.
"I just didn't want to humiliate you any more, you hulking imbecile," growled Gnaeus, walking over to lean against the bare wall. "I know for a fact you won't be proud that you got killed that many times by a cripple three times your age." He wanted nothing more than to slump down into bed and sleep, but he refused to let his weakness be shown so evidently.
The Knight Brother snorted, retrieving his sword belt from the far wall."I'll just use the eye as an excuse," he replied, tapping the black bandage that wound around his head, hiding the empty socket where his left eye used to be. "Or the fingers. I can't hold a shield like I used to." He looked down at his left hand, where his little and ring fingers ended in smooth stumps.
Gnaeus harrumphed. "I'm missing an entire bloody arm, you simple-minded ingrate." He waved his arm dismissively. "Go on, get out of here. Bugger off and leave an old man to his thoughts. It's not like I have much else left."
Roliand paused at the exit with a slightly pained look on his face. It made him appear constipated. "Gnaeus..."
"Leave, you oaf. It's hard for me to find shorter words to penetrate your thick skull, but I'll try if you keep bothering me."
The Nord still waited for a few more seconds before finally nodding and leaving. Grunting, the ex-hermit let his legs collapse and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, staring down at the stump of his right arm. He'd fought long and hard during the battle for Cloud Ruler Temple, eventually taking a spear through the thigh and getting dragged from the battle. After being healed, he'd slept until the battle was over, and despite still being weak from blood loss, the first thing he'd done upon waking - after eating – was to collar Roliand and drag him down to the practise room. Even that had exposed him too much. The Blades tried to hide their expressions, but he could see the pity and sympathy in their eyes, even a desire to help. He wanted none of it; Gnaeus Magnus simply wanted to die.
After leaving Whiterock, Selene had been his only reason to live; the girl wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in the real world without him, consumed by grief as she was and completely innocent of the realities of life. He'd even cared for her, after a fashion, but then she'd been killed by the lich-king of Miscarcand. After that, rage had consumed him, and he'd distanced himself from his allies, instead finding anything he could to occupy him and take his find away from his own self-destructive anger. Bandits had been felled by the dozen, and the various beasts of the Cyrodilic forest had felt the edge of his broadsword. He'd even slain a group of necromancers and their foul creations, and Meridia had given him the Ring of Khajiiti as reward.
None of it had given him peace or satisfaction; not that he ever wanted peace. All he wanted was to die on a battlefield with a sword in his hand and the bodies of his enemies at his feet, stubbornly resisting to the end. And he'd tried his best, at the Battle of Bruma and afterwards, yet he still remained alive somehow. In the heat of battle, his thoughts had been buried under adrenaline, but now he could curse Uriel Signus for saving him from Chaxil and dying for it, now he could curse the nameless soldier who had found his body and curse the healer who had made sure he survived.
He sighed. None of this cursing would help him, and he certainly wasn't about to take his own life; suicide was the coward's way out. Besides, it took two hands to slit a wrist properly. But the war was almost over; he was running out of chances. The Imperial's body was growing weaker every day, not helped by his ambivalent approach to sustaining it. He hadn't eaten for two days prior to his breakfast earlier in the morning, and he hadn't changed his clothes since the Battle of Bruma; he probably smelled worse than a pig with irritable bowels.
Footsteps from outside reached his ears, and the old Imperial snarled in frustration as he forced himself to his feet, staggering precariously. Couldn't these intrusive fools leave him well enough alone? Some had offered him alcohol, but he refused to contemplate going down that path. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as the door swung open to admit Ilend, armed and armoured as though ready for battle. "What do you want, boy?" asked Gnaeus acidly. "Some advice on bedding that handful of yours? She hasn't worn you out yet? Looks the type."
Instead of reacting angrily, as he might have in the past, the Guildsman merely smirked and closed the door behind him. "She certainly tries," he admitted, rubbing the black beard that now covered his lower face. It made him look better, but Gnaeus certainly wasn't about to tell him that. His own close-cropped white facial hair was the only part of his appearance that he still paid much attention to. "But I can find my own way with her well enough," continued Ilend. "No, I'm just here to tell you that we'll be moving out in twenty minutes. Apparently, you hadn't heard already."
The ex-hermit pursed his lips. "I hadn't." In truth, he hadn't given any thought as to what Martin's next step would be; he was too consumed by his own problems.
"Well, now you know. I figured you'd want to come with us. You've certainly been active in this war." The Guildsman looked around at the empty practise room. "And from what I hear, you've been training or fighting non-stop since you lost your arm. I know a death wish when I see one."
Gnaeus snorted. "An old man wants to die well. Your point?"
Ilend shrugged. "No point. Just an observation." He placed a hand on his sword belt. "I'd offer you a healing potion, but seeing as you'd have no use for it, I'd best keep all I can. There's not many left in the Temple." He turned to leave.
