Violence and swearing warning. This chapter is SO LONG. I should put some of the story in the previous one. Oops. Worked hard on it though! Enjoy. :D
Chapter 6 - An unholy adventure, Part II
When Enura finally woke up, the sun was sinking below the hills. Ropes lashed her arms and body against a tree. The right side of her skull pulsed painfully. She strained to lift her head, looking around for Martin.
She was surprised to see him close by on her right, sitting at a low table with two open books and a dim lantern. He turned one page at a time with both hands tightly bound together. Enura's skin crawled then, as the priest was closely watched by a pair of pale, pitiless eyes.
The face was horribly ravaged. In fact, it would be difficult to tell if it was a face, if not for the matted blonde dreads and braids that hung from its head. The hulking man sat on a stool next to a large fire with a steaming cauldron hung above it. Another bandit, an Orc, stoked the fire and busied himself peeling potatoes. Every so often he took a swig from a hefty stone jug.
Enura quickly closed her eyes shut, hoping to still appear unconscious.
"You sure you can read those old runes, priest?" the Nord spoke with a rasp. "The boy can't, and he went to Winterhold."
"I was similarly instructed," she heard Martin say. "This reference text will assist with the translation. But it will take time."
"Neither of you've got any time. Look sharp knife-ear! I know you're listening."
Enura heard the crunch of footsteps drawing near. She opened her eyes cautiously, to the sight of a war axe at her throat.
"Your Ashborn companion lives. I thought Grog would have crushed something so tiny."
Enura could see Martin looking her way, and the fear in his eyes.
"Is she worth anything to you alive?" The axe's blade was cold on Enura's skin.
"Don't kill her," Martin insisted. "I will do whatever you ask."
"You've got nothing to bargain with," the scarred Nord raised the axe, in the position to strike her head off. "This will give you a reason to work faster."
"Hey!" Enura coughed, blood dribbling from her mouth. "I can read!"
"You can do what?" the Nord snorted.
"I'm an elf, aren't I? I can read the runes too!"
The Nord laughed. It was a throaty, unpleasant sound. "You're a liar."
"She can help," attested Martin. "She has explored many ruins in the province."
"Our own mage seems to know plenty about that," the Nord lowered his axe to the ground. "Grog!"
"What Skulvar?" the Orc by the fire stirred the cauldron. A mouth-watering smell wafted about the camp.
"Grog, how's that stew doing?"
"Meat not tender. One … two hours."
"You're going to ruin my venison!" The Nord brutally kicked Enura in the legs. "We've got a morsel of elf meat over here. Or Imperial if you're keen."
"Meat too tough," the orc said, stirring the cauldron.
"That… ain't… right," said Enura between gasps of pain.
"But elves make good pie. Tasty breakfast." Grog grinned wide at Enura, his fangs protruding in all directions. He then downed anew the contents from his jug.
"What… did you say?" Enura panted, struggling against her bindings. "I'd like to see you try!"
"Shut it puny Ashborn," Skulvar kicked her again. The elf stifled a yelp. "If your friend here doesn't come up with something soon, you'll be gutted by morning."
Enura could hear the orc smacking his lips tauntingly. Her blood boiled.
The snapping of sticks in the brush announced the return of the third bandit, the Breton in black robes. "Found the roots you wanted Grog."
"You're still on watch boy!" Skulvar barked, his eyes remaining fixed on both prisoners.
"Yeah. Right." The Breton tossed the tubers on the ground, and walked back into the dark wood with a sulky expression. Enura watched as the wild leeks rolled, and caught sight of a fairy ring of bright red mushrooms.
But how? She looked over at the priest, head down and hunched over in concentration. Readily anticipating sudden death. I've got to do something for the poor man.
"Hey!" Enura blurted, regaining the Nord's cold stare. "Let me prove to you my usefulness! I know the ruins here. They're called Miscarcand, right?"
Skulvar raised a severed eyebrow, both halves separating. "That is easy enough to find on a map. You fool no one elf."
"Not on any of the common maps I've seen," Enura contested. "You have to ask certain people where it is or you wouldn't have a clue. Went to the Mage's Guild in Skingrad I did. Part of the Guild myself. Bet you didn't know that! Check my pack if you want. There's proof."
"Hah," Grog grunted. He rummaged in a chest by the campfire, swaying slightly as he did. "Nothing but trash! No food or gold."
"Give me that," Skulvar snatched the satchel from the Orc's hands. "And what did I say about that fucking moonshine, Grog!"
"Milk drinker," Grog grumbled under his breath.
Skulvar upturned the satchel. Vials and jars fell and smashed to pieces.
"Jetwijijri! Mor kha'jay trajir jer!" Enura writhed with fury against her bindings. "Jekosiit! Khrassozay qojiit!"
"Quit that!" This time the Nord slammed the haft of his axe into Enura's face. The elf saw one of her teeth fly into the darkness. "Think you can put a curse on me knife-ear?"
"Please, stop hurting her," Enura heard Martin demand. She saw Skulvar's uncontrollable rage turn from her to the priest.
"No!" the elf gurgled, blood rising in her mouth. She spat it out. "You're after something in Miscarcand right? Something worth lots of gold? You want it right away? There's no point me sitting here, when I can get you want you want!"
Skulvar paused to consider her offer. He gestured to Martin with a jagged finger. "You will read the runes. You will find out how to get the great stone. If you're a liar and cannot read, that will be very bad for you both. It will not be quick. Or clean. You have until the sun rises."
Skulvar, with a knife at her throat, loosened the ropes that bound Enura. He threw her down hard beside Martin, and roughly tied her feet, legs, arms, and wrists together.
Martin looked at the elf, his face pale. "Can I not heal her? She's lost a lot of blood."
"Not too much," Skulvar sneered, sitting back on his stool across from them. "The pain should remain fresh."
Martin gave the Nord his most indignant of frowns. He then attended to his patient. Enura's instinct was to jerk away from Martin's attempted incantation. She winced in pain from the reflex.
"It's alright," Martin said softly. He tried again, invoking the spell awkwardly with bound hands. Enura felt her face tingle as the spell worked upon it. The stinging of her skull and jaw waned, and bleeding in her mouth ceased.
"Thank youth," the elf lisped, swelling taking hold despite the healing.
Martin smiled warmly in reply, and Enura took strength from the encouragement.
"What haff we got hewre?" The elf stared down at a leather-bound journal. The bottoms of the pages were stained with fresh blood. Sticks and curves danced dizzily on the parchment, sharpening and fading. Despite the sickening vertigo, the elf drew her finger along left to right and forced herself to appear engrossed. She flipped a few pages and continued.
"This might be of use," Martin nudged the other volume on the desk towards her. Enura couldn't tell if the priest was concealing amusement, unease, or a mixture of the two.
"Thankth." The tome was much older, and the pages felt like vellum to the touch. Blocks of text in common tongue were mixed with more Ayleid runes. None of it made any sense to the elf, but that wasn't important. She would depend on her father's old tricks.
"Got anything yet knife-ear?"
"Ah, yeth!" the elf exclaimed. "Here ith somethink wery unwusul."
"Mighty fucking Talos," Skulvar spat. "Fix that mouth of hers priest."
"With pleasure."
Enura leered sideways at the priest. That subtle irony is going to get you in not-so-subtle trouble later.
When the fixing was done, the elf continued. "This passage talks about a ritual."
"Well go on elf," Skulvar grunted skeptically.
"They… would pray to the great stone. The Ayleids. Clearly. To reach a new state of mind, the elves would consume herbs…The notes here say something about, 'growths of the earth the colour of blood?' Maybe it means red mushrooms or the like." Enura turned to Martin, winking with her right eye so Skulvar wouldn't see. Martin looked back with confusion.
"Don't you agree?" Enura pointed to the journal. "Whoever wrote this, was into this… tradition the Ayleids had. There's lots about it. At a big feast, they'd make a big pot of the herbs and mushrooms. The chosen elves would rise to the…"
Enura flipped a page, giving her a second to think some more. "… The place inside the great stone. Like a special magic-"
Suddenly Skulvar's axe slammed into the small table and split it almost in two. The books flew up in the air.