"Wait." The younger Imperial looked over his shoulder, a curious expression on his face. Gnaeus struggled with his words for a few seconds; he hadn't thought about this topic or a long time. "I have a family," he finally managed. "At least, I think I do. I haven't heard from them in decades. They live in Anvil, the Magnus household. Anyone should be able to direct you to it. My parents will be dead by now, but my little brother Talin... he might be alive." His voice was starting to strain from forcing the words out, but he felt it important that he not die completely unforgotten.
The Guildsman started scratching his beard again. "And you want me to bring them word of your death?"
"You're quicker on the uptake than I thought you'd be. Yes. When I'm dead, bring them my sword." He looked down at the ebony broadsword in its scabbard. It was a good sword, and old; he'd used it extensively in his career as a mercenary before leaving for Whiterock. It had no magical enchantments, but it cut better than any steel and would last for millennia with proper maintenance. "It'll be no use to me after I'm dead. They might have need of it. Or not. I don't care, really. But it feels..." He struggled with the words. "I just want them to know I'm dead, instead of wondering what happened to me."
"Like they probably have been for the last thirty-five years?" Ilend chuckled. "Don't worry; if you fall in battle, I'll bring them your sword, if I survive. But it's unlikely that there'll be many more battles now. The war's nearly over."
"I know that, whelp. That's what I'm worried about." Gnaeus waved a dismissive hand. "Go on, go and fuck your horny wench. I'll be out in a few minutes. Not to watch you, of course, but to get ready to leave." Ilend left, hiding his smirk behind his hand. The ex-hermit harrumphed as he left. "At least that beard doesn't make you look like such a long-haired ponce any more!" he shouted at the closing door.
Once again, he was left alone with his thoughts. In a few minutes, he would finally leave and gather what meagre possessions he had, but first he wanted to contemplate what he'd just done. Would his family even remember him? His parents were surely long dead, and Talin was the only other relative who would know him well. They'd never got on, he and his little brother, which was probably why Gnaeus had left to join a mercenary band so early in life when Talin was still only a teenager. They'd had sporadic contact since, but apart from a short note to his family, Gnaeus had told no one of his intention to emigrate and become a hermit; the entire point of leaving the world behind was to not be troubled by it again.
He didn't know if Talin hated him or had forgotten about him, or whether he would even care about this final act of closure, but Gnaeus himself felt slightly relieved. At the very least, he wouldn't be completely forgotten as just another corpse in this bloody war. And at least his sword wouldn't go to waste. It was a good sword.
Sighing, Gnaeus straightened his back and worked his neck before walking over to the door. The time for thinking was past; he would be dead soon, and he was determined that he would die as any man should.
Bruma's main road from north to south had been bordered by teeming masses eager to cheer on their heroic Emperor, so progress had been slow, but after the two thousand cavalry had left the city, they sped up, leading the rest of the Legions to make the best pace they could. Even then, the speed was not quick enough for Martin, who detached a much smaller bodyguard of less than a hundred and pressed on southward as the sun started to fall. Thirty of them were Ocato's bodyguard, and forty more were Blades; Grandmaster Steffan had all but emptied Cloud Ruler Temple and taken personal command of the Emperor's bodyguard.
They had reached the point where the Silver Road met the Ring Road when the Emperor finally called a halt, long after the sun had sank beneath the horizon. It was a clear night, and Masser and Secunda provided more than enough illumination as the small advance party set up camp, the Blades maintaining rigid security. They had seen no Gates on their southwards journey, but they were not about to let their guard down. The group was encamped to the south of the crossroads, far enough away from the road to avoid any casual detection by marauding Daedra but close enough to know if the Legion appeared during the night. Lake Rumare was barely visible through the trees over a mile to the south.
Gorgoth left the rest behind to help make camp, walking slowly towards the lake and stopping to lean against a tree, removing his helmet and folding his arms as he studied the distant Imperial City. The leafless canopy was thin here, and he could make out White Gold Tower silhouetted against the night sky. Dark storm clouds were gathering in the east, but they were normal rain clouds; there was no Oblivion Gate in sight. Apart from the distant sounds of movement and conversation some way behind him, the night was quiet. The grass was damp beneath his boots, and the smell of wet leaves filled the air. For a few moments, a poetic idealist might like to forget that the world was gripped in a savage struggle for survival. But Gorgoth gro-Kharz was a stark realist, and peace was something he would never know.
Footsteps crunching through the leaves behind him turned his head slightly, and Martin came into his peripheral vision, staring towards the palace that he would soon be ruling from. He was still in full armour, and the Blades had made sure he would remain in it until they were certain he was safe. Two were shadowing him at the moment, standing a few feet away to give the two of them some semblance of privacy. "It's quiet," observed the Emperor, folding his arms and leaning back against a tree a few feet away in a pose similar to Gorgoth's. "Too quiet. This war has taught me much; this stillness seems ominous."
"It is the calm before the storm. Dagon will not be idle. And he will know where you are going."
The Imperial sighed, his eyebrows drawing down in a frown. "I would have moved on even faster if it would not kill the horses. I'm still half-convinced that you, me, Ocato, some Blades and a few remounts should press on and make it to the Temple of the One before noon tomorrow. With that water-walking plan you and he devised, it would be easy. And a lot faster."
"Faster is not necessarily easier. Not when we are tired and drained." He looked sideways at Martin. "You look tired, my Emperor. The ritual for lighting the Dragonfires is not complicated, according to Ocato, but fatigue can make even the simplest of magics harder." The aroma of cooking meat reached his nose. "Come. We should eat."
Cookpots of varying size were spread throughout the compact camp, and small knots of Blades and legionaries were squatting on logs or patches of dry earth, eating outside their hastily-pitched tents. Gorgoth, Martin and his two shadows stepped through the camp, returning greetings and successfully managing to avoid treading on anyone's toes before reaching the campfire closest to where Captain Renault had pitched the Emperor's tent. A handful of Blades scrambled to rise and salute him, but the Imperial waved them back down before taking his seat on a log beside two of his bodyguards. Gorgoth was tempted to join him, but spotted Krognak waving to him and instead made his way over to his comrade's fire.
Most of the company not affiliated with either the Blades or the Legion had ended up around the Orcish warrior's fire; Gnaeus Magnus was sitting furthest from the fire, while Ilend and Aerin were sitting with their backs against the same tree. Mazoga and Dralasa were sitting either side of Krognak, who had an arm thrown around both of them. A large cookpot sat in the fire, a long-handled ladle sitting in a bubbling stew, the smell reminding the warrior-shaman that he hadn't eaten since midday. "Hope you're not too lordly now to draw your own stew, Gorgoth," remarked Krognak, laughing heartily as his old comrade approached.
"Never," responded the warrior-shaman as he removed his gauntlets. He took a bowl from where it hung from the rim of the cauldron and dipped the ladle, filling his bowl before sitting down on the ground beside Mazoga. Taking a spoon, he paused and looked around, noting the empty patches of ground where Lurog, Saliith and Selene would likely have sat had they still been alive. Suddenly he recalled the night before they had entered Miscarcand, when he'd thought that he hadn't expected to find such a varied group of companions. Varied and unusual they might have been, but they had been his comrades nonetheless; they had died good deaths, all of them, and he would always remember them; their deaths would not have been in vain.
As he filled his stomach with what tasted like mutton, Mazoga looked sideways at him. "What are we going to do after Martin lights the Dragonfires?" she eventually asked him.
"I haven't given it much thought. Our main focus right now is getting him there alive; thoughts for the future can come after that." He peered down into the murky depths of his half-empty bowl before meeting her eyes. "I would most likely travel back and forth between Orsinium and Cyrodiil, establishing my rule over Manruga and the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild. With luck, I'll be able to set up a teleportation system within months to ease the journey. After I am established, I have... unfinished business to deal with."
She winced, knowing exactly what he meant by that. "Will you at least wait for your child to be born first?"
"No. I have waited for over eighteen years now; I will not wait a single day more than necessary, not even for my firstborn. If I am defeated, there are those who would help you raise him or her; there is Krognak, or my cousin Gramaz. I have an aunt on my mother's side who would help you."
His lover glared at him. "You're not going to die."
A mirthless smile briefly touched his lips. "Everyone dies." He held up a hand to cut short her response. "I am no immortal, Mazoga. I will die one day. So will you. So will our child, and then their children, and then their children. As long as there is a cause worth fighting for in this world I will fight to the last, but I will always attract danger; you must be prepared to bury me or light my funeral pyre when the time comes."
She was searching for a reply when a hand clapped down on her shoulder from her other side. "Don't worry, Maz," proclaimed Krognak. "Knowing him, he'll outlive us all, and his whelps too. Can't see anyone ever being the end of him." Laughing through his nose, he turned back to emptying his third bowl.
"It would be better for you if you were to focus on the pleasures of today rather then the worries of tomorrow, just for now," the warrior-shaman told Mazoga.
Her eyes narrowed. "Better for me? Not for you?"