"What a load of mammoth shit!" the scarred Nord bellowed. "That's enough from you! Let the priest get back to work. Grog? Is that fucking stew ready yet?"
"Almost," the Orc grunted, listing side to side. He uncorked a bottle of wine, poured it into the cauldron, and took a long gulp for himself.
"I'm fucking hungry Grog!" the Nord, for the first time, turned his back on the prisoners.
Enura nudged Martin to get his attention, nodding her head in the direction of the far side of camp. The priest brow knitted together, then he peered into the forest. After some time, he looked back at her, nodding slowly. The elf pointed to him, brought her hands up and wiggled her fingers. She then tossed her head in the direction of the campfire.
Skulvar shoved Grog in the shoulder. "Why you got to be this way about the food? You're an Orc for fuck sake. You're not cooking for the fucking Emperor!"
Martin shook his head, lifted his bound hands sadly. Enura smirked, making a cutting motion with her fingers. She pressed her foot gently on the priests'. Staring down, Martin saw a large chunk of glass sticking out from the elf's boot. Martin kept a close eye on the arguing Orc and Nord, as he leaned low to take the shard in one of his hands. Martin nearly dropped it when he heard rustling outside the camp.
"What is all the yelling about?" The young Breton came from behind one of the two tents. "An Imperial guard could here you a mile down the road. What if one of them comes past here?"
"We'll kill him," Skulvar hissed, his reads swinging. "Like I'll kill you, if you keep slacking on watch."
"I haven't eaten since this morning," the Breton rubbed his shoulders. "And I'm freezing out there. Can't I sit by the fire, and you can cover me for a bit?"
"Some wizard you are," Skulvar growled, shoving the Breton to the ground. "Can't keep warm my arse! Grog'll bring your food when its fucking finally ready and not before!" He picked the Breton up by the collar and proceeded to push him back towards the road. "Get moving!"
Meanwhile, Martin had freed his hands. He reached out, and they began to glow purple. Enura balled her fist together, and beat her palm in a crushing motion. She then raised her fingers to her mouth again. Martin nodded.
By the fire, Grog's head began to droop even more. He did not appear to notice the five or six mushrooms zooming through the air towards him. Each one floated above the bubbling cauldron, crumpled into pieces, and dropped into the stew. The last resulting gurgle from the cauldron brought the Orc back to his senses. Martin quickly withdrew his hands and shoved them under the battered table. The priest and elf both looked at each other with relief.
Grog gave the cauldron another stir. He then removed the spoon and licked it greedily with a long black tongue. Enura's stomach churned with apprehension and disgust.
"What is it going to do?" Martin whispered to Enura.
"You'll see."
Skulvar had returned, snapping his coarse fingers. "Alright, get me a bowl of that."
Grog ladled out the stew with a peculiar sense of ceremony. Skulvar snatched his meal with impatience and scarfed it down. The Nord wiped his marred face. "Ah, that's the stuff Grog. Get me seconds."
Grog snorted but obeyed. He then doled out his own and dug in.
After their feasting, Skulvar belched heartily. "Go feed the brat, Grog." Grog grunted hard rising to his feet, stomping forward across the camp. The Orc was massive and the club holstered at his hip was probably a third the height of Enura.
Skulvar approached Martin and the elf. "The sun will be up in a few hours," he said. "Even if you disappoint me, I'll still enjoy skinning you like rabbits."
"Most of these notes don't even relate to the Stone," Martin returned coldly. "One passage does mention the King of Miscarcand but only his name."
"No excuses!" Skulvar spat. "I want to know what those guild mages were planning! They must have had some idea to defeat the King! Uhhhh…" The Nord began to shake, his pale eyes widening.
"Skulvar," Grog returned to the camp, walking in a zigzag. "Going to lie down... Don't feel…" Then the Orc collapsed and wretched.