"I take little pleasure from anything. You, on the other hand, seem to take pleasure from much of the time you spend with me. It makes sense that our outlook on life should be different." He turned away, precluding any further comment, and stared into the fire, eating mechanically until his bowl was empty. The rustling of bushes nearby prompted a spell of life detection, but it was merely one of the sentries making his rounds. Mazoga had fallen silent, whereas Krognak and Dralasa were talking with their typical volume and intensity; their conversation would have been understood by half the camp if any of them spoke Orcish. Ilend and Aerin were talking quietly, each completely absorbed in the other, and Gnaeus was staring into the fire with an unreadable expression, his hand unconsciously stroking his sword hilt.
Gorgoth had heaved himself to his feet and brushed the leaves from his armour, intending to get another bowlful of mutton, when he heard Martin's voice approaching. Looking around, he saw the Emperor backing towards their fire, gesturing at the very reluctant figure of Captain Renault. "If I'm not safe with him, then I'm not safe anywhere. Go on, go back and eat something. You look like you're about to fall over at attention." The Breton reluctantly turned away, leaving Martin free to walk over to Krognak's fire, raising a hand to preclude anyone scrambling to their feet. Krognak and Dralasa's conversation paused before resuming, much more quietly than before.
"I don't mean to interrupt," started the Imperial, sighing contentedly as he sat down with his back to a tree, halfway between Gnaeus and Gorgoth. "But it gets a bit wearing when you're surrounded by subservience all the time. There are times when I just want to be treated like I was still a priest, back when life was simple." He shook his head, smiling sadly. "Still, I have my duty. Even so, it's good to sit for a few minutes in the company of some who see the man rather than the Emperor."
"I see both, but I blunt my speech for no one," responded Gorgoth. "You can speak freely here, Martin."
The Emperor nodded, shifting Goldbrand's hilt out of his ribs. "After I am crowned, my days will probably be filled with all the pomp and extravagance that goes with being ruler of Tamriel. I'll probably have to find a suitable bride to produce an heir, as well." He snorted, rubbing his chin in an attempt to disguise the sadness that had been momentarily evident in his features. "But, of course, these are all worries for the future. Right now... Gorgoth, I have a favour to ask. Not an order, not a request, a favour."
"Speak it."
"The more I get to know you, the more you intrigue me," replied Martin, looking at the warrior-shaman with an expression of undisguised interest. "Of course, Caius knows something of your past, but I have not asked him about it and nor do I intend to. I would much rather learn of your past from your own mouth, if you were ever inclined to indulge me." He paused, scratching the day-old stubble clinging to his chin. "I will understand if you refuse. My own past is not something I like to talk about."
Gorgoth tapped his canine, considering. His past was not something he revealed to anyone; it could all too easily be used against him, and there were certain parts of his history that he would sooner not revisit. Even King Gortwog – whom he trusted more than any man or mer alive – did not know everything, and Krognak and Mazoga even less. There was no logical reason to give Martin and the others anything more than a bare skeleton of his history, yet after all they had been through, he felt that they deserved something more. He respected each of them in their own way; Krognak, Dralasa and Mazoga he'd known for years, and the rest merely months, but war had a habit of forging strong bonds between comrades. Looking around with a spell of life detection, he saw no one else close enough to hear. Grunting, he stood, walking a few steps to stand by the fire. Silence had fallen over the immediate area, and every eye was on him; Ilend and Aerin had finally noticed something more than each other and had stopped their conversation. Even Gnaeus had raised his head.
"I want your oaths that you'll never repeat this to anyone," he said, looking around, his eyes even harder than normal.
"You have mine," responded Martin immediately. The rest followed suit, with Krognak going as far as drawing his dagger and slicing his hand open. Gnaeus shook his head and rose, evidently about to leave, only to grimace and sit back down again.
"What harm can it do?" he growled. "All right, greenskin, you've got my oath, for what it's worth. Tell your story. I'll try not to fall asleep."
The Orc folded his arms, staring down into the fire. "I was born on the second, Last Seed 3E 405." They were the exact words he'd said to Uriel VII beneath the Imperial Prison. It seemed liked years had passed since then, yet he was still only twenty-eight. There were times when he felt much older. "I was born in a tiny mud hut in one of the rougher parts of Nova Orsinium. It still wasn't much of a city back then. The Warp in the West was still twelve years away, and the nation of Orsinium had little power yet, constantly at war with the Bretons. But that is not so important."
"My mother was Kharz gra-Shagren, a prostitute. I take my name from her, rather than from my father, for reasons you will soon learn. My father normally visited her at least once a month, when he wasn't off fighting. One time he visited her when she was out of the herbs she normally used to prevent pregnancy. She refused him even when he told her he'd pay double. He ignored her protests and raped her, leaving me in her belly. I was lucky to survive even before I was born; she dosed herself with certain potions, but she couldn't afford anything of high quality, and so I survived to be born, much to her dismay." He looked around the small gathering, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Hers was a hard life; she barely made enough to keep herself clothed and fed, let alone to look after a useless infant. Her family and friends urged her to drown me somewhere, or to thrust me into the hands of my father, who did not even know of my existence until several months later."
He stopped briefly, unused to talking at such length, and looked around the small gathering again, casting another spell of life detection. After pausing to enhance it significantly, he continued. "Kharz did not need nor want an expensive, hungry son; I would take up much of her valuable time, cost her more than she could afford to keep; the life of a prostitute in Orsinium is not an easy one even now, and it was far worse back then. But from the moment her sister placed me into her arms, bloody and screaming, she did nothing but love me as her son." Emotions were threatening to rise within him, as he knew they would; he crushed them down again. "I often find love to be a source of great weakness, but it is undoubted that a mother's love is a powerful thing. She did everything for me, working long, arduous hours every night to keep me from going too hungry, even pushing herself to the brink of starvation when times grew hard." He turned away from the fire, starting to pace. "I wasn't always a stone-hearted stoic; what child could be?" Aerin had been wearing a look of surprise for some time; knowing her, she had probably thought he'd sprung from his mother's womb fully grown with a mace in his hand. "After all she did for me, all the love she gave me, how could I not return that? Yes, I loved my mother with all my heart; such unreserved love is a mistake I am not likely to repeat, but children are young and foolish. My lesson was most severe."
"You're still capable of love," interjected Mazoga, frowning.
"I am, though I am now much better at dealing with it. Should you die I doubt I would fall to pieces, and I would torture you to death if necessary." She'd known it already, most likely, but the pained grimace on her face meant that she still didn't like hearing it. "My early years were typical of the children in that rough part of Orsinium; I spent most of my days beating those smaller than me and getting beaten by those larger than me. Little did I know that my father was having me subtly watched. He had stopped seeing my mother after he'd raped her, but nonetheless he'd learnt of my existence a few months after I was born, and while he was no lord then, he still had power; power to watch over me, and a desire to claim me eventually, as he had no other children and no wife. But when he first tried to claim me when I was five, my mother rebuffed him. He tried again, and each time he got a refusal. Unlike most nations, Orcish womer tend to stand on their own two feet instead of relying on men. Short of violence or deception, he could do nothing to pry me away from her."
He paused then, stopping his pacing and staring into the middle distance. Of all his varied memories, this was the one that pained him the most. "When I was ten, he finally acted decisively. Knowing that my mother would never give me up willingly, he sent six of his most trusted Orcs to our house. They shoved me into a corner and made me watch as all six of them raped her and then tortured her to death. They left me alone with her after she was dead, and I was covered in her blood when my father walked in and pried me away from her, taking me back to his home." He could still see the blood-stained shack when he closed his eyes, could still see the mutilated ruin that had once been his mother. Gornakh's thugs had lacked the skill to keep her alive for days, but they had certainly known how to cause pain.
Looking around, he noted the varied expressions. Aerin wore a look of horror and was clutching Ilend so hard her arms were shaking; the Imperial himself wore an expression of mixed sympathy, shock and anger. Gnaeus had pursed his lips and spat, muttering something inaudible. A pained grimace twisted Martin's face, and he was leaning forward with a hand on his chin as though in deep thought. Mazoga, Dralasa and Krognak had heard this part of his tale before, but they were still affected; Krognak's ever-present grin had slid off his face for once. To stop his hands clenching into fists, the warrior-shaman rested them on the hilts of his dai-katana and the Thornblade before continuing. "My prison for several years was the Palace of Orsinium, for my father was Gornakh gro-Nagorm, brother to King Gortwog." Martin seemed unsurprised – he'd heard this before, most likely – but Aerin's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, I am third in line to the throne if you go by blood, but I am unlikely to ever rule Orsinium."
Aerin opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued over her. "I was brought to the Palace, big and strong for my age but still a ten-year old illiterate child with nothing but a burning hatred for his father. He recognised this from the start, yet he still sought the loyalty, love and respect a son should have for his father." He shook his head slowly. "My respect he has, if only for his skill on the field of battle, and as a Lord of Orsinium I owe him some loyalty, but I knew I would never love him even then. Yet he persisted, and over the years he and his teachers and warriors attempted to turn me into his minion. They gave me lessons, yes; I learnt how to read and write, I studied the nations of High Rock, and I was given brutal training in every weapon I could hold, in every style of fighting known to the Orcs. Gornakh was determined to make me a great warrior in spirit as well as in martial prowess, and in that at least he succeeded. I am now better than most of my former teachers."