"Uhhhh," Skulvar clutched his gut. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His scarred face contorted in pain. The Nord dropped his axe and fell on one knee.
Enura stood up, newly freed hands on her hips. "Did you run all the way from Skyrim? To get away from whatever tore your face off? Was it a troll?" She jumped over the table and shoved him down with her foot. "Or are you the troll?"
"Fucking bitch," the Nord curled up on the ground and began to drool, foaming at the mouth.
"Enura," Martin said.
"What?" the elf snapped.
He put a hand on her shoulder. "We need to get out of here."
"Take the weapons and supplies. I'll deal with this."
"This is no time for revenge."
"They won't be following us. They're dead men." Enura snarled, pressing her boot into the Skulvar's gut. The Nord vomited and shivered.
"Enura!" Martin shouted.
The elf saw the lightning surge towards her but did not dodge it in time. The spell struck her in the shoulder, sending her reeling. Martin sent a few icicles at the Breton, but they were deflected. Enura grabbed her smoking wound and picked up Skulvar's axe. She threw the axe at the Breton and it lodged itself in the mage's shoulder. He cried out, stumbling back against a tree.
"Stand down!" Martin said with hands out.
"Kill him!" Enura scrambled for Grog's cooking knife.
The Breton's chest heaved in sharp bursts, blood spilling down his side. After a moment, Enura saw that he was actually laughing. There was a wild look in his eyes she did not like.
"Did you think I didn't sense you using magic?" the bandit snickered. "That I didn't see what you were up to? I'm not stupid like these worthless fools."
"We won't harm you," Martin said steadily. "We'll just leave."
The mage laughed harder. "You think you've got a chance against me? You're not going anywhere." He tore the axe from his shoulder, blood sprinkling the grass. The bandit's hands glowed white, and the gash knitted back together.
"This is convenient actually. Those two were maddeningly tiresome. Always pushing me around, like they were better than me… and not once realising what was really going on. I wanted them to kill everyone on the expedition, barring myself of course."
"What are you waiting for?" Enura shouted. But Martin was frozen in place, staring at the young mage. Enura poised for an attack.
"I'll need help down in the ruins you see. I've planned this for so long, and I've been practicing my craft. I need all the corpses I can get. And corpses don't talk back. They do as they're told! I want that stone."
Enura threw the knife. It landed where the Breton once stood. He had vanished. Martin suddenly turned towards the campfire. The blaze rose into the air, climbing and forming into an atronach. Martin engaged the flaming golem, exchanging ice spells with its fire balls.
The elf rolled out of the way and grabbed the unconscious Orc's club. The weapon was so heavy she had to lift and drag it. She turned around and this time ducked the Breton's lightning bolt. The mage grinned at her as he walked forward unhurried, casting again and again. Enura leaped out of the way of each strike. She could not see her bow anywhere.
The flame atronach scorched the ground as it weaved and pirouetted around Martin's attacks. It was backing up in her direction. The elf gripped the club again, spun in a tight circle and put everything she had left into the strike. Grog's club slammed into the atronach's back and it exploded.
The blast threw Enura out of the enclosure, into a dense brier. The thorny blackberries ensnared and scratched her arms and legs. The elf could hear the thunder of spellcasting from the camp. Enura desperately strained at the vines, crawling on hand and knee. Then she heard a scream.
Finally freeing herself from the thorny vines, Enura rushed forward into the clearing. Martin was there, standing over the Breton. The mage lay dead on the ground with a dagger in his heart. His eyes were open wide in shock.
"Hey!" Enura panted. "Are you okay?"
The elf could not read the priest's face. She imagined there could be many emotions there. Each not quite rising to the surface, flickering under the veil of a tired body, and diving back down into a repentant soul. Or it was an illusion she conjured up, and there was only a blank expression of a man desperate to push on for the sake of the empire.
"Do you see?" Martin gestured to the body of the dead mage. "How young he is?"
Enura nodded. The Breton was no more than eighteen, if that.
"Do you feel… that the older you get, the more the past hurries to meet you?" Martin said quietly.
"Sometimes, Martin."