"But he also sought to subdue my spirit, to make me completely loyal to him. When I resisted, I was flogged mercilessly, driven on without food or sleep for days, even weeks, but I would rather die than give up, and he didn't want to kill his only son. I always had been a serious, quiet child, but my mother's death and my father's brutalisation of me meant I withdrew completely within myself, building up the emotional armour that I still maintain to this day. Laughter and peace and fun became foreign to me, and my only smiles were bitter. My uncle the King was hard, but still kinder to me, yet he was often away fighting wars or engaged in diplomacy. My cousin Gramaz, the King's son, was only two years older than me, but Gornakh made sure we were kept apart. I was alone, friendless and bitter; my burning rage and desire for vengeance was the only thing pushing me onward at times; my greater understanding of life in general did not come until later. As I grew in strength and ability, my father still had no scrap of subservience from me, but I was still within his power completely. Then the shamans came for me."
"The shamans are a power in Orsinium?" asked Martin, frowning.
"Only where magical matters are concerned; they are sworn to the King like all others, and there is no recognised formation of them. Both of my parents were completely mundane, so it was thought odd that I should have such great magical power; indeed, I am one of the most naturally powerful shamans in Orsinium, though at the time I was only seventeen and a complete magical novice. They desired to train me and bring out my potential, and though my father was loath to part with me, he was eventually convinced to let me go to a series of isolated caverns deep in the Wrothgarians, where Orcish shamans pass on their knowledge. There was more than magic involved; this was before Gortwog started his Trinimac heresy, and like most Orcs I followed Malacath, but the shamans gave me a greater understanding of him. I even made a human sacrifice to him once." Aerin winced but didn't look away; she probably knew enough of his nature by now to not be too shocked.
"After seven long years of my father's domination, this was relative freedom, though the shamans drove me almost as hard as he did even on top of my relentless martial training. I learnt quickly, however, in all schools of magic; I have a fine grasp of all of them, most of all Illusion, though my training in Thaumaturgy and Necromancy left much to be desired; I am young yet, and I still have much to learn. But after two years, they were so satisfied with my progress that they let me go when Gornakh demanded my return, provided I kept up my studies. And so back to the Palace I went; recall that this was seven years after the Warp in the West, and Orsinium was now a great nation." Gnaeus snorted, but the Orc ignored him.
"I now had the power to kill my father if I so wished, but I did not; fighting a single combat with magic against a mundane opponent is dishonourable, and even then he had invested much in enchanting his armour to resist magic. Most of all, he was now a Lord of Orsinium; I resolved to kill him only when he would regard me as an equal."
"And you're now Lord of Manruga," observed Martin.
"Indeed. But back then I was still nothing. My training resumed, even harder than before – I doubt even Bloodguards and Bronze Shields have had harder training than me – but his attempts at forcing my subservience tailed off, though I was still forced to do his bidding at times. In time, he blooded me in battle, taking me along whenever we rode out to fight the Bretons or Redguards; quite common in those days, before the Bjoulsae campaign. He also sent me off on raids, leading other Orcs for the first time. My intense mental training had left me not only outwardly emotionless, but a good commander of mer as well, and my father noticed. He took me with him on the Bjoulsae campaign, and I ended up leading half the Orcish cavalry at the bloodbath that ended that war. My power and reputation grew; enough to worry my father. He was right to be worried."
"Damn right he was," muttered Krognak, his grin starting to creep back onto his face.
"I challenged him openly, in one of the corridors in the Palace. If he still had the strength to rule over me, he would have to prove it. At the time, I had no idea how I won that battle; my father was and still is one of the greatest warriors of Orsinium; even now he has an edge over me. More than that, he had Blood King." His hand reached over his shoulder to tap the great mace's head. "He was one of the weaker wielders, to be sure, but when his blood was up he was still unstoppable. But now I have reasoned out the details behind my victory; Blood King is no ordinary weapon. It has a kind of sentience, almost; it sensed that its wielder was battling an Orc who would be a stronger, better wielder, and so it betrayed Gornakh, sapping his energy instead of giving more power to his blows. Even then, he might have killed me, but I suspect he held something back; he could not truly bear to kill his only son. Eventually he collapsed, unable to continue, and I took Blood King as the new wielder. We would probably have both died of our wounds if King Gortwog had not summoned healers, but my father's dominance over me was at an end."
"And then good times began," claimed Krognak in his imperfect Cyrodilic, raising a flask that was almost certainly full of whiskey or some other strong spirit.
"If you can call them that." He had many memories of his time of relative freedom before coming to Cyrodiil. Not all of them were pleasant. "When I left my father, I had little; no money, no land, not even a reliable place to rest my head for the night. All I had was my armour, a greatsword, and Blood King. But that and my reputation was all I needed. Within months I had formed a small but strong mercenary group. Most of you have met some of the other members; Krognak was one, Lurog another, and so was Burzukh. Mazoga joined later. We moved from small conflict to small conflict, escorting merchants and finding odd jobs in between, when we weren't off raiding dungeons. It made us rich... but it wasn't the life I wanted."
"If I told you of every notable exploit of me and my comrades in that time, the sun would rise and set and rise again before I was finished. Much of Orsinium knows of them; Azani Blackheart, for one, was a feared and respected bandit lord before his ambush backfired and sent him fleeing from Orsinium. But one of my most effective acts is known only to very few, none of whom are here." Krognak and Mazoga raised their eyebrows almost in unison. "The Dark Brotherhood had a branch in Orsinium. Not very large, only nine assassins, but significant. Bretons often make use of the Brotherhood, but this was the only Sanctuary within hundreds of miles; Orcs prefer to be up front about our differences. Anyhow, I went about getting the Brotherhood's attention. I'd already started murdering long ago – at this point I was twenty-five - and now I finished a personal goal of mine; I killed the last of the six that had ravaged my mother. I perfected my skill at torture when I came to each one, and the last knew days of agony before finally dying. The Brotherhood could not fail to notice me."
"Why would you want to join them?" asked Ilend, frowning in confusion.
"To destroy them. The Brotherhood are known to be effective; what if they were contracted to murder King Gortwog? A concentrated effort by all nine of them put him in more danger than I was comfortable with. I passed all their initiation tests - I am not stealthy or underhanded, but my magic would make me an excellent assassin – and was welcomed to their Sanctuary as a Murderer. After subtly learning all I could about the Brotherhood, I waited until all nine were in the Sanctuary at once before I killed them all with Kathutet's help. He and King Gortwog are the only ones to ever know of that... apart from the Brotherhood's Black Hand, who covered it up as a Purification. I informed one of the lesser members of their deception some time ago; I cannot help but wonder if that seed has sown dissent in their ranks. But it matters not. I did my duty, and the Brotherhood has never visited Orsinium again."
"Impressive," remarked Martin. "Had it been the Dark Brotherhood instead of the Mythic Dawn, I doubt Uriel would have lived to have met you. I doubt I would have outlived him for long, either."
"It is fortunate that they are not stupid enough to hand Tamriel over to a Daedric Prince to rule." He walked back to his seat beside Mazoga and stood there, looking at each in turn. "There is little more to tell, unless you want specifics. I came to Cyrodiil through no fault of my own, met Uriel VII, become the Hero of Kvatch and returned to Orsinium, where I was made Lord of Manruga."
The Emperor studied him. "So you will soon return to Orsinium to fight your father, now that you are equals?"
"Not immediately. The Cyrodiil Fighters Guild needs my attention, as does Manruga; both have been without effective leadership for too long. When everything is well in hand, then I will challenge him. And one of us will die." His throat was dry from talking for so long. He took a swig from his hip flask – unlike Krognak's, this was filled with water rather than alcohol – and stepped away from Mazoga. "For now, though, I need to be alone with my thoughts. Excuse me." Before anyone could respond, he was walking into the trees, away from the main body of the camp.
He was walking away from the road, deeper into the wood. The person huddling behind the thick tree – their life signature perfectly clear, as it had been ever since he'd cast the spell – didn't have time to run. His arm lashed out and hauled Callia Petit out from her hiding place, dragging her along with him as he walked, ignoring her increasingly loud protests. He finally stopped some distance from the camp, well out of earshot; his spell of life detection showed nothing nearby but a fox slinking through the bushes. "I knew you were there, and I knew it was you," he said, cutting off her questions as he cast a very dim Light spell. "If it had been anyone else, I would have removed them, but you... I knew you would find my past interesting."
She wrenched free of his grasp and stood glaring up at him, the glow of the Light spell sending odd shadows across her bare head. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off again. "You hate me for what I did to you and your family, I know, but now you know that I suffered far worse... at the hands of my own family. Your mother was never torn apart by your father. You were never your father's slave for over a decade. Your hatred of me is nothing compared for the loathing I have for Gornakh."
The glare had faded slightly, replaced by a look of thoughtfulness. She looked off to the side for a few seconds, audibly grinding her teeth, then looked back at him. "You were twenty-two when you killed my mother. You were twenty-three when you finally defeated your father." Callia paused, sighing. "You truly had no choice when he ordered you to raid my village."
"I did not. As I told you at the time, I was against it. I would not have raided your village or raped your mother if he had not ordered me to. I do not say this to defend myself; I do not need defending. I state it merely as a fact."
The Breton was silent for several moments, pressing her hand to her forehead. "There is a saying of some kind about the Dark Brotherhood," she said eventually. "Something about the Brotherhood merely being the knife in the hand of another. The knife is unfeeling, a simple instrument; it lacks a motive for the killing. It is the wielder, the person who hires the Brotherhood, who is the true killer, rather than the knife."
Gorgoth nodded. "It is true," he said simply.
Callia grimaced, looking as though she'd swallowed something unpleasant. "So... it's not truly you who is at fault for my mother's death, for the devastation of my village. It's your father. He's the one I should hate, the one I have to kill."
"He is mine to kill. He has done far more to me than he ever will to you. And yes, I killed his knives; he claims that he told them only to kill my mother, but how they did it was up to them, and they were certainly willing. I tortured them to death for that. As for me... I was unwilling, and I certainly never meant to kill your mother, but your hatred is your choice."
The Knight Sister grimaced as she started to pace back and forth between two trees. "It's hard to wipe out years of hate in a single night," she growled. "It's..." She shook her head angrily. "Do you have any idea what kind of torment you've been forcing me through all these years? I can't find any peace, I can't-"
"Your torment?" he snarled, cutting her off sharply. "Yes, I killed your mother. Yes, you have fought an internal war with yourself over how to kill someone you owe your life to. Yes, you do not know peace. But your ordeal is nothing – nothing – compared to what I have endured these past eighteen years." He was walking slowly towards her, his face contorted in a furious snarl, backing her towards a tree. "Did you love your mother?"
"With all my heart," she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. He'd backed her up against the tree, pinning her there with his furious gaze.
"Not as much as I loved mine. She gave up much for me, did so much to see me safe and warm and fed; she starved herself, worked through the long hours of the night, serviced the most brutal of Orcs... all for me, an unwanted bastard who she should have drowned at birth. And Gornakh took her from me." He could feel his anger now, a raging inferno, threatening to break free of his iron grasp. "He took away everything I had, Callia. My mother, my love, my freedom, my peace..." He slammed his fist into the tree hard enough to split the bark, causing the Breton to wince. "Peace is foreign to me. It will always be foreign to me, as is happiness. My entire being has been consumed by vengeance for years, only held in check by my iron self-control. You, Callia... you might think you know torment, but you still know laughter and happiness. You can still know peace. There is nothing for me."
She was staring up at him with fear in her eyes now. "After you kill your father... what then?"
"I'll have my vengeance. My useless vengeance. It will not bring my mother back, and my father will be honoured in death for the glory he has won. And the fury that has kept me going these past years will be gone. Do you think I will meekly crawl into my grave now that I have no reason for living?" He snorted. "Life itself is a reason for living, though nothing will ever bring me happiness. I require a purpose. For years after defeating my father I was decaying, slowly rotting away as a sellsword without any worthy cause. That will not happen again. I will always have a worthy cause to fight for in life, to distract me from the unceasing conflict in me. I bury my feelings deeply, but they are still there. Agony, grief, rage, bitterness beyond measure... all these things were ingrained in the bones of a ten-year old boy. I'm no normal Orc, Callia. Part of me died when she did. What other man or elf can say they have withstood such things?" He growled and wrenched himself away from her, turning and staring angrily into the middle distance, forcing his self-control back into place. It had been a long time since he had let it slip so much, and he had never told anyone of his inner torment; Callia was one of the few who might understand, and he doubted that she would ever use it against him.
"I... I don't know what to say." Fear laced the Breton's voice, and if he turned he would no doubt see it on her face. "How... No. You're right. I can still live something like a normal life. You..." She sighed heavily. "Your father still needs to die. It is the only thing that will give me rest."
"I will never know rest. And he is mine to kill. But you can come and watch." He slowly turned back to her, his control back in place, the terrible intensity gone from his eyes. "And afterwards, if you still wish to make me answer for your mother's death, you will know where to find me. But we both know that you do not want to die."
Some of her former hostility crept back into her expression. "Do not expect me to ever like you."
"I would expect nothing else. What person does not hate the assassin that kills their loved one, even if he is merely a knife?" He folded his arms, looking back towards the camp. "But that is for the future. For now we must see Martin crowned and the Dragonfires lit." He motioned towards the fires. "Go on. I wish to think alone for a while. Tell no one of what you heard."
She gave a short nod and brushed past him, making her way back to the camp. He was left alone with his unpleasant memories, staring into the darkness. This war was almost over, and in time, his own war would be ending, in victory or defeat.
A/N: This chapter definitely turned out longer than I expected it to by far, and I'm certainly not at my best when writing huge quantities of dialogue, so make sure to tell me what you think in a review; you'll know by now how much I value them. And you certainly have plenty to comment on... I'm not happy with several parts of this chapter, but I did everything I meant to do; I'd planned this chapter long ago (as much as I ever plan anything; i.e not much), back when even Selene was still alive.
I'll try not to take too long for the next update; it will, after all, be the last chapter of Blood and Steel, most likely. I'll certainly make sure it's up to the usual standard, but I'll also try to make sure it's delivered within a reasonable amount of time, as well. Until then...